Bitter Finish (14 page)

Dr. Eustace was more than willing to help. He was a fusser, a pencil-and-paper-clip fiddler. He stepped all over himself in his ineffectual eagerness.

"
Spraggue?" He considered the name while extending his hand for a desultory shake. "Spraggue! Holloway Hills! Of course. Fine wine you make up there, good stuff. I'm sure that Davis can be of assistance to you."

Spraggue forced a smile. "I'm searching for one of your students, actually," he began.

"
Wonderful!" said Dr. Eustace enthusiastically. "I'm sure we can find you a hard worker, a real up-and-coming star. Unfortunately, you're late. Several of our most promising youngsters have already been snapped up. Some owners use the same students year after year. Hire them before the ink's dry on the diplomas. Never enough students for the insatiable industry. Wasn't always like that."

Finally, the professor took a deep breath enough to warrant interruption.

"I'm looking for one of your students who's already working in the valley," Spraggue said slowly.

The man's mouth opened slightly, into a questioning "Oh?"

"Do you keep a list of work-study students? Where they're employed? For how long?"

"
Hmmm . . ." Eustace tapped the desk top with nervous fingers. "That's a problem. All our kids are matched up carefully with the situation, with an eye toward where they'll learn the most, even a view toward eventual jobs. I'd hate to tamper with the arrangements now. Very disturbing for everybody: winemaker, owner, student .... "

Spraggue restrained himself from saying that the student involved would almost certainly no longer give a damn.

"
This is somebody my partner worked with on a previous crush," he said. "She wants to get in touch with him, but she can't remember his name."

"
Then you wouldn't hire him out from under—"

"
Wouldn't dream of it."

"A student who once worked for Holloway Hills. . . . I may be able to help you .... "

As he spoke, Eustace burrowed in his desk, opening and closing a profusion of drawers, rooting through piles of paper, stirring up dust. He resurfaced some five minutes later, triumphantly clutching a leather-bound black notebook in his right hand.

"This is the most current work-detail book. Last year's crush should be in here .... " As he leafed through the pages, his glasses slipped further and further down his nose.

"I'm afraid," he said sadly, "that no one went out to Holloway Hills last year."

"Maybe he worked for someone else," Spraggue said quickly. "Maybe Lavalier Cellars." Not until the name was out of his mouth did Spraggue recall where he'd heard it, remember the unremarkable wine he'd shared with the Martinsons at La Belle Helene.

"
Lavalier?" Eustace frowned. "Oh, you mean Landover Valley. Lavalier is their new secondary label. Very confusing, all these secondaries popping up. Not sure that I approve, either. I'm o1d-fashioned. I don't think any winery should turn out a product they're uncomfortable about putting their name on. And old Mr. Finch would have agreed with me. Owned Landover for more years than I can remember. Passed on now. Place went to his daughter, Mary Ellen. She up and married—"

"George Martinson," Spraggue said softly, almost afraid to interrupt the old man's meanderings.

"
Right." Eustace pushed his glasses back on his nose and looked up at Spraggue as if congratulating a bright student. "The roving gourmet. Our foremost food and wine critic."

"I didn't realize Mary Ellen owned Landover."

"She doesn't work the place herself. Not like the old man. And I think her husband would just as soon keep the connection in the dark. Conflict of interest, you know."

Spraggue nodded his head.

Eustace ran his finger down a thin-lined page in the notebook. "Let me see. We always send a few kids down to Landover. Sandy Buford last year. Graduating in June. Very talented. And Ken Morton—"

"
Either of those kids about five foot ten, a hundred and fifty pounds, slight, dark-haired, unathletic?"

"I'm afraid that doesn't sound like them."

"
Does it sound like any of your other students?"

"Really, Mr. Spraggue, I have so many." Dr. Eustace closed the notebook, thrust it back into the drawer. "If your partner recalls the name—"

"How many Davis students are working this year's crush?"

"
I don't know exactly . . . maybe twenty. Now . . ."

Spraggue tried one of the menacing stares his movie counterpart, Harry Bascomb, was fond of.

"
Do you have a list of those students?"

"I, uh, I can check, if you'd like." Eustace almost disappeared under his desk, came up with the black notebook again. He ran his finger nervously down a column of names, never taking his eyes entirely off Spraggue.

"
I'm looking for someone dark—haired, slight, a pale complexion—"

"
Mark Jason."

"
Jason," Spraggue said easily. "That could be it. Where's he working now?"

"As I said, Mr. Spraggue, I really have very definite feelings about interrupting—"

Spraggue tried the stare again.

"
Um." Eustace ducked his head. "Mark Jason is an observer this year, alternating between four or five places, checking out different techniques—"

"Which four or five places?"

Eustace quickly rattled off the names. Spraggue wrote them down with a sinking heart. No winery that had any connection with Lenny Brent, no winery owned or operated by any of Lenny's close friends or enemies. So much for the identity of the dead man illuminating the face of his killer ....

"Would the description I gave you fit more than one of the students on your list?"

"Ummmm . . . let me see. There's—No . . . You said five foot ten? Five foot ten. Dark hair . . .
I'm afraid not."

"Does Mark Jason live on campus?"

"
I believe so."

"
Would you be able to give me his address and phone number, in case I have trouble reaching him in Napa?"

"Certainly!" Eustace's voice cracked with relief. Anything to get this madman out of. his office. He led the way to the registrar's lair, gave hurried instructions, and departed with a puzzled frown.

Armed with phone number and address, Spraggue walked a few aimless blocks, settled on a phone booth. No sense in locating 25 Delmar Heights if Mark Jason was answering his phone.

He dialed 555-1210 and waited. Six rings, eight, ten, twelve. Someone picked up the receiver.

"
Hello?" A high female voice, breathless with just-climbed stairs.

"
Hi," Spraggue said.

"
Mark! Damn you, I was starting to get worried!"

The joy, the relief in her voice made Spraggue want to hang up, shove the whole business back on Bradley. "When did you get back? Where are you? Is everything okay? Mark?"

"Please don't hang up," Spraggue said. "I'm not . Mark, but I am trying to find him. My name is Michael Spraggue."

"Who are you trying to f1nd?" The words came back after a pause, loaded with suspicion.

"
Mark Jason. I've been over at the enology department. Dr. Eustace gave me this number."

"Well, Mark's not home."

"This is important/' Spraggue said forcefully. "Very important" He caught himself, softened his voice. "Have you seen or heard from Mark in the past two weeks?"

More hesitation, a slight gulp. "No."

"Then I have to see you."

"See me? Look, I don't know what you want, but—"

"I'll knock on your door. I'll show you any kind of ID you want. You can have a friend with you. Any conditions, but let me talk to you."

"Talk."

"In person."

A long silence this time. "Okay," came the voice finally, shakily. "Okay."

"Thank you."

"
I have a class at one, so—"

"I can be there in five minutes." Spraggue almost started to hang up. "Wait. What's your name?"-

"
Carol Lawton. Ring Mark's apartment"

"Fine." He replaced the receiver, drew a deep breath.

His map said he didn't need the car. His shoes hit the pavement hard. Damn. Damn Kate for getting him back into the P.I. game. Damn his own curiosity. He heard Carol Lawton's eager voice and felt his stomach knot. "Stay in the movies," he murmured to himself.

He didn't have to ring Jason's bell. Carol Lawton, ill at ease, waited in the hallway of the narrow four-story building. She had a thin, heart-shaped face and a tall, gawky body, lovely eyes and a tremulous smile.

"Mr. Spraggue?"

"
Miss Lawton?"

She smiled at that, nervously, unused to the formality. "Carol will do."

"
So will Michael." They shook hands. She had a tiny dimple in her right cheek.

The hallway was gloomy, uninviting. "Can we talk here?" she said with a hopeless look around.

"
I'd like to see Mark Jason's room."

"Not until I know what this is all about." The dimple vanished.

"
We could walk around the block while I try to explain."

"Let me see some identification?

Good for you, Spraggue said to himself. Solemnly he displayed both his driver's license and his old P.I. card.

"Mark's in trouble," she said flatly. "I want to know about it."

He held the door open and she walked to the right, as if there were only one correct way to circle the block.

"
Don't pretty it up," she said, before he'd decided how to start. "Just say it."

He took her at her word. "A man was killed near St. Helena. The police haven't been able to identify him. I'm operating on the assumption that he had something to do with wine, that his disappearance from the valley wouldn't be noticed, that his absence here wouldn't be reported."

Carol stopped mid-stride. "What did he look like?"

"Early twenties, thin build, dark, unathletic, five-ten."

"My God." She stumbled on a patch of uneven sidewalk. Spraggue touched her elbow and she straightened up immediately. "Mark's been gone two weeks."

"
Where did he go?"

She stared at the sidewalk. "He didn't say. He was mysterious about it, mischievous, like he was going to play a big joke on somebody. I should have—"

She tried a laugh, but it came out all wrong.

"
I'm sorry," Spraggue said. "I don't even know for sure that it's Mark. If you'd let me see his room—"

She fumbled in her purse, pulled out a battered red wallet. "I've got a picture—"

"I'm afraid that wouldn't help much."

"
My God," she whispered again. "What was it? A car crash? He wasn't a very good driver."

"
I'm sorry."

They marched the rest of the way in silence, but she made no protest when he followed her into the tiny elevator.

Utilitarian. That was the word for Mark Jason's fourth-floor flat. The furnishings were student sparse, but plenty of books lined the block-and-board shelves. A picture of Carol Lawton smiled up from a silver frame.

"I'd like to take something with his fingerprints on it." Spraggue said. "Nothing of value. A pen he used. A glass from the bathroom."

"Will that tell you for sure?"

"
It'll tell the fingerprint experts in Napa."

She led the way through a narrow hall to a tiny bathroom. "The blue glass," she said. "He'll be mad if he comes back and—"

"I won't lose it," Spraggue said. He wrapped it carefully in a paper towel.

The phone rang. Carol ran back to the living room, snatched the receiver up, color flooding her cheeks. "Hello," she said urgently, willing Mark Jason onto the other end. Her face fell. She held the receiver out limply. "It's for you."

"
Me?" He stared dumbly.

"The Napa County Sheriff" s Office."

He grabbed it. "Hello?"

"Well, there you are. Who's the lady with the pretty voice?" It was Bradley.

"
How did you—"

"
No sweat, once I got on to Eustace. God, that man can talk."

"
What's up?"

"Get back here."

"
Look, I've got a real lead. I think I lmow—"

"
Just get back as fast as you can, Spraggue. Kate Holloway should be discharged any time now."

"
What?"

"You heard me."

"
Yeah, but——"

"We just pulled another body out of a car trunk."

"Not—" Spraggue had a momentary vision of Howard.

"
Unidentified. One of the cops says he spotted the guy hitchhiking around the place. Just found him. Changes things."

"Right." Spraggue checked his watch. "I'll be there in an hour. I'll leave now."

"Check my office for a message if I'm not in."

"Thanks."

Spraggue hung up the phone and stared blankly at the girl on the couch.
 

17

He didn't break any speed records on the return trip to Napa. His departure was delayed; he owed Carol Lawton some kind of explanation.

She listened woodenly, her thin features utterly composed, so much so that Spraggue wasn't sure if anything he said actually registered. She nodded occasionally, but that might have been politeness, not comprehension. She broke in on his soliloquy near the end.

"But this, this new death . . ." She spoke hesitantly, so softly he had to lean forward in his chair and practically lip-read. "The one you just heard about. Doesn't that throw everything off? Couldn't that mean Mark's okay?"

"No," he'd said bluntly, cruelly, not wanting her to hope.

But she hadn't really believed him.

He'd taken the carefully wrapped glass and promised to phone that evening, giving her the Holloway Hills number just in case.

To shut out the memory of that pinched, hurt face, Spraggue turned on the tiny tape recorder he faithfully kept in his pocket, recited lines and cues from Still Waters all the way back to the sheriff s office. He didn't memorize a single line, but it kept his mind off Bradley's new discovery.