Fonduing Fathers (10 page)

“My visit to Eugene Vaughn made that clear,” I said, scribbling “Harold Linka” into my notes. “That doesn’t mean I won’t try.”

I glanced up again, taking in the surroundings. “I haven’t been out this far in a long time. You drove out here Tuesday?”

“Joe and I met at a different location. A bit closer to home.”

“Because meeting with you isn’t going to hurt Mr. Yablonski’s reputation?”

“Something like that.”

“Hmm,” I said, not thrilled about the name for myself I’d apparently cultivated. I’d have to do my best to impress
this Joe Yablonski. “I hate to miss all this lovely scenery, but I still have plenty to read. Let me know when we get close.”

“You’ve got a while yet.”

WHEN WE CROSSED INTO LOUDOUN COUNTY, Virginia, Gav let me know that we would arrive at our destination in about ten minutes. Perfect timing; I was nearly finished with my analysis. “I came up with one other name,” I said. “I think this Michael Fitch could have been at Pluto the same time my dad was.” I waved my hands over the uneven piles of pages and notes spread across my lap. “Except for the owner, Craig Benson, it looks to me as though the place has suffered a lot of turnover through the years. Check this out.” I held up a newsletter and read a paragraph about how Pluto had welcomed their newest employee as executive secretary.

“So?”

“Three months later, there’s this…” I read aloud another passage that was word-for-word the same welcome. “Same position, different woman.” I shuffled the pages into a neat pile and placed my notes on top. I tapped the straightened pile. “The only two viable candidates are Linka and Fitch, the ones I mentioned. I hope we get lucky.”

“Here we are.” Gav turned onto a gravel road. We bumped and jostled along for at least another mile until he pulled into what could only loosely be described as a parking lot, adjacent to a group of one-story whitewashed brick buildings all with blue roofs.

The structures were nestled into this low area amid rolling hills, surrounded on all sides by trellises of grapes growing in long, lovely rows almost as far as I could see. Nearby, next to the largest of the buildings, three worn wooden picnic tables sat beneath a cluster of trees.

There was one other car in the sunny parking lot, and a
butterscotch lab had found shade under one of the picnic tables. Otherwise, the place seemed utterly vacant.

“A vineyard?” Leaving my paperwork behind, I got out of the car and stretched in the late morning sun. “Gorgeous day to be outdoors. Does your friend live all the way out here?”

Gav didn’t answer. He shut his door and came around to my side. Wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and the sunglasses he’d pushed atop his head, he looked more like a handsome tourist than a government agent, although his alertness and ramrod posture threatened to give him away.

After we’d alighted, I’d expected him to lead me to the rustic two-story home about fifty feet farther up the gravel path, but instead he placed a gentle hand at the small of my back, guiding me toward the nearest building. “They’re only open limited hours,” he said. “Closing at noon today. Let’s do a tasting.”

I glanced at my watch: 11:30. “Sure.” Each of the white buildings sported blue metal doors and paned windows trimmed in blue. “I missed the vineyard’s name on the way in.”

He spoke very close to my ear. “Follow my lead.”

I gave him my best you’re-just-teasing-me look, but he missed it.

“This way,” he said. We went around the building’s corner where one of its blue metal doors was propped open with a cinder block.
WINERY ENTRANCE
was hand-lettered in gold, next to the door.

Coming in from the sun, I stopped after three steps to allow my eyes to get accustomed to the dark room. Although well-lit, the windows had been covered with wooden-slat blinds, helping to keep the place cool and maintain a cozy air. And cozy it was. From the nondescript exterior, I’d expected little more than a countertop and a few bottles on display, but this room was welcoming and friendly. Small,
no bigger than twenty-by-twenty, its corners were warmed by the soft glow of Tiffany lamps.

The floor was concrete, the ceiling high and industrial, but the walls were painted in muted jewel tones with quality artwork on them, placed around and above wine displays. Directly across from the door, the room’s bar took center stage. A young couple browsed the wine selections. An older gentleman leaned heavily on the bar’s far right flank. Wearing overalls, a red plaid shirt, and studying us with undisguised interest as we made our way in, he had to be Joe Yablonski.

A middle-aged woman behind the bar gestured us in. “Welcome to Spencer’s Vineyards. Free tastings.” She graced us with a cheerful gap-toothed grin. “We offer them free because we know you’re going to love our wines.”

“We’d like to do a tasting,” Gav said. “I’ve heard great things about this place.”

“Where you from?” She pulled two glasses up from behind the bar and placed them before us. She then drew out two printed sheets and two pencils. “Here’s for making notes. My name’s Ermengarde, but everyone calls me Erma.”

“We’re just down from Frederick for the day,” Gav answered. “Visiting friends and we thought we’d bring wine. What’s good here?”

She straightened the neck of her apron with unabashed confidence. “Everything.”

She poured our first wine, describing it far more eloquently than I would have expected. As we took our first sips and I marveled at the wine’s smoothness, she said, “Say, would you folks be interested in a tour?” She cocked her head toward the young couple, who’d selected three bottles of wine and were waiting for her to ring them up. “It only takes about fifteen minutes.” She leaned toward the young couple. “You liked the tour, didn’t you? Think it was worth it?”

They looked at one another and then at us. “We enjoyed it.”

Gav turned to me. “What do you say, honey?”

Honey?
I gurgled my mouthful of wine. “Sounds great,” I managed.

The old guy leaning at the bar pushed himself off and ambled out the door. I glanced up at Gav, but he’d already begun jotting notes about the wine Erma had poured for us. “Wonderful,” he said, pointing to the printed sheet where the description and its price could be found. “Not terribly expensive either.”

This was some charade, I thought as I sipped.

We’d made it through two more wonderful wines before the young couple departed and we heard them pull away. As soon as they did, Erma grinned. “How you been, Gav?” she asked, coming around to the front of the bar to give him a hug. “We sure miss you around here.” Before he had a chance to answer, she turned to me. “And you must be Ollie.”

I was completely nonplussed. “You know me?” I said in about as lame an exclamation as I’d ever uttered. “I’m sorry, you really had me there.”

“We’ve sure heard a lot about you,” she said, wrapping me in a full-body hug. “Gav just goes on and on.”

His cheeks reddened. “I missed you, too, Erma,” he said. “Thanks for letting us use your place here today. Joe’s already here, I take it?”

“Bill’s gone to get him.” She gave Gav an appraising glance. “You’re looking mighty fine, son.” To me, she said, “I think you’re good for him.”

This was a lot to digest at once. Gav had told me about his childhood, mostly spent in foster homes in the Midwest. I didn’t know how Erma and Bill figured into that equation, but I assumed I’d find out. “You sure were quiet about all this on the drive up,” I said to Gav.

“I didn’t know if there would be anyone else here,” he
said, gesturing toward the door. “And if there was…Hey!” This last exclamation came as the man who had been leaning on the bar when we arrived—obviously Bill—returned with another man. Gav strode up to both of them, giving Bill a vigorous back-slapping man hug, before gripping Joe Yablonski’s hand in a sturdy, joyful shake. Gav was as happy as I’d ever seen him and I found myself smiling, too.

“This is Ollie,” he said, bringing the two men forward. “Ollie, this is Bill.” He stepped back as I shook the man’s hand. “Bill and Erma have been part of my life…” A shadow flitted across Gav’s features for the briefest of moments. “For a very long time. They’re family.”

Bill and I exchanged pleasantries though I got the feeling the older man still hadn’t finished assessing me.

“And this,” Gav said, bringing me closer to the second man, “is the inestimable Joe Yablonski.”

Joe Yablonski looked exactly as I’d expected, only bigger. Taller than Gav, he was wider, too, with broad shoulders, a massive chest, and a neck that draped over his collar. I guessed him to be in his mid-fifties. He looked the type who would be far more comfortable in a dress uniform than in the civilian Dockers and polo shirt he was wearing. “It’s very nice to meet you,” I said.

He wrapped a meaty hand around my smaller one. “The pleasure is mine, Ms. Paras.”

“Ollie, please.”

All business again, he turned to Gav. “Shall we find a comfortable place to chat?”

Erma was immediately solicitous. “Of course!” she said, “I know your time is limited. Bill will go set out the closed sign at the front gate and you all can have this entire room to yourselves.”

Gav stood back, hands clasped. He didn’t seem surprised when Yablonski shook his head. “I think I would much prefer we walk. You have no objection to our wandering through the vineyard, do you?”

“None at all,” Erma said without consulting her husband.

Bill grunted. “I’ll go set up that closed sign anyway.”

Yablonski led us back out into the sunshine. He took five long strides along the gravel path, then stopped and stared to the left. Several seconds later, he stared right. Extending his arm, he pointed. “That way.”

We’d traveled about a hundred yards farther up the gravel path, past the house, when Yablonski noticed me lagging slightly behind. Although I did my best to keep up, it took me twice as many steps as it did them to cross the same distance. He stopped. “My apologies,” he said.

He continued at a more leisurely pace. Open land and trellis rows surrounded us on all sides. The air was quiet, the sky clear. “I like this,” Yablonski said, glancing around. “Good place to have a serious conversation.”

Personally, I thought it was overkill.

“Has your friend Leonard told you much about me?” he asked, as though Gav wasn’t standing right there. It felt strange to hear Gav referred to by his given name. I knew how much he hated “Leonard” and I took pains never to use it.

“I know you were his commanding officer. I know he considers you a friend.”

“Anything else?”

“He told me you work for the Department of Defense.”

“But?” he asked, clearly reading my expression.

“I have my doubts.”

I could tell I’d surprised him. “Fair enough. Let’s keep it at that, shall we? From what I understand from your friend here”—he indicated Gav—“and from what I’ve read in the newspapers, you have a tendency to get involved in matters of national security even when you’re instructed to stay away. What do you have to say about that?”

I glanced at Gav for help but his look told me I was on my own. I got the distinct impression that if this Yablonski
could help me, he wouldn’t do so unless he believed he could trust me. “Like everything you read or hear, there’s a kernel of truth,” I admitted. “The idea of the White House chef getting involved in conspiracy plots, bomb threats, terrorist actions…” Hearing myself, I stopped, then began again. “It does sound ridiculous. I admit that. If you knew the whole story behind each of these circumstances, however, you might understand how I got involved in the first place.”

He watched me as I talked. “You sincerely believe I would condone your involvement?”

“Condone?” I laughed. “Hardly. I wouldn’t expect that from anyone, even Special Agent Gavin.” The look in Gav’s eyes encouraged me. “But I think, given the facts, you might actually understand how situations evolved.” I pulled myself up to my full height. “I take national security seriously, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m not reckless. I keep the Secret Service apprised of all my activities. Ask Gav.”

“Leonard’s opinion may be compromised at this point,” he said. “But there are others who corroborate these assertions of yours. You have friends in high places.” He held up a chubby finger. “That doesn’t mean I want to be seen in your company. No offense.”

“Or overheard in my company, apparently.”

His lips spread in a sly smile. “Or overheard. Your young man here is calling in a very large favor by asking for my assistance.” Again the fat finger. “I’m willing to do so, on the condition that you tell no one of my involvement and that you keep me updated on your progress. From what I’ve heard thus far, nothing involves national security or classified information. If I discover differently, you will cease your investigation immediately.”

“All I want to know is what really happened with my dad.”

Gav remained silent.

The big man commenced walking again, remembering to take shorter strides. The ground here was hilly but he
didn’t seem to be out of breath. At the top of a small rise, we could see more trellised vines stretching out ahead of us, and the rest of the vineyard below.

Yablonski took a deep breath through wide nostrils. “Invigorating to be out here,” he said apropos of nothing. Fixing me with a penetrating gaze, he asked, “I need a definitive answer. Do you agree to cease your investigation on my command?”

“As long as you agree not to issue such a command without providing me an acceptable reason.” I adjusted my jaw. “That’s as definitive as I can go. If that means you refuse to help, so be it.” The words tumbled out, raw with emotion. “Investigating my father’s murder is important to me. I plan to follow any leads as far as I possibly can. I won’t make promises I can’t keep, even if that means losing you as a resource.”

Yablonski shifted his attention to Gav, who flashed an “I told you so” look.

“Your terms are acceptable,” Yablonski said. “If you haven’t already deduced, I am a careful man. I’m willing to help because I respect Leonard and owe him more than I can ever repay. I don’t anticipate running into any difficulties, especially given that your father’s death occurred so long ago.”