Midnight Harvest (30 page)

I will contact Oscar King in San Francisco, so that, as you suggest, we may know as soon as you arrive there. I hope there will be many opportunities for you to come to Geyserville. The roads are much improved of late, and with the Golden Gate Bridge opening next year, travel into Marin, Sonoma, and Napa Counties should be much easier than it is now, although the ferry service is quite good. All you need do is find Route 101 and drive north; the Redwood Highway, as it’s called locally, goes right through the middle of town.

Confirmation has arrived from the Bank of America in San Francisco of another transfer from you into my business account, for which I thank you—they also provided me with the address where I could contact you. I am planning to enlarge my winery yet again, expanding south and east into Napa County, where I have three plantations already, and I have just ordered oak barrels from France and an improved bottling machine. These things would not be possible without your investment, which has enabled me to do so much more than I had thought possible twenty years ago.

I should mention that we have been somewhat troubled by men taking midnight harvest—coming into the vineyards in the dead of night and carrying off large baskets full of pilfered grapes. They sell these to unofficial jobbers for a dollar or so for each basket they bring. A number of wineries have been hit by these thieves, but they are hard to catch and the sheriff doesn’t have the men to patrol all the wineries in the valley. I have given my workers shotguns and put them on guard, which should decrease midnight harvesting, or at least discourage any more than what has already taken place.

Vineyards are not the only places where midnight harvesters have struck, of course. I have read in the papers that the orchards of San Jose have been raided with some regularity, and there have been rewards offered by farmers in the Salinas Valley for information on the men taking lettuce and tomatoes and squash in the dead of night. It is all due to so many men being out of work, but the thefts only make the situation more difficult for everyone. I know everyone is afraid of Bolsheviks and fear that FDR is leaning in that direction, but if men cannot work, then they will steal, no matter what kind of government they have.

This does not mean that my business has been deeply compromised. I would rather not have such losses, but they will not bankrupt me, in large part because you have sustained this winery for so long. I know half-a-dozen families who are badly hurt by these raids. I have offered to send my men to the vineyards that have been hardest hit, but so far no one has accepted my offer of help.

Until the day when I can shake your hand, may your good angel watch over you.

Sincerely,

Carlo Pietragnelli

chapter three

Lake Tahoe was a startling, vivid blue set in a bowl of deep pine green, the tall peaks rising to the west reflected in the water, mirroring the beautiful, imposing barricade to the hills and valleys beyond. Two motorboats were cutting white swaths across its surface, and even from the road, Saint-Germain and Rogerio could hear the whine of the engines as they swerved closer to the shore.

“Do you suppose they’re playboys, out there?” Rogerio asked with a gentle smirk.

“To go with the divorcées in Reno?” Saint-Germain suggested, whose drive through the Biggest Little City in the World had been made memorable by a group of women who had crowded around the Packard at a stoplight, one of them pretending to swoon on the hood and then calling out, “Come back in four weeks—I’ll have my final decree then.”

Rogerio ignored that remark. “It’s two in the afternoon. Shouldn’t they be busy indoors, or working somehow, if they can?” He held a road atlas open on his lap turned to the Sierra Nevada North page.

“In this place? This is a playground. There may be loggers in the forest and workers on the roads, but the lake is for entertainment and recreation,” said Saint-Germain, opening the window of the Packard a little wider, for it was hot, and not even the altitude put much of a damper on the clear day. They were east-bound on the north shore of the lake and it was beautiful, warm, and balmy. Although the two-lane road had been graded and oiled recently, there were uneven stretches so that driving required concentration. The Packard was dusty, showing the demands the miles had made on it; the large backseat and the trunk were crammed full of chests and trunks all held in place by broad leather belts, and the enlarged fuel tank showed as a hump behind the rear seat In spite of the dust and grime, the Packard attracted stares, and a few envious glances from those occasional groups of people taking the sun at the water’s edge.

“It is a fine place for entertainment,” said Rogerio, his faded-blue eyes glinting appreciatively. “They say Hollywood stars come here to relax.”

“Not you, too,” Saint-Germain lamented with a quirky smile.

“No, not I,” said Rogerio. “But you saw the sign on the road outside of Reno:
Lake Tahoe
—
where the stars come out to play.
There must be some attraction in that.”

Saint-Germain could not help but laugh. “Thank goodness we found petrol—gas—in Truckee, while we were on US 40, or we might have had to spend more time here than either of us wanted; we were down to three gallons when we filled up. Without the fuel, we would have come to a stop somewhere on this road. Not that this isn’t a pleasant place; and at least there seems to be work for most of the men, unlike what we’ve seen in the cities.” He thought about what he had said. “Or the men without work may have left and gone elsewhere to look for jobs; we’ve seen a lot of that, too. The opportunities here must be limited. At least I haven’t seen any hobo camps in the mountains. I know that doesn’t mean they’re not there. But they may be nearer Truckee, or Reno, or in the forest, at least until the snows come.” He glanced away from the lake toward the pines around it, and the swath of the road ahead of them. “This is the road to Crystal Bay; as soon as we pass King’s Beach, there should be a sign for the Ponderosa Lodge in the next three miles, about a mile from the lakeshore, if what the postman told us is correct. Look for Ponderosa Road. It should be coming up.” As the road meandered along the north shore of Tahoe, he glimpsed the lake again.

“I’ll watch for it,” said Rogerio, ignoring the two boats as they hurtled back across the water.

“Very good,” said Saint-Germain. His black linen jacket was only slightly wilted, and he had loosened his dark red silk tie, but other than those two considerations, he was as neatly groomed as when he had got into the Packard shortly after dawn that morning in the small, dusty Nevada town of Elko. The sun was beginning to bother him, but not enough to cause him to climb into the trunk. “It will be easier once we’re over the summit. The road should be fully paved all the way to the ferry pier.”

“Do you think we’ll be there by tomorrow?” Rogerio asked.

“I surmise that will depend on how many delays we encounter. And we may decide to stay at the lodge for a day or two, if it is a promising place. We have been driving for six days without interruption, except for those stops where the road-builders were working—we’ve done far more rigorous journeys in the past, and may do so again, but this time we have the luxury of setting our own pace in a mode of transportation that is truly pleasant, and I can see the advantage of taking a short break. Once we cross the pass, there might well be more road-crews out working, it may be that we’ll have to stop short of our goal in Sacramento or Vacaville. But if the way is clear and we depart in the morning, then I have no doubt that we’ll reach San Francisco tomorrow night. It should be a seven- or eight-hour drive, all things being equal.” Saint-Germain swerved to avoid a rut in the road.

“Where do you plan to stay? Have you made up your mind yet?” Rogerio was curious. “You telephoned a San Francisco hotel from Elko, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” said Saint-Germain. “I decided upon the Saint Francis, on Union Square. The name appeals to me.” The first time he had used Sanct-Francisus as his principal name, Heliogabalus had been Caesar; most of his memories from that time caused him acute chagrin even now: Rogerio knew Saint-Germain well enough to realize that this choice had been ironic. “I told them we would arrive in the next four days and I will pay for those days whether we occupy the suite or not; I have booked the suite for at least a month, and referred them to Oscar King and the Bank of America for surety.” If he considered this an extravagance, he did not say so. “Ponderosa Road.” He took a left turn away from the lake down a single-lane graveled road flanked by ponderosa, sugar, and lodgepole pines. “I think the road we’ll want is ahead on the right.”

“I’ll look for the sign—the postman said there is a sign, didn’t he?”

“Yes. A wooden one, about four feet high and six feet wide, just before the entrance to the resort’s grounds,” Saint-Germain recited from what they had been told.

Rogerio nodded. “Very good.”

Saint-Germain held the steering wheel as the road curved, keeping the big car from fishtailing; a plume of dust rose behind the car, rolling like boiling water. The Packard slithered as Saint-Germain double-clutched down into second gear; the transmission whined as the big car slowed down.

“There!” Rogerio said, pointing to the Art Nouveau sign about thirty yards ahead. “And there’s the arch over their road.”

“Fine,” said Saint-Germain, and slowed down still more to make the turn onto the dirt road leading up to the Ponderosa Lodge. The Packard held the road and slowed down to ten miles an hour as it went up the long, sweeping drive through the pines, dust swirling behind them, hanging on the still mountain air.

Ponderosa Lodge sat in a broad clearing, a handsome building in the Arts-and-Crafts style that had been in vogue twenty-five years ago but now seemed a little passé. The front of the building opened onto a wide, flagstone patio framed by Japanese arbors around which tea roses grew; just down the slope from the lodge, a swimming pool glinted, three deck chairs close to it, one of them occupied by a woman in a fashionable bathing-suit. On the far side of the parking area, a half-dozen small paddocks fronted a handsome stable that was in need of a new roof; four horses stood in the paddocks, tails swishing. Paths went in many directions, to cabins located out among the trees, and an access road looped around the back of the cabins. There were half-a-dozen autos pulled up at the side of the lodge, and Saint-Germain took the next space along, then shut off the engine.

“It looks satisfactory,” said Rogerio. “If a trifle out-of-fashion.”

“I agree,” said Saint-Germain, and got out of the car. He had not been wearing his hat and he did not bother to put it on now. Giving a tug to his black linen jacket and straightening his tie, he started toward the door marked
Office.
The lobby was not large but it had eight big windows, all open, and the quality of light in the wood-paneled room gave it an impression of size that spoke well of its design. Saint-Germain went up to the registration desk and rang the service bell set out where it could easily be seen.

“Good afternoon,” a middle-aged woman of medium height, her short-cropped, dark hair just turning to grey, said as she came out of the inner office behind the registration desk, donning a welcoming smile with the ease of long practice. “What may I do for you?” She was dressed in what Saint-Germain had learned from travel magazines was California equestrienne style: loose, coffee-brown slacks tucked into tooled-leather boots, a long-sleeved ivory cotton shirt—just now with sleeves rolled up to the elbows—under a short, open bolero jacket in dull red canvas with elbow-length sleeves. She looked over the new arrival appraisingly.

“My name is Ferenc Ragoczy,” said Saint-Germain. “My associate and I would like to arrange for accommodations here for tonight, and possibly tomorrow night as well.” His demeanor was cordial but not familiar.

The woman looked flustered. “Oh. Well, I have three doubles here in the lodge; I could let you have one for seventeen dollars a night—”

“What about your cabins?” Saint-Germain asked when she stopped.

“They’re … more expensive,” she said. “A single-room—studio—cabin goes for thirty a night, a one-bedroom for forty-five, and a two-bedroom—our largest—for sixty-five.” She stared down at the countertop as if she knew the prices were outrageous. As she brought her head up, she added emphatically, “The cabins are all Maybecks, just like the lodge.”

Saint-Germain was unfamiliar with the name, but he nodded. “Which is your best two-bedroom cabin?”

She coughed. “That would be the
Tuolumne.
It has a full fireplace, a good view of the lake, and a balcony.”

“Is it occupied?” Saint-Germain inquired politely.

“N-no.” she faltered. “Not just at present.”

“And it’s sixty-five dollars a night?” Saint-Germain pursued.

She flicked a glance in his direction, and then away. “Yes.”

Saint-Germain reached into his jacket for his wallet. “Shall we say two nights, then? In your
Tuolumne
cabin?” he asked as he peeled out seven twenties and held them out to her. “Paid in advance, of course.”

The woman stared at the bills in disbelief, unable to move for a full thirty seconds. Then she snatched the money and shoved it into her cash drawer, handing him back a ten. “It isn’t ready yet. You’ll have to give my staff an hour to make it up. We don’t like to keep the cabins fully … They get musty so quickly when they aren’t in constant use.” This admission caused her some perturbation; she was talking too quickly, moving her hands as if unsure of what to do with them. Finally she took the guest register and turned it around to him. “Your name, place of residence here, please. Also your car’s make and license number. I’ll fill in the rest.” She read as he wrote, having no difficulty with the upside-down letters. “You have a Packard Twelve?” she marveled.

“Yes. Do you need my associate’s name as well? And his identification?” Saint-Germain asked as he wrote
Ferenc Ragoczy
in his small, meticulous hand. He noticed from the other entries on the page that since the end of August, occupancy had dropped off sharply; surely the beginning of the fall semester could not account for all of it. He also noticed that among the length of stays indicated in the register, none was longer than a week.