....
Kate was a throwback to a time before he'd leamed that lesson, a time when he hadn't loved as cautiously.
The engine started smoothly. Spraggue drove carefully, keeping a tight rein. At least contemplating the Martinsons' bizarre relationship delayed thoughts of Kate. Kate and Lenny ....
"Stick around and help me, Spraggue. I'm not sure I can handle the crush all by my lonesome." Crummy dialogue, but better than "Stick around and help me find my lover." How would that line have gone over? Not half as well. Bad taste, begging the ex to find the present. And offering to sleep with the ex to seal the bargain. Shit.
He hadn't believed Howard, old unperceptive Howard. But Mary Ellen and George and Phil Leider .... How many witnesses did he need? So Lenny and Kate had a winemaking spat Sunday night and Lenny ran off. Just like that. God, he wondered what the battle had really dealt with. Hadn't taken place in any kitchen over coffee, either. Not with Kate.
And that was the gossip Lieutenant Bradley wasn't authorized to clue him in on.
Spraggue jammed his foot down on the accelerator, too hard for the narrow twists of Zinfandel Lane. Lights blossomed in his rear-view mirror; he'd picked up an unexpected companion on the usually deserted road. He yanked his foot completely off the gas, let the car creep back to normal speed. Why hurry? He hoped Kate would be sleeping by the time he got back, knew she wouldn't be. Knew she'd be waiting, reading, in the old double brass bed, naked.
Shit. The anger blew out of him like air out of a punctured balloon. What right had he to pass judgment on Holloway's bedmates? He didn't own her, just half the winery. Didn't want to own . . .
The car was handling oddly. The next bump in the road left no doubt about that. When he hit the brake, it grabbed, swerving off to the right. He fought the steering wheel to keep the Volvo aimed down the center strip. That car behind him followed too closely.
Damn, Spraggue muttered under his breath. He groped for the emergency flashers, flicked them on, and swung over as far as possible toward the right-hand verge of the narrow road. The other car gunned its engine, whizzed past, roared out of sight.
Spraggue stopped the Volvo dead, got out to check on a visible cause for the car's erratic behavior. The night air was heavy with the smell of ripe grapes. Vines stood thick all around, supported by wood and lashings of rope, bowed with the weight of the purple clusters. Spraggue stared straight up and took a calming, lung-filling breath. So many stars.
The right front tire was flat as Kansas. He'd never make it to Kate's, up that twisty driveway.
Not a car, not a house. That jerk behind him-
Once, years ago, when a car displayed flashers, pulled off the road, the driver behind would stop, offer aid. Maybe Leider was right. Nobody did that anymore. Too dangerous. Better not get involved.
Let there be a spare tire. Kate was notoriously negligent about such petty details. He retrieved the keys from the ignition. At least there were two on the chain. She could have just handed over the ignition key, never dreaming he'd need to open the truck. Maybe she kept a flashlight in the glove compartment. Spraggue circled the car, opened the passenger door. Nothing in the glove compartment but used paper towels and a half-empty bottle of Windex.
Another car passed, didn't slow down even when he waved.
He left the right-hand door open for light. The glow barely reached around to the trunk. He fumbled with his hands for the lock before remembering the tiny pencil flash on his own key ring. He found it, clicked it on, tried the key in the lock. Rusty. He worked it for what seemed like minutes before the key turned and the trunk sprang open.
As soon as he smelled it, he was glad of the darkness, glad the stars were faint, faraway specks. Not masked by embalming fluid now, it was a sickly sweetish stink. He flicked off the pencil flash and turned away. He had no
Kate was a throwback to a time before he'd leamed that lesson, a time when he hadn't loved as cautiously.
The engine started smoothly. Spraggue drove carefully, keeping a tight rein. At least contemplating the Martinsons' bizarre relationship delayed thoughts of Kate. Kate and Lenny ....
"Stick around and help me, Spraggue. I'm not sure I can handle the crush all by my lonesome." Crummy dialogue, but better than "Stick around and help me find my lover." How would that line have gone over? Not half as well. Bad taste, begging the ex to find the present. And offering to sleep with the ex to seal the bargain. Shit.
He hadn't believed Howard, old unperceptive Howard. But Mary Ellen and George and Phil Leider .... How many witnesses did he need? So Lenny and Kate had a winemaking spat Sunday night and Lenny ran off. Just like that. God, he wondered what the battle had really dealt with. Hadn't taken place in any kitchen over coffee, either. Not with Kate.
And that was the gossip Lieutenant Bradley wasn't authorized to clue him in on.
Spraggue jammed his foot down on the accelerator, too hard for the narrow twists of Zinfandel Lane. Lights blossomed in his rear-view mirror; he'd picked up an unexpected companion on the usually deserted road. He yanked his foot completely off the gas, let the car creep back to normal speed. Why hurry? He hoped Kate would be sleeping by the time he got back, knew she wouldn't be. Knew she'd be waiting, reading, in the old double brass bed, naked.
Shit. The anger blew out of him like air out of a punctured balloon. What right had he to pass judgment on Holloway's bedmates? He didn't own her, just half the winery. Didn't want to own . . .
The car was handling oddly. The next bump in the road left no doubt about that. When he hit the brake, it grabbed, swerving off to the right. He fought the steering wheel to keep the Volvo aimed down the center strip. That car behind him followed too closely.
Damn, Spraggue muttered under his breath. He groped for the emergency flashers, flicked them on, and swung over as far as possible toward the right-hand verge of the narrow road. The other car gunned its engine, whizzed past, roared out of sight.
Spraggue stopped the Volvo dead, got out to check on a visible cause for the car's erratic behavior. The night air was heavy with the smell of ripe grapes. Vines stood thick all around, supported by wood and lashings of rope, bowed with the weight of the purple clusters. Spraggue stared straight up and took a calming, lung-filling breath. So many stars.
The right front tire was flat as Kansas. He'd never make it to Kate's, up that twisty driveway.
Not a car, not a house. That jerk behind him-
Once, years ago, when a car displayed flashers, pulled off the road, the driver behind would stop, offer aid. Maybe Leider was right. Nobody did that anymore. Too dangerous. Better not get involved.
Let there be a spare tire. Kate was notoriously negligent about such petty details. He retrieved the keys from the ignition. At least there were two on the chain. She could have just handed over the ignition key, never dreaming he'd need to open the truck. Maybe she kept a flashlight in the glove compartment. Spraggue circled the car, opened the passenger door. Nothing in the glove compartment but used paper towels and a half-empty bottle of Windex.
Another car passed, didn't slow down even when he waved.
He left the right-hand door open for light. The glow barely reached around to the trunk. He fumbled with his hands for the lock before remembering the tiny pencil flash on his own key ring. He found it, clicked it on, tried the key in the lock. Rusty. He worked it for what seemed like minutes before the key turned and the trunk sprang open.
As soon as he smelled it, he was glad of the darkness, glad the stars were faint, faraway specks. Not masked by embalming fluid now, it was a sickly sweetish stink. He flicked off the pencil flash and turned away. He had no
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