tent, speaking a little bit too loudly, name-dropping and snapping shots. She made sure to get shots with the golf shop in the background.
Cantell took note of the large number of drivers and security personnel loitering outside. He was less surprised by the two undercover and four uniformed men, probably from the Sheriff’s Office. He and Lorraine confined themselves to the lots of red wines, tasting several cabernets and pinots, sampled the hors d’oeuvres, then pulled away, keeping to themselves and making a point to stay away from the Adams bottles.
“This could get interesting,” she said.
“Already is.”
“Are you sure it’s enough?”
“No,” he answered. “It’s a bit far, and may not do the trick.”
“Then what?”
“I’m considering Fort Worth,” he said.
“You wouldn’t!”
“Why not?”
“People were hurt,” she reminded him.
“Mild stuff. Outpatient material.”
“It was a stampede !”
“I’m only considering . . . no decision yet.”
“Hello!” It was a blond woman whom Cantell took to be in her early fifties, though there was no telling with this set: she might have been seventy underneath all the work. “Susie,” she said, extending her telltale hand, her skin like a dried apple.
“Chris Conrad and my friend Laura,” Cantell said. “Oakleaf Barrels.”
She tried to look impressed but obviously had not heard of them.
“It’s like those BASF television ads,” Cantell said. “You know, we don’t make the wine, we make what makes the wine better. In our case, it’s the oak casks. Can’t have a good wine without a properly aged cask.”
“Oh . . . of course . . . How interesting.” She couldn’t have cared less. “Do you know anyone here? May I introduce you around?”
“We’re just fine, thank you. Looking forward to tomorrow night.”
Lorraine burst in. “What a lovely setting.”
“It is, isn’t it?”
“And how do you fit into all this?” Cantell asked.
“I’m in real estate,” Susie said. “Along with about half the valley’s population.” She smiled with her big teeth. “I serve on the center’s board. We reap the rewards of all this.” She waved her hand. “It’s so generous of all of you.”
“Happy to do our part. Will the dinner go off on time?” Cantell asked.
“Honestly,” she said, lowering her voice, “we typically run about a half hour behind. Ketchum time, we call it.”
“So dinner will seat around . . . ?”
“Eight-fifteen, eight-thirty, I would guess. Will you be with us for the dinner?”
“Oh, we’re in for the whole enchilada,” said Lorraine, “not that you’re serving Mexican.” She hoped for a laugh. “Chris brought his wallet, if you know what I mean.”
“Isn’t that . . . delightful,” Susie said. She glanced around, desperate to be free of them. “I expect I’ll see you tomorrow night, then.”
Cantell offered her his hand, and they shook.
“It’ll be a blast,” Lorraine said.
Cantell flashed her a look. “It sure will be,” he said.
Susie worked her way back into the crowd.
17
F iona entered the tent on the arm of Roger Hillabrand, the CEO of a multinational defense-contracting firm, who’d been a central figure in a recent investigation of Walt’s office. He had a Robert Redford thing going: rich, rugged, and ready for action.
Seeing her, Walt wanted to simply disappear. “Another junior high reaction to an adult situation,” is how Gail would have labeled it. His relationship with Fiona was not entirely professional, though he wasn’t sure she knew that. If forced to say hello, to acknowledge the pair, he might blush or stammer or otherwise give himself away. That was to be avoided at all costs.
He should have realized she’d attend, should have realized guys like Hillabrand didn’t give up. He’d gone after her before, during the investigation. Fiona had pushed back, but had now obviously had a change of heart. Walt barely recognized her in the
Cantell took note of the large number of drivers and security personnel loitering outside. He was less surprised by the two undercover and four uniformed men, probably from the Sheriff’s Office. He and Lorraine confined themselves to the lots of red wines, tasting several cabernets and pinots, sampled the hors d’oeuvres, then pulled away, keeping to themselves and making a point to stay away from the Adams bottles.
“This could get interesting,” she said.
“Already is.”
“Are you sure it’s enough?”
“No,” he answered. “It’s a bit far, and may not do the trick.”
“Then what?”
“I’m considering Fort Worth,” he said.
“You wouldn’t!”
“Why not?”
“People were hurt,” she reminded him.
“Mild stuff. Outpatient material.”
“It was a stampede !”
“I’m only considering . . . no decision yet.”
“Hello!” It was a blond woman whom Cantell took to be in her early fifties, though there was no telling with this set: she might have been seventy underneath all the work. “Susie,” she said, extending her telltale hand, her skin like a dried apple.
“Chris Conrad and my friend Laura,” Cantell said. “Oakleaf Barrels.”
She tried to look impressed but obviously had not heard of them.
“It’s like those BASF television ads,” Cantell said. “You know, we don’t make the wine, we make what makes the wine better. In our case, it’s the oak casks. Can’t have a good wine without a properly aged cask.”
“Oh . . . of course . . . How interesting.” She couldn’t have cared less. “Do you know anyone here? May I introduce you around?”
“We’re just fine, thank you. Looking forward to tomorrow night.”
Lorraine burst in. “What a lovely setting.”
“It is, isn’t it?”
“And how do you fit into all this?” Cantell asked.
“I’m in real estate,” Susie said. “Along with about half the valley’s population.” She smiled with her big teeth. “I serve on the center’s board. We reap the rewards of all this.” She waved her hand. “It’s so generous of all of you.”
“Happy to do our part. Will the dinner go off on time?” Cantell asked.
“Honestly,” she said, lowering her voice, “we typically run about a half hour behind. Ketchum time, we call it.”
“So dinner will seat around . . . ?”
“Eight-fifteen, eight-thirty, I would guess. Will you be with us for the dinner?”
“Oh, we’re in for the whole enchilada,” said Lorraine, “not that you’re serving Mexican.” She hoped for a laugh. “Chris brought his wallet, if you know what I mean.”
“Isn’t that . . . delightful,” Susie said. She glanced around, desperate to be free of them. “I expect I’ll see you tomorrow night, then.”
Cantell offered her his hand, and they shook.
“It’ll be a blast,” Lorraine said.
Cantell flashed her a look. “It sure will be,” he said.
Susie worked her way back into the crowd.
17
F iona entered the tent on the arm of Roger Hillabrand, the CEO of a multinational defense-contracting firm, who’d been a central figure in a recent investigation of Walt’s office. He had a Robert Redford thing going: rich, rugged, and ready for action.
Seeing her, Walt wanted to simply disappear. “Another junior high reaction to an adult situation,” is how Gail would have labeled it. His relationship with Fiona was not entirely professional, though he wasn’t sure she knew that. If forced to say hello, to acknowledge the pair, he might blush or stammer or otherwise give himself away. That was to be avoided at all costs.
He should have realized she’d attend, should have realized guys like Hillabrand didn’t give up. He’d gone after her before, during the investigation. Fiona had pushed back, but had now obviously had a change of heart. Walt barely recognized her in the
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