I’m sure he was hoping to do soon.”
“You bet,” said Wade. “This could be the end of Beroni Vineyards, at least as a family business.”
They went on talking about the murder for some time after dinner, compulsively driven to recount where they had been when they heard the news and what their first response had been. It was as if repetition of the details would lead to some understanding, or to a way to make the events more real. When they’d finished eating, Sunny pulled the cork on a slender bottle of Sauternes Botrytis cinerea Sémillon, a gift from Monty, and served slivers of the pear tart she’d brought home from the restaurant. The cool, deliciously sweet flavors of the wine almost made them forget their curiosity about Jack Beroni’s death.
Later, sitting on the couch, Sunny recognized the signs of being very tired. She felt suddenly slow and heavy, like someone had turned up the pull of gravity. She stared at Charlie Rhodes’s wide, tan hands. She thought that after everyone left she would soak in the bathtub and then sleep late into the morning. When she woke up, she would call Steve Harvey, get the results of the ballistics report, feel tremendous relief, and go over to Wade’s place to celebrate. After that, as sad an event as it was, Jack Beroni’s death would not be her concern anymore and she would forget about it. Life would go back to normal.
She realized she hadn’t heard anything that had been said for several minutes. Monty and Wade were talking about who they could recruit to help with the harvest at Skord Mountain, and Rivka was giving a capsule version of the action flick she and Alex had seen the night before. After a while, Rivka and Monty got up to do the dishes, telling Sunny not to even think about trying to help. Wade sat in the big comfortable chair quietly.Sunny sat up and looked at Charlie. “The county wouldn’t really go around spraying people’s yards, would they? I mean, there’s been talk about it, but they won’t actually do it, will they?”
“They might. The question is when and how wide a sweep. You’ve got to understand that this is a genuine threat to the entire industry. These aren’t the blue-green sharpshooters that hang out by the creeks and nibble a leaf now and then. These guys are voracious, highly mobile, and extremely active reproductively. There’s an entomologist over at the Department of Food and Agriculture who says that if a glassy-winged sharpshooter was as big as a person, it would drink forty-three hundred gallons of sap a day. I’m sure you could say something equally shocking about their reproductive capacities. Even if they didn’t spread Pierce’s disease, they’d present a serious problem just based on the damage they do once a certain population is established. Basically the blue-greens suck a whole lot less,” he said with a lopsided smile.
The three of them stared at the candles burning, sleepy and lost in their own thoughts. Rivka and Monty emerged from the kitchen with coffee and cups. “I wouldn’t be surprised if one of the employees at Beroni did it,” said Rivka. “Alex says Jack was a tyrant at work and everybody had it in for him.”
“It doesn’t look like a work-related meltdown to me,” said Monty, sinking into the couch beside Sunny. “The guys who do that always show up midmorning after they’ve tanked up on four or five quadruple vanilla lattes and go on a public rampage. And they always take themselves out afterward. They don’t want to get away with it, they want the drama. They want the guys they hate to know who did it, to see how mad they are. The guy who goes postal wants everyone to see how powerful and revengeful he can be. He wants to be on the evening news.”
“This isn’t somebody going postal, but it could still be work related. It could be somebody who’d had enough and decided to finally get even,” said Sunny.
Rivka poured half an inch of cream in her coffee and drank it fast.
“You bet,” said Wade. “This could be the end of Beroni Vineyards, at least as a family business.”
They went on talking about the murder for some time after dinner, compulsively driven to recount where they had been when they heard the news and what their first response had been. It was as if repetition of the details would lead to some understanding, or to a way to make the events more real. When they’d finished eating, Sunny pulled the cork on a slender bottle of Sauternes Botrytis cinerea Sémillon, a gift from Monty, and served slivers of the pear tart she’d brought home from the restaurant. The cool, deliciously sweet flavors of the wine almost made them forget their curiosity about Jack Beroni’s death.
Later, sitting on the couch, Sunny recognized the signs of being very tired. She felt suddenly slow and heavy, like someone had turned up the pull of gravity. She stared at Charlie Rhodes’s wide, tan hands. She thought that after everyone left she would soak in the bathtub and then sleep late into the morning. When she woke up, she would call Steve Harvey, get the results of the ballistics report, feel tremendous relief, and go over to Wade’s place to celebrate. After that, as sad an event as it was, Jack Beroni’s death would not be her concern anymore and she would forget about it. Life would go back to normal.
She realized she hadn’t heard anything that had been said for several minutes. Monty and Wade were talking about who they could recruit to help with the harvest at Skord Mountain, and Rivka was giving a capsule version of the action flick she and Alex had seen the night before. After a while, Rivka and Monty got up to do the dishes, telling Sunny not to even think about trying to help. Wade sat in the big comfortable chair quietly.Sunny sat up and looked at Charlie. “The county wouldn’t really go around spraying people’s yards, would they? I mean, there’s been talk about it, but they won’t actually do it, will they?”
“They might. The question is when and how wide a sweep. You’ve got to understand that this is a genuine threat to the entire industry. These aren’t the blue-green sharpshooters that hang out by the creeks and nibble a leaf now and then. These guys are voracious, highly mobile, and extremely active reproductively. There’s an entomologist over at the Department of Food and Agriculture who says that if a glassy-winged sharpshooter was as big as a person, it would drink forty-three hundred gallons of sap a day. I’m sure you could say something equally shocking about their reproductive capacities. Even if they didn’t spread Pierce’s disease, they’d present a serious problem just based on the damage they do once a certain population is established. Basically the blue-greens suck a whole lot less,” he said with a lopsided smile.
The three of them stared at the candles burning, sleepy and lost in their own thoughts. Rivka and Monty emerged from the kitchen with coffee and cups. “I wouldn’t be surprised if one of the employees at Beroni did it,” said Rivka. “Alex says Jack was a tyrant at work and everybody had it in for him.”
“It doesn’t look like a work-related meltdown to me,” said Monty, sinking into the couch beside Sunny. “The guys who do that always show up midmorning after they’ve tanked up on four or five quadruple vanilla lattes and go on a public rampage. And they always take themselves out afterward. They don’t want to get away with it, they want the drama. They want the guys they hate to know who did it, to see how mad they are. The guy who goes postal wants everyone to see how powerful and revengeful he can be. He wants to be on the evening news.”
“This isn’t somebody going postal, but it could still be work related. It could be somebody who’d had enough and decided to finally get even,” said Sunny.
Rivka poured half an inch of cream in her coffee and drank it fast.
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