By: J.C. Simmons

CHAPTER ONE

The new forty million-dollar Gulfstream GV corporate aircraft taxied slowly to the end of runway 36 at the Napa County Airport. On board were the two pilots, the owner, Ben Brooks, and three of his company attorneys. They had, the day before, completed purchase of the famed Novellone Winery in Calistoga, California, and were enroute back to Jackson, Mississippi, headquarters of the Brooks Corporation.

With no air traffic control delay at the end of the taxiway, the aircraft turned onto the runway and accelerated swiftly as the powerful engines reached takeoff thrust. Rotating and climbing like a silver-winged, homesick angel, the big Gulfstream reached for altitude. Exactly two minutes and thirty seconds later the jet plunged straight down into a field of cabernet sauvignon grapevines, impacting the ground at over five hundred miles an hour, disintegrating into tiny fragments.
* * * Napa Valley, California. Rolling hills, fog-shrouded mountains; giant eucalyptus trees with white trunks standing at the margins of immaculate, well-tended vineyards; vines, lush and heavy with ripe, bursting grapes. Where valley floor breaks to become hillside, there are castle-like chateau's housing caches of aging wine; some buried deep into hillside caves dug a century ago by Chinese laborers. Vineyard workers still carefully select and harvest individual bunches of the ripest grapes for artisans to lovingly craft into complex wines. I stood in the middle of this valley surrounded by unbelievable horror.
* * * The charred, smoldering earth stretched for a thousand feet in all directions, oddly soft and loosely packed, as if freshly prepared for planting. A nauseating smell of burned dirt, grass, grapevine, plastic, paint, kerosene and human flesh permeated the damp air. I turned a small chunk of metal over with my toe. It was black and ugly on one side, shiny and polished on the other. I bent down. The thing was about six inches square, probably the biggest piece left after the cleanup this morning.

"Jesus," I said aloud to no one.

The two pilots had been close friends of mine. We had shared the small, cramped cockpits of commercial airplanes for many hours, and not so long ago, either. Such close confinement, under sometimes-stressful conditions forces you to learn about personal smells, habits, abilities, and faults. You learn to admire or detest one another. These men had been knowledgeable, experienced fliers. Now they were dead, and so were the other four people on board, including the owner, Ben Brooks. This was a man who had been my friend for many years; had helped me when I needed it. A man I introduced to the world of wine. He had become, as I, a student of the vine. I felt somehow responsible for him being in this valley of the grape; for his death, and I felt horrible about it.

The early morning fog and smoke hung close to the ground and the dampness began to soak into my skin. I pulled my jacket up close around my neck. Jay Leicester, private investigator; I laughed at that, knowing how I ended up in this occupation. Ex-pro football player; ex-airline pilot; ex-self-taught wine expert. Too many ex's.

Standing here, alone, in this valley of the seven moons, I felt puny, and a feeling of sadness made me reflect on being here. Or maybe it was the depression from the loss of close friends, and knowing what lay ahead. Raised in a family of Judges and law enforcement officers, and after ending my flying career, all I knew to fall back on was law. Working on the fringes as a private investigator suited me better than operating under the legal restraints placed on sworn officers of the courts. Taking orders from anyone was a problem for me, sometimes a big problem.

At six feet two inches, two hundred thirty-five pounds, I was still in good shape for an over forty guy. I ran two miles everyday when not on a case, and worked out with a retired boxer three times a week to keep the reflexes sharp.

The chain of events that brought me to this spot, in this valley, were long and complicated. The common thread was fine wine. Something I knew not a little about.

Off in the distance, over by the tree line near the base of the rolling hills, I noticed the lone figure of a man. The way the faint early morning sunlight played off the fog and smoke gave the figure a ghost-like appearance. I squinted at the man. He looked exactly like Ben Brooks. The form started to move toward me and seemed to be floating across the ground rather than walking. It was eerie. The closer he got, the more the man looked like Ben.

Standing there watching the slender figure approach, I felt a damp breeze caress the back of my neck. My hands were cold and I put them into the pockets of the old, worn flight jacket. In the right hand pocket I could feel the icy steel of an airweight magnum that had become a part of me over the years.

The figure stopped a few feet away. My mind was still trying to make me believe that this apparition was Ben, and it was doing a good job. The resemblance was incredible. The eyes seemed different, though; dark, cold, sunk back in under thick, black eyebrows. The fellow pulled a straight-stemmed pipe out of a holder on his belt and proceeded to light it, the dark bottomless eyes piercing into mine. I met the stare without blinking, relieved, because Ben had not smoked a pipe, or anything else.

Finally: "Good morning. I'm Charlie Harrier."

He handed me a slim, black, leather I.D. case that in fact said he was who he said he was and identified him as being a member of the National Transportation Safety Board.

"I'm in charge of the investigation. Did you know you're in a 'secure' area?"

His voice was deep, much deeper than you would expect from such a small man. He was not short, I guessed around five foot eleven inches, but he could not have weighed over a hundred and forty pounds. His hair was thin and receding, his face sharp, cheek bones high, and a hooked nose. The pipe seemed to be a part of his face. He clasped it between his teeth on the right side of his mouth when he talked and his thin lips opened to show teeth stained to a golden color from many years' use of pipe tobacco.

"Jay Leicester," I said, extending my hand. "I'm a private investigator hired by the company that owned the airplane." His grip surprised me. It was strong and firm for such a light man. "The pilots were friends of mine and so was the owner, Ben Brooks."

I handed him my I.D. wallet that held my private investigator's license and my Airline Transport pilots license. The ATP license has the United States of America written across the top and the seal of the Department of Transportation in the upper right hand corner. Against some that are not familiar, the licenses look of officialdom helps the bluff. They get me into places where I could not otherwise gain access. Some people glance at an official-looking I.D. and just turn submissive.

The ATP license was one I'd had for over twenty-five years. Though I do not fly for a living any more, I keep my licenses current, even my first class medical. It is something I can not let go of, like an old pair of shoes that still feel good, even though they are worn out, and you wouldn't wear them in public.

"Ah, you're a pilot, too, I see," Harrier said with a slight grin.

"Well, I used to be. Still stay current, but I've been away from the line a long time."

"Always hate to see the older pilots leave. These new generations coming up... I don't know?" Harrier resettled his pipe. "You got some authorization from the Brooks company?"

"It's being wired out this morning. They didn't get in touch with me until late yesterday. Jumped on the last flight out of Jackson and flew all night."

Harrier nodded. It was a familiar story.

"You sure got the wreckage cleaned up in a hurry," I went on.

"It was an intense fire," Harrier said. "They were full of fuel. There weren't a lot of big pieces left. Even though the cockpit broke clean and came to rest a hundred yards from the main fire, it was still completely destroyed. The rest of the aircraft was reduced to soot. Most of the bones from all six bodies were burned... "

"I get the picture, Harrier," I interrupted. I did not need him to tell me about jet fuel and fire, nor about the bones of my friends. "You got any idea, so far, as to what happened?"

"If I did, I couldn't tell you. You know that."

The man's eyes stared humorously, and it made me angry.

"That's a bureaucratic crock, Harrier. I'm not in the mood. I'm tired, I'm sleepy, and I've just lost three good friends. I don't want to hear something you'd tell a news reporter who doesn't know the difference between an airplane and a pelican."

A slight grin formed, just for an instant, on his thin lips, stained teeth, and pipe; the dark eyebrows rose just a touch, and the black eyes sparkled.

"Settle down, Leicester. You're much too big a man to whip this early in the morning."

I almost laughed, because for a moment I thought he might be serious. It was a ludicrous remark, not only due to my size, but Harrier was probably fifteen years my senior.

He broke into a wide grin. "Come on, I've got some coffee in my car, we'll talk."

I followed him across the soft, ugly, blackish-brown earth, through the foul-smelling, clinging smoke and fog.

Trailing the lanky, fast-walking Harrier across the vineyard, I thought again about why I was here in this pleasant wine producing capital of the United States, maybe the world. A place where my own enology education was broadened by an old friend, years ago. Jay Leicester former airline/corporate pilot, and now, by choice, a private investigator. A loner.

Wine started out as a hobby, then became a passion. I once took a leave of absence from flying to attend a year at the Mississippi State School of Enology. Thought seriously of making wine a vocation. Probably should have.

Ben Brooks... What were you doing in the Napa Valley?

The car was small; it was gray and had a little government seal on the side of each door. One of a million gray clones driven by a million human clones our government turns out, but the coffee was hot, black, and good. Harrier started the engine and turned the heater on. The warmth and coffee began to take the chill off and I started to relax.

"We took everything over to the Napa County airport," Harrier said. "They let us have a hangar. We'll lay it all out and try to find out what we can. I don't know much at the moment. Your friends took off yesterday morning at three minutes after eight and they were heavy. From what I can determine, they were at max gross takeoff weight, ninety thousand five hundred pounds."

"Why would they have wanted so much fuel on board?" I asked, more to myself than Harrier. "That would give them over six thousand miles range."

Harrier shook his head. "I have no idea. It was cool in the early morning, but even so, the weight was pushing the limit for takeoff distance. My rough guess is they would have needed at least six thousand feet of runway to be legal, and Napa's longest is only fifty nine hundred and thirty-two feet."

"Exactly. It doesn't make sense. These pilots were pros." I sipped the coffee. "So, you're getting all the data? Flight plans, conversations with Departure Control, time of disappearance from radar... ?"

"Sure. How much fuel they took on, testing it in the truck that fueled them, and the fuel in the ground tank at the airport. We're doing it all."

Sounded like. Harrier and his cohorts have a checklist they go through, normally. He was sucking on his pipe, watching me through blue smoke. After a few puffs he continued. "Tell you what, Leicester, I'll help you out on one condition, you agree to pass on everything you discover as soon as you get it. This is a newly certified aircraft, if something is wrong with the design we have to know and we have to know fast. Are we on the same page, here?"

It was a reasonable offer, sounded like. "Can I see the wreckage?"

"It's all in a pile at the hangar. We haven't had time to separate any of it yet. Why don't you wait a week, at least until we lay everything out?"

"A week of standing around? No way." I needed to know where we stood with each other. Thought I'd shove a little, see how he shoved back. "Look, I'm here to find out why this airplane crashed. We both know it wasn't a design flaw, or pilot error. That leaves us with an outside influence. Once you rule out this fuel thing, you're going to be sucking hind tit. You're going to need my help because I'm not strangled by all your government red tape. I'm going to find out why three friends are dead, and you can bet your sweet ass it won't take me the two years it takes you jokers to put out an accident report. So here's the deal, if something comes up you need to know, I'll call."

The pipe quivered in Harrier's jaw. Then the muscles relaxed and a thin smile crossed his face.

"You ever thought about going to work with the NTSB?" There was a sparkle in those dark eyes.

"Right. I'll follow you to the airport."
* * * The fog caused rivulets to run down my windshield as I followed Harrier's taillights. Remembering him looking over my Airline Transport license suddenly brought home why I was wandering around through an early morning fog in Napa Valley wine country.

Ada Blackmon, Ben Brooks' number two in command called me immediately upon learning of the crash. We'd known each other a long time. She wanted me to handle the investigation for the Brooks Company.

Ada knew I had spent twenty-five years as a pilot. She knew I gave up flying professionally for personal reasons and was now a private investigator. She also knew wine had been a serious hobby of mine for many years, and that I'd attended enology school. Then there was the fact that Ben Brooks and the two pilots were close friends. Ada knew, too, I had introduced Ben to the world of wine. She knew all this, and she called me. I'm glad she did.

The drive to the crash site took two hours. Landing in San Francisco, I rented a car. Traffic was light in the pre-dawn. Since I had no way of knowing where the crash site was, I decided to stop by the Napa County airport and see if someone there could give me directions.

Being back in wine country felt good. This is a place where some of the best wines in the United States are grown, produced, and bottled. Some think the wines are as good as, and even surpass the best wines of the world. Me included. Spending a month in this and adjoining valleys some years ago studying and drinking these wines made me familiar with the area, but that was a long time ago, and I was too tired to remember all the roads and turns, so following the road map seemed wise.

Locating the airport was not a problem. The young night operator was sound asleep in the operations shack; his feet propped up on the desk. Laid back in his chair, head tilted to one side, his long blond hair hung over his forehead. He was snoring softly. Remembering my days doing night duty at airports to pay for flying lessons, trying to get through school, and how valuable it was to sneak in as much sleep as one could in the predawn, I hated to wake him. Reaching over, I held him gently by his big toe, squeezed lightly, then firmly, until he awoke with a start.

"Jesus, Mister, I'm sorry," he said, jumping to his feet. "I didn't hear a thing. What did you do, glide in?"

"Take it easy, son. I drove. I'm here to investigate the crash of the GV. Can you tell me how to get to the accident site?"

The kid looked me over at that question. "Who you with, Mister? They told me not to tell anybody where it went down."

Pulling out my I.D., I showed him the Airline Transport license. He glanced at it, and handed it back quickly. I didn't say a word about who I was or whom I was working for. I was officialdom.

"Yes, sir. You go on up Highway 29 until you hit the junction of 12 and 121. That goes west. It's about eight or nine miles further. It'll be on your left, before you get to Schellville. There'll be a Deputy Sheriff's car sitting there. You can't miss it. Mister, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't say anything about me sleeping. I mean, I go to school during the day, and I have to help with the work around the farm... "

"Forget it, kid. I understand. How many hours you got now?" I guessed about the flying.

A smile of relief crossed his face. "I got thirty hours and five-tenths, been soloing for twenty hours. I take the written next week."

"Thanks for the directions and good luck on the written."

At the crash site, the I.D. worked on the Deputy Sheriff like it had on the kid at the airport. Why had Harrier showed up at the site this early in the morning? Maybe he was doing what I was, trying to get the feel of things. Maybe he wanted to see if the vineyard was cleaned of debris. I didn't know, but as I followed the taillights of his car back to the Napa County airport I thought of asking him. Then I thought not.

CHAPTER TWO

The hangar was big, with high beams and a tin roof. It was old; a huge Quonset hut type structure, probably built in the forties. The lights, hanging from the bare iron crossbeams, were bright and gave the hangar a massive look. The government inspectors had not yet arrived to start their job of sorting out the huge pile of charred debris that lay in the middle of the concrete floor.

It was quiet in the hangar. Too quiet. Charlie Harrier stopped at the door; I walked on, my steps echoing in the hollow space. A chill swept over me as I stood in the middle of the wreckage, the chill of death.

Turning around and looking for Harrier, I found that he was still standing in the hangar doorway. As I walked toward him, it must have been the look on my face that caused him to say what he did.

"Don't let it get to you, Leicester. Sometimes things just happen, no matter how good the flight crew."

"Yeah," I said, rubbing the goose bumps on both arms.

Several members of Harrier's investigation team arrived along with some airport workers. I watched as a full-scale outline of the aircraft was etched with chalk on the hangar floor. Workers began to fit all the pieces back together, an impossible task that would take a long time to complete, but it was vital. It was important just to know if all the parts were there. If the airplane had broken up in flight, tail come off, wing fail, or an engine explode, then some of the pieces to the puzzle would be missing. Sections of wing flaps and trim tabs have been found as far away as five miles from a crash site, indicating that there had been a breakup of the aircraft before impact.

Walking over to where Harrier was talking with one of his investigators, I saw that the man was holding up two small black boxes. One of them I recognized. It was a standby artificial horizon, a backup in case the primary flight directors fail. The glass face was cracked, its case charred. The investigator moved it back and forth in his hand, the tiny airplane inside moved freely. The other black box he held was a standby altimeter, its hands jammed at twenty feet.

"We haven't found the backup airspeed indicator, yet. Maybe it will show how fast they were going at impact."

The man glanced over at me. He was wanting to continue explaining himself to Charlie, but he did not know who I was, and seemed reluctant to say anything further.

"It's okay," Harrier said, nodding toward me. "He's going to be working on this one with us."

The investigator continued. "Well, you know they had that new electronic flight indicating system with the six eight-inch by eight-inch television-like screens, along with two smaller ones. Everything displayed on them is lost as soon as power is shut down or interrupted. It's not like the old mechanical gauges that showed you what they were reading upon impact. There was no Flight Data Recorder or Cockpit Voice Recorder required on this aircraft, like on the airlines, nor was either installed. A real shame."

The new EFIS systems are the latest state of the art symbology for flight, Star Wars stuff. EFIS made it into the cockpits of both the airlines and corporate aircraft at the same time. Redundancy is fantastic. Displays are bright, clear, and digital. The data available is immense, with a capacity far greater than a flight crew would ever need. It eased the workload normally associated with flying complex aircraft a great deal, but they make detective work hard after a crash.

There had been teething problems for systems like these. One crew watched as all their screens went blank at the same time, leaving only the backup systems. A hairy moment, to say the least. Engineers blamed that incident on faulty software. The problem was corrected.

EFIS is a complex and good system, but it is imperative crews be thoroughly trained in all phases of its normal operations and its idiosyncrasies. The two pilots flying this GV were as highly trained on the equipment and systems as any airmen could be. They liked the EFIS equipment in their new aircraft. We had discussed it on several occasions. Their praise had been nothing but positive about both the system and the new airplane.

It would have been useful to know exactly what this airplane did, and what the two pilots said, in the final minutes before the plunge to the ground. Unfortunately, that information was lost forever at the moment of impact.

Standing there in that cold, brightly lighted hangar, looking around at the tragedy that lay all over the floor, I felt glad that I did not fly for a living anymore.

Wandering around the hangar for a couple of hours, I watched the slow, tedious work of the investigators and work crew. There was not much else for me to do here, so I decided to go find a place to call home until this thing ended. A small motel up the road from the town of Napa, at a place called Yountville, came to mind. It was centrally located in the wine country, and I had stayed there before. It was clean and cheap, with an excellent view of the mountains to the west. A vineyard of Chardonnay grapes bordered the swimming pool. One time I went out after dark to steal a bunch of the sweet, luscious, white grapes to feed the girl staying in my room. That was a long time ago.

Informing Harrier where I would be staying, I promised that after checking in and making some phone calls, I'd return to see how they were getting along. It was imperative I get in touch with the person who hired me, Ada Blackmon. She was Ben's right hand, and would take over now that he was dead. She had worked with Ben since he started the company back in the sixties. She needed to know that I had arrived and would keep her informed as to what was happening each day.

Going back along the ramp to where my car was parked, I spotted the blond-haired boy who was asleep this morning at the FBO. He was standing out in the tie-down area beside a Cessna 150, a small, two-seat airplane used by almost every flight school in the United States as a primary trainer. He recognized me and waved. Throwing up a hand, I walked out to where he was finishing up his pre-flight and asked him where he was going.

"Over to the practice area to work on my steep turns, stalls, and slow flight," he replied with youthful bravado.

"Okay, kid, just one question. What makes this airplane turn?"

A wide grin crossed his face. "They've already warned me the examiner would ask that question on the oral. It's not the rudder, but the down-turned aileron on the high wing creating more lift than the up-turned aileron on the low wing. The rudder coordinates the turn."

"You'll make a good pilot, kid." Walking away I laughed. The answer to that question eluded me until taking my instructors check ride, and I missed it then. The examiner felt sorry for me and, instead of failing me, explained the answer. Either kids are getting smarter or the quality of flight instruction is getting better, or both.

Sitting in my car, I watched the boy take off and climb slowly into the powder blue sky. Starting up the engine, I drove north toward Yountville and the Napa Valley Lodge. There were telephone calls to make, and sleep to be had.

The girl at the desk said they did have a room, only it was sort of a suite, a king-sized bed with a half-kitchen and an outside upper deck that opened up onto the vineyard and pool area. The only thing I wanted was a single with a hot shower and a 'Do Not Disturb" sign. No three hundred dollar a day suite for me.

She said the room could be had for the price of a single. "This is the off-season and everybody is busy with the crush. I just want to fill the space."

That was better.

"You up here to visit some winery or you just fooling around?" The girl asked with a flirtatious smile as I filled out the guest card.

"Business." It was better to leave it at that.

The room was nice. It was on the second floor and the sliding glass doors opened onto a private spacious deck. Below, the pool area looked empty and forlorn. The pool, shaped like a bunch of grapes, was green and the water, unruffled, reflected the foliage and surrounding buildings. The old, gnarled vines of the vineyard still ran up to the edge of the motel property, the leaves beautiful in their greens, browns, oranges, reds, and rusts. Across the valley, on the west Side, the Mayacamas mountains stood stark and cold.

Deciding to forego the shower until later, I pulled the curtains closed, slipped out of my clothes and threw them on the opposite side of the giant bed. Picking up the phone, I called Ada Blackmon.

Her secretary said she had left to be with Ben Brooks' wife, Valerie, who was taking this pretty hard. A doctor was with her. Informing the secretary I would call Ada again tonight around eight o'clock at her home, I hung up and rang the front desk and asked the operator to call me at four this afternoon, and to please hold any phone calls. The girl said that was impossible, as there was direct dial to the room from anywhere in the valley. Silently cursing Ma Bell for her continued progress, I told the operator that the phone would be off the hook and would she please send someone around at four to knock on my door. She said that she would be glad to and hung up.

Sleep must have came instantly, because when knocking on the door awakened me I still held the receiver in my hand. My old Rolex read four p.m. Yelling at whomever was knocking, I said, "Thank you, I'm up."

The shower felt great. I could have stayed there a long time, but was late calling Ada. Turning the shower off, I stepped out into a steam-filled room, the mirrors fogged over. Opening the bathroom door, the rush of cool air felt bracing. Toweling dry, I went to the phone wrapping the towel around my waist. Ada Blackmon answered on the first ring.

"Oh, Jay, it's all so horrible. How could this happen? I'm so sorry to have to bring you in on this."

"We're all sorry, Ada. How's Valerie doing?"

"Not well. Dr. Williams was still with her when I left this afternoon. He promised to stay as long as necessary. I didn't want to leave her, but there was so much to do and it has to be done quickly. Somebody had to tell the other families. It had to be me and in person. That was hard. The worst was Gus and Ivan's wives. I knew them so well. I've cried and cried so much for everyone. If it hadn't been for Paul and Dorothy I don't think I could have made it. They've been so helpful, and have been at the office almost continuously since the accident."

"Ada, there are some things I'm going to need. Did you fax the authorization giving me the power to act for the corporation out here?"

"Yes, I sent it to the Napa airport. What else do you need? Anything, just name it."

"What were they doing in the Napa Valley? Briefly tell me now. Tomorrow put the complete file on FedEx and have it delivered to me at the Napa County airport. I'll be staying in Yountville, at the Napa Valley Lodge, room 112." I gave her the phone number.

"Yountville, Napa Valley Lodge, room 112. Okay, I've got it. Jay, Ben wanted to buy a winery in the Napa or Sonoma Valley. They were out there to finalize a deal. Ben kept it so hush hush that only I and the lawyers there with him knew anything about it. I don't want to talk about it over the phone. Ben was so adamant about keeping everything secret. I'll get the entire file together in the morning, make a copy, and send it out to you."

"That'll be fine, Ada." What was the big deal with secrecy about buying the winery? Maybe the file would clear things up.

"Jay, I want you to be careful. Ben was worried about something, something dangerous. I don't know what, but it had to do with purchasing that damn winery."

It was the first time Ada had ever used a curse word in front of me. Something dangerous, I thought. Ben wasn't a man to worry unless the threat was real. He would keep the reason from Ada.

"Don't worry, Ada. I'll be fine. Put everything you can remember in with the file."

"Okay, Jay. Is there anything else you need?"

"Not at the moment. Expect a call everyday for updates."

"Jay... what about the bodies?"

Her voice was shaky and I felt really sad for her. "Don't worry, everything will be taken care of. They'll need to run some tests. It's routine, and necessary. Tell Val I'm thinking about her, and that she'll hear from me later."

"Good night, Jay. I'll get the report out in the morning and wait for your call."

"Okay, it'll be around five o'clock your time, before you leave the office." We hung up.

CHAPTER THREE

Lying on the bed, I was still tired, but felt better from the shower. Having forgotten the room had a fireplace, I noticed it framed through my toes. It would be cool enough tonight to have a fire. Wondering if there was any wood, I remembered that it was usually kept on the balcony and furnished by the hotel. I felt too lazy to get up and go look.

My stomach was starting to growl, and I realized that I had not eaten since yesterday. There was a little Italian restaurant, Mama Nina's, I remembered from my earlier visit, just down the street. The tortellini they served was some of the best I had ever eaten, and there was a wine list to match. The young chef, Chris Grisom, who trained at the California Culinary Institute in San Francisco, was from the south, and we had become good friends. Food would have to wait, though. Harrier was expecting me to return to the airport, only what I needed now was more sleep. The wreckage and the food would keep.

When I awoke, it was dark outside. My old Rolex read 8:00 p.m. Dressing slowly, I drove to Mama Nina's restaurant in hopes of seeing Chris. The dinning room was crowded. A young lady at the maitre d's desk said it would only be a short wait. When I inquired about Chris, she said that he did not work for the restaurant anymore, he owned it. Through hard work and a little luck, he had managed to buy the owner out. It did not surprise me; he seemed destined to own a restaurant.

Chris was a big man, red-haired and red-faced, with arms like a gorilla. Recognizing me when I tapped on the trim beside his open office door, he jumped up and greeted me with his usual exuberance.

"You big, ugly rascal. What are you doing back in the Napa Valley?"

"Say 'Sir' to your elders young man, or someone might have to box your ears."

"Yeah? You and what army?" He was grinning from ear to ear as he bear-hugged me. I could feel the ribs give.

"So you bought the place?"

"Yeah. Old man Ed wanted to retire, or Miss Nina wanted him to. You remember Miss Nina. She ruled the roost. They are in Sicily visiting relatives and headed for the Piedmonte, the last card I got said."

Chris was putting on his coat. "Jay, I've got to run down to San Francisco. Angel wants to stay with her mother tonight. If you're going to be here for awhile, I want you to come over to the house. Stay with us, if you want. We've plenty of room."

"Thanks for the offer, but I'm settled in at the Napa Valley Lodge. I'll be here for a few days, maybe we can get together."

Chris nodded. "Okay, but if you need anything, let me know. I'm ordering for you tonight. It's on me. Don't say a word, it's my pleasure."

"Are you sure the food's any good here?"

He slapped me on the back with a meaty paw and walked away toward the kitchen laughing that hearty, deep growl I remembered so well.

The crowd began to thin out and I was given a quiet table next to the fireplace. The young waitress who came over said her name was Kathy and she was instructed not to let me order a thing. "The boss is taking care of the meal, including the wine." She said she would be back "Anon" with some champagne.

"Anon," I though to myself. Must be some new California word. My vocabulary never had been much bigger than my waist size, but both were growing.

The young lady returned with a bottle of 1975 Veuve Clicquot brut champagne. It was a great wine and a great year. When I asked the young lady to bring me two more flutes, she looked quizzically at me, but went to get them without comment. She handled the cork with professionalism and poured all three glasses.

Lifting one of them, I said, "Kathy, please taste the champagne with me, then take the other glass back to the chef. What's his name?"

"Oh, sir, I can't drink while I'm working. It's against the rules."

"It's okay. Chris knew there was no way I could drink a whole bottle."

"But, sir... "

"Now don't argue with me, Kathy. It's way too much wine for one person, and we don't want to waste any."

It was good champagne, elegant for its age with fine tiny bubbles, and a deepening gold color.

"This is toasty and smoky with a Pinot/Chardonnay backbone," Kathy said, sipping the wine.

"A wine to be truly shared." I held up my glass to her.

Then came the food. It started with a salad, great taste, but I'm not much into salads. I only nibbled at it and felt guilty. Then a bottle of red wine arrived that was already decanted, a Barolo-Riserva Speciale, 1970, from Giacomo Conterno. This time Kathy brought three glasses without being asked. A luscious wine at its peak. Brick red in color, a clean mature nose, and a dry flavorful body with a long lingering finish. Thank you, Chris.

Small portions of different-shaped pasta begin to arrive. Little wagon wheels with a clam sauce, farfallette in a garlic cream sauce, fettuccine with a rich pesto, and finally, two kinds of tortellini, one filled with cheese and the other with ground meat of pork, beef, and venison. Each portion was just the right amount, enough to get the full flavor, but not too filling. Each a compliment to the next and a marriage with the Barolo. Chris must have found an Italian chef who could cook the way of the old country.

Finishing the last of the pasta, I asked Kathy to tell the "old man" that I would like to complement him on his work, drink a toast to him. She giggled, and went to the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with a beautiful, twenty-four year old lady from Ketchum, Idaho, and trained at Chris' alma mater in San Francisco. She had been working with Chris since graduating two years earlier. We had a good laugh, and drank a toast to the great "old Italian" chef.

Back at the Napa Valley Lodge, there was a message waiting. It said Harrier wanted me to call him in San Francisco at 7:00 a.m. the next day, and gave the number.

In Miami, at 1106 Calle Ocho, is a small cigar factory. It is owned and operated by Ernesto Perez Carrillos, known by all his friends as Ernie. He makes the best hand-rolled cigars in the world. The tabaqueros, the people who roll the cigars, are all from Havana; exiles from the Castro era. Ernie and these people have equaled, if not surpassed, the quality of the cigars from the Old Cuba. I am never without my fifty-four ring, natural wrapper, seven inch, long-filler Charlemagnes, as Ernie named them.

Taking one out of its cellophane wrapper, and removing the band, I carefully cut the little cap off the end and lit the cigar. Pouring myself three fingers of Martel cognac in a snifter, I went out on the balcony.

The air was cool and pleasant, sweater weather. A slight breeze was ruffling water in the pool. It was too dark to see the mountains to the west, but the car lights moving along Highway 29 reflected through the grapevines. It was peaceful and serene on the balcony. There were no stars visible from where I sat.

Watching the light skipping through the vines, I thought of Ben Brooks. He loved a good cigar and cognac at the end of a long day, also. Ben was a self-made man. He literally came to the small south Mississippi town of Magnolia walking down the railroad tracks. There he found a job loading and unloading sacks of feed and cotton bales at the local store. In ten years Ben owned the store. He expanded into cotton growing, and built a cotton gin and a shipping and storage warehouse beside the tracks he walked in on. Entering the oil business in a big way just as it started to climb after Vietnam, he was a billionaire by the age of forty.

Ben and I met in the early seventies. The owner of the Oil Corporation for which I was chief pilot and Ben were in a deal together. When Ben found out I, too, was from Magnolia we developed a friendship that would last until his death.

Ben would come forward to the cockpit when he rode aboard our company airplane. He was interested in aviation and asked intelligent and technical questions. Weather avoidance radar and distance measuring equipment seemed to fascinate him. Always leaving the cockpit before we began our descent, he let us know that he did not want to be a bother.

Twirling the Martel around in the snifter released pleasant, alcoholic aromas. One of the drawbacks of enjoying a great cognac is the more I drink, the more I want. Too much of this wonderful nectar destroys me the next day. It is said that three drops of cognac on the tongue of a hummingbird will send him out on a silent, amorous search for eagles. It was time for me to go to bed.
* * * The phone woke me before sunup. I groped for the receiver, and said, "Yeah, who is it?"

"Harrier, here. You up, yet, Leicester?"

"Right. I was sitting here on the side of the bed waiting for you to call. What time is it?"

"Six a.m. Sorry I woke you. I've got to go to San Diego. A regional airliner slid a 737 off the runway during a thunderstorm. It's no big deal, nobody hurt, and little damage to the aircraft, only a couple of embarrassed pilots who will have to go through a lot of recurrent training. It shouldn't take over a couple of days."

"Have a nice trip. Thank you for calling at this hour to tell me."

"Don't be crass, Leicester. I have a copy of the transcript of N1BB from Oakland Center. Thought you might like to peruse the document. It has some interesting stuff in it. I have a man coming up to the Napa airport this morning. I'll send it along with him. He'll be at the hangar where the wreckage is stored. Name's Bill Fulton. Good day."

"Wait, Harrier. What's on the tape?" He had already hung up. I slammed the receiver back into its little cradle.

Wide-awake now, I wondered why Harrier would voluntarily give me this transcript? It didn't make sense. He was not that nice of a guy. Lying back on the bed, I thought about the transcript. It must be short, whatever was on the tape. The airplane was not airborne long enough for a lot of conversation to have been recorded.

After a quick shower, I dressed hurriedly, quickly rejecting the thought of wearing the only tie I brought. Why I threw it in the bag was beyond me. I hate the things. Oh, to have five minutes alone with the person who invented them.

The lady behind the counter at the Napa County Airport Fixed Base Operation said that FedEx did not run until ten or ten-thirty. She had seen a fax come in for me late yesterday, however her husband had put it somewhere, and he wouldn't be in until later in the morning. That left me a couple of hours to kill.

Wondering if Bill Fulton had arrived from San Francisco with the transcript, I walked down to the hangar where the debris from the crash was being sifted and sorted.

One of the investigators looked up and saw me. He was the one who found the two standby instruments yesterday. "Hold it right there, mister... Leicester, isn't it? Bob Gore, from yesterday." He stuck out a meaty paw. "You got your clearance from the Brooks Company? Harrier said you weren't to be allowed around this hangar unless you had it."

"I'm to pick it up this morning, it's down at the FBO. I'm also supposed to meet Fulton here. He has some paperwork from Harrier that I'm to pick up. Did you ever locate the standby airspeed indicator?"

"Nice try, Leicester, but I didn't just fall off the back of a turnip truck. Now how about stepping outside."

Deciding to lay on a bluff, I said, "Come on, Gore, give it a rest. It isn't like I'm here to sniff the remains. I'm licensed, and I'm personally interested, too."

Gore raised an eyebrow. "Oh? How's that?"

"The owner and the two pilots were close friends of mine. The company asked me to come out because I'm a private investigator. If I don't touch anything and just watch, can I stay?"

Gore turned this information over in his mind. "Harrier said you were an ex-pilot."

I didn't say anything, let him work it over.

"Okay, stick around, but please get the authorization before one of our people gets their tail in a crack because of you."

"Thanks, I appreciate it." He was a clone, but not the worst kind. "What about the airspeed indicator? Did you find it?"

"No, not yet, but we will." He held up a small, round, copper-colored object about the size of a coffee cup saucer. It had been through the intense heat, but was still recognizable. "Here, what do you make of this?"

"It's a lid off a jar. Where did that come from?"

"The area of the cockpit." He looked at me with a pleasant smile. "I agree it is a jar lid. Why would it be in the cockpit? We'll have to try and find out what supplies they kept on board, see if the lid could have come from any of the condiments. If not, well, it could have already been in the field at the time of the crash. Who knows? At one crash site we spent a year trying to figure out where a small, round, rifle bullet came from. Then someone suggested we go back to the site and look some more. We found several more bullets under a few inches of dirt. Seems the plane went down at the site of a Civil War battle. Fun business, isn't it?"

"Yeah, real fun business."

Leaving Gore to his work, I walked around the huge pile of charred debris. It was hard to imagine that this pathetic mess was once a massive, strong, powerful machine that flew near the speed of sound. True, it was designed by brilliant engineers and built by craftsmen to the specifications of stringent federal regulations, but an aircraft is only a shell wrapped in thin metal. Neither the GV, nor any other aircraft ever built, was designed to withstand an impact with mother earth at a speed of more than four hundred miles an hour.

A man came through the hangar door carrying a briefcase. Gore noticed and went over to meet him. It must be Fulton, I thought. They shook hands and looked over at me. Walking over to where they stood, I was anxious to see the transcript he was bringing from Harrier.

Fulton it definitely was not.

As I approached the two men, Gore wheeled around with a red face. He looked me straight in the eye and said, "Leicester, on second thought you can take a hike until I see an authorization. Get out of here and take this one with you." He indicated the man standing next to him. Gore turned and abruptly stalked away.

The man left standing with me had an arrogant smirk on his face. Whatever he said to Gore must have been sweet. Looking at me, he asked, "Are you one of the NTSB boys or a FAA man?"

"Neither, who are you?"

"Well, I tried to pass myself off as a P.I., but I got caught. I do the ten o'clock news show over at KNWX. When you have a recognizable face like mine, subterfuge is out." He reached up and rubbed a sharp, chiseled chin. "They sent me to get a story on this crash. There's a rumor going around that it has to do with the wine business. That's all I know. The FAA won't release anything to the press."

The guy's voice had a tone I did not care for. I did not like his "let's pretend" bit either.

"You tried to pass yourself off as what?"

"Private investigator. You know, as in private eye, Mickey Spillane, Mike Hammer, those types. I told that man, Gore, wasn't it that I was looking into the crash for the family. He saw me on the show last night, though, and recognized me."

He started to dig out a cigarette. "The private eye thing was too smutty, anyway. All those guys are lowbrows, you know?"

"No, I don't know. Seems to me that the lowbrows are found more in the media."

His face flushed. "I see, takes one to know one, or what?" He was sneering.

I snapped. Whether it was the remark itself, or the sneer, or the pile of charred debris behind me, I did not know, but I lost it. In the old days, I would have destroyed this pretty-faced television news reporter. It would have been quick fists, pulpy faces, cut and broken hands, and probably lawsuits. Now, it was only as good a verbal dressing down as I could muster.

Not whipping this man's ass was a way of growing up, maturing, I thought, but sometimes I miss the old days. Fighting always seemed a surgical way to solve things, clean and concise, the outcome undisputed.

Mr. Pretty-face turned red, made an about face, and walked out of the hangar. Following, I was still voicing my opinion. He turned, looked at me with another sneer, and walked away. I slammed my fist into the hangar door. Better the door than him, but it was still stupid. My hand was cut, and I knew it would swell.

Several of the men had followed us outside, probably hoping for a fight. Gore walked up to me, accompanied by another man. He still looked unhappy, but this was not my fault.

"Leicester," he growled. "This is Fulton. He's got your papers. Take them, and don't come back until you've got the authorization."

Fulton gave me the papers and nodded. Taking them without saying a word, I walked back to the FBO, wrapping the skinned knuckles in my handkerchief. The lady behind the desk handed me the package, and the fax from Ada.

"Hurt your hand, Mr. Leicester? We have a first aid kit in the back. Want me to bandage it for you?"

"That would be nice. Thank you. Do you have some ice?"

"Sure." She went to get the first aid kit.

Unwrapping the handkerchief, I looked at the hand closely for the first time. There was some skin missing and the swelling had already started, but it moved freely, nothing broken. It should be okay in a few days. The cuts would take some time to heal, but it was a lot better than it might have been.

The lady expertly bandaged the hand, covering the cuts with a bedadine cream. "Used to be a nurse before we bought the FBO. You want me to recommend a doctor?"

"No, it's just a scratch. Have to be more careful fooling around wrecked airplanes."

The lady smiled. "Yes, sure, Mr. Leicester." She handed me a plastic sack with some ice cubes. "You stop back by if you need anything. I'll look at your hand again, if you want?"

Walking swiftly out to where my car was parked, I was anxious, now, to get away from here, back to the hotel where it was quiet so I could study the transcript Harrier had sent up from Oakland Center. There was also the file Ada sent concerning Ben's business dealings in the Napa Valley. It was hard for me to believe Ben would have considered buying a winery without mentioning it to me. We had not talked for several months, I had been away a lot, and when I was in town we simply had missed each other.

Driving out of the parking lot, I kept my right hand on the seat beside me, under the ice.

Heading toward Yountville, I thought about all the charred debris in the hangar, realizing something was terribly wrong. Ben had been concerned about 'something dangerous' involving the purchase of a winery. Then there was the deep secrecy, keeping things from Ada, and now, news reporters snooping around. Could there have been a conspiracy to kill Ben Brooks? All this was adding up to something truly ugly and, by God, I intended to find out exactly what.

Pulling my hand from under the ice, I saw that it was starting to swell and stiffen.

CHAPTER FOUR

The motel room was quiet, too quiet. The whole place seemed deserted. Opening the sliding glass doors let a cool breeze blow into the room. The sun was just beginning to work its way onto the patio. It would soon warm and brighten things up, especially me. Off to the west the Mayacamas mountains rose toward the sky, bluish and brown, stark and forbidding.

Ripping open the envelope from Harrier, I saw that the transcript used the customary aeronautical abbreviations: ARTC = Oakland Center Air Route Traffic Control; N1BB = Ben's aircraft, with Gus and Ivan as crew; NG = Napa County Airport Ground Control; NT = The Control Tower at the Napa County Airport.

It surprised me to see that the tapes from the Napa Control Tower were included. Harrier must have taken them to Oakland with him.

The transcript started with Gus and Ivan calling Ground Control at the Napa Airport for clearance.

(07:58.20) N1BB: Good morning Napa Ground. November One Bravo Bravo, Napa Air Service, clearance to JAN. (Jackson, Mississippi)
(07:58.32) N.G.: Good morning, November One Bravo Bravo. Clearance on request. Have you got information Alpha?
(07:58.39) N1BB: No, we could not get it on two four oh five.
(07:58.43) N.G.: Roger, it's just coming on line now. We only opened a few minutes ago. Winds three six zero at ten knots favoring runway three six, altimeter three zero one zero. You can have runway one eight, if you want?
(07:59.03) N1BB: No, we're heavy. We'll take three six. Say the altimeter again.
(07:59.15) N.G.: One Bravo Bravo, altimeter is three zero one zero and you are cleared to taxi to runway three six. Expect no delay.
(07:59.31) N1BB: Understand three zero one zero on the altimeter and we are cleared to three six, One Bravo Bravo.
(07:59.42) N.G.: Roger, One Bravo Bravo, that's correct, and you can taxi down the runway if you like. I have your clearance when you're ready to copy.
(08:00.03) N1BB: Cleared to taxi down the runway and go ahead with the clearance. One Bravo Bravo.
(08:0015) N.G.: November One Bravo Bravo, you are cleared to Jackson, Mississippi via the Lizard one departure, Crockett transition, then as filed. Climb and maintain one zero thousand. Contact Oakland Center on one two five two five out of three thousand, squawk four three four five. Tower on one one eight point seven.
(08:01.04) N1BB: Roger. Understand over to JAN via the Lizard one to Crockett and as filed. Up to ten, and Oakland on one two five two five out of three, forty three forty five on the squawk and tower on one one eight seven.
(08:01.41) N.G.: One Bravo Bravo, read back correct, tower when ready.
(08:02.39 N.T.: One Bravo Bravo, you gonna be ready at the end?
(08:02.43) N1BB: That's affirm.
(08:02.47) N.T.: Okay, you are cleared for takeoff, climb and maintain one zero thousand, left turn one eight zero after departure.
(08:02.59) N1BB: One eighty on the heading, up to ten. Here we go. One Bravo Bravo.
(08:04.36) N1BB: Napa, One Bravo Bravo's out of two for three. We'll see you next trip.
(08:04.41) N.T.: So long, have a good day.
(08:04.51) N1BB: Good morning, Oakland. One Bravo Bravo is with you out of three for ten.
(08:05.09) ARTC: Good morning November One Bravo Bravo. You are radar contact four north of Napa County Airport. Fly heading one zero zero direct to Crockett. Climb and maintain flight level two four zero.
((08:05.41) N1BB: Roger, one zero zero on the heading direct to Crockett and on up to two four oh. Wait a minute. We got a problem.
(Unknown voice from the cockpit) Oxygen.
(Unknown voice from the cockpit) What the...
(08:06.03) ARTC: One Bravo Bravo, Oakland Center. What's the nature of your problem?
(08:06.11) DL: <\<>Delta Airlines> Oakland, Delta eleven forty-two heavy out of ten for two four oh.
(08:06.22) ARTC: Delta eleven forty-two standby. November One Bravo Bravo, Oakland Center. One Bravo Bravo, you read Oakland? He's off the scope. Notify the supervisor.

(Lower controller) Yeah. I'll call the supervisor, and somebody do a weather.

I read the transcript again. It was hard. Seeing the last words written down on paper brought it all too close to home. Walking out on the balcony, the emotions enveloping me were strong. I wanted to cry, but couldn't.

Gus was flying the aircraft. From the transcript I could tell that it was Ivan talking on the radio. A pilot has his own way of talking, his own way of abbreviating the language of aviation. It's like a fingerprint with its little ridges and whorls and loops and bifurcation's and breaks. Like what a painter does with his strokes and colors so that even without his signature you would know his work. Or what a writer does with his writing, if he's good enough, so that you know no one else could have written it.

Everything was normal with the flight until Ivan said they had a problem. What problem? What could possibly have happened to that airplane to cause total loss of control so fast by two such competent pilots?

There was a knock on the door. The interruption irritated me. Throwing the transcript on the table, I hollered, "Who is it?"

"Maid Service, sir."

When I opened the door, the lady walked in. Her maid's uniform was black with white trim made of a rayon type material. It was shiny and glossy, and made a hissing noise as she walked. She wore a pair of those new tennis shoes, the kind that you can pump up to help stabilize the ankles.

"The room's already been cleaned," I said, noticing her hands. She was holding a clipboard and one of her fingers, the ring finger, had a small red star painted into the nail polish.

"Yes, sir. I'm just checking to see if everything was done right. Do you have any complaints? Anything we can do for you?"

"No, everything is fine. Room's all clean."

She kept going about her business, so I walked out on the balcony, hoping she would finish quickly and leave so that I could get started reading the information Ada had sent on the business Ben was doing out here in the Napa Valley. In a minute I heard the door open and shut as the maid left.

Standing there looking at the distant mountains, I thought about Gus and Ivan and Ben and Valerie and Ada. Only fools and little children think the world's fair, I said out loud, slamming my good hand on the railing of the balcony.

Walking back into the room, I instantly felt something was wrong. Looking around in the bathroom, the closet, my suitcase, everything seemed okay. Sitting down at the table, I realized that the transcript was gone. Unbelievable, the maid took the transcript. Why?

The tennis shoes, Leicester, you are slipping. You are losing it. Motel maids do not wear two hundred-dollar pairs of tennis shoes. You can bet the farm the blond hair and red-rimmed eyeglasses were fakes, also.

Grabbing up the phone, I punched in the office number. "Hello, this is Leicester in room 112. Do you have maid supervisors who come by and check the rooms after the regular maids finish cleaning?"

"No, sir. All the maids left at three-thirty this afternoon. We do not have supervisors for them. We only have two other guests besides you staying over tonight, anyway. Why do you ask, sir?"

"Never mind, it's not important. Has there been any messages for me this afternoon?"

"No, Mr. Leicester. If we had we would have flashed the little red message light on your phone."

"Yes, of course. Thank you."

Interesting, someone already knows that I'm here looking into the crash. Tapping the tabletop with a finger, it dawned on me that someone could have caused Ben's plane to go down. If they wanted Ben dead, they did not mind taking Gus and Ivan along with him, or the three company lawyers, or anyone else who got in the way of a ninety thousand pound jet airplane slamming into mother earth.

Harrier needed this information. No point in his crew searching for design flaws or pilot error or mechanical failure. This development could help speed their work along considerably.

The tennis shoes and the manicured hands with the little red star worked their way around my brain. The people we were dealing with here aren't stupid. Amateurs do not down a forty million dollar jet with six people on board and know who the investigator for the company is almost before he gets to town. From now own, I better be a whole lot smarter. If it were in fact true someone had caused the crash, they would not mind getting rid of a small aggravation like me.

Why would anyone kill people over the purchase of a winery? At the simplest level there was only one possibility, money. People have been killing each other for it since time began. Ben and Gus and Ivan did not have blood enemies. No doubt the lawyers did, but a plane crash is too quick an exit for most lawyers.

The flames were settling down in the fireplace. Cutting the gas starter off, I sat and watched the flickering fire. Once again I managed to go the whole day with nothing but a cup of coffee. My stomach was letting me know that fact.

The motel had a small refrigerator well stocked with cheeses, wine, and whiskies. Rummaging through the contents produced a half bottle of Domaine Mumm, a sparkling wine made in the Napa Valley, up near Rutherford. I had read about this wine, but never tried it. The motel champagne flutes were glass, not plastic, a nice touch. The wine had tiny bubbles and a straw gold color, dry and delicate, light and elegant with a hint of toastiness. The label read: "A single vineyard vintage brute from Winery Lake. A 'methode chamgenoise' sparkling wine." A wine register in the nightstand next to the Gideon bible told me that G.H. Mumm & Cie, in a joint venture with the Seagram Classics Wine Company, built the winery on the Silverado Trail hoping to cash in on the rapidly-expanding sparkling wine business in the United States. They did it right, judging from this endeavor. Maybe I'd buy a case or two while here in the valley. Propping my feet up on the table, I tore open the package from Ada.
* * * Two hours later the fire had gone out in the fireplace, the wine was flat in the glass, and my stomach was violently protesting the abuse it had been getting. Leaning back in the chair, my mind was leaden with all the information it was trying to absorb. Ben was thorough. Ada had personally and privately maintained the files. That meant only five people in the company knew the entire sequence of events concerning the purchase of the winery. Four of them were dead, leaving only Ada. Now I knew.

The three lawyers killed along with Ben and Gus and Ivan seemed above reproach. They had been employed with the company almost as long as Ada. There was absolutely nothing in the material to make me even remotely suspicious of either of them. They simply had no reason for complicity, especially to the point of riding in that rocket to ground zero.

There was a possibility that Ben's deal might have been poorly appreciated in some quarters. A winery almost as old as Napa Valley itself, an old-line family. This sale would have really shook up the wine business in Northern California, maybe the whole state. Then Ben always had a knack for creating controversy with almost every deal he made.

Sipping the wine, I found it had lost its carbon dioxide, and was warm and flat. It was time to find some food and a good glass of cabernet. Mama Nina's was out, twice in two days would be imposing on Chris' hospitality. There was another good restaurant close by, the Mason Rouge. It was a four star restaurant and always crowded. That was not the kind of atmosphere I needed at the moment. A quiet, dark-lit place with a good wine list and decent food where one could do some serious thinking without being interrupted was what I needed.

On the television set was a list of Napa restaurants and a map showing how to get to them. Looking through it one place rang a bell from years ago. It would be fun to go there again.

With a hope that it was still open for business, a short drive north from Yountville and a right turn on Highway 128 for about two miles took me to Mildred's, a small caf� with only ten tables. Owned by Mildred and Alva Williams, a couple native to the valley, they were grape growers until age and the work got to be too much for them. When they sold their vineyard, they kept their home and a few acres to grow a garden. Retirement did not take long to become boring, at which point they decided to open the small caf� in one of the storage barns that had held their vineyard equipment.

The caf� was for friends and vineyard workers, not for tourists. They served three meals a day. Opening at six a.m., six days a week, they wanted to, "Get the field hands a good breakfast before starting to work." The other two meals consisted of whatever they decided to prepare for that day.

The caf� usually closed at nine p.m. Arriving, I found only two cars in the parking lot. One was a green Jaguar sedan with a California license plate. It looked familiar, maybe from Mama Nina's? Yes, it had been parked beside my rental car. The Stanford University sticker on the rear window stuck in my mind.

Inside there was only one couple at a table up close to the small fireplace. They paid me no heed, and I did not recognize them. A young girl of high school age came over and asked if I wanted dinner. Affirming her question, I asked if it possible to sit over by the oriel, away from the couple by the fireplace?

"Are Mildred and Alva still running the place?"

"Yes, sir, but they don't stay for the night meal anymore. They are getting close to ninety and they tire easy. My father, Sam, does the cooking. I wait on the tables. You know Miss Mildred and Mr. Alva?"

"Yes, from a few years back. They still in good health?"

"Yes, sir. They still get here at six o'clock every morning, rain or shine, hot or cold. I don't see how they do it? I have a hard time getting up and I'm only seventeen." She switched from one leg to the other, hands on hips, and a youthful smile. "We're serving ribeyes tonight. How do you want yours? It comes with a baked potato and sourdough garlic bread. You get your choice of Stag's leap SLV, 96, or B.V. Private Reserve, 94. That's the two we got open. They are all the same dollars."

"Make the ribeye rare, and the B.V. will do fine."

The young girl went back behind the small bar and poured the wine from a decanter. She set the glass on top of the polished bar and went into the kitchen. Returning, she brought me the glass of B.V., saying that she hoped I liked my steak really rare because that is the way her father cooked them.

"I'm sure it will be perfect."

Glancing at the couple over by the fire, I noticed that they were looking at me. What or who else was there to look at? The man appeared to be about my age, graying brown hair, average height and weight. A normal looking guy. The woman, though, was beautiful, coal black hair down to her shoulders, sparkling blue eyes, sharp high cheekbones that had to come from Native American ancestry. Her age appeared somewhere around thirty. She was dressed in a dark, tight-fitting black dress.

The B.V. was incredible. Massive by their usual wine. Rich, deep, and concentrated, packed with black cherry, plum, and currants. Somehow this vintage had slipped by me. Making some tasting notes on a napkin in hopes of finding a case locally passed the time until the steak arrived.

"Young lady, might I have another glass of the incredible B.V.?"

"Good is it? My father said it was. Is the ribeye done enough for you? Daddy cooks them really rare."

"It's fine, thank you."

She returned with the decanter, which was still over half full and set it on the table. "Guess you'll be the last customer tonight, so help yourself. It won't keep. No extra charge."

The couple got up to leave. The lady had a body. Her dress looked like it had been painted on. She had the finest set of legs I have ever seen. She walked in front of the man who, when abreast of my table, looked at me and said, "Wine's nice, isn't it?" Smiling, I nodded and held up my glass.

The man opened the door for the woman, having to reach around her as she stood waiting. She put her hand out to hold the door and I saw it. Even in the dim light of the caf� the star hit me like a flash from a laser. A little red star painted onto the nail of the ring finger. Then they were gone. Astounded, I did nothing, just sat there.

The young waitress came from the kitchen to clean the couple's table.

"Ask your father to come out and join me. We can share a glass of the B.V."

Sam came to the table, a surprisingly old man to have such a young daughter. "Sam, Sam Waterman." He shook hands with me. "Hope you enjoyed the ribeye?"

"Jay Leicester. The steak was just right. What was the wood you used, hickory?"

"No, cherry. Works good, no bitter taste, and doesn't burn too fast if wetted enough."

"Please, have some wine."

He poured a glass and sat down while his daughter cleared away the dishes.

"Beautiful young girl you have there, Sam. You don't find many teenagers nowadays that polite. She seems genuinely nice."

"Well, thank you. She was quite a surprise to her mother and me. We thought we were past that stage, but there she is. She's been a good girl."

"Do you know the couple that just left? Seemed like upstanding people. He appeared to know a little about wine. Pretty lady with him, also."

Sam savored the aroma of the wine and took a sip before answering. "Yeah, I know them. I'm always embarrassed when they come in. We don't serve their wine. Mr. Alva and Miss Mildred won't hear of it. Goes back a long time. That couple is a part of a family who's been growing grapes and making wine in the valley almost since the days of the Missions. Their winery's been having trouble lately, though."

I started to say something, but Sam changed the subject.

"You know Miss Mildred and Mr. Alva? My girl said you asked about them?"

"A few years back I spent some time in the valley. Been a student of the vine for twenty years, Sam. Friend of mine was out here working on his Ph.D. in enology, doing research on a plant louse. He invited me out for a couple of months, hoping to teach me something."

"I see." He seemed satisfied.

"You from around here?"

"Born and raised in this valley. Mr. Alva hired me to work in his vineyards when I was still in high school, been with him ever since. Retired when they did, work at the caf� at night just to help out and stay busy. Kind of enjoy cooking, always have."

"It's a hobby of mine, also."

"Your enology friend, was he at Mississippi State University?"

"Yes. How do you know that institution?"

"Well, we had some problems with the phylloxera louse and U.C. Davis was consulting with them. Didn't know where the place was, but it turned out it's one of the best enology schools in the United States. Your friend wouldn't be Bill Richards would he?"

"You know him?"

"Very well. Comes by when he's in the valley. Man knows his vines." Sam drained his glass. "It's time to go home. You about ready?"

"Sure. One last thing, you never did say who the couple was here tonight?"

"They are the Rossano's. Brother and sister. Maurizio di Torre Rossano, who owns the Novellone Winery, is their father. The boy's name is Marchese, but everyone calls him Marc. His sister is Adriana. Always, you see them together. They come and eat here even though old man Maurizio and Mr. Alva, they don't speak for thirty years. They're always nice to my daughter and never ask why we don't serve their wine and never ask to bring their own like some of the other vintners do."

"You know them pretty well, then?"

"Sure. They work at the winery. Marc went to U.C. Davis and earned a degree in enology. Adriana studied marketing or business at Stanford. I'm not sure. It was the only time they were apart that I can remember. You wish me to introduce them? I will call for you."

"No, thanks, that won't be necessary. I was merely curious. Maybe I'll come again, it would be fun to see the Williams' before leaving."

"We're here six days a week."

Stepping out into the cool night air of the Napa Valley, I thought Sam did not need to introduce Marc and Adriana Rossano. I spent two hours reading about them and their father. Novellone Winery was the one Ben Brooks was negotiating to buy. Adriana Rossano was the 'maid' who stole the transcript from the motel room. Life was beginning to get very interesting.