Dead in the Dregs by Peter Lewis Page A

what I did know of my friend’s career. I had always assumed that Biddy’s having been named winemaker at Tanner had been a feather in his cap—a certain amount of prestige, certainly, but, especially, more money. It had never occurred to me that his position at Tanner, a large commercial winery, represented a step back, a demotion. Both Tucker and Clos du Carneros were small boutique operations known for their obsessive attention to detail. They were aiming for the top tier, and though they probably couldn’t hope to fly with Screaming Eagle, to hit the level of Colgin or Bryant Family, they might find themselves in the esteemed company of Staglin and Sir
Peter Michael. That is, if the wines had been any good. Biddy’s botching successive vintages at two quality wineries had forced him out of the heady precincts of the “handcrafted” and consigned him to the bottom soil of mass production.
    I found him on the sprawling floor of Tanner, directing a crew of Mexican workers who were cleaning the facility after a long morning of crushing and pumping Cab into giant, temperature-controlled, stainless fermenting tanks. As I stepped into the winery, they were finishing up. They had rinsed the gondolas, hosed down the cylinders of the crusher and destemmer, and flushed the press and were heading out. Biddy was making the rounds of the tanks, checking that their temperatures were right.
    I stepped over a hose snaking its way across the slab. Biddy saw me from a distance and waved me to his side.
    “An early day,” he said. “Gimme just a minute,” he added, examining the controls on a tank and making notes on a clipboard. “So, que pasa ?”
    “I just had a conversation with the sheriff,” I said. “Very interesting.”
    “Yeah? Have they arrested anybody yet?”
    “Not yet, but they’re getting closer.” It wasn’t true, but I had a sudden urge to make him sweat. He looked up from the clipboard. “Why didn’t you ever tell me about your history with Wilson?” I said.
    “Why didn’t you tell me he was your brother-in-law?” His voice had an edge to it.
    “You left out a few very important issues from the saddlebag you gave me.”
    “What issues would those be?” he asked with mock innocence as he scribbled up the chart, not bothering to look at me. Then he handed the clipboard to one of the crew and told him to hang it in the office. I followed him across the vast expanse of the winery floor to a door labeled HOMBRES.
    He towered over the urinal and sighed deeply as he pissed. “Jesus, I needed that.”
    “That he slammed you twice, nailed you at Tucker and Carneros,” I said.

    “Ancient history, Babe.” His tone was genially dismissive as he rinsed his hands at the sink.
    “Bear any grudges?” I said.
    “Hey, man, life goes on. ‘Keep on truckin’.’”
    “Thanks. That’s just what I came for. A little philosophy from Mr. Natural to allay my suspicions.”
    He pushed the door open, and we emerged into the quietly humming, refrigerated universe of wine.
    “You ever threaten Richard?” I asked. “Charlie Ciofreddi at the sheriff’s department says Wilson received a death threat a few years ago. Seems to think you might know something about it.”
    At last he turned to face me. “I refuse to testify.”
    “You’re incriminating yourself.”
    “A youthful prank.”
    “It’s a fucking crime,” I said, my voice echoing in the cavernous space.
    He dropped his voice and knelt to retie a bootlace. “I just thought I’d shake him up a bit. He needed to understand that people’s livelihoods are at stake.”
    “Ciofreddi’s gonna call you.”
    “Whaddya go and tell him for?” He looked up in disgust and walked toward the hangar door.
    “I didn’t tell him anything. He told me.”
    “So, now what do we do?” I could feel him cutting distance, waiting for my next move, but the assumption of a we who were in this together presumed a complicity I couldn’t share. He rolled one of the