Dying on the Vine by Peter King Page B

another question.
    â€œI was wondering … do you have any research going?”
    â€œResearch?” That took her attention from her files.
    â€œYes. You know—cloning, grafting, hybridization, that kind of thing …?”
    She pursed her lips. “We are too busy with production to be doing research.”
    â€œWell, you don’t have to do it here. Some vineyards support programs in laboratories and research institutes; that way, it doesn’t interfere with their everyday work.”
    â€œResearch is kept confidential,” she informed me.
    â€œDo you know Professor Rahmani?”
    She sighed and put on a pained look that said plainly, I don’t have time for all these silly questions. She shook her head.
    â€œOr the Institute for the Study of Planetary Influences?”
    There was a brief hesitation, then she said, “Oh, is that what his crackpot organization is called?”
    â€œIs that what it is?”
    She shrugged again. “Astrology and wine making have nothing in common. He may have conned a few vintners to subsidize him but—”
    â€œHe has?” I interjected quickly.
    â€œI suppose so … well, he must have … he has a lot of very expensive equipment, large modern buildings … it all costs money …”
    â€œYes,” I murmured. She knew plenty about a man she had never heard of.
    She looked away, aware of her slip, but recovered fast.
    â€œI didn’t recognize the name—your accent. … He approached us some time ago about research on grapes. We didn’t want to have anything to do with it. Are these questions anything to do with your article?” she demanded.
    â€œCertainly,” I said before I had time to think whether they did or not. “Some vineyards believe in long-term development. Do they do it themselves, do they farm it out as a program … ?”
    â€œI have a lot of work to do,” she said, pulling the files a little closer. “Can you find your own way?”
    â€œThanks. I will.”
    I went through the other door, into the winery, leaving Miss Congeniality to her files. There was no one in sight. The sweet smell of fermenting grapes was powerful. Machinery buzzed softly and water was running somewhere. I walked past the rows of vats, their oaken exteriors sweating moisture. The floor was a little slippery and I trod carefully.
    Farther along, I found what I was looking for. A rickety wooden desk had some papers on a clipboard, an operating manual, and a school-type exercise book. I glanced at the papers on the clipboard first. They were an hourly log of temperature readings and a record of sampling times. The manual was standard stuff and didn’t appear to be much used. The exercise book was different, though—it showed grape varieties, weights, dates, and I was getting really interested when …
    Sounds from above echoed through the cloying air—loud metallic clicks. I listened. It stopped then I heard what sounded like soft footsteps coming from the catwalk above the vats. I put the book back exactly as I had found it and stood without moving. Once more, I heard the footsteps—and while I didn’t like the idea of going up myself, I liked even less the idea of a person who didn’t want to be identified being above me.
    I found a stairway. The metal rail was cold and clammy but I clung tightly with one hand as I climbed. One foot kicked a step and the vibrating hum sounded loud but probably wasn’t. I kept on upward to the catwalk.
    It seemed dizzyingly high now that I was up here. I recalled the old adage about never looking down—and promptly looked down. The catwalk ran the length of the building, branching off to run between the vats. A person could be hidden anywhere. I thought of calling out in case it was a worker engaged in the legitimate pursuit of his trade but then reflected that it was more their responsibility to challenge me as the