being edged out by DNA analysis.”
He led me back through my vineyard gate to a leafy vine at the top of the highest knoll. From there the view of the vineyard in long shadows from the early morning sun was spectacular. A misty cloud layer blanketed a distant small valley where other crops thrived in the fertile California soil. It was always breathtaking. I took a moment to enjoy the scene before my impending lesson in grapevine identification started.
Flipping through the paperback, Andy found the section on Zinfandel. As I held the cutting taken from Dash Zucker’s vineyard, Andy pointed out the identifying characteristics. “See the deep lobes and the notched Z-shaped teeth?”
I nodded, looking at the leaf in my hand, then at the diagram in the book. They were remarkably similar.
“And look at the sinuses.”
“Sinuses?”
“A petiole is the leaf stem, and the petiolar sinus is the space between the two lobes.”
“Huh,” I said, studying the graphic.
“Leonardo da Vinci wrote, ‘Every shoot and every fruit is produced above the insertion of its leaf which serves it as a mother, giving it water from the rain and moisture from the dew which falls at night from above, and often it protects them against the too great heat of the rays of the sun.’”
Gazing at him for a moment, I said, “Interesting.”
“Isn’t it, though? The vine is an amazing complexity of—“
“No, I mean interesting that a man who sports an NRA sticker on his pickup also quotes da Vinci. Who are you?”
“Did you know that da Vinci invented the first machine gun?”
“Really.”
He winked at me, then turned his attention to the vine in front of us. “Now let’s look at these leaves.”
“There’s no question about my vines, is there?” For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. What if my grapes weren’t really Zinfandel? What if the man who sold me the vineyard had lied? I never questioned the variety, and now I felt stupid for being so trusting.
“I don’t know. Is there?” He picked a leaf off one of my vines and handed it to me.
Comparing it to the diagrams in the book, there was no question in my mind. “Definitely Zinfandel.”
“As are these cuttings. You are absolutely right.”
“Where can I get a copy of this book?” I asked.
“You can have this one. I’ve got a later edition at home.” He handed me the book.
My initial relief from the momentary panic he’d instilled by making me wonder if my own grapes were counterfeit was quickly overshadowed by the disappointment that I hadn’t caught Dash Zucker in a scheme to defraud the wine industry.
“Now,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”
On the way back to the house, I explained the discrepancies I’d found while working on my assignment for the Department of Agriculture and how I suspected Dash Zucker of being involved. Andy seemed amused when I described the trespassing incident the night before.
“You think it’s funny that I nearly got shot?”
He shook his head. “No. I just wish I could’ve been there to see you talk your way out of it.”
I gave him a light punch in the arm.
“I rescued a Jack Russell once that bit every person it came in contact with,” Andy said.
“Rescued?”
“Can’t stand to see an animal mistreated. That’s how I got Redford and Newman.”
I shot him a curious glance.
“The Clydesdales. Found them nearly starved to death about five years ago in a dry pasture just outside of Ione.”
Glancing at his profile, I smiled. Nobody could be this perfect, could they?
Isabel Glass, the hypnotherapist contracted by the sheriff’s department, wore rectangular spectacles that did nothing to improve the appearance of her already too square face. Detective Obermeyer met me at her office, which was a small room attached to the side of her home.
“Please, have a seat,” she said,
He led me back through my vineyard gate to a leafy vine at the top of the highest knoll. From there the view of the vineyard in long shadows from the early morning sun was spectacular. A misty cloud layer blanketed a distant small valley where other crops thrived in the fertile California soil. It was always breathtaking. I took a moment to enjoy the scene before my impending lesson in grapevine identification started.
Flipping through the paperback, Andy found the section on Zinfandel. As I held the cutting taken from Dash Zucker’s vineyard, Andy pointed out the identifying characteristics. “See the deep lobes and the notched Z-shaped teeth?”
I nodded, looking at the leaf in my hand, then at the diagram in the book. They were remarkably similar.
“And look at the sinuses.”
“Sinuses?”
“A petiole is the leaf stem, and the petiolar sinus is the space between the two lobes.”
“Huh,” I said, studying the graphic.
“Leonardo da Vinci wrote, ‘Every shoot and every fruit is produced above the insertion of its leaf which serves it as a mother, giving it water from the rain and moisture from the dew which falls at night from above, and often it protects them against the too great heat of the rays of the sun.’”
Gazing at him for a moment, I said, “Interesting.”
“Isn’t it, though? The vine is an amazing complexity of—“
“No, I mean interesting that a man who sports an NRA sticker on his pickup also quotes da Vinci. Who are you?”
“Did you know that da Vinci invented the first machine gun?”
“Really.”
He winked at me, then turned his attention to the vine in front of us. “Now let’s look at these leaves.”
“There’s no question about my vines, is there?” For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. What if my grapes weren’t really Zinfandel? What if the man who sold me the vineyard had lied? I never questioned the variety, and now I felt stupid for being so trusting.
“I don’t know. Is there?” He picked a leaf off one of my vines and handed it to me.
Comparing it to the diagrams in the book, there was no question in my mind. “Definitely Zinfandel.”
“As are these cuttings. You are absolutely right.”
“Where can I get a copy of this book?” I asked.
“You can have this one. I’ve got a later edition at home.” He handed me the book.
My initial relief from the momentary panic he’d instilled by making me wonder if my own grapes were counterfeit was quickly overshadowed by the disappointment that I hadn’t caught Dash Zucker in a scheme to defraud the wine industry.
“Now,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”
On the way back to the house, I explained the discrepancies I’d found while working on my assignment for the Department of Agriculture and how I suspected Dash Zucker of being involved. Andy seemed amused when I described the trespassing incident the night before.
“You think it’s funny that I nearly got shot?”
He shook his head. “No. I just wish I could’ve been there to see you talk your way out of it.”
I gave him a light punch in the arm.
“I rescued a Jack Russell once that bit every person it came in contact with,” Andy said.
“Rescued?”
“Can’t stand to see an animal mistreated. That’s how I got Redford and Newman.”
I shot him a curious glance.
“The Clydesdales. Found them nearly starved to death about five years ago in a dry pasture just outside of Ione.”
Glancing at his profile, I smiled. Nobody could be this perfect, could they?
Isabel Glass, the hypnotherapist contracted by the sheriff’s department, wore rectangular spectacles that did nothing to improve the appearance of her already too square face. Detective Obermeyer met me at her office, which was a small room attached to the side of her home.
“Please, have a seat,” she said,
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