The Hunt Club

Brandt and Wu went and made themselves invisible behind the flap of the tent and watched them as they walked off, Carol leaning heavily onto her husband's arm.

"Nice guy," Brandt said. "Ward."

"She's not. She's a killer."

"You think so?"

"I'd bet my life on it, Jason. I thought she was going to pass out when I mentioned Andrea. She didn't deny the call from the Saint Francis, which is huge. I honestly thought she was going to be sick. I know it shook her up."

"That was the goal."

"No, the goal was to get her upset enough to leave early."

"But not too early. Devin's got to have time to get up here."

Wu checked her watch. "He's had two hours already. He'll make it."

"He'd better," Brandt said. "Check it out."

The Manions had stopped in their progress toward their place at the bidding tables, and now Carol had one palm against her husband's chest and the other pressed against her own left breast. Her posture implored. Wearing an unmistakable expression of frustration and anger, Ward looked at the ceiling of the tent for a moment. He took his wife's wineglass and with an exaggerated calm placed it, along with his own, on the nearest table. Then the two of them began walking toward their nearest exit.

"It's happening," Brandt said.

Wu nodded with a grim satisfaction. "Looks like."

33

Tamara and Craig held their wineglasses up above eye level, intently peering into the half inch of red liquid. "What are we looking for?" Craig whispered.

"I don't know for sure," Tamara said. "Redness?"

"I see it."

There were three pourers-two men and a woman-at the Manion Cellars tasting room. All of them were young, knowledgeable, enthusiastic. The person who'd poured their wine was a twenty-something would-be matinee idol named Warren, and he waited expectantly for reactions among the dozen people at the bar in front of him before he continued with his spiel.

"First I'm sure you'll all notice the amazing clarity, a deep ruby with a just a hint of amber, or even brick, at the edges. That's natural with an older vintage such as this one, especially with the sangiovese. You'll see this a lot with old chiantis, which I'm sure you all know is the same grape. As you swirl, I think you'll pick up the highlights of the deeper ruby red that tends to characterize this varietal in its youth. And then, as the wine settles back into the bottom of the bowl, check out the incredibly beautiful legs…"

Craig backed a step away from the bar, stole a glance downward. "He's right about your legs," he whispered to Tamara, "but how can he see them from where he is?"

She elbowed him in the ribs, took a small sip, spit it out into the bucket provided, and put her glass down. Warren was rattling on about volatility and alcohol and structure and what to look for, what sensory information to register, when the wine passed the lips and the actual tasting began.

Tamara leaned over to Craig, spoke in her own stage whisper. "No offense, but give me a margarita any day."

"I hear you." Craig didn't even bother to taste this particular wine. He'd already tried sips from three or four other bottles, and the education hadn't had much impact on his initial reaction. He and Tamara didn't much care for the stuff. Either that or they just didn't get it. Who cared if the color was ruby or if it was more garnet? What difference did it make? Was color a flavor component? It all tasted pretty much the same to him, in spite of all this talk about forward fruit with a firm backbone of ta

Tobacco? Saddle leather? As opposed to baseball-glove leather? Did Warren think people wanted to taste horse and cigar in what they drank?

Not Craig. Not Tamara. If they were drinking, pour something cold with a kick. If Craig wanted a citrus overtone, he'd suck a lime, thanks.

But this morning they had gotten Wyatt Hunt's urgent call and driven up here with him on his last chance, critical and perhaps even dangerous business, and under orders to draw no attention to themselves, they both feigned the kind of interest they were seeing all around them from their fellow tasters.

Warren was going on. "And now if you'd all like to leave your glasses here, the next part of the tour involves a bit of a climb up to our new caves, but I think you'll see it's worth it. We're incredibly excited about our storage capacity now, almost fifteen thousand barrels, about half-and-half new and old oak, which the limestone holds at a constant temperature and humidity which is the…"-blah and the blah, blah-"so if you'd all like to follow me." He led the way out the side of the tasting room and onto an uphill path that met a semi-paved road that swung right around the edge of the promontory and out of sight.

Their own path continued a bit farther uphill and took them, as promised, to the new caves, which, Craig had to admit, were impressive. Extending for seemingly hundreds of feet back into the solid white rock and lined to the high ceiling on both sides with barrel upon barrel of wine, the caves were a complex labyrinth cut into the core of the limestone hill.

And apparently it remained a work in progress. At regular intervals, unfinished wings fingered off into blackness. The four primary arteries-one leading in from each of the doors-terminated at a vast, dimly lit, double-wide main chamber that in the next few years would come to house a comprehensive wine museum named Fine Art of the Grape, which the Manions hoped would become a valley destination in its own right. Here also was a private dining area and even a stage for drama and musical productions-the acoustics, their guide assured them, were perfect.

Warren and fourteen of the sixteen visitors on this morning's tour gathered around the artist's rendering in the center of the chamber that indicated what the space would eventually look like when all the work was finished.

Two of the visitors disappeared into darkness.

"Manion Cellars. Can I help you?"

"Hi. This is Andy with the Oakville Grocery. Is this the kitchen?"

"No. I'm sorry. You got the tasting room, and we're jamming."

"Okay. Sorry to bother you. Would you mind co

"I can't do that. This is the public line. We don't co

"Perfect. You mind giving me that number?"

"Sorry again. I'm not supposed to give that out."

"Jeez. Who am I talking to?"

"Natasha."

"Well, look, Natasha, I got a problem. Carol Manion called here for something like sixty people coming by the house up there after the auction, and we've got her very expensive and rather particular order all together, but I need to talk to the kitchen to see what we've got to have completely cooked here and what you guys can handle up there. But this number here we're talking on; this is the number Carol gave us."

"I believe it. She is so distracted lately."

"Who isn't? It's nuts week here, too. Anyway, if we're not there on time and with everything cooked just so, the fallout from the explosion is going to render our lovely valley uninhabitable for the next two hundred years, and then where will you and I be? So could you please, just this once, give out the home number? I promise I'll burn it up, and then swallow the ashes twice as soon as I'm done with it."

Natasha gave a little chuckle. "Once ought to be enough, Andy. Hold on a sec. Okay, you ready?" She gave it to him.