“He had life insurance and money from the winery, which is why I need into her bank accounts.”
That Beck tells me are empty, I think.
“When my father passed,” she continues, “my mother insisted she was taking over that role my father held, but it was, as expected, a disaster. My mother angered customers and made rash decisions.”
“You lost business,” I surmise.
“A ton of business.” She stabs a meatball. “That’s when I took over and tried to earn the deals back. But it got worse before it got better. We lost one section of our vineyard to a bad freeze because she declined normal procedures as too costly. Kasey was at his wit’s end and I convinced him to stay. That freeze,” she says, stabbing a meatball, “makes the forty thousand a month a real accomplishment.”
“Don’t artistic types hate the business end of things?”
“I know this place,” she says. “I bring knowledge and the name to the brand.” She waves that off. “Enough about that place. Did you always want to be an attorney?”
“Yes. My father was an attorney and I wanted to be better than him. And I wanted him to know I was better than him.”
“Are you?”
“Yes,” I say, offering nothing more, and nothing more is how I always liked that man.
“How did he die?”
“Heart attack.”
“My mother too, and I’d say that’s ironic, but it’s a common way to die.”
“It is common,” I say, and, I silently add, and the perfect cover up for a murder. Or two.
She sets her fork down. “Right. Common. And this is a bad subject. I think I’m done eating.”
“You’ve hardly touched your food, Faith.”
“I just…like I said. It’s a bad subject.” She starts to get up and I catch her hand. “Sit with me.” She hesitates but nods, settling back into her seat. I glance at her plate, then at her, letting her see the heat in their depths. “I’m going to make you wish you ate that.”
She studies me right back for several beats and then picks up her fork. “I’ll eat, and I’ll do so because my growling stomach will distract me when I paint, and then I’m going to paint while you get ready for your call.”
“Not about to let it be about me, now are you?” I challenge, but I don’t give her time to fire back. “Are you going to finish painting me?”
“Maybe,” she says, her eyes filling with mischief. “We’ll see if you inspire me again.”
I remember the way she’d thrown that painting on the ground, the way she’d shouted at me. “If inspiring you means making you think you can’t trust me, I’d rather not.”
“There are other ways to inspire me,” she says, taking a bite of her food.
“How should I inspire you, Faith?”
“I’ll consider letting you know when it happens.”
“All right then. When did you first get inspired to paint?”
“I always wanted to paint. From Crayola to paintbrush at age five. And Sonoma is filled with art to feed my love.”
Now she says love, but she’s used the word “like” when talking about wine. “And you went off to college with a plan to turn it into a career.”
“I did.”
“And your parents had to be proud.”
“They were supportive enough, but as an aspiring artist, I’m just like half of L.A. trying to make it to the big or small screen. No one takes them serious until they do it.”
“And Macom? Did he take your art seriously?”
“He’s an artist.”
“So he understood the struggles.”
“Yes,” she says, reaching for the bottle of water. “I suppose you could say that.” But something about the way she says those words, says there’s more to that story than meets the eye.
I open my mouth to find a way to that story, when her cellphone rings and I finish my food, while she pushes to her feet and walks to the counter where her purse, which looks like it’s seen better days, sits. She retrieves her phone and glances at the screen. “The mechanic.” She answers the call.
I stand and dump my take-out plate into the trash, and Faith seals hers and walks to the fridge as she listens. “Okay. Yes. No. Just please tow it to the winery. Thank you.” She ends the call and stuffs her phone into her jeans.
“That didn’t sound good.”
“All I heard was the price and I’m not spending that without another opinion and some time. I have another car at the winery. I’ll just have to ask you to please take me to pick it up when you leave.”
“And when am I going to leave, Faith?”
“According to my hard limit, before we sleep tonight.”
“No sleep then,” I say. “So be it.” I don’t give her time to argue. “Let’s call Frank.”
“My paperwork related to the winery is all upstairs. We should call with the documents in front of you. And if you want, you can just work up there while I paint. Or not. You’re welcome to stay down here.”
“Upstairs,” I say, the significance of her going from not wanting me up there, to wanting me up there not something that I miss. Neither is the fact that she just invited me to sit at that desk, where I can nose around in anything I want. And she has to know this. I gather my work and we head up to the studio. Faith straightens the desktop, but sets a stack of files on the desk. “Taxes. My father’s will. Collection letters. Random other items. If you need anything specific that isn’t there, just ask.”
I reach for a file that catches my eye and flip it open, looking at the forty-five-million-dollar valuation of the vineyard, with the note for thirty-five. “Faith, you could sell for ten million?”
“That evaluation was done before that freeze and the substantial loss of business that followed. I still believe it would sell for a profit, but nowhere near that. But I’m not selling, Nick. This is my family business.”
“Did your mother know the value had gone down?”
“I tried to tell her that, but she didn’t care enough to listen.”
Or she did listen, and the freeze lowered the price and made the vineyard a steal for someone like my father, who would rebuild it. It makes sense, except for the fact that my father wouldn’t put money down on something Meredith Winter had no right to sell. He was not that stupid. Not to mention the fact that both of them are dead now. “Let’s call Frank.”
She pulls her cellphone from her pocket and dials on speaker. “Faith,” Frank answers. “What’s happened? Is it the bank harassing you again?”
“I’m here with Nick Rogers.”
“Ah yes. Nick. I knew this call was coming when you brought up his name. I might be old but I still have instincts. Am I being fired?”
“No,” Faith says quickly, her eyes meeting mine, a silent plea for me to say the right thing right now.
“I’m going to play second counsel,” I say. “But I need to be brought up to date.”