Page 76 of Que Será, Syrah

“Ha. I wish.” I shake my head. “There’s almost always someone doing something there. I’m sure I could have found someone willing to give a mini-tour, point out some interesting features, or to talk everyone’s ears off explaining the pros and cons of oak vs stainless steel. That would have been the smart thing to do. So of course, I took them to the cave.”

“Wait—you have a cave?” Clay asks. “Your own cave?”

I have to laugh. “Omigod. The look on your face! Yes, of course, we do. Lots of wineries have them. Stags’ Leap, Pine Ridge. Did you know that the one at Palmaz extends for eighteen stories?

Ours isn’t anything like that, of course; it’s very small. And before Bianca reopened it this summer, it hadn’t been used in years. I remember playing in there when I was a kid. Which they probably wouldn’t have let us done if they were actively fermenting wine in there.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“Carbon Dioxide. Did you know that most of the fatalities that occur at wineries are due to CO2 poisoning?”

“I did not,” Clay replies, looking amused. Probably more amused than he ought to, given the grim subject. But I guess maybe, when you’re in law enforcement, you get used to that kind of thing?

“So, what was the problem with the cave?” Clay asks. “I mean, I’m assuming that’s where something happened. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

“No, you’re not wrong.”

* * *

The gate was locked, when we got to the cave, which I wasn’t expecting. But, because I’d been an especially sneaky kid, I knew where the spare key used to be kept, and—lucky for me—no one had ever moved it. Once inside, it took a little fumbling before I found the light switch, which gave me a moment to reflect on how dark and quiet a cave could be.

Last time I’d visited, just after harvest, it had been ablaze with light, and abuzz with activity. Now it was as silent and sunless as midnight in a crypt. And every bit as creepy as I remembered it feeling when I’d played here as a kid. I shivered involuntarily.

“It’s so cool in here, isn’t it?” I asked brightly to cover my reaction. I flipped on the lights, as quickly as possible. All the while talking too fast about insulation, and geothermal factors, and passive air flow, and on and on.

People were walking around, poking their noses into everything. I warned them about straying too far from the entrance, and I tried to keep my patter light and entertaining, but eventually people started asking when they were going to get to taste the wine.

“I’m sorry,” I told them. “But I did say it was only a possibility. I was hoping my sister would be here, but since she’s not, I’m afraid that’s not going to happen today. But be sure to come back in a few months and we’ll be delighted to introduce you to all our beautiful wines. And, don’t forget, if you sign up for our newsletter, you’ll get updates right in your inbox whenever there’s news.”

I’d just started to urge my troops back towards the exit, when the clatter of boots on brick reached our ears, and the next moment Jake appeared in the doorway, looking harried and annoyed and—when he caught sight of me—some weird mixture of horror and relief.

“Legs, what the hell? Are these the missing bikers?”

“Well, they’re bikers,” I replied. “But nobody’s missing.” At which point I remembered that I currently had four fewer clients than I started out with—which had to be what he meant, right? “I mean, no. Sorry, these are the ones who aren’t missing.”

“Never mind. Doesn’t matter. They need to get out.” To which I nearly responded: ‘what do you think I’m trying to do?’ except I didn’t get the chance.

Raising his voice, Jake announced, “All right folks, please start heading outside, right away. And if you are with the bike tour, there are a coupla vans waiting outside for you.”

“I could have done that,” I told him angrily. After all, I’d been herding this particular group of people all day.

“Let’s talk about it outside,” Jake said sternly.

Which, of course, pissed me off. But before I could respond, a voice towards the back of the cave (where I told everyone not to go) called out, “I think I found it! Hey, is this it?” Startled, Jake and I turned toward the sound, and gasped in tandem. One of the more annoying members of my band was draped over a barrel, with his head practically in the bung hole?—

* * *

“Wait. Is that even possible?”

“Not the point. It’s hyperbole. But he had is whole nose in the hole—which is not something you want!

* * *

“Smells weird,” he complained. Just before he laid his head on the barrel, with his ear over the bung hole. “I can hear it bubbling!”

“Sir!” Jake yelled, as loud as I’ve ever heard him. “Stop that! Get off that barrel and out of the cave—now!”

“Okay, okay,” the man replied, replacing the bung hold plug?—”

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