Chapter Twenty-Four: Everybody Knows The Murderer
At tea that evening, Albert kept pouring and pouring the red wine. “You’ll stay the night here and tomorrow early you can head back to the city.”
“Akaroa,” I said.
“Yes, lads, and I want to tell you this pinot noir is grown just here on the Banks Peninsula, I am happy to tell you that. Just over the hill at the Wai Rangi Aho Winery, outside Akaroa. Place is just recently bought up by an American heiress.
She’s a California heiress, a California lass, so you boys will have some Yankee company hereabout if you do decide to buy Cypress Bay.”
“Armistead Maupin has a place in Akaroa,” said Albert’s missus, Penelope, who had longed so many years for the bright lights and big city of Akaroa. With its six hundred permanent residents. One-third of them over the age of sixty-five.
Now, this piece of news from Penelope concerning Armistead Maupin astonished me. First, because I could hardly believe that Armistead Maupin could ever leave his beloved San Francisco and the Tales of the City series, for which he is deservedly so famous.
But then, many of our friends in Orange County could hardly believe that Beau and I were willing to trade Laguna Beach and Newport Beach, California, for a sheep station in New Zealand.
Secondly, I found Penelope’s news astonishing because I could hardly believe that she would even know who Armistead Maupin was. The very popular and famous and talented author, who happens to be gay, very gay in life and in his writing, doesn’t seem like the sort of celebrity who would be well known in Akaroa, much less way out here on the eastern flank of the Banks Peninsula.
“I had to laugh at all the old ladies in Akaroa,” said Penelope, who I later learned was seventy-eight. “All the old ladies, they didn’t even know who Mr. Maupin was when he moved here!” She laughed so hard at this that she actually started to cry.
“So I had to dust off my copies of Tales of the City and More Tales of the City and Babycakes and—
"Why, just listen to me— You know all his books, of course you do. Well, everybody around here on the Banks Peninsula read nothing else for weeks, for months, when Mr. Maupin first moved here.
Sorry to say, he has moved back to the City by the Bay. Not Akaroa; San Francisco, I mean. But I believe his sister lives out at his old place sometimes and Armistead will be back from time to time. I do hope. I do hope.”
I picked up one of the bottles of pinot noir that Albert kept pouring and which he continued to praise so highly. It wasn’t bad, not bad at all. I started reading the back label.
Descriptions of wine always amuse me, its bouquet and aroma, its nose and its legs, whether it is chewy or lean or mature or hollow or supple. And the truth is I am a compulsive reader. I used to read the entire Cheerios box when I was a little boy because my mother wouldn’t let me bring a book to the breakfast table.
I used to read everything, the ingredients, everything, right down to the copyright information. Couldn’t help myself. Continued to read it even after I had it all memorized. Read it until I finally gave up Cheerios. Now I read the health food labels. Truly a compulsion to read anything that is printed. Maybe I was Gutenberg in a prior incarnation.
As I read the wine bottle label, I was stunned.
“My God. This is unbelievable. Listen to this.” And I began to read aloud from the back label of the wine bottle:
“A disappearance mysterious, an enigma unresolved still.
Jake McNeil realized his life dream
when he planted his first vineyard in 1990
and he tended his vines lovingly through their first years.
While his first harvest was at last being turned into wine, Jacob mysteriously disappeared one night and was never again seen.
With gratitude to his husbandry, we, the new owners of Takatuatua, dedicate this Pinot Noir to Jake.
He would love the hints of cherry, raspberry and currants in this complex yet full-bodied Pinot Noir.
Powerful and with the fruit forward on this darker wine.”
Who would put this on the label of their finest vintage?
The next morning, we left for the half-hour drive back to Akaroa. Albert and Penelope, two of the kindliest people we had ever met, accompanied us up the valley to the entrance of East Cypress Bay. Beau and I got out of our car at the top of the valley to shake hands with Albert and exchange hugs with Penelope.
“Make sure you stop at the winery on your way back into Akaroa, me lads. You will be happy to move out here on the Banks Peninsula when you see what a fine young lady Kimberley Boeing is. Her boyfriend, Grant, is from the North Island but he’s nice enough. Nice enough for a foreigner.”
Albert chuckled at his own joke.
“Well, truth be told,” said Penelope, “we’ve never been to the North Island. We’ve hardly been off the Banks Peninsula here. Anyway, Kimberley is from California, just like both of you and Mr. Armistead Maupin, too, so you are sure to get on well.”
“And make certain you get a case of their pinot noir,” said Albert.
With the bizarre label, I thought.
We got back in our hired car and drove off, waving at them as they stood there on the side of the road, waving and smiling, shielding their eyes from the morning sun.
Within fifteen minutes, we came to the winery. It was summer but the winery and restaurant were closed to the public for some reason. We thought it would be worthwhile to get from another transplanted American her point of view of life on the Banks Peninsula so we pulled into the long curving driveway.
And we were curious and troubled by the label on their pinot noir.
We passed the large sign:
CLOSED FOR THE SEASON
We were hoping to meet the new owners. As Delia Marie La Joie Rodrigue always says, you can never have too much information in life.
The door to the winery opened. As soon as she heard our American accents, the new owner pulled us into her new world and then ushered us all around the vineyards. She was proud of everything and had every right to be so. This was a beautiful spot on God’s earth and the vines and the gardens and the buildings were all perfectly tended and cared for. Everything was picture perfect.
At last, she sat us down at a table in the winery restaurant, looking out the huge window overlooking the vineyard.
It was the pinot noir, of course, that brought up again the subject of the disappearance of Jake.
“A disappearance mysterious, an enigma unresolved still.”
“This is my soon-to-be husband, Grant,” said Kimberley. “He’ll pour us some of last year’s wine from the vines I’ve just been showing you.”
Grant was about thirty, I would judge, and a handsome young fellow, albeit a bit shy. He fetched a couple bottles of their last-year’s vintage while Beau and I made chitchat with Kimberley about California, but mostly about how she found life on the South Island. We spoke of tending a vineyard and running a winery.
Grant returned with the bottles and four glasses and started to pour. I picked up the bottle and read the back label again.
“So Kimberley. This is pretty amazing. This story on the back of the label here. I’ve never seen anything like this on a wine label.”
Beau and I were both still puzzled that someone would put this on the label of their vintage wine.
“Let’s talk quietly,” said Kimberley. “Jake’s widow is living here in the winery now — that’s why we’re closed temporarily — and I don’t want her to overhear us. She’s pretty fragile.” Grant nodded his head in solemn assent.
“Yes, she would be,” I said. “Having a spouse just disappear like that suddenly. Never found.”
“It’s not just that. That’s bad enough. But she was living with the man we bought the winery from. He’s in Christchurch now but, you know, it’s so close, only forty-five minutes, and she’s afraid.
“You see, he was abusive, knocked her around a lot, beat her up all the time. She had no place to go so we took her in, told her she could stay here, come back to the winery, until we figured something out. But she’s afraid he’ll come back out here to the Banks Peninsula and get her.”
“My God, that’s terrible,” said Beau.
“It’s worse than that. Everybody here on the peninsula thinks he murdered Jake.”
Kimberley picked up her glass of wine, took a sip, and looked out over the vineyards, which stretched away down the gentle slopes. Off to the west, the blue waters of Akaroa Harbour sparkled in the sun.
Skylarks were hovering high above the winery, an exaltation of skylarks singing their hearts out. I looked for them but they were just tiny specks in the bright sky.
The grass around the winery was newly mown and smelled of sweet hay and the pinot noir tasted of sultry summer on my tongue. It was such a beautiful summer’s day that we found it hard to believe the winters can get freezing cold on the South Island. The Banks Peninsula can even get snowed in.
It was even harder to believe a murder would take place in this paradise.
Kimberley took another sip of wine and then spoke again.
“Not long after Jake disappeared, everyone around here started whispering about murder. Then Jake’s widow took up with the guy everyone was whispering about. And then he moved in here with her and took over the winery.
“Next thing, they got married. And she started showing up in Akaroa with bruises on her face and arms, she lost weight, became a nervous wreck.
“Well, I was looking for a winery, wanted to buy French Farm but it wasn’t for sale. And the real estate agent brought me out here. Of course, I fell in love with the place. Just look around.
“I always wanted to own a winery but just didn’t want to go to Napa. Or any winery in California. Too close to the old familiar, I guess. And I had met Grant. I never dreamed life could be this good. So.”
I didn’t know what to say. There was an awkward silence. “So you purchased the winery from her.”
“No. When they got married, her new husband made her put everything in his name. I bought it from him. He was the new owner. I paid probably half of what it’s worth. Not even half.” Kimberley looked out at the vines, then up at the skylarks.
“Maybe a quarter,” said Grant.
I couldn’t believe they were telling us this. I said nothing. Beau said nothing. After that, Grant remained silent, sipped his pinot noir, looked off at the vines glowing in the afternoon’s golden light. I took another drink and looked back at Kimberley.
“So, how did she end up here again exactly?”
“Her new husband, the murderer—”
“You don’t know that,” said Grant.
“Everybody knows it,” said Kimberley. “Her new husband showed up at his parents’ house one night, drunk, with bloody hands — he had beaten her up again.
“His old parents had been badgering and harassing poor old Jake to sell them the winery and the vineyard ever since he first planted his vines. But he loved this place and wouldn’t sell to them. But now the winery belonged to their only son.
“Of course they heard all the rumors flying around the Peninsula. Then I guess they decided they didn’t want the winery in the family after all.
“Well, the story is this — that night, he barged into his parents’ place, saw himself in the big mirror at the end of the hall, and went crazy. He charged down the hall and rammed the mirror with his head. Knocked himself out. Only cracked the old mirror, it’s so thick and strong, but he’s lucky he didn’t kill himself.”
I looked at Beau but he wouldn’t make eye contact with me.
Beau and I spent the night at a charming place in the old French settlement of Akaroa. The next day, as we were leaving the Banks Peninsula, when we got to the top of the western rim of the ancient volcano, we stopped the car again at the scenic roadside pullout and looked back on the vista.
The long harbor, the circling hills and vineyards, the little forests here and there, the paddocks with fluffy, bleating sheep, like live little plush toys. Akaroa hugging the shore of the distant, opposite side of the bay.
This is the view you will see if ever you visit this splendid, ancient cauldron.
When you see it the first time, the last thing you will think about is a murder in these idyllic parts.
And if you ever met Albert and Victoria, the last thing you would think about is murder.
END OF CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
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Aaron Allbright’s novel in five parts will be published soon.
IN A DESERT OR A CITY
BOOK I
‘PRINCE CARTIER’ or HOW I LEARNED TO LOVE BEING GAY WITH MY SAUDI PRINCE AND TO START WORRYING
BOOK II
MONSIEUR LE PRINCE, PARIS
BOOK III
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS
BOOK IV
TYROMANCY AND LUCIFER
BOOK V
WHY WAIT FOR THE LIGHT?