Out of the Blue: A Pengram Mystery by Scarlett Castrilli

information, I said, “Who’s the client?”
    There were deep circles under his eyes, like he hadn’t been getting enough sleep since harvest began in August. “Roman’s winemaker sold this block to Daffodil. It’s long overdue to be picked and the Brix is sky-high. They finally called it in just yesterday evening, told us to rip it off the vines and get the grapes there by nine in the morning, so I had to scramble to find a crew to augment mine and cancel another pick we were doing. How soon until I can get them in here?”
    “I can’t say,” I replied, although I knew it was going to be a while. This entire area had to be gone over for evidence. “How many entrances are there to this vineyard? Are they blocked off when not in use?”
    “Two entrances. The main drive from the road has an automatic gate that you need a code to activate, and then there’s the one by the reservoir way over there. That gate has a padlock.”
    “What else does this vineyard have besides the merlot?”
    “What? Why?” Jerry asked temperamentally. I only looked at him for a quiet moment and he conceded. It was amazing how effective that strategy was on people. “Most of the blocks here are pinot. They were picked ages ago. All we’ve had left to do since then at this property is the merlot that Daffodil has been stalling on.”
    “How recently has anyone from Roman been here?”
    “Other than my assistant coming to take samples for the lab to test every few days, no one. We’ve been focusing on Roman’s other vineyards.”
    “Nearby?”
    “No. This is the furthest one. The rest are scattered around the north side of Darby, Sonoma, and Napa, and then we have the one at the winery itself on Silverado Trail.”
    “And your assistant never reported seeing anything unusual here?”
    “No, never. She comes early in the morning, gets the grapes, and leaves for the next property on her list. She was here just yesterday and would have told me if she’d noticed anything out of place.”
    “What’s her name?”
    “Gianna Morton.”
    “How long is Gianna here each time to sample?”
    “When she was just grabbing the merlot? Fifteen, twenty minutes tops. All she had to do was walk down one row and walk up another, clipping bunches along the way. And she always checks over by the reservoir on her way out to make sure nobody has dumped trash over there. People toss mattresses and other garbage now and then.”
    I started to walk to the dirt driveway. Apparently accepting that the merlot block would not be picked today, the vineyard manager came with me.
    “Did all of Roman’s crew and the hired crew show up today?” I asked.
    “My crew did, or my foreman would have let me know. I’ll have to talk to Armando about his people. He’s the supervisor for the Rogo crew.” Calling in Spanish to the people at the curb, another man’s voice replied. I could only pick out about half of the words.
    “All here,” Jerry said with a sigh. “I’ll have to call my winemaker and tell him to contact Daffodil.”
    “Who was it that found the body?” I asked.
    Again he called out in Spanish. Several voices replied. “It was almost all of them, basically,” Jerry said. “The lights were pulled into the row near the end and they saw it as they went over with their picking pans behind the tractor.”
    We would need the names of the two crews and their contact information before they left, if the uniforms hadn’t already collected the information. Jerry got on his phone with a miserable expression. “Yeah, it’s me. I’m at the west Darby vineyard. Stan, we can’t pick the merlot today . . .” A male voice roared like a furious bear on the other end.
    Halloran called my cell. Without preamble, he said, “Mrs. Doris Wengly is partially blind, refuses to wear her hearing aids most of the time, and spends all day and all night in her living room recliner with the curtains drawn and the TV on full blast. She only gets up to use the