Рита Браун - Sour Puss

Arch breathed deep relief because Rollie wasn't mad at him. "Spring Hill won't fail. First, I caught it in time. Second, as we buy up land or rent it, we'll grow different varieties of grapes. That will be an insurance policy. If one type has a bad year, the others should make up for it. Kind of like the balance between stocks and bonds." He tried to use terms Rollie would understand.

He was surprised at how sensible the prickly fellow was, considering the news.

Rollie wasn't assigning blame. He appeared to grasp, tenuously, that nature had her own agenda.

"Order the stuff?"

"Should be here tomorrow morning."

"Anyone else know?" Rollie raised one eyebrow.

"I called Hy Maudant."

"Why him?"

"He's very knowledgeable. He grew up in the vineyards in France and attended their agriculture school. Also, he's established and he can tell me how best to contact other vineyards: should I make personal calls, use the phone, use e-mail. He's very helpful." His inflection rose slightly at the end of the sentence, the traditional method in English for asking a question or appearing less than certain.

"And?"

"He doesn't have any downy mildew, but he said he's found the beginnings of black rot in one lower-lying section of his vineyards. Not much, he said, but he's already uprooted those vines and begun the spraying. 'Course, he'd spray anyway."

"Why is he tearing them out?"

"Hy isn't going to take any chances, andonce the plant is infected, it's always infected."

"But if you control it, can't the vines bear decent fruit?"

"They can. Depending on when you catch the fungus, but, boss, why take the chance? Those vines aren't going to produce over the years like the clean ones. Kill them."

"Hell of a lot of money."

"Growing the perfect grape is not for the fainthearted." Arch laid it on the line.

Rollie leaned over his desk, his weight on his knuckles. "For your information, I've got a set of balls. Do you think I'm going to fold my hands because of some stupid spores?"

"No." Arch measured his words. "Nature is a brutal business partner sometimes. That's why I think spreading the risk is the way to go. The more land you have under the umbrella, the better off you are."

"Mmm, I'll buy land if it's necessary, but I'd rather buy up someone else's yield. Let them do the work."

"Kind of like a portfolio, gotta balance it out." Arch nodded. "The Ridomil should do it, but I've got to apply it about every twenty-one days depending on rainfall."

Rollie dropped back into his seat, the leather squeaking. He was about to dismiss Arch and get back to his work when a nasty idea popped into his overheated brain. "Could someone do this to us?"

"Infect our vines?"

"Yes."

"Why would someone want to do that?"

"Competition. Drive me down or out."

"I don't think anyone would do that, because of the danger of the spores spreading to their own vineyards. They can be carried on the wind during their release times."

"Could be someone who isn't making wine but who hates my guts."

"That would be one dead person. He'd have to be pretty stupid once the rest of the growers found out."

"But is it possible to infect other people's vines or crops?"

Arch rubbed his chin. "Yes. Don't think downy mildew would be the way to go, but if someone was really determined, yes, I expect they could damage grapes or any other crop, really."

"If an employee were disgruntled, he could spray water without mixing in Ridomil. That would be one way to do it. You'd think your vines were protected but they'd be vulnerable."

"A crooked person could sell infected stock," Rollie said.

Arch shifted his weight from one foot to another. "There's all kinds of ways to screw somebody."

Rollie twirled his thumbs around each other. "Professor Forland didn't say he saw anything."

"There wasn't enough leaf when he was here. There's always something ready to get your grapes. Birds, deer, foxes, too. At least the foxes just eat the lower ones. The birds and deer can clean you out."

"Can't we cover the clusters when they develop?"

"No." Arch shook his head. "You have to go to the canopy and you have to keep spraying. Shoot the deer or put up deer fences. There's no other way."

"All right." Rollie waved his hand, dismissing Arch abruptly as his phone rang.

Arch stepped outside into the high golden sunlight of early afternoon. It could have been worse. Maybe Rollie was learning to trust him a little. It made up in small measure for the sadness, anger, envy he felt when Harry drove away. She made him angry because she didn't want to talk about anything to do with their affair. Typical Harry, just stuff the emotions. And she made him sad because he knew he'd never find another woman like Harry.

17

Low blue-steel clouds roiled over the top of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The dampness slithered into the bones as the temperature began to slide.

Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker started their jaunt innocently enough. Harry was inspecting her new grapevines, since the word about downy mildew had passed quickly from grower to grower. Everything looked fine, the buds getting fuzzy and bright green. She then walked among the different types of sunflowers beginning their first great growth spurt. From there she checked her hay, then a back pasture with rich, rich alfalfa. Harry knew she could make good money on the alfalfa. She hopped the creek to walk the fields at the old Jones home place. Those pastures were enriched by the cattle Blair had kept. She put in orchard grass, alfalfa mix. She whistled while she worked. Young, healthy life was everywhere. She was on her way to the peach orchard, hoping all was well there.

Much as the animals loved Harry, they did not share her passion for grass crops. Orchards proved more interesting. They looked forward to the sunflowers maturing because of the bees and the birds. Pewter had staked her corner of the Italian sunflower patch. She felt certain she could lure her nemesis, the blue jay, there. That was a long way off, but Pewter planned ahead. Meanwhile, the bird dive-bombed her with impunity.

Bored with Harry's bucolic rapture, they returned to the creek, walking upstream toward the edge of the Bland Wade tract. Potlicker Creek coursed through the tract, its clear sweet waters deep in parts.

A doe leapt out. They chased it, their egos in excess of their abilities. Tired, the three sat down for a breather under a towering sycamore, little May apples covering the ground.

"Think a cat has ever killed a deer?"Pewter asked.

"/ guess it's possible," Mrs. Murphy said.

"Never."Tucker panted still.

"And why not, dwarf dog?"Pewter sassed.

"Deer are too big and too fast."

"I can run as fast as a deer."Mrs. Murphy lifted the fur on her spine.

"For a short time, but the deer can go for miles and miles. You're built to run really fast, then cut at a one-hundred-eighty-degree angle. You can do backflips over your pursuer, if you want. Deer can't do that."Tucker thought it best to flatter.

"Ever notice how we hunt the same as foxes? Crouch, stay still, then pounce,"Pewter mused.

"It's because we hunt the same game."Mrs. Murphy respected foxes even though she was known to quarrel loudly with a few.

Tucker lifted her talented nose. "Storm coming."

Pewter inhaled deeply. "Fast."

"Let's go home."Mrs. Murphy started trotting south, down the foothills.

The others fell in with her. As they broke cover, they beheld the ominous clouds cresting the mountains.

"Damn!"Pewter hated thunderstorms, and the not-so-distant rumble gave her the shivers.

They flew over the wildflower meadow, dipped into the woods on the other side. They were perhaps two miles from home, but the storm was closing fast. The wind hit twenty knots out of the blue. Bam, trees began to sway.