Chapter 14
I drove downtown, had a bite to eat at one of the restaurants in the Mall, and then made a beeline for Charlie Karogian's office. I had to wait a few minutes, and when his door opened, out came that gorgeous widow, Mrs. Maynard, the one with the honey-colored hair, the sweet helpless-looking face and a gorgeous bottom. She wore charcoal-brown nylons and a skirt that didn't hit the hollows of her dimpled knees. She looked very fetching and not a day over nineteen, though I suspect that she was on her way to thirty. She was quite well preserved, and her pale white skin was extremely delectable. She gave me a dimpled smile, a long sultry look, and then went out and Charlie cleared his throat and beckoned to me from his old beaten-down swivel chair. There were piles of papers on his desk, and it looked like W.C. Field's set.
He picked up the phone and told his girl not to take any calls, and then we had a chat for about an hour. He showed me the books, and he showed me the transaction of the mortgage. It was fifty grand, and it had been taken out about two years ago, just about the time Jacopo, Dad's reliable old foreman, had gone to his last reward. As to why half the acreage had been converted to other crops besides grapes, Charlie's explanation was that it was probably part of the mortgage deal, because my father had been worried about declining harvests and hadn't been getting top prices for his vino as in the past.
Then I drove over to the Overland Trust and Savings, which was about two miles away and on one of the new roads they had put into the southern end of Fresno since I had left for my loner work out in Frisco. It was a one-story white building with lots of glass, a big parking lot, and across the street from a drive-in Supermart. I walked into the bank and I asked for Philip Young. There was a cute girl at the reception desk, wearing pigtails, with big blue eyes and a gorgeous smile. She looked a little too young for me, and very ingenuous. Knowing what banks paid their help, all I could wish her was meeting some nice young millionaire as soon as possible and getting out of the banking business fast before she lost that smile.
A few minutes later, a tall, very elegant-looking silver-haired blonde wearing a powder-blue rayon dress whose skirt just covered her knees-which was a pity because she had simply breathtaking legs-came towards me and forced a smile to her thin supercilious mouth. "Mr. Venturi? Would you come with me, please? I'm Mr. Young's secretary."
"He's lucky," I quipped, but I didn't get a tumble. With straight shoulders, head held high, the silver-haired blonde escorted me towards the back of the office and down a little hallway where there were private offices with shiny walnut doors and opaque glass and the names printed, in goldleaf. She knocked at Philip Young's door, he called for us to come in, and the blonde opened the door and let me go ahead.
"That'll be all, Brenda," he said pleasantly. Philip Young was a man of about fifty, almost completely bald like Yul Brynner, with a Roman nose, a gray moustache adorning his upper lip, and his mouth was fleshy and sensual. He had gray-blue eyes, small ears, and I noticed that his hands were exquisitely manicured and groomed. They were almost like a womans, with long slim fingers and soft cuticle. He had a kind of caressing tenor voice, which made him seem more youthful than he was. He rose from behind his desk and extended one of those artistic hands towards me. I shook it, and I wished I hadn't. It was limp and moist. He didn't look like a faggot, but then you could never tell these days. Nowadays you can't even tell whether a hippie is male and female unless you go up and feel, and I've never been drawn to the unwashed. "Mr. Venturi? A great pleasure to meet you at last, sir," he said in a very dignified manner, then gestured me to a seat.
"I came to find out about the mortgage on Dad's property, Mr. Young," I told him.
He pressed the buzzer at the side of his desk and the silver-blonde he had called Brenda came right back in. She had delicate eyebrows, which looked painted on. She had an aquiline nose with very thin and flaring wings, a firm chin which showed a lot of character, and gray-green eyes which were extremely compelling and, at the moment, icy when they turned in my direction. He told her that he wanted the file on Marcantonio Venturi and the Venturi Vineyards, and she went out and came back in a few minutes with two folders. Then she closed the door behind us and left us to ourselves.
"About two years ago, Mr. Venturi, your father came to us to borrow fifty thousand dollars and put up his land as collateral. One of our advisors who isn't with us anymore, but a very reliable man-he left for the East to accept a much better opportunity, you understand-as I was saying, he advised your father to divert some of his acreage into more immediately profitable crops. The wine business does seem to be hazardous at times, whereas lettuce and fruits always find an immediate market. So your father agreed, and converted as was suggested."
"I see, Mr. Young. Was my dad able to pay anything against the mortgage?"
Philip Young scowled as he took out one of the sheets from the folder at his right. "Only about five thousand dollars so far, Mr. Venturi. It's a five-year mortgage, I might tell you, but it is payable upon demand. However," this with an ingratiating smile as he looked up at me, "it isn't the practice of Overland Trust and Savings to force its creditors to the wall. We realize that in the Valley here, the growers must have a certain leeway if they're going to make profits and pay back their debts. However, we would like to see some more money paid before your next harvest if that's possible, Mr. Venturi."
"I'll see what I can do. Some of those other crops ought to be getting to market pretty soon, Mr. Young, and I'll have to check with Dad's lawyer about the estate. I'm the only living heir, so there ought to be some money somewhere."
"As to that, I can possibly enlighten you, Mr. Venturi," the baldheaded banker gave me a sympathetic smile. "This of course is confidential, you understand, but in view of your father's death, I see no reason why I can't tell you. Your father had spent a great deal of money in improvements, machinery, scientific research. He had a man flown in from Italy last year at quite an expensive cost to himself, I might say, to examine some of the cuttings, and to make tests of the soil and of the yield. I should say there's possibly ten thousand dollars in cash in your father's account, and of course whatever may be in the vault which will have to be sealed for ninety days in accordance with the state law."
"I wasn't looking to inherit any great fortune when I came back to Fresno, Mr. Young," I said rather coldly, because I didn't like his manner. "And if that ten thousand bucks goes over to me, I'll put it on the mortgage, you can be sure of that. I don't want Dad's name to have any black marks attached to it I have the feeling that already in Fresno a lot of people are sort of glad he's no longer around and probably wish me the same."
"How can you say a thing like that, Mr. Venturi!" he seemed shocked at my outburst. Just then there was a knock on the door, and Brenda walked in. He decided to introduce us, and I found out that her last name was Corey. He'd mentioned to me that she had been his secretary for three years, and my estimate of her was that she was about twenty-six. She might have looked younger if she had learned how to smile. Her skin was delightfully pink and white, a real carnation. But the silver-blonde tint of her hair was definitely artificial. Then he had a long-distance call which he had to take in the president's office and Brenda Corey and I were left together. She turned to me and her eyes were softer as she murmured, "I understand I have reason to thank you for what you did for my cousin Jane Wilson the other night."
"Oh yes! I didn't know she was your cousin," I said.
"Yes, she is. She's a very sweet and shy girl, and I was horribly distressed when I heard what that beast of a foreman of yours had tried to do to her. She was just trying to help me, you know."
"You mean to say that you own a couple of acres of grape-producing vines?" I chuckled.
She got icy again and very huffy. She seemed to draw herself up to more than the height nature had given her as she retorted, "What's so strange about that, Mr. Venturi? My mother left me some money, I had Mr. Young here at the bank invest a little bit in land, so I own about ten or fifteen acres. I happen to love this country, and not only because I was born in it. And why shouldn't I use the land to try to produce a little wine?"
"For several reasons. You don't have any real capital, you haven't got any bottling equipment, no crew and no foreman."
"I know that. That's why when Jane talked to your foreman, she thought that perhaps he would be kind enough to give us some help. It's not unusual, is it, if a big vintner like your father were to process some of the grapes from his neighbor's acres for which the neighbor would pay him a fee?"
"No, I suppose not, if you put it that way, Miss Corey. I tell you what, why don't you have dinner with me this evening and let me see what I can do about helping you? I like to see any young ambitious working girl get ahead." I said rather facetiously. I really didn't think she'd accept my invitation, but she stared at me, and for the first time she smiled, and she really looked pretty when she did.
"All right," she said, "I'll do just that. Do you want me to meet you? I have my own car."
I told her we'd meet at the Hacienda Motel about seven o'clock, and that I was most appreciative. She gave me an enigmatic smile, and left the office just about the time Philip Young came back.
He offered profuse excuses, and then said that he and the other officers of the bank would be only too glad to extend any courtesies to me. I assured him that within a few weeks he'd know more about the mortgage, and then I drove back home.
It had been quite a day. But the mystery was deepening. Maybe it wasn't unusual for a banker's secretary to own some land, but it still didn't explain why Jane Wilson had been out there in my own vineyard at four in the morning getting herself marked up with a switch.