Welcome to another installment of the Monthly Wine Writers Challenge.
#MWWC9 topic: Fear.
By L.M. Archer, FWS
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View all #MWWC9 entries here.
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Each month food and wine writers submit their stories to the Monthly Wine Writing Contest.
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Yes, folks…it’s time for yet another Monthly Wine Writing Challenge.
A much-deserved shout-out to last month’s winner and #MWWWC brainchild, thedrunkencyclist.
Kudos also to The ArmChair Sommelier for MWWC ‘s winning logo.
This month binNotes continues her off-course veer into fiction with another installment of:
The Winemaker | A Cautionary Tale.
L.M. Archer ©2014. All Rights Reserved.
Link here for Part I.
Warning:
A writer’s job is to listen.
In non-fiction, this means allowing wine growers, wine makers, and wine regions to share their stories in a way that resonates with readers.
In fiction, this means stepping aside to let characters say their say.
In the case of this story, Victoria Vanderstock and her cohorts hijacked me during other projects, insisting I let them loose on the page – fears, foibles, foul language and all.
While binNotes personally eschews profanity, this story contains strong language.
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Part II: Fear and Loathing in the WWC
“Hey Dick – where’s Liz?” A muscled bike cop chomping on a Top Pot donut passed Detective Dick Dykstra outside the interrogation room. “Did you catch Drake’s latest selfie with Dumbo and Mickey?”
“Bite me, Brewster.” Dykstra flipped off the bike cop. Dykstra’s pale, bulbous-nosed face burned red, patches of pate glistening through his greying combover. “Nice shorts.”
Goddam Drake. Partners for twenty-five years – now early retired, spending ‘quality time’ with the grandkids in Disneyworld. We were suppose to retire together, Drake stewed. Five more years. Bass boat and gear all ready to go. Goddam breast-cancer survivor wives with a new lease on life and their grandkids.
“Hey, partner!”
Dykstra turned to face a stocky woman in her mid-thirties striding down the hall. She bulged out of an industrial gray pantsuit, brown ponytailed hair revealing her plain-hewn face. The woman drew close to Dykstra and punched his right bicep.
“Call it. Heads or tails?”
“Hey, Lizzie.”
Dykstra sighed. Detective Elizabeth Borden – his new partner. Here we go, he fumed. Before, Dykstra always played the role of bad cop, Drake the good cop. Now, Borden insisted they ‘flip’ before each interrogation to see who got to play ‘bad cop.’ Goddam women detectives. They had no business in the squad room. But the police department was an broad-minded one – in keeping with the Woodinville Wine Country community, which they served. Good ‘ole WWC. When Dykstra started on the force twenty five years ago, it wasn’t a chic international wine destination – just a sleepy little farm community hunkered in the shadow of Seattle. Progress.
“Heads.”
“Sorry, big guy. Tails. Let’s go.” Borden slid the quarter back in her pantsuit pocket, and twisted open the interrogation room door.
“Ms. Vanderstock.” Borden extended her mannish, unmanicured hand. “I’m Detective Elizabeth Borden.” Borden nodded to Dykstra. “I believe you’ve met my partner, Detective Dykstra. I’m a huge fan of your wines, by the way.”
Vanderstock scanned Borden like a grocery store clerk performing a price check, recoiling. “Tell me, Detective Borden…”
“…You can call me Lizzie.”
“…Is your pantsuit department-issued, or did you actually choose it yourself?”
“Ma’am?”
Dear God, where are the fashion police when you need them? mused Victoria Vanderstock. A fan of my wines? And those nails. Victoria re-admired her own freshly french-manicured acrylic nails. Ten perfectly squared tips. Long enough to dictate demands, drum out dissatisfaction, and avoid heavy lifting. Accentuated by a blinding pillow-cut 4.5 carat yellow diamond in platinum setting.
“And by their fruits you shall recognize them.” Mathew 7:16. Victoria noted the flawless clarity of her diamond as she recalled the New Testament verse, one she’d studied as part of her due diligence when founding The Church of Perpetual Improvement. The scripture haunted her now.
“Yes, well Ms. Vanderstock, we’re not here to talk fashion. I think you understand that?” Borden peered across the table, squaring her shoulders like a pit bull bristling before a fight.
Dykstra took the cue. “Ms. Vanderstock – can I get you some water?”
“Still or sparkling?”
“Ma’am?” Dykstra blinked.
“Never mind. I’d prefer POM juice, if you have it.”
“POM…? Ma’am, I can get you a glass of water…”
“Ms. Vanderstock, this is not a beverage bar.” Borden snarled, pulling on the lapels of her gray suit jacket.
“Detective…Borden?”
“Lizzie.”
“Detective Borden, until my attorney arrives…”
“Or should I call you ‘Lady Vi’?” Borden winked. “My partner here knows something about that, don’t you Dykstra?”
Dykstra squirmed. Not long ago, Borden had caught him on break using ‘company resources’ for some harmless adult entertainment. One time. Since then, the ball breaking never stopped. Drake would have looked the other way. Hell, Drake would have looked. Bitch.
“Detective Borden, I’m afraid you’re wasting your time, your breath, and wrinkling that charming pant suit… all for naught. You know as well as I do that you can’t ask me any questions without my attorney present. Now, unless you have that POM juice I requested” she smiled at Dykstra, ” I believe we’re done here.” Vanderstock ice picked Borden with her glare.
Borden rose. “Dykstra.” The detective crooked her head towards the door, and exited.
Dykstra followed, blotched face burning again. Women. He sighed. Five more years. Goddam Drake.
***
Thank you for allowing binNotes to indulge in another Monthly Wine Writing Contest fiction fix. Should you care to vote for my entry, you can do so here.
Cheers!
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Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual characters, events, or wines is purely coincidental.
Copyrighted 2012-2014. All rights reserved.
