Hair of the Mad Dog

Liz Grayson was easy to dislike and even easier to detest. Greedy, gaudy, and—according to her first husband, winery-owner Ed Bolden—mercilessly cruel. Folks in Bardsville, Oregon, held little hope for Liz’s current marriage to former vintner George Duke, despite his apparent blindness to her many flaws. One group never wavered in their hatred of the woman: the feral dogs from the puppy mill where Liz once worked. The bloody paw prints near Liz’s lifeless corpse announced that the dogs had had their day.

***

The accelerator relaxed under Wendy Becker’s foot. Either their old motorhome was disintegrating, or Grizelda knew it was time. Time to stop rolling along unfamiliar highways. Time to settle down at home. But they weren’t home; they were on the outskirts of Bardsville, a small town on Oregon’s Pacific coast. Still, the salty air and the sweetness of the nearby grapevines made Wendy wish it were home.

In the passenger seat, her husband, Franklin, read from handwritten instructions. “Turn right at the end of this road.”

“Road is a rather generous description, don’t you think? Dirt lane is more like it.” Wendy slowed and squinted into the late afternoon sun. Was that a woman strolling through the trees, and trailing her, another figure slinking from one Douglas fir to another? She blinked, and the silhouettes disappeared, replaced by shadows of the swaying branches. Her eyes were playing tricks on her. There was nothing nefarious. There couldn’t be. Not again.

“I see a sign up ahead,” Franklin said. “There’s a building not far past it.”

“What does the sign say?”

“Acting Out Community Theater. Hey, they have a performance this week. We should go.”

“We have to rescue Mad Dog first.”

Franklin chuckled. “Funny how that silly basset hound stowed away in Roger’s camper van when we were in Des Moines.”

“Sure, funny. Absolutely hilarious that we’ve driven like maniacs for two thousand miles to get to him.”

“It’s turned out for the best, don’t you think? Now we get to spend several days at Roger’s winery.” Franklin turned to face her and grinned. “And there’s no chance we’ll find another murdered corpse here.”

The skin on Wendy’s arms tingled. No, his words were not premonitions. They’d have a pleasant, uneventful stay with Roger and then head home—wherever home was. She pressed down the accelerator and turned the steering wheel. “There’s the sign for the Gloucester Winery.”

Franklin grabbed the sides of the passenger seat as Grizelda lurched to the right. “Mad Dog really liked Roger, and I can see why. He’s a terrific guy. Like a big brother.”

“I agree he’s nice and all that, but let’s not forget, we don’t know him very well. We spent only a couple of days with him in Iowa.”

Franklin craned his neck to read the winery’s sign. “I wonder why Roger and his brother named the winery Gloucester. Their surname is Bolden.”

“Gloucester. Rings a bell, but I can’t place it.” Wendy pointed toward a two-story farmhouse dwarfed by the adjacent winery building. “I see Mad Dog and Roger on the porch.” She slowed Grizelda to a stop as the basset hound waddled toward the motorhome. “At least he still remembers us, fondly it seems.”

Despite her initial reluctance to stay at the winery, Wendy was happy to rest. They’d started their ill-fated cross-country RV trip early last June, and it was now October. Their journey’s one mission—to help Franklin craft a new career after selling his Puss and Pooch Pamper Parlors—had thus far failed. Roger, now a successful vintner after a lucrative career as an attorney, might be the role model Franklin needed.

“C’mon in and meet my brother, Ed,” Roger said, pumping Franklin’s arm as they both grinned ear to ear.

The two most compatible humans on Earth, Wendy thought. Certainly, more so than she and Franklin. Yet, their marriage had lasted for twenty years despite her being a hyper-organized, introverted technophile and Franklin being anything but. He possessed other skills, though. His business trend predictions were usually spot on, and he could market successfully without being obnoxious. But his true gift was the magnetic attraction of people and pets.

Inside the residence, Ed greeted them from behind an hors d’oeuvre-laden kitchen counter. “I’ve opened a bottle of our 2022 pinot noir. Our best vintage to date, although this year looks to be even better, barring some catastrophe.”

While Franklin and Roger clustered around Ed and the pinot noir, and Mad Dog helped himself to bacon-wrapped sausages left too close to the counter’s edge, Wendy stood to the side and sized up Ed. The two brothers could not have been more different. Where Roger was a fit sixty-five-year-old with a full head of gray hair and handsome features, Ed had scoliotic posture and a noticeable paunch. According to Roger, Ed was seven years younger, but his thinning, salt-and-pepper hair and dour expression did little to convey youth. Even Mad Dog favored the older Bolden brother, although, currently, the hound was mesmerized by cheese-topped crackers just beyond his snout’s reach.

“So, you saw the sign for this week’s play,” Roger said, swirling the wine in his glass. He nodded at his brother. “You’re right. The best we’ve—you’ve—produced.”

Ed’s smile set his face aglow. The changed expression didn’t make him handsome, but he did look less unappealing. Obviously, Ed had found his true passion: winemaking. Roger once told them his brother had been a banker. Perhaps Ed, too, could give Franklin some tips on starting a new career.

“We’re in the play,” Ed said, his broad grin receding into a sheepish one. “Roger has the lead, and I’m also an important character, but I get killed off in the first act.”

“I had a part in a community theater play once,” Franklin said. “It was the musical version of Waiting for Godot.”

“Really?” Roger replied. “A musical? Were you cast as Vladimir or Estragon?”

Franklin shook his head. “I was the tree.”

“It was a non-singing, non-speaking role,” Wendy added.

“Well, we’ll get you a speaking part in this play,” Roger said.

“You can do that?” Franklin asked. “Recast the play?”

“We own the theater property,” Ed said. “And we hired an artistic director last year, the new history teacher and drama club coach at the high school. He also writes the plays we perform, which is why it’s hard to get people to participate.” He looked at his smartphone and frowned. “I got an error message from the monitor on Tank Number Two.”

“You have an app to control wine production?” Wendy asked, reaching out her hand. “I’d love to see it.”

“Another time,” Ed said, turning quickly to Roger. “We’d better check it out. We can’t afford to lose the twelve hundred gallons in that tank.”

Roger grabbed papers from the kitchen table and handed them to Franklin. “Here, read the script. The play is called The War of the Rosés, and it’s about jealous vintners.”

Ed snorted as he headed toward the kitchen door. “And we certainly know all about that.”

“What—” Franklin began.

“Tell you later,” Roger said as he, too, exited. “We’ll be next door in the winery. Back soon. Make yourself at home.”

Wendy peered over Franklin’s arm. “The War of the Rosés by Bill Speare. Sounds like Obie Award-winning material to me.”

Franklin glanced up. “I’m never quite sure when you’re joking.”

“Exactly.” Wendy gazed at the door through which Roger and Ed had dashed. “They seemed rather eager to leave, don’t you think?”

“It sounded like an emergency. Equipment failure.”

“But Ed wouldn’t show me the app on his phone.”

“Not everyone is into technology like you are.”

“Well, that’s their problem.” Wendy reached for the script. “I wonder if they’re still casting the trees.”