The Wine Thief - A Short Story About Wine

By David G. Darugh

Tucker moved his approving eye around the dusty wine cellar. Emma had just reproached him one more time to clean it up, at least just a little. They had just returned from Europe, their first vaca­tion since his retirement. While there they purchased a small quantity of local Burgundies not available in the United States and some Bordeaux’s. Tucker enjoyed the romance of France and the challenge of air freighting it through cus­toms and Georgia’s Beverage Control.  Anyway, likely as not the air freight company will successfully steer it right to his doorstep in Rabun County without mishap.

Now, where to put it? It would start arriving in the next few days. Certainly the Bordeaux would go in the far corner with the rest of the Bordeaux’s . . . the Magnum of Pétrus was gone! Surely not. His eyes quickly surveyed the familiar dusty bins and shelves. He and Emma had built the cellar more years ago than he cared to remember, with the help of a local stonemason. It was passive and cool. Although he did have occasional mold growth, especially now in the early spring when the dampness crept in.  It was an effective cellar. The Pétrus, however, was definitely gone. But where?

Its vintage was the same year Tucker and Emma wed and would be drunk on their 50th wedding anniversary, no sooner. He looked forward to the uncorking of the bottle and sharing it with close friends. He had often thought out loud that maybe 40 years of marriage would be celebration enough. But Emma merely smiled and said, “You’re not planning on leaving me before our 50th, are you Tucker?”

 But it was gone now. And so were several other cases of fine wines. He need not look at his inventory. He knew almost every bottle by heart, and there were indeed many to remember. The cellar and a small vineyard he maintained on their property were the only lavishments that he allowed himself.  Tucker made some excellent wine from his Georgia grapes. He thought of the cellar as his, although Emma also enjoyed fine wines and dining. The collection had started modestly over 30 years ago, and continued to grow.

Tucker checked the cellar against his mental inventory and discovered that at least ten cases of fine Bordeaux from exceptional years, several cases of old Burgundy, and a marvelous vertical collection Mondavi Reserve Cabernets were gone, in addition to the Magnum. Whoever did this picked some of his best wines.

He quickly climbed the stairs to tell Emma that the house had been burglarized in their absence. Together they quickly checked their valuables, jewelry, cameras, stereo, silver — all present and accounted for. No signs of forced entry anywhere. A call to the security company dis­closed no record of an alarm during their absence.

The police department would not in­vestigate because there was no evidence of forced entry. While apologetic, the deputy indicated they were not staffed to investigate every mysterious disappearance. A mystery it was. Tucker and Emma scoured their home for any clue. Tucker called their insurance company, which dispatched an adjuster. He made a polite but cursory walk-through, and ventured that without evidence of forced entry he doubted if a claim would be paid. “Could you have drunk the wine and just forgotten?” Right, thought Tucker we downed a Magnum of 30-year-old Pétrus and then forgot.

     The security installer appeared several days after Tucker’s call. “Never wired a wine cellar before;” he said. “Must be pretty valuable stuff, huh? Do you drink all this wine yourselves?” The newly installed all-seeing plastic motion detector protruded from an inconspicuous corner, but its blinking red eye detracted from the old world ambiance of the stone, brass and wood. It appeared to work, though. After the installer left, Tucker played with the all-seeing eye. He moved ever so slowly into the cellar at various angles testing the plastic sensor. Wherever Tucker moved it eventually sensed his presence and winked its scorn.

    Tucker observed an unusual bloom of mustard-colored mold creeping up the legs of his grapevine table. Emma always found the best gifts. This one was from a 100 year old Zinfandel grapevine.  It had been carefully sawn off and shellacked and it was topped with a thick sheet of nicely beveled glass. All visitors to Tucker’s cellar oohed and ah’d when they saw it. Tucker momentarily puzzled over the yellow color of this new mildew. He had his collection of antique cork pulls displayed on the tabletop. He picked up and caressed one of his favorites, an aged grapevine carefully polished and fitted with a metal corkscrew.  Darn, it has that yellow mildew eating its way right through the varnish. He thought to himself, perhaps a little diluted bleach and a sponging down wouldn’t hurt. It would placate Emma.

      Weeks passed, but neither Tucker nor Emma lost the sense of having been violated. Someone had been in their home, at least in the cellar. But that meant elsewhere, as well. The cellar had but one entrance and that was from the main floor. Tucker sat in the study absently dozing while trying to read the latest Rabun Laurel. His eyelids drooped again. Emma was out, and the inactivity of retirement was quickly becoming tire­some. Maybe another trip was in order. Something caught Tucker’s eye as he started to drift into sleep. Not move­ment, but something. He opened his eyes and surveyed the study. No move­ment, yet something had definitely caught his eye. A reflection maybe? There it was again. He froze his head and stared in its direction. The security panel! The security panel light blinked a scarlet eye. Again it blinked. Someone was in the house with him. Tucker’s heart raced and cold sweat welled under his arms. He stared again at the panel and once more it blinked.  Zone 12 - the wine cellar. Someone was moving in his wine cellar! How could that be? The only entrance was the stairwell in the foyer. The only way there was across the path now separating Tucker from the security panel.

     Tucker nervously walked to his desk, opened the file drawer and removed his old revolver. Should he call the police? Could be a false alarm and how embarrassed he would be. Several times during his business travels of years past Emma had called the police, only to find a failed switch or some other non-emergency. They were always polite, but Tucker knew they had more important things to do than to respond to false alarms. The cellar had the new motion detector, so probably it was an electrical defect. Armed as he was, he would just make sure.

Tucker crept quietly down the stairs. The wine cellar took up about half the basement. Tucker stopped in front of the Gothic door Emma had designed for the cellar. The stonemason had done a marvelous job of setting the stone around the doorway. The door was closed, but not locked. Tucker moved close to the door and listened. Nothing. Still nothing. Tucker relaxed a bit; perhaps it was just a false alarm. His hand was already tired from gripping the revolver. He tightened quickly when he heard the clink of wine bottles. It was an unmistakable clink. Cold perspiration dripped inside his shirt and beaded on his forehead, despite the coolness of the cellar. He dried the hand holding the gun on his pant leg and thought of what to do next. Should he yank the door open, or slowly inch it open? The antique wrought iron hinges would squeak like banshees so he would need to act quickly.

Without allowing more time to talk himself out of his foolishness, Tucker jerked the door open, rushed in and caught the intruder with an armload of wine bottles. “Freeze, or I will shoot you dead!” The intruder was bent over a bin. He dropped the load in a loud crash and clank, startling both of them. He was a wiry young man clad in a metallic jump suit, like Mylar.

“Raise your hands and then freeze; I do not wish to kill a wine thief, but I don’t aim to be your victim either, so just freeze.” Slowly the thief turned to face Tucker. He was dark, handsome, slight of build, but looked quick and athletic.

Dangerous, thought Tucker. His luminous cloak had a soft hood pushed back. The garment extended toe to neck and reflected the soft electric candle glow of the brass sconces on three of the walls. Tucker could not identify the color; it seemed to reflect all colors. Most unusual. About his neck, ankles and waist were metal collars arrayed with softly glowing lights. He looked somewhat wild-eyed. His attire was curious. No intruder would likely dress in such a gaudy costume. Especially the glowing collars. Very curious indeed.

“Don’t move a muscle; now tell me what you are about.” Silence. “Okay, you can talk to the police. Move yourself slowly across the room and up the stairs. I will shoot to maim the first time, but I suggest you not give me need to take such action?” Nothing. No acquiescence. No refusal.

“Do you understand? I said move!” The man made no indication that he had even heard Tucker’s order. But, he must have. He was certainly observing Tucker’s order to freeze and raise his hands. Obviously he was assessing his situation too. Tucker now really started to worry. What had he gotten himself into? Perhaps he should have just called the police.

“Do you understand? If you don’t start moving I will shoot you in the foot to disable you and go call the police. So make up your mind.” Tucker took aim at a foot.

“Do not shoot me,” said the intruder in an accented voice, “I must drop my hands to my belt, and then I will do as you wish.” Tucker boomed, “If you drop your hands I shoot, so start walking slowly to the stairs. Just what are you doing with my wine? I assume you are the one who stole from me before!”

“I know you will not understand. But you must not turn me over to the authorities as it will be a violation of our traveler protocols and will have reper­cussions beyond imagination?” Tucker thought, what kind of tale is this fool going to lay on me? “Okay, try me!”

“I am a voyager from your future,” he said with apparent reluc­tance. “Sure,” said Tucker with wry amusement, “stealing wine and making a bundle in wine auctions, right?” “Well sir it is a little more compli­cated than that.  I am a specu­lator of sorts.” “If that’s the case, how come we aren’t overrun with you time voyagers plundering wine cellars and baseball trading card collections. Just start moving to the stairs real careful-like.” “I cannot be discovered, if I were, it would inalterably change the past, uh, I mean your future. Ever since time travel has been technologically proven, it has been banned. The technology is closely guarded and the few devices that were assembled and demonstrated are now museum pieces. I just happen to be a technician in the classified museum where many sensitive and dangerous things like this are protected. I was merely curious and greedy about wine. You see it’s all gone now . . . I mean now where I come from.”

Tucker was drawn into the explana­tion. “You’re not really from the future are you? Just when are you from? What do you mean all wine is gone? What happened?” The intruder explained “there was a grapevine plague over two centuries ago. I have heard several theories. Perhaps space travel brought back a new virus or disease. Many discount that theory because it struck earth and decimated all grapevines before interplanetary travel commenced in earnest, and it apparently started in a small and obscure wine growing region far from spaceports. We had several unfortunate experiences with the intro­duction of interplanetary exotics, so now everything is carefully quarantined. Perhaps it was a mutation of an earth virus or some other vector. It acted like a mold but attacked the woody parts of grapevines and turned them to dust. Anyway, it spread quickly around the world and killed every variety of grapevine. Nothing escaped. After several decades they were all dead. In the museum in which I work we have samples of this wine plague. Someday our scientists hope to unlock its virulence – but we have no living vines to replant. Scientists and horticulturists have labored over developing alternate winemaking species. Chemists even make artificial wine. But nothing compares to the wine from real grapes. The few remaining bottles of wine, secreted in private collections command astronomi­cal prices, and for wines the experts say are merely shadows of what they once were. I just figured that I could make a small fortune by collecting wine from the past and bringing it back to the present along with some cuttings from your vineyard.”

“Well, how in the world did you settle on my cellar you thief-from-another-time? And what am I supposed to do now, just turn you loose, so you can go steal from another cellar or in another eon somewhere? If this time travel is so dangerous, just what do you think you have already wrought by being here now?”

A door opened upstairs. “Tucker, is that you downstairs?” “I’m in the cellar Emma, and I need your help!” With surprising speed and deftness the intruder swept his leg across Tucker’s gun-wielding wrist, smashing it with considerable force. The gun skidded across the cellar and under some shelves. The intruder pulled the hood over his head, retreated to a far corner and waived his hands over the array of lights glowing on his waist collar. The room filled with a static charge. Tucker’s hair and loose-fitting clothing were drawn, then repelled, by the charge. White light flashed shadows on the walls. As quickly as the charge had come, it faded into a dim blue glow, and the intruder was gone. All that lingered was the smell of ozone, as after a lightening strike. Tucker trembled. He was covered with cold sweat.

‘Tucker, are you all right? You’re not sick, are you?” Tucker could see the concern in Emma’s eyes. What to say? Should he confess the whole incident? It had happened, hadn’t it?

“I’m fine Emma. I just got over­extended from moving wine boxes.”

“Well you had better be more care­ful. We may no longer have that large bottle of Pétrus to share on our 50th, but be assured you had better be there, or I will be very displeased. Also, you must do something about this mildew. It really does smell odd down here.”

Tucker looked at his grapevine table. It was now covered with the unusual mustard-colored dust. Just then there was the clink of metal hitting glass. Together their eyes followed the move­ment of a metal corkscrew, absent its handle, as it rolled across the glass tabletop and plunked down hard on the stone floor.  It had fallen out of the old Burgundian grapevine branch that was part of Tucker’s collection of antique cork pulls. The vine that had held the metal screw was now a pile of mustard-colored dust and rotten wood.  Emma swept the dusty debris into a dust pan and threw it out the back door into Tucker’s small vineyard.