The Viognier Vendetta wcm-5 Read online

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and punched a button. She was on speed dial. He left the kitchen as she answered. I heard his staccato Spanish, probably telling her to make herself at home if he wasn’t here. When he returned, he had pulled on a hooded fleece with the vineyard logo on it. I saw the bulge underneath on his right hip.

  His revolver.

  “You don’t have to go home if you don’t want to, you know?” he said. “Nothing wrong with being scared of the bad guys.”

  “For how long? I can’t let someone stop me living my life. Besides, I’ll have one of my father’s guns for protection. I’ll be okay.”

  “You know what you’re doing with such a gun?” Antonio looked skeptical.

  “It won’t be target practice. I’ll shoot until I hit something. Or someone.”

  “Guess I won’t pay you a surprise visit, then.” He flashed a brilliant smile and I grinned back at him.

  “Come on, hija,” he said. “Let’s saddle up.”

  He took Hector’s old Superman blue pickup truck and I followed him in the Mini through the velvety black night. Antonio was a crack shot. I’d seen him take down deer and crows. I hoped he wouldn’t need to use his gun once we got to my house.

  I hoped no one was already there, waiting for me.

  Chapter 17

  The house was dark and silent as we pulled up in the driveway. Maybe it was time to start locking the doors when I left in the morning. Most days I didn’t bother in case a neighbor wanted to drop off a bag of homegrown tomatoes or return a borrowed book or garden tool. Atoka was that kind of town—but maybe not anymore.

  Antonio stopped the pickup and I pulled up beside him.

  “Stay right there,” he said. “I’m going to take a look around. If I don’t come back in a few minutes, get out of here and call the sheriff.”

  I nodded, afraid if I spoke it would betray my nerves.

  Within two minutes he was back. “All clear. Let’s go inside. Me first.”

  He turned on lights and checked every room, but I could have told him we wouldn’t find anyone. Somehow the house, which had been in my family for more than two hundred years, would have given me a clue that an intruder waited for us. The Montgomery clan motto— Garde bien, “watch well”—was carved into the lintel above the front door. For two centuries, the house had taken care of my ancestors and me. It wasn’t going to let me down now.

  “Where are those guns?” Antonio asked.

  “The library.”

  It had once been my father’s office. I’d had the floor-to-ceiling cherry bookcases on either side of the fireplace rebuilt after a fire a few years ago, though we’d lost most of Leland’s vast collection of rare books on Jefferson and early American history. Gradually I’d filled the shelves with my own selection, adding a few small watercolors and bronzes I’d bought at Macdonald’s Fine Antiques to fill some of the empty spaces. Besides the bookshelves, the room contained my father’s antique desk, two wing chairs, a coffee table, and a sofa and love seat upholstered in the Montgomery clan’s heathery blue, green, and red tartan—and my father’s gun cabinet.

  Antonio had never been in this room and I didn’t think he had any idea how many weapons Leland had owned. He let out an appreciative whistle as I unlocked the etched-glass doors, revealing what was inside.

  “Madre de Díos.” He ran a hand down the barrel of an antique shotgun. “That’s a Baker Rifle. The Mexicans used it at the Alamo. Look at all these. The only thing you don’t have is a cannon.”

  “Leland wanted one. My mother said over her dead body.”

  He smiled at the feeble humor. “Let’s get you set up, Lucita. Do you really know what you’re doing?”

  “I watched Leland shoot enough times.”

  He gave me a skeptical look. I hadn’t answered the question.

  “Pistols and revolvers in there?” He pointed to a drawer.

  I pulled it open. “Yes.”

  Another low whistle and something under his breath in Spanish.

  “How about you take the Colt forty-five?” Antonio lifted his fleece so I could see the gun on his hip. “Like mine.”

  “Why not the Glock?”

  “I got a friend in the marines. He says never trust a gun if you can’t divide the caliber by five. If the guy’s wearing body armor and all you’ve got is that nine-millimeter Glock, he might not even go down. Then he gets off a couple rounds and you do.”

  “Oh.”

  “So you gonna use the Colt, okay? It’s got good stopping power.”

  I nodded.

  “Where’s your ammunition?”

  I showed him the drawer.

  “Want me to load a clip for you?” He eyed Leland’s ample stock of magazines and loose rounds.

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  “Before I do that, I wanna be sure you know how to slide the safety off. Use your thumb like this. See?” He showed me. “But keep it on until you need it. We don’t want no accidents.”

  “I know. Believe me, I know.”

  He showed me the gun. “Okay, this is a semiautomatic, so when you pull the trigger, it shoots once. But it gets easier after you get off the first round, entiendes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t worry, Lucie. You hit someone with this and it’s gonna stop him good. Better, it’s gonna go through him and hit whatever’s behind him. So aim for the center mass, okay? He probably won’t be expecting you to have a gun, but you don’t want to give him a chance to fire his. Even if he’s hurt.”

  “Right.”

  Antonio looked doubtful. “You sure you want to do this? I can stay here with you for a while, or you can come back to my place. The offer’s still good.”

  The offer was still tempting. But how long could I go on hiding and living in fear? It was also possible the tailgater out on Mosby’s Highway was in no way involved in Rebecca’s disappearance and Ian’s death—and that I had an overactive imagination.

  I patted his arm gratefully. “Thanks, Antonio, but I’ll be okay. Besides, I’ll bet that guy has other things on his mind right now, like the damage he did to his car after plowing into that deer.”

  “Where were you when it happened?” He finished loading the Colt and handed it to me. “Here. Be careful.”

  “Thanks. On the other side of Middleburg. Just after Mickie Gordon Park.”

  His cell phone vibrated and his eyes darted to the number. He turned off the phone. “I’ll check it out tomorrow.”

  “Don’t you need to get that call?”

  He gave me his warm smile. “I call her back later.”

  “Thank you for doing this, Antonio.”

  “You gonna lock the doors when I go, okay?” he said. “I’m going to drive around Sycamore Lane one more time and check the front gate by Atoka Road. Want me to call you when I’m done?”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  We walked to my front door. Antonio peered through one of the sidelights.

  “Looks quiet.” He pulled his gun anyway and my heart started hammering again.

  He waited outside until I locked the door. Then he got into the pickup and I watched until his taillights disappeared.

  There was no way I was going to sleep tonight. I found one of my mother’s crocheted afghans in an antique carved cedar chest in the back hallway and brought it into the library. Then I locked a door that led from the kitchen through that hallway to a staircase to the second floor. If anyone got into the house, I wanted them to come through the central foyer, not sneak upstairs the back way.

  My cell phone rang and I almost dropped my gun. Antonio, reporting that all was quiet. I tried Quinn’s number one more time, but it went to voice mail, so I disconnected without leaving a message.

  I pulled the curtains shut and settled down on the sofa, positioning myself so I could see through the doorway into the foyer. I sat there with my eyes on the door and my hand inches from my gun, waiting until morning.

  The shelf clock chiming in the parlor across the foy
er woke me at five. It was still dark and the sun wouldn’t be up until six thirty. I had dozed off and on, possibly even slept a little, but the inside of my eyelids felt like they were coated with sandpaper.

  I got up and made coffee. One more night like this and I’d be walking around like the living dead. By the time I showered and got dressed, the lacquered pearl sky promised a sweet spring day. Last night’s fears receded. I walked into my bedroom and looked at my unslept-in bed. Maybe if I just lay down for a few minutes…

  The next time I woke up, the telephone on my nightstand was ringing, sunlight was streaming through the windows, and it was nine thirty. I sat up and answered the phone.

  It was Frankie. “You okay? I thought you were coming by the villa this morning to go over the events calendar.”

  “I overslept. Sorry. Can we do it later?”

  “Sure.” She sounded puzzled. “Is something wrong?”

  “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “Did everything go okay in D.C.? Did you see that woman from the Hill? What happened when you talked to the cops?”

  How much did I want to share with her, especially after what had happened last night? No point alarming her right now.

  “Everything went fine in D.C., I did see the woman on the Hill, and nothing happened when I talked to that detective.”

  “That’s all you’ve got to say?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Silence on her end. Frankie wasn’t used to me shutting her out, but right now it seemed the less she knew, the better. I didn’t want to tell her I’d slept with a gun last night, though it probably wouldn’t be long before she weaseled that information out of Antonio.

  “I’ve got to go to Middleburg for an errand,” I said. “I’ll be in later, okay?”

  “How about if I order lunch for us here? Just the two of us.” She switched to the sweet, persuasive voice she used to bend someone to her will. “I’ll get sandwiches from the deli and a couple of cow puddles from the Upper Crust. Your favorite. Then you can tell me what really happened.”

  “I don’t succumb easily to bribes.”

  “Make an exception. You’re a walking zombie lately, Lucie. You can’t keep all this stuff bottled up inside.”

  She waited.

  “Okay,” I said. “Noon.”

  “Good,” she said. “I’ll be all ears.”

  Quinn called on my way out the front door.

  “I just went for a little drive with Antonio.” His voice sounded unnaturally calm. “Out on Mosby’s Highway near Mickie Gordon Park.”

  “Oh?” My hand tightened around the phone. “How’d it go?”

  “Just fine. Nothing out there to report.”

  That couldn’t be true.

  “Are you sure? No dead deer by the roadside, maybe?”

  The other car had struck it head-on. I was sure it went through the windshield. If the animal hadn’t died instantly, I didn’t see how it could have survived the night. Had Animal Control hauled away the carcass so quickly? Usually it took them a few days.

  “Just a dead squirrel. That’s all.” He paused. “So how come you went to Antonio last night and not me?”

  “You weren’t home and your phone was set to voice mail. The guy who followed me hit a deer, not a squirrel.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but the only roadkill was that squirrel. And I was playing poker with a couple of guys. Got home by ten. There weren’t any messages from you.”

  “I didn’t leave any.”

  “Why not?”

  I didn’t like his challenging tone. What right did he have to jump all over me? I was the one who’d been chased by some nut driving like he was at a NASCAR rally, not him.

  “I don’t know why not. Look, everything worked out fine. Antonio got me set up with Leland’s forty-five so if anybody had gotten into the house, I would have been able to defend myself.”

  “You slept with a gun last night? Jesus, Lucie.”

  “I didn’t actually sleep with it. It was beside me on the coffee table.”

  I heard him mutter something that sounded profane. “You should have told me, left a message, something. Why in the hell didn’t you?”

  I was tired and irritable, and, since he asked for it, I gave it to him.

  “Because in a couple of months or maybe weeks you’re not going to be here anymore, that’s why. I figured I might as well start getting used to it. I heard you went to look at the Jenningses’ land yesterday. Did you buy it?”

  There was another long silence on his end and I knew my remark had been the start of drawing the boundaries of how it would be between us once he left.

  “No,” he said in a quiet voice. “I didn’t.”

  “Why not, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “I’ve got some money stuff to get in order first. But it’s a great piece of property. I’d like you to see it.”

  I felt a small stab through my heart. “Sure. Anytime.”

  “I’m racking over that bad lot of Viognier this morning,” he said. “It’s getting worse, so I decided we should at least try that and see if it helps. And I’m thinking about continuing the bench trials. Maybe this afternoon. Work for you?”

  His voice was cool and back to all business.

  “I’m having lunch with Frankie to go over the events calendar but I can do it after that.”

  “Okay. See you this afternoon.”

  “Right.”

  I drove to Middleburg, feeling battered and bruised. Why had I told him I wanted to get used to life without him when I really wanted him not to leave? Why was it so hard to tell him that I still cared?

  I knew why. Because I didn’t want to know that he could get used to life without me.

  I stopped by Books & Crannies in Middleburg and ordered a copy of The Poetical Works of Alexander Pope. The book wouldn’t be in for a day or two, but they’d be happy to mail it if I couldn’t come by to pick it up. I said thanks and went across the street to the Cuppa Giddyup for the largest coffee they had to go.

  I climbed the little staircase back up to Washington Street and thought some more about last night. Hitting that deer must have done some serious damage to the other car—body damage, a cracked or shattered windshield, things that now went clunk under the hood. Had the driver already taken it to a repair shop? Some place around here? How long would it take to find out—and would anyone tell me if I asked?

  Mickie Gordon Park was a mile or so down the road. After what Quinn said about finding nothing more than a dead squirrel, I needed to check things out myself. They might have looked in the wrong place. I’d heard brakes so there ought to be skid marks. Surely I’d find blood from the deer, even if the carcass were gone.

  I crossed Washington and walked toward my parking place on Jay Street. Through the open door of Macdonald’s Fine Antiques, I saw Mac in a heated conversation with Austin Kendall, the retired owner of Kendall Real Estate a few doors down. Austin divided his time between the golf course and checking in on his daughter Erica, who now ran the business. He wore his usual golfing attire, but he was holding a rolled-up copy of The Wall Street Journal, which he whacked on a desk as he spoke, punctuating his words. Mac kept shaking his head, as though he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. I stopped in the doorway when he brought up Harlan Jennings’s name.

  Mac had a special radar when it came to potential customers, even if they were not in his direct line of vision. His head swiveled in my direction and he gave me a dispirited wave. Austin was too absorbed in what he was saying to notice me. His voice boomed like a carnival barker’s.

  “. . . find out if this is true or not. I swear, if it is and Harlan’s known about it all along, I’ll get the tar and you and the boys get the pitchforks.”

  Any other time I wouldn’t have walked into Mac’s place holding a cup of coffee since he was death on people eating or drinking around his antiques. But I knew they were talking about the unraveling of the shroud behind which Thoma
s Asher Investments had conducted its business, and what I’d overheard sounded like Mac wasn’t the only Romeo who had invested with Harlan. Mac looked so distraught I probably could have rolled a wine barrel into the store and he wouldn’t have noticed.

  “. . . damn near everything,” Mac was saying. “At least I own the building.”

  “That’s more than I can say,” Austin said. “When I sold the business to Erica, I parked everything with Harlan, including my 401(k). God, wouldn’t that be a kick in the head? Asking my own daughter for a job at my age because the old man’s broke.”

  Mac touched his finger to his lips, silencing Austin and indicating that they had company.

  “Can I help you, Lucie?” he asked. “You looking for another of those bronzes for your library?”

  “No, thank you. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help overhearing. Both of you are clients of Harlan’s and Thomas Asher Investments?”

  Austin turned around and gave me a how-dare-you look. “I don’t believe that’s any of your business, young lady.”

  At the same time Mac said, “Why do you want to know? Did you give him money, too?”

  “Of course she didn’t.” Austin looked annoyed. “Harlan promised us it was going to be just the …” He broke off. “Did you, Lucie?”

  “Every dime I make goes right back into the vineyard,” I said. “You were starting to say something about what Harlan promised?”

  Austin had spent his lifetime putting people in the home of their dreams and he was usually pretty smooth and glib. Right now he looked the way he did when the housing bubble burst a few years ago.

  “Aw, Austin, what difference does it make if she knows?” Mac said. “The cat’s out of the bag, anyway.”

  Austin gave in, but not gracefully. “Fine. You tell her.”

  “Harlan manages our money,” Mac said. “He did it for the Romeos. A favor.”

  “He set up something just for us,” Austin said. “That’s how we kept it. With a small group he could be more nimble, have more freedom. For years we were doing great, especially after he got involved with Asher.”

  “Why are you asking about this?” Mac asked.