The Viognier Vendetta wcm-5 Page 18

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I might not even be here.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you will.”

  I sat down next to him and ran a finger over the engraving on the brass plaque attached to the bench. A quote from Thomas Jefferson, whose Garden Book had been among my mother’s favorite reading: “No occupation is so delightful to me as the culture of the earth, and no culture comparable to that of the garden.”

  “I mean it,” he said. “I might not.”

  He sounded serious. He wasn’t kidding around.

  “Don’t say that.” My voice wavered. “You can’t leave.”

  He reached over and brushed the sleeve of my jacket with the back of his hand.

  “After what I found out last night, I may not have a choice.”

  “I thought you were playing poker last night.”

  “I was. Harlan and Ali Jennings’s stable manager got up the game for a bunch of guys. He’s got an apartment above one of the barns. Ali came back from riding with Tommy Asher’s brother while we were playing. You could hear ’em a mile away. Guess they didn’t realize the windows were open and we were there.”

  “Simon deWolfe went riding with Alison Jennings?”

  “They hunt together. Simon rides with the Goose Creek Hunt now, along with Ali and Mick Dunne.”

  “What were they talking about?”

  “What else? Harlan and Tommy Asher.” Quinn shrugged. “Ali was completely flipped out about the money that’s gone. Simon was trying to calm her down. He told her she needs to keep her head, stay calm. Same with Harlan. Panicking is just going to make things worse for everybody.”

  “What did Ali say when she heard that?”

  “She sure didn’t calm down, I can tell you that. They parked their money with Asher, too. She sounded hysterical. Blames your friend Rebecca for everything.”

  “I don’t think Ali can be—” I began.

  “Can be what?”

  “Nothing.”

  A sudden gust of wind showered blossoms around us like we were inside a snow globe. I didn’t want to get into Harlan and Rebecca’s affair with Quinn.

  He picked up a flower and held it between his fingers. “Can’t be objective about the woman her husband was screwing?”

  My cheeks turned red. “That’s vulgar.”

  “Aha. Then it is true?”

  I looked away.

  “Lucie,” he said, “I’m a guy. Sorry I’m not all touchy-feely, but I’ve heard the rumors about Harlan. Your friend was one good-looking babe who happened to be working for someone Harlan does business with. You didn’t tell me anything I wouldn’t have found out in a day or two over coffee at the General Store.”

  “I didn’t tell you anything at all.”

  “Aw, come on. Lighten up.” He put his arm around me and pulled me to him. “You know me. I don’t mean to be crude, but the fact that they were, uh, having an affair just makes it worse. People trusted Harlan. Now they don’t—or won’t until they get their money back.”

  I leaned my head against his shoulder and breathed in his clean, outdoors smell and a hint of whatever detergent he used to wash his clothes.

  “What if they don’t get it back?” I asked.

  “I watched that press conference. Asher says he’s good for it.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He pulled away from me. “What’s ‘uh-huh’ supposed to mean? You were Rebecca’s friend. You got insider information?”

  “Nothing I know for sure.”

  “Join the club. Nobody seems to know anything for sure. What do you think you don’t know?”

  “I don’t think Rebecca stole the money Tommy Asher says she did. She’s a convenient scapegoat because she’s not around anymore.”

  “Then who did steal it?” He watched me.

  “Maybe there wasn’t any to steal.”

  Quinn smashed the blossom he’d been holding between his fingers. “If that’s true, then you’re telling me it was all smoke and mirrors?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” I repeated. “But I think that’s one possibility.”

  “Jesus H. Christ, Lucie. Then nobody’s gonna get anything back.”

  “Maybe not.”

  We sat in silence.

  “Come on, let’s get out of here. I’ve had all the bad news I can take for one day.”

  On the drive back to the winery he said, “I think your theory’s way off base about there not being any money. I told you what Simon told Ali last night. All everyone has to do is keep their head and it’ll work out. Simon ought to know what’s going on inside his brother’s firm. He would have told Ali the truth.”

  “Quinn—”

  “No offense, Lucie, but you said yourself you were just speculating. I’m not so naïve I don’t believe people are going to lose money by the time this shakes out. But hell, the market giveth and the market taketh away. Tommy Asher’s not God, though people have been acting like he was. Now he’s just human.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Can we drop this, please?”

  I saw the unmistakable message in his eyes. Go no further. I nodded and we finished the rest of the drive without speaking. How many people I cared about were going to lose money because they trusted Harlan and Tommy Asher?

  It seemed to me the body count was still climbing.

  Kit called when I got home just after five o’clock. I peeled off my sweatshirt and threw it on the toile-covered Queen Anne chair in the foyer. Across the room, Leland’s bust of Thomas Jefferson looked out from a lighted alcove. Jefferson knew what it was like to be broke. It was part of the reason he sold his personal library to the Library of Congress. He’d needed the money.

  “The only thing harder than tracking you down,” Kit said, “is figuring out who’s lying and whose telling the truth at Asher Investments. Didn’t you owe me a phone call after you talked to the cops yesterday?”

  I rubbed my forehead where it had begun to ache between my eyes.

  “Yesterday got a little complicated.”

  “I heard. David Wildman talked to your new friend Summer Lowe. You remember David? My Podland cubicle mate?”

  A small shiver ran down my spine. Summer made it clear she didn’t want anyone to know we’d spoken together in the Capitol. How had a reporter from the Trib found out about our off-the-radar meeting?

  “What’s he doing? Following me around?” I didn’t mean to snap at her.

  “Not on purpose, he isn’t.” Kit sounded surprised at the rebuke. “But every time he finds a new piece of the puzzle, the seat’s still warm because you were just there. In fact, you seem to be the connecting link to all of it.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Apparently it is.”

  “Has David had any luck putting the pieces together?”

  “Ask him yourself. He’s dying to meet you.”

  “You could choose another expression.”

  “What? Oh … sorry.” She paused. “He’s up in New York talking to people all day tomorrow. How about the three of us get together on Saturday? I’ll drag him out to Atoka and bring him by the vineyard. Maybe first thing in the morning?”

  “Uh …”

  “What?”

  “It might be better if we didn’t meet here,” I said.

  “Sure.” She sounded puzzled. “Why?”

  “I think someone besides David might be following me. Why make it easy for them?”

  “Good God, are you serious?”

  “’Fraid so.” I told her about last night’s car chase after I left the Hill but left out the part about sleeping with a gun.

  “Lucie, you’d better watch your back.”

  “I’m trying to. That’s why I’d like to meet somewhere out of the way.”

  “Any preferences?”

  “How about our old hangout?”

  “Ah.” I could hear her smile through the phone. “A reconvening of what your brother referred to as the S
emi-Irregular Meeting of Juvenile Boozers Anonymous.”

  I grinned. When Kit and I were growing up, I used to filch unlabeled bottles of wine from the barrel room and bring them over to the old Goose Creek Bridge where we’d hang out at twilight and drink. It had been the site of a Civil War battle—the place where Colonel J. E. B. Stuart tried to delay Union troops in order to give Robert E. Lee more time to advance toward Pennsylvania. Ten days later, the two armies met at Gettysburg. Now the garden club looked after the bridge, which was out of the way and generally deserted. We’d probably have it all to ourselves.

  “But I’m not up for polishing off a bottle of wine first thing in the morning anymore,” I said.

  “How about coffee and doughnuts instead?” she said. “David and I’ll spring for it. Meet you there, say around ten?”

  “Fine. Ten o’clock.”

  “Before you hang up,” she said, “what are you wearing Saturday night? The invitation says black tie but I never know whether to wear short or long.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The Library of Congress. The reception and a private dinner afterward for the Asher Collection. I got the press packet and your name’s on the guest list. I figured Harlan and Alison Jennings invited you.”

  I thought for a moment. “No, not them. Rebecca told me about it. She put my name on that list. My God, I completely forgot. She really wanted me to be there.”

  “So are you going?” Kit asked.

  Every player in this unfolding drama would be there. Including, perhaps, my stalker.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m going.”

  Chapter 20

  After I hung up with Kit I poured myself a large glass of wine from an open bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon on the dining room sideboard. I took it into the library, along with Leland’s .45, and set them both on the coffee table next to the sofa. The next thing I knew someone was pounding on my front door.

  I picked up the gun next to my untouched glass of wine and walked slowly into the foyer.

  “Lucie! Open up in there. Are you okay? Answer the door, and for God’s sake, don’t shoot me if you’ve got that damn gun!”

  Quinn. I lowered my arm, dizzy with relief, and flung open the door.

  “What are you doing here? You scared the wits out of me!”

  He was holding a couple of white bags. The appealing aroma of Chinese food filled the air. He’d gone to the new place in Leesburg.

  “How come you didn’t answer my calls? Next time pick up, will you? And you could have told me you started locking your front door.”

  “What calls?” I let him in. The food smelled wonderful. “And I’m fine.”

  He pointed to the gun. “Yeah, I can see everything’s just great. You forgot to charge your phone again, didn’t you? Bet you didn’t eat yet, either. Your face has funny creases on it. I woke you up.”

  I brushed my fingers across my cheeks and felt for creases. “Who are you, my mother? And my phone is”—I felt in my pocket—“somewhere.”

  “Where somewhere? Carry it with you, okay? That’s what it’s for.”

  It drove him nuts when I forgot my phone, which I often did, but the level of anxiety in his voice made me uneasy. He was right. It was dumb not to have the phone with me at all times, under the circumstances.

  “It’s probably in my car. And I think it needs to be charged,” I said, as he looked exasperated. “What’s in the bags?”

  “Shrimp with snow peas for you.” He handed it to me and I peered inside. “Kung Pao chicken for me. Bon appétit.”

  “Wait. You’re not leaving, are you?”

  “I was gonna check things in the barrel room.”

  “And eat by yourself?”

  “You, uh, want to eat together?”

  Why are men so dense about these things?

  “We could make a fire in the parlor. I think there’s a really good Saint-Estèphe in Leland’s wine cellar.”

  Quinn handed me his bag. “I’ll be back.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the carriage house to get some firewood,” he said. “Where’d you think?”

  He was gone a long time, longer than it took to get a few logs. Our dinner was growing cold and my heart started up like war drums.

  He met me at the front door, arms full of firewood, his eyes traveling to the .45, which I again held in my hand.

  “Put that thing away before you shoot somebody,” he said.

  “That’s the general idea of guns.”

  “And your phone was in your car. Dead as a doornail. Plug it in and charge it, okay?”

  I attached the phone to the charger and put the gun in the cabinet. When I walked into the parlor, he was on his knees in front of the fireplace, sticking fatwood and newspaper between the logs on the grate.

  “Do you have any idea how to shoot that gun?” he asked. “I mean, so you hit what you’re aiming at? What made you get it just now? That fox crying? Jeez, Lucie, you’re jumpier than a june bug.”

  I sat on the floor next to him and, out of habit, tucked my bad foot underneath me where he wouldn’t see it. “I didn’t hear the fox. You were gone a long time just to get an armful of firewood.”

  He got the fire starter from the mantel and lit the newspaper. Without looking at me he said, “I figured I’d check around the house. Antonio’s patrolling the grounds.”

  “He is?”

  “Yeah.” He hesitated. “We’ve got a couple of guys babysitting the entrance to the vineyard. They’re armed. We’re gonna rotate people on security duty. Days and nights. Figured you’d okay the overtime pay.”

  Security guards at the gate? No one had said a word to me.

  I swallowed. “Sure. Thanks.”

  “How about if I get that bottle of Saint-Estèphe and decant it? And yes, I’m going to check the door in your basement, too. Make sure the dead bolt’s in place.”

  When he came back he said, “I forgot what a fabulous wine cellar your old man had. You sure you want to drink this with takeout? Maybe you should save it for a special occasion, you know? Something to celebrate.”

  How could I tell him I thought dinner with him was something to celebrate?

  “I’m sure.”

  He looked at me for a long moment and I held my breath.

  “You know, it’s going to take that wine awhile to decant,” he said. “We could stay right here in your nice parlor and enjoy the fire while we wait. Or we could do something else.”

  We did something else.

  It had been months since the last time, but I no longer cared if he realized how much I’d missed his lovemaking. We began kissing and undressing each other right there in the parlor, dropping our clothes one by one on the grand spiral staircase like a couple of giddy kids. By the time we reached my bedroom we were panting and out of breath. He threw me on the bed and bit my shoulder as he climbed on top of me. I tangled my fingers through his hair and pulled him close. Usually he was tender, but tonight whatever fierce demon possessed him caught fire with me and we weren’t gentle. Tomorrow we’d both be sore and bruised.

  I lost track of how many times we made love, except that the ache that gnawed inside me grew deeper each time, a melancholy void that threatened to swallow me up. Why couldn’t we continue what we had before he left for California? Why did things have to change?

  After months of abstinence I’d given in without hesitating, thrown away any pride or pretense, like the recovering alcoholic who believes one little drink won’t hurt. But as some poet said, one crowded hour of glorious life is worth an age without a name. I’d had my crowded hour. If I had to lose him, at least we’d had this one last night together.

  Later he went downstairs to get the Saint-Estèphe, but it again seemed like a long time before he came back to bed with the decanter and two wineglasses. He’d found his clothes and gotten dressed, but he’d brought only a few of my things—which didn’t include my underwear.

  “Everything a
ll right?” I sat up and hugged my knees to my chest as he sat next to me and poured our wine. I touched my hand to his face. “You’re cold. How come you got dressed?”

  “Just went outside for a little night air.”

  I knew then why he was here. “You’re babysitting me, aren’t you? You and Antonio worked this out. Tonight your turn, tomorrow his. You were checking around the house again.”

  “If I catch Antonio in bed with you …” He grinned.

  “Don’t.”

  He handed me a glass and kissed me. “It’s not what you think.”

  “It is what I think. You’re here as my bodyguard, aren’t you?” I set my wine on the nightstand. “That’s the only reason you showed up tonight.”

  He took my face in his hands and kissed me for a long time. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be.”

  “I don’t know if I believe you.”

  “Let me prove it,” he said, laying me back on the pillows, “so you won’t have any doubts.”

  * * *

  Afterward we lay next to each other in the dark.

  “I’ve missed you,” I said.

  “I’ve missed you, too.” He rolled over and sat up, turning on the light and reaching for our wineglasses. “Interested in some very cold Chinese food? I’m starved.”

  Had he not wanted to continue that conversation, or had sex really made him ravenous?

  “Sure.”

  We drank in silence, and it was as though I could feel the filaments of the web we had woven together these last few years slowly begin to tear apart.

  “What would it take for you to stay on here?” I said.

  He stared into his wineglass.

  “A partnership? Think about it. Please? I don’t want to lose you, Quinn.”

  His smile was full of sadness and regret, but he still didn’t look at me. “This isn’t about you, Lucie. It never was. It’s about me, facing some things from my past that have finally come home to roost. I’ve got to work them out—”

  “Work them out here!”

  “I can’t.”

  “But—”

  He laid a finger across my lips. “Not tonight. Please.”

  I nodded and he brushed a tear from under my eye.