The Chardonnay Charade wcm-2 Read online

  Kit came up and nudged my elbow, a reporter’s notebook in one hand and a champagne glass in the other. “I thought Ross might show up,” she said. “I was hoping to talk to him now that he’s back from Florida.”

  “How do you know where he went? And how do you know he’s back?”

  “I bought coffee and a Danish at the general store on my way to work. I know everything.”

  “Good Lord. How did Thelma find out so fast?”

  “Because Ross needed milk and bread and some other stuff. Thelma gave me the whole list, but I forgot. He stopped in just before I did.”

  “He’s not coming by,” I said. “I talked to him on the phone right before I left the house. It’s Noah’s night. Ross didn’t think his presence would add anything to the evening.” That was putting it mildly. No point telling her how angry and resentful he’d sounded. The few days in Florida seemed to have only stoked his belief that folks had turned against him. I clinked my champagne glass against hers. “Are you working?”

  “Yep. Left a half-eaten burrito and a Diet Dr Pepper at my desk to swill champagne and find out if this campaign’s got what it takes in November to unseat the Big Bad Incumbent. I still think Ross should have come to make nice-nice with Noah. Who cares if they mean it?”

  “God, what a cynic you’re becoming. Ross is avoiding the press because you’d just glom on to the Randy and Georgia story all over again.”

  “Not me. I wouldn’t.”

  “Maybe not you, but the guy over there who looks like a tube of mega-hold gel exploded on his head would.” I pointed across the room. “I’ve seen him on one of the network morning shows. He does gossip and fluff and weird stories about people being abducted by aliens. You think he’s here to ask Noah’s views on repealing the personal property tax in Virginia?”

  “Okay, one slime-bag. Big deal.” Her head swiveled around. “You know who else is missing? Hugo Lang.”

  “Speak of the devil,” I said. “Look who just showed up.”

  Kit drank champagne. “This ought to be interesting.”

  “Seems like he’s popping up in a lot of unexpected places lately. The other day I saw him—well, his car, anyway—driving away from Ross’s clinic. Wonder what he was doing.”

  Kit shrugged. “Constituent visit? Except most of the patients don’t vote.”

  Hugo worked the room on his way over to Noah. By the time they met up, I had a feeling Noah wasn’t at all surprised to see Hugo. In fact, it seemed more like he had been expecting him.

  Noah stepped back to the podium and quieted the crowd, introducing Hugo as the next vice president of the United States. More wild cheering as Hugo joined him and the two men embraced and spoke quietly into each other’s ears, before clasping hands in the air, the quintessential symbol of victory on election night.

  “They look pretty happy,” I murmured.

  “Cue the speech of reconciliation, party unity, and mutual respect,” Kit said. “And let us not forget victory in November for the people of the great Commonwealth of Virginia.”

  Hugo’s speech was brief and to the point. It was Noah’s night and he hoped, he said with a broad smile, that he’d have his own chance to thank supporters—maybe in San Francisco come August. Everyone roared and whooped and hollered until he finally held up his hands for silence.

  “We all mourn the loss of a fellow candidate who was a friend and neighbor to many of us,” he said. “But tonight is a night of reconciliation, of healing, and of unity. I have the utmost respect and admiration for a fine man—Noah Seely. Tonight I pledge my full support to do whatever it takes so that in November the people of the Commonwealth of Virginia will send this good man, my good friend, and the next senator from the Thirty-first District, to Richmond where he belongs!”

  Under cover of the cheering, I leaned over to Kit. “Did you write his speech?”

  She grinned. “Honey, I could give his speech. What did you expect him to say?”

  “He never mentioned Georgia by name.”

  “Yeah, he didn’t waste a lot of time on her, did he?”

  Hugo hung around for a while for more back-slapping and politicking. As he got near the doorway on his way out, I happened to catch his eye. We hadn’t spoken since Austin Kendall’s fund-raiser at the vineyard. And I didn’t think he realized I had seen him leave the clinic. His face, for once, was grim as he stared back at me, then turned toward the door.

  He may not have killed Georgia Greenwood. But something in the way he’d looked at me made me think that he was anything but sorry she was dead.

  “Lucie.” Kit elbowed me. “I just said I’ve got to go. You leaving, too?”

  “I’ll stick around for a while.”

  Mick Dunne hadn’t shown up yet.

  “I’ll call you. I’ve got a hot story and a cold burrito waiting for me.”

  But as the evening wore on, I began to wonder if Mick was coming after all. I didn’t have his mobile number, though something told me he wasn’t the kind of man you kept tabs on.

  “Hey, cupcake, what’s up? Something bothering you?” Joe Dawson stood at my elbow, holding a glass of champagne. “You want this? Yours is empty. I can get another one.”

  “No, thanks. I’m fine. Probably going to leave soon, anyway.”

  “Well, cheers, then.” He looked around the room, nodding. “Good turnout for Noah. I bet he can pull it off in November.”

  “Hugo Lang just endorsed him.”

  “Yeah, I heard. Good career move. Hugo needs to put as much distance between himself and Georgia as he can right now, considering what Ross is up to.”

  “You mean moving?”

  “What?” Joe looked surprised.

  I never should have opened my mouth. Joe wasn’t a Romeo, but he was one of their conduits. “Oh, God. I thought that’s what you meant. I shouldn’t have said anything. Please don’t repeat it.”

  “Ross is leaving town?”

  “Yes. When this is all over he wants to make a fresh start somewhere else.”

  “Smart move.” Joe sounded grim.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He contacted one of the big auction houses the other day about selling that Jeff Davis letter. And he’s planning to make a stink in the press about it. Says he’s donating the money to the clinic, in honor of his wife. I swear to God some of the Romeos are so mad they’re ready to lynch him.”

  “Why’d he do it now? He’s right back in the limelight again.”

  “You talking about Ross, sugar?” Mac Macdonald joined us. “The sooner he leaves town, the better, as far as I’m concerned. His behavior has been anything but honorable.”

  Mac had overheard, too. Great.

  “The only reason he’s doing this now is to embarrass the folks who doubted his innocence,” Mac continued. “With the Middleburg reenactment coming up he means to make us look like a bunch of crackpots.”

  In another week—June 17 through 19—it would be the anniversary of the Battle of Middleburg, which had been part of the 1863 Gettysburg Campaign. On those days nearly a century and a half ago, General J. E. B. Stuart valiantly fought a succession of fierce battles along Mosby’s Highway, skirmishing with the Union troops of Alfred Pleasanton in an effort to screen Robert E. Lee’s move north to Pennsylvania through the Shenandoah Valley. Mac was one of the more zealous Romeos who participated in reenacting this and other Civil War battles. This year they’d planned to re-create the engagements at Aldie, Middleburg, and Upperville. They’d been talking about it for months.

  “He had the letter authenticated?” I asked.

  “Says he did,” Joe said.

  “Maybe I can talk to him,” I said. “Get him to rethink this.”

  “Be my guest,” Mac said. “But I doubt he’ll back down, now he’s gotten this far. And by the way, I’ve been meaning to call you, Lucie. Remember the book of floral prints I was telling you about? Client changed their mind and returned it. So it’s all yours.”

  Nice o
f him to think of me, though of course Mac always did have his eye on the bottom line. “Thank you. I’ll come by to see it.”

  “The price is right. Don’t you tarry, though. I’m holding it for you, but I did have someone in today who was asking about it.”

  “All right. I’ll be in tomorrow.”

  I left after that conversation. Mick wasn’t coming and I had no intention of calling him to ask why.

  Jen Seely was climbing out of her car as I walked out to the parking lot. She seemed surprisingly late for her father’s victory party.

  I walked over to her. “Hi, Jen. Got a minute?”

  She smiled a tight-lipped smile. “Hi, Lucie. Not really. I ought to get inside and be there with my dad.”

  “The party’s winding down,” I said. “Are you avoiding anybody in particular or a lot of people in general?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She sounded defensive.

  “You don’t want anyone to know you were at my barn the night Georgia was murdered, do you?” I said. “What happened, Jen? What did you see?”

  “I wasn’t there.”

  “Yes, you were. You sent Randy a bunch of red roses and left him a note in the envelope with the invoice. He was supposed to find it so he’d know you were coming that night. Instead he got waylaid and ended up helping me.” I banged my cane on the ground and she jumped. “You were there and you’ve been lying about it.”

  “You can’t prove that.”

  “You didn’t know about Georgia until you showed up that night, did you?” I persisted. “When you got to the barn, she and Randy were up in the hayloft. You heard them and figured out what was going on. You were furious.”

  She folded her arms across her chest and said coldly, “That’s a pack of lies.”

  “I don’t blame you,” I continued. “He lied to you, didn’t he? Of course you were mad. While they were still together you had time to think, to decide what you were going to do about it. That’s when you came up with the methyl bromide. It would completely disfigure Georgia. So you waited until she left Randy’s bed, then you confronted her on the south service road. Then what? Did you go back and have sex with Randy? How did you get him to White’s Ferry?”

  Until this moment I realized I hadn’t actually suspected her of killing either of them. But as I pieced together the scenario, it seemed more than a little plausible.

  “I did not kill anybody,” she hissed. “You are wrong about everything. How dare you accuse me of something I didn’t do!”

  Her eyes flashed.

  “But you were there that night.” I wasn’t wrong about everything. Some of this was right.

  She wiped her eyes, but the tears came anyway. “I didn’t do anything to anybody. I heard them together and I left. That’s all. They were both alive and…well, alive…the last I knew.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?” I asked. “You should have told the sheriff.”

  “What’s to tell? I didn’t see anybody. No one knew I was there. Not even the two of them. All I’d do is get mixed up in the investigation. Plus I felt like such a fool for believing Randy. He really was a bastard.” Her anger seemed to shift from me to Randy.

  “You’ve been defending him. Helping his sister pack his things. You even told me his relationship with Georgia was all business.”

  “Sounded better than all monkey business, didn’t it?” Her smile was bitter. “I didn’t want to get involved. And as for helping his sister…I asked for my letters back. I burned them.”

  “Oh.”

  She chewed her lip. “I don’t see the point in bringing any of this up. It’s over, done with…nothing would change if the sheriff knew I was there. I didn’t see anything. Just…well, heard things. Do I need to draw you a picture? I didn’t kill anyone. I was mad and hurt and jealous. That makes me human, not a murderer.”

  I scratched a line over and over in the dirt parking lot with the tip of my cane.

  “Look”—she pointed to the Inn—“my dad just won the primary. He’s a good man and he’s going to do good things in Richmond. If my name gets dragged through the mud now, some of it’s going to stick to him. He deserves better than that.”

  I was silent.

  “I need to get inside. Good night, Lucie.”

  She left and I was alone again in the parking lot with a lot of churning thoughts. Jen had gotten into the barn without anyone knowing about it—except me.

  Another guilty secret, and once again, I was an accomplice.

  Chapter 23

  Mac had the book of Virginia wildflower prints on his desk when I stopped by the antique store the next morning. He beamed as I walked through the front door.

  “Well, well, well. Glad you came right down here, sugar,” he said. “I’m so happy to see you.”

  Sure he was. Me and my wallet. “Thanks, Mac.”

  “Sit right down and have a look. Aren’t those colored plates just gorgeous? They’re all hand done, and this is a limited edition, of course. Only two hundred and fifty copies printed. This one’s number sixty-three.”

  I sat. This book was going to set me back plenty. But as I leafed through the pages and examined the hand-colored plates of wild bergamot, witch hazel, azalea, bloodroot, and spicebush on the thick cream-colored paper, I knew he was right that it was a real gem. I closed the book and cradled it in my lap.

  “How much?”

  “I’m going to make a big sacrifice here. Practically give it to you.”

  Of course. He always said that.

  He rocked back and forth on his heels. “Six hundred dollars.”

  “Six hundred? Lord, Mac, that’s a fortune!”

  He looked hurt. “Now, Lucie, I could remove those fifteen prints and sell each one of them for a hundred dollars, easy. I know you want this book and I want you to have it. That’s why I’m making you such a wonderful offer.”

  He wasn’t going to budge on the price. And he had a point about selling the prints individually for more money. Even if Quinn and I decided not to use them as wine labels, I still wanted the book. Assuming Quinn still worked at the vineyard in three years—or even in three months. Maybe someone else would be making the decision about those labels with me.

  I set my credit card on his desk. “I’ll take it.”

  Mac gave me a big bad toothy smile and a roguish wink. “I knew you’d come ’round. You’re not going to regret it.”

  As it turned out, neither of us had any idea just how much I would regret it. Owning that book changed everything.

  I left the book of prints at the house. Better than leaving it at the villa where Quinn might see it. We’d only argue again. Right now I didn’t want to risk any more arguments. We’d had too many already.

  On Thursday I met with a cute blonde from the corporate events department of a large Tysons Corner company. We sat on the terrace of the villa and discussed the fact that her boss was looking for a venue for their international sales meeting.

  “Gee whiz,” she said wistfully as she stood up and reached for her leather-bound folder, “I’d love to work at a place like this.”

  I nearly opened my mouth to say we could use some help with public relations and marketing when she added, “Just hang out all day and plan parties and drink nice wine. You must have so much fun. I bet it beats having a real job, huh?”

  I smiled brightly. “You have no idea.”

  She grinned. “Yeah. Wow. I’ll be in touch. I just love this place.”

  After she left I called Quinn’s mobile. He said he’d be in the barrel room racking over the Cabernet Sauvignon. Bonita had asked for the afternoon off to drive Hector and Sera to a cardiologist appointment in Leesburg. Quinn’s phone went to voice mail. He’d probably set it down in the lab and was out of earshot in one of the alcoves. I decided to go over and talk to him.

  Both Quinn and Mick Dunne were standing by the stone wall at the far end of the courtyard as I walked through the archway, heading toward the
barrel room. Quinn gestured expansively with his hands as he talked. Mick’s head was bowed as he listened intently, hands in his pockets. I moved into the shadows of the loggia where they wouldn’t see me.

  By the looks of things, they were having the will-you-or-won’t-you talk. My car keys were in my pocket. I couldn’t watch any more.

  I drove to the cemetery, the place I always headed to when I needed to get away, ever since I was a kid. Here, at least, I could count on a loyal group of relatives to hear me out, whatever my problem.

  The Memorial Day roses Eli, Mia, and I had left at the graves ten days ago had withered in the heat. I touched the petals of the one by Leland’s headstone and they dropped off, leaving a naked stem. I tried to arrange them as they’d been, but what was done was done. In the distance, clouds drifted to make dappled patterns of light and shadow on the peaceful Blue Ridge. Off to the right I could see a narrow green tree line, the boundary that separated Mick’s farm from ours. I left the fractured flower and went to my mother’s grave, leaning on her headstone for support as I sat down.

  If, as the old Indian legend went, the stars in the sky were openings in the floor of heaven where loved ones could shine down to let us know they were happy, then was there some tangible reverse way we could let them know about us here down on earth, if we needed them and we weren’t happy?

  I did not want Quinn to leave, plain and simple. But what I did want was impossible—the kind of relationship my mother and Jacques shared. A partnership where we made decisions together. Jacques was old-school European and his gallantry and politesse in the way he treated not only my mother, but our clients, had made him enormously popular and well-liked. Quinn, with his loud Hawaiian shirts, big cigars, and in-your-face attitude, was the polar opposite; a man Kit once said would benefit from a few sessions in charm school. He wanted to run the show, treated me like I knew little or nothing about the business, acted brashly and abrasively—and so we clashed on almost every issue. But, as they say, the heart wants what the heart wants, however illogical or irrational.

  And mine wanted him to stay.