The Viognier Vendetta wcm-5 Page 26

  He grabbed me again, just as I reached the stairs. “Where’s that package? Tell me or I swear I’ll slit your throat.”

  “Underneath the prayer plant. Down there.”

  I heard voices in the Garden Court. Coming toward the Jungle. David Wildman and the docent.

  “You’re too late,” I said in a hoarse whisper. “They’ll get it first.”

  He looked over the railing, fury and rage on his face as he hesitated before raising the knife above my head. I wrenched away from him and lost my balance, pulling him with me as I fell toward the staircase. He fell over top of me as I continued to tumble down the stairs. The last thing I heard before I blacked out was Tommy Asher’s scream as he plunged over the railing, plummeting into the depths of the jungle forest below.

  Chapter 29

  Tommy Asher did not recover from the broken neck and the self-inflicted knife wound he sustained from his fall in the Botanic Gardens. I’d cracked two ribs and had some bruises and a minor concussion, but otherwise I was all right.

  For the next few days, the stories of Asher’s death and Harlan’s attempted suicide were all over the news. Miranda Asher was stopped at Kennedy Airport when a TSA attendant spotted her wearing a blond wig and carrying a forged passport as she tried to board a flight to Greece. She pleaded ignorance of her husband’s business dealings amid a media frenzy as investors continued to reel from their losses.

  David Wildman turned Rebecca’s package over to the SEC, though it wasn’t like he had a choice. Along with the stories of Harlan and the Ashers, the Trib ran his front-page multipart series on Tommy Asher’s Ponzi scheme—its victims, its far-flung scope, and all the players involved, including Rebecca. I avoided just about everyone I knew, from Dominique to Thelma and the Romeos, for as long as I could after that news came out. As for Quinn, he spent most of his days out in the vineyard and we hardly saw each other.

  Rebecca Natale’s body was finally recovered from the Potomac River—ironically, the plastic bag containing her decomposed remains was discovered not far from the Three Sisters. Linh Natale’s press conference on television was painful to watch, and though I called her several times, she never picked up the phone or returned any of my messages.

  Simon deWolfe pleaded guilty to the murder of Ian Philips and as an accessory to Rebecca’s murder. According to Simon, it was Tommy who strangled Rebecca during a violent argument the afternoon of the gala. When his half brother called in a panic, Simon moved her body to a horse stall at his Upperville farm before disposing of it in the river when one of his stable boys complained of a bad smell coming from the barn a week later. After the medical examiner’s report confirmed Simon’s story, I shuddered to think how close I’d been to dying in the same grim way Tommy Asher had murdered Rebecca.

  Between Quinn and me, things remained tense and overly polite. Then one evening, he stopped by my house with a bottle of Château Petrus. He joked that he’d used the last of his money to buy it. When he reached for me, I thought we were going to be all right. We spent a tumultuous night in bed—though it involved some new contortions with my taped ribs.

  He made his customary sludgy coffee the next morning, but when he showed up in the bedroom door he was holding only one mug.

  “Here,” he said, “just the way you like it.”

  I grinned. “Where’s yours? Drank it already?”

  His smile faltered and I knew something was wrong.

  “What is it?” I said.

  He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “One of the guys is coming to pick me up in a couple of minutes. I need to go back to California for a while, Lucie. You’ll be okay. I’ve talked everything over with Antonio.”

  “Talked what over with Antonio? What are you saying?”

  “I gotta clear my head. I can’t do it here anymore. I need to go home.”

  “Your home is here !”

  He walked over to the bed and set the mug on my bedside table. Then he kissed me and I tasted good-bye and regret in that kiss.

  “When are you coming back?” I held on to his wrists.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “A couple of weeks? A month?”

  I saw a muscle twitch in his jaw.

  “You are coming back, aren’t you?” I said, finally.

  “I won’t leave you in the lurch, I promise.”

  “Then don’t go. Please.”

  He cocked his head as a car horn sounded outside. “That’s my ride. I can’t miss this flight.” He gave me a cockeyed smile. “It’s nonrefundable.”

  “Will you call me when you get there?”

  “I … sure.”

  The horn tooted impatiently, and he slipped his hands out of my grasp.

  “Take care of yourself,” he said.

  I nodded, feeling numb. His boots clattered on the stairs and then I heard the front door slam a moment later.

  He was gone and I was alone.

  I met Dominique at the Inn later that morning. We sat on the terrace dunking her homemade croissants into bowl-sized mugs of café au lait. Below us, Goose Creek, still rain swollen, rushed on to the Potomac. Her garden, in sun-dappled sunshine, was a riot of tulips and the last of the daffodils.

  “We’re a pair, aren’t we?” she said, spooning apricot preserves on her croissant. “I can’t believe Quinn took off like that.”

  “Me neither.” I still felt numb.

  “He probably feels like he’s got crow on his face,” she said. “That’s why he left.”

  “I suppose it’s something like that.”

  “Are you going to be all right?”

  Our eyes met. “Sure. How about you?”

  She looked away. “Simon’s house is back on the market. Did you know he took me there once? Wanted me to see the place. We skipped touring that barn.”

  “Oh, God, that’s gruesome.”

  “We’ll get through this, the two of us,” she said. “We always do. We’re tough. That’s how our mothers raised us.”

  “I know.”

  “What about Easter?” she asked.

  “What about it?”

  “Why don’t we spend it together?”

  “Mia called from New York the other day to check on how I was doing. My ribs and all that,” I said. “She thought she’d come home for Easter this year. And Eli’s been dropping by, too. It looks like he’s finally worked out custody arrangements for Hope, thank God. He’ll have her for Easter. Brandi’s going somewhere with her new boyfriend.”

  “Well, then we could all be together,” she said. “It’d be the first time in ages.”

  “Let’s do something at the vineyard,” I said. “We can plan an Easter egg hunt for Hope and then have dinner. The whole family.”

  I drove home afterward and tried not to think about Quinn and whether he might or might not come back.

  Dominique was right, that we’d get through this.

  It was spring. New beginning.

  Love survives. Family endures.

  The War Of 1812 And The Burning Of Washington

  The War of 1812, called “the second war of independence” and “the war nobody won,” was an unpopular conflict between the United States and Great Britain that was urged on the country by a warmongering Congress. Now nearly forgotten, it had its origins in trade disputes, anger at the British navy’s practice of impressing American merchantmen into service, and the British military’s support of Native American armed resistance to the northwest frontier expansion. Sentiment among congressional War Hawks—who controlled both houses of Congress—that the British ought to be driven from Canada further fueled the push for a military response to American grievances.

  The war that inspired the writing of “The Star-Spangled Banner” caught most Americans by surprise and found the young country unprepared to fight. When President James Madison signed the declaration of war on June 18, 1812, the United States had neither sufficient troops nor the money to pay them. Undaunted and hoping for a quick victory, the Ameri
cans decided to first launch an assault on Canada, thus gaining control of the Great Lakes waterways. The campaign was a disaster in every possible way; in fact, by the end of 1812 the army’s war efforts for the entire year had been described in the press as an unbroken series of disaster, defeat, and disgrace.

  Fortunately, the opposite was true at sea, where America won a series of victories over the vaunted British navy. But in 1814, Britain, which had been directing most of its military resources toward a war with France, emerged victorious against Napoleon and now sought revenge for the humiliation of its navy. Britain turned its full fury on its former colonies, blockading the Atlantic coast and sending battle-hardened troops across the ocean to whip the Yankees.

  The strategic location of the Chesapeake Bay near the American capital made it a prime target for British troops. Unfortunately, American Secretary of War John Armstrong had been convinced the attack would be on Baltimore, sending troops to that city and leaving Washington almost totally undefended—a decision that would cost him his job. From the beginning, the British plan was never to occupy Washington but to capture and destroy it.

  On August 23, 1814, President Madison received a letter from Secretary of State James Monroe warning of the British army’s advance and urging him to leave Washington as quickly as possible. By now, Sir George Cockburn, the British naval commander, had sealed off the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay like a cork in a bottle. Particularly keen for revenge for American attacks in Canada, which included the burning of York (present-day Toronto), Cockburn allowed his men to loot and set fire to three Maryland towns in preparation for the big prize of Washington, D.C.

  On the morning of August 24, Madison rode on horseback to nearby Bladensburg, Maryland, to join his army—and very nearly led his party directly into enemy lines. The American army disintegrated at Bladensburg as seasoned redcoats led by General Robert Ross attacked. In Washington, panicked citizens fled the city, turning it into a ghost town. Among the last to leave was Dolley Madison, the president’s wife. Remaining at the White House until the British were nearly at the city’s edge, she loaded up a wagon with valuables that included a copy of the Declaration of Independence. She also had a large Gilbert Stuart portrait of George Washington cut out of its frame and transported to safety.

  As she left, the British poured into the deserted city at nightfall, firing on the Capitol and building a bonfire inside the building that set alight both wings and eventually caused the wood-domed roof to crash to the floor. The fire destroyed the Supreme Court and demolished the entire three-thousand-book collection of the Library of Congress. Horrified Washingtonians saw the Capitol ablaze and the Union Jack flying above it.

  From there, the British marched to the White House, where they ate and drank their fill of a meal that had been prepared for Madison’s cabinet. At the urging of Cockburn and Ross, soldiers looted the place before setting fire to every room of the building. By the time they were finished, nothing was left of the Madison’s personal property or the valuable furniture, much of which had been left by Madison’s predecessor, Thomas Jefferson. Miraculously, the sandstone walls survived the intense heat; later numerous heavy coats of paint to cover the scorch marks would give the President’s House a new name: the White House.

  The British destruction of Washington resumed on August 25 as soldiers torched other public buildings, including the Post Office, the State and War departments, and what remained of the Navy Yard, which the Americans had burned preemptively. Later that day a tornado passed through the city, followed by a fierce rainstorm whose rains and powerful winds extinguished the fires. That evening the British departed.

  America’s complete humiliation at having its capital destroyed did what President Madison had been unable to do: fire up American patriotism and unite most of the country behind the war. After the destruction of Washington, the Americans would never suffer a serious defeat and the enemy would never enjoy a major victory in the War of 1812.

  Acknowledgments

  I’m grateful, as always, to everyone who took time to answer my questions, read early drafts of this book, and offer advice and suggestions when I hit the occasional wall. The usual disclaimer: If it’s right, they said it; if it’s wrong, it’s on me.

  So, to the following people, my thanks: Cheryl Kosmann, Swedenburg Estate Vineyard, Middleburg, Virginia; John J. Lamb, author and former homicide detective; 2nd Lieutenant Adam Law, USMC; Paula Smith (the “dock lady” of the Potomac); Pam Stewart, Loudoun Museum, Leesburg, Virginia; Rick Tagg, Barrel Oak Winery, Delaplane, Virginia; Peggy Wagner, Library of Congress; and Captain Richard Yuras, Director of EMS Training Programs, Fairfax County Fire & Rescue Department, Fairfax, Virginia.

  An enormous debt of thanks to Tom Snyder for early editing help; also to the RLI gang: Donna Andrews, Carla Coupe, Laura Durham, Peggy Hanson, Val Patterson, Noreen Wald Smith, and Sandi Wilson. I’m grateful to André de Nesnera, Catherine Reid, Elizabeth Arrott, Martina Norelli, and Pat Daly for reading and commenting on the manuscript, and for their counsel.

  At Scribner, my heartfelt thanks to my terrific editor, Anna deVries, as well as to Christina Mamangakis, Rex Bonomelli, Katie Rizzo, and the many people who make the book you’re holding in your hands or reading on your screen look as good as it does. At Pocket, thanks to another wonderful editor, Micki Nuding, as well as to Melissa Gramstad. A special shout-out to Heidi Richter and Maggie Crawford.

  Last but not least, to Dominick Abel, who is simply the best.

  About The Author

  Ellen Crosby is a former freelance reporter for The Washington Post and was Moscow correspondent for ABC News Radio. She is the author of The Riesling Retribution, The Bordeaux Betrayal, The Chardonnay Charade, and The Merlot Murders, as well as Moscow Nights, a stand-alone novel published in London. Crosby lives in Virginia with her family. Visit her website at www.ellencrosby.com.

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