by Ellen Crosby
“Thank you.” I noticed he’d removed his arm, along with the easygoing manner.
“Do you sell apples as well as grapes?” The question was crisp and formal.
Maybe he wasn’t used to anybody talking back to him. Well, tough.
“Yes. We have two orchards.” I matched his tone. “Here we’ve got all the classic varieties—Winesap, Granny Smith, Macintosh. We let people come and pick them in the fall, then use what’s not picked out to make cider. In the other orchard we’ve got more exotic varieties. Those we sell to the local grocery stores.”
“What about your grapes? What do you grow?” He’d pulled a small pad with a slim pen attached to it out of his pocket.
“Right now only vitis vinifera. My mother and Jacques, our first winemaker, were French and they wanted to plant the so-called ‘noble grapes.’ Our whites are Chardonnay, Riesling, Sauvignon Blanc. Reds are Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, and Pinot Noir.”
He wrote swiftly. “What about the new fields? What’s going in there?”
“We just ordered the rootstock.” I ticked them off on my fingers. “Norton, which is a native Virginia grape. Also Viognier, Malbec, Seyval, Syrah, Petit Verdot, and Cabernet Franc. The last two are blending grapes.”
He noted those as well, then said, “I’m surprised you’re going to grow blending grapes, rather than only straight varietals.”
I expected a remark like that from a neophyte. Maybe Quinn was right about how much Mick knew about the wine business—or how little.
“Growing blending grapes gives you more options when you produce wine,” I explained. “In America a wine can still be called a particular varietal—like Cabernet Sauvignon—as long as it contains at least seventy-five percent of that grape. We’re more liberal than the Europeans. They require eighty-five percent of the primary grape.”
He nodded like he might have known this, so I continued. “Because we can blend up to twenty-five percent of one or more grapes and still have the varietal, we can experiment until we get a better wine. Something that’s more complex and interesting. Basically, the whole can be better than the sum of its parts.”
I started the car again. “Let’s go over to the established fields so you can see how far along each varietal is. The whites are the first to develop, which is why we harvest them first—but I’m sure you know this.”
“Yes.” He closed the notepad and stuck it in his shirt pocket.
We motored between blocks of vines as I pointed out the various grapes and gave him a quick history. A light wind blew steadily, rustling the leaves and the garnet-colored bailing ties we used to secure the vines to the wires. The late-morning sunlight filtered through the mostly open canopy, gilding the grapes and transforming the young leaves so they seemed almost transparent.
“You must enjoy coming here,” he said unexpectedly. “It’s very peaceful.”
“It’s a good place to come think,” I said. “If only you didn’t have to spend so much time worrying about the grapes. When they’re in bloom, though, and it’s just the flowers, it’s heaven. It smells sweet, like wild honeysuckle.” I glanced at my watch. “We should get over to the new fields.”
With the danger signs gone and the tarps removed, it was now merely innocuous-looking red Virginia clay soil. I stopped the car and turned off the engine.
“I’d suggest we go for a walk, but you’re not wearing the best shoes.”
He laughed. “I saw you staring at them when we were back in your laboratory. Left my trainers at home. I packed in rather a rush.” He glanced around. “So why did you choose this place?”
“Because it’s high enough that there won’t be any frost pockets like the ones that wiped out our fruit the other day,” I said. “If you look over there you can see how we cleared out all the trees and vegetation below to maximize cold air drainage.” I pointed in the distance.
He nodded, shielding his eyes. “It looks like they face east, judging by the sun.”
“As much as possible all vines should face east, north, or northeast,” I said. “It’s too hot on southern and western exposures. Eastern slopes get the sun first thing in the morning, so dew and rain dry sooner. You get fewer diseases that way.”
“Your vines ought to do well here, then. I’m sure you’ll have a good harvest.”
“Not for another three years. You do know that’s how long it takes between planting and the first harvest?” I asked.
“Look, I did read Wine Making for Idiots or whatever it’s called. And I’m not completely clueless,” he said dryly. “Despite what some people think.”
I grinned and started the engine. “Have you seen enough?”
When we got back to the parking lot, I pulled up next to his rental car.
“I’d like to take you to dinner,” he said, “to thank you for your time and trouble.”
“I thought this was going to be all business.” I retrieved my cane from the backseat. “And it was no trouble.”
“I lied,” he said, and pulled me close, kissing my cheek. “I’ll give you a ring about that dinner,” he murmured in my ear. “I always repay my debts.”
My face was still burning as he pulled out of the parking lot.
“Back from the grand tour? Looks like it went just fine. You two certainly hit it off.”
I hadn’t heard Quinn come up behind me, but managed to say coolly, “The British are very polite. He was just thanking me for showing him around.”
“Honey, that was beyond polite. And he was checking out a lot more than the vineyard.”
So he’d seen the kiss.
“You have a one-track mind,” I told him. “Look, I’m meeting Kit for lunch in Leesburg at twelve-thirty. It’s only eleven. Why don’t I stop by Seely’s and pick up some flowers for Hector? I’ll tell him they’re from both of us. I should have enough time to get to the hospital before lunch.”
“Tell him I’ll be by later. And tell him the flowers are from you. He’ll know damn well I wouldn’t do something like that. Men don’t send other men flowers.”
“He could have died. You could make an exception, you know? Where are you going now?” We were back on our customary footing, talking about work.
“South vineyard. I want to see how the cleanup of the freeze damage is coming along. You’ll be back after lunch, right?” He nudged me. “Hey! Are you listening or are you still playing tour guide?”
“I’m listening.”
“No, you’re not. I asked if you were coming back after lunch. We’ve got that reception tonight. Or did you forget that, too?”
“I didn’t forget anything, and it’s not a reception. It’s a private cocktail party. Hors d’oeuvres here, dinner at the Inn.”
“Do we know who’s coming?”
“Nope. Just that Austin Kendall is paying for it,” I said. “And I’ll be back after lunch, so why don’t we finally settle on the Chardonnay once and for all? That way we can get it in bottles tomorrow, if we work fast enough.”
“Or Friday morning.”
“Mick just told me Georgia’s funeral is Friday morning.”
“I can bottle wine without you, you know. I’ve done it before, believe it or not.”
“Very funny.”
“Bonita will help,” he said. “It’ll be awesome.”
Seely’s Garden Center was a sprawling, beautifully landscaped nursery located at the intersection of Sam Fred Road and the Snickersville Turnpike, not far from where Goose Creek continued its meandering route north toward the Potomac River. The nursery had been founded by Noah’s grandfather and it looked as if a fourth generation—Noah’s youngest daughter, Jennifer—was ready to carry on the family business when Noah finally retired for good.
Here in Loudoun and Fauquier Counties we take our gardens seriously, not just because we’re an agricultural region, but also because of the great natural beauty of the land. The annual Virginia historic garden week tour had taken place at the end of April. The spring farm tour was la
st week. Both events were great for local tourism and they also gave Seely’s an inevitable bump in sales due to the serious garden-lust that resulted from seeing someone else’s award-winning roses or heirloom tomatoes. Today the place was crowded as I drove in.
Above the door to the main building was a plaque with a quote from Thomas Jefferson written in calligraphy: “No occupation is so delightful to me as the culture of the earth, and no culture comparable to that of the garden.” The building itself was an enormous airy structure that looked like a cross between a log cabin and a barn. On the right was the greenhouse. On the left a warehouse-like store sold garden supplies, lawn care products, small tools, and other gardening essentials. The florist was tucked into a corner of a year-round Christmas shop located just off the main store. I bought a bunch of spring flowers from a pretty teenager wearing a gray polo shirt with “Seely’s Garden Center” and the outline of a tree embroidered in green on the pocket.
“Is either Jennifer or Noah around?” I asked as I paid her.
“Noah’s in his office behind customer service,” she said. “And I think Jen is watering plants outside somewhere. Try the bedding plants under the awning.”
“Thanks.”
The door to Noah’s cluttered office was ajar. He looked up from his paperwork as I knocked, pushing his reading glasses up so they sat on his bald head. For someone whose livelihood came from the outdoors, I often wondered why he chose a room with no windows as the place where he took care of business. The furnishings were spartan and utilitarian except for his thriving African violet collection, which flourished under special lights on a tiered shelf in the corner. Stuck in the pot of the smallest flower, a ceramic sign read “Grow, dammit!”
“Lucie,” he said. “Come in, my dear. What can I do for you? What’s the occasion for the flowers?”
Noah and my mother had worked closely together when she restored the gardens around our house and later when she decided to undertake more substantial landscaping projects at the villa, the Ruins, the family cemetery, and the pond. As a result we’d spent tens of thousands of dollars at Seely’s over the years, which meant there was a gold star next to our name on their ledger. Anyone who showed up from Montgomery Estate Vineyard got VIP treatment.
“Hector’s in the hospital,” I said. “He had a heart attack yesterday afternoon.”
“Good Lord. I hadn’t heard. I’m so sorry. How is he?”
“He seems to be doing all right,” I said. “They’re keeping him for a few days. He’s at Catoctin General.”
“I’ll have to drop by and see him.”
“He’d like that. Thanks, Noah.”
His desk chair creaked as he sat back in it. “I haven’t seen you since that nasty business with Georgia at the vineyard. I was so sorry to hear about it. She wasn’t one of my favorite people, as you might imagine, but still. We’re all God’s creatures. It shouldn’t have happened.”
“That’s very charitable, considering what she did to you.”
“It’s finished.” He picked up a pencil and held it between his index fingers, studying it as if he were gauging its length. “I guess all that’s left is for the sheriff to arrest whoever did it.”
“They’re looking for Randy Hunter,” I said.
“So I understand.” Noah set the pencil down.
“Were you around when Amy Dye and her goddaughter ran into Randy the other day?”
He shook his head. “No, but Jennifer was. I heard about it, of course. Gabrielle—I think that’s her name—apparently has quite a temper on her. Jen and Amy had a job on their hands getting her calmed down.”
“It’s Gabriella. What did she say?”
Noah pulled his glasses off his forehead and looked through the lenses as if seeing into a crystal ball. “If you really want to know, you should ask Jen, honey. She can fill you in better than I can.”
“I think I will.” I blew him a kiss. “See you, Noah.”
I found Jennifer Seely out in the back watering bedding plants, as I’d been told. She handed off the hose to one of her employees and said, smiling, “What can I do for you, Lucie? You find everything you need today?”
I’d known Jen for most of my life, since she’d been two grades behind me in school. A pretty, quiet-spoken girl with her father’s sunny temperament who wore her straight brown hair beguilingly in a long French braid, you could count on her to win a blue ribbon at the county fair each year for something she’d grown in her garden. After high school she went to Virginia Tech to study agriculture, never doubting that her destiny was taking over the nursery one day.
“I just talked to your dad,” I said. “Randy Hunter hasn’t shown up for work at the vineyard since last Saturday. I heard about what happened here when he ran into Harry Dye’s goddaughter the other day. Gaby Manzur.”
My unanswered question hung in the air.
Jen’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah, it was quite a scene. Thank God Amy dragged her out of here right away. She was hysterical. Screaming and completely out of control. I was afraid she was going to start hitting him or throwing things.”
“What did she say?”
“Nothing worth repeating.” She seemed uncomfortable. “Called him a bunch of names. Said she hated him for what he’d done to her and that he’d pay for it someday. Poor Randy. I felt so sorry for him. He looked like he had no clue who she was and why she was saying all those horrible things.”
“He did?” I found that hard to swallow.
“Well…he told me afterwards he remembered meeting her, but he kind of went blank on the details. Uh, there was alcohol involved.” We had moved over by the little market packs of petunias and she’d automatically begun deadheading the flowers, avoiding my eyes. Finally she looked up. “Look, he told me he wasn’t exactly a saint when he was growing up. But he’s changed. He’s a good guy now.”
“Yes.” No point mentioning that, good guy or not, I thought he was the prime suspect in Georgia’s murder. “Do you have any idea where he is?”
Jen shook her head. “It’s not like him to drop out of sight like this. Even the rest of the band doesn’t know where he went.”
She held a bunch of dead petunias in one hand. We both stared at the spent flowers.
“I guess you probably heard the rumors about him and Georgia Greenwood,” I said. “And now that Georgia’s dead—”
“Of course I’ve heard.” She cut me off. “It’s a load of crap. Randy told me why he was seeing Georgia. One of her cousins owns a recording company in Nashville. She was going to set up a meeting between her cousin and Randy after he finished cutting his CD. The reason Randy and Georgia were seeing each other was business. Not some stupid affair.”
“He said that?”
“He wouldn’t lie to me. I know him, Lucie.” She was adamant.
Hadn’t he lied to her about Gaby Manzur? Or did he really have amnesia about a sexual relationship that produced a child? Either way, Jen sounded pretty defensive.
“So you and Randy are close, then?” I asked.
“We’re friends. I was dating Josh for a while, so I saw Randy all the time.”
“Josh?”
“The drummer in their band. We broke up, but I still hang out with the guys. I go to most of their gigs.”
“When’s the last time you talked to Randy?”
Her answer was evasive. “I left a couple of messages on his mobile asking him to get in touch.”
“Did he?”
She hesitated, then said, “No. The last time I called, his mailbox was full.” A walkie-talkie on her hip beeped and she unclipped it. “This is Jennifer.”
A garbled voice said something about a customer needing help with plants for a shade garden.
“Tell her I’ll be right there.” She smiled a tight little smile. “Gotta run, Lucie. Can’t keep the customers waiting.”
“Before you go,” I said, “were you and Randy involved…?”
“I told you already that Randy and I are
just friends. So let it go, okay, Lucie?”
She turned and stalked away. I watched her leave and headed for my car. Though the story about Georgia’s cousin’s recording studio was plausible, it didn’t sound right considering how defensive Jen had been when I asked about Randy.
That mobile phone was his lifeline. She admitted he hadn’t returned any of her calls and now his voice mailbox was full.
As far as I was concerned, that meant one of two things.
Either Randy was hiding out.
Or he was dead.
Chapter 11
Though it would have been faster to take the Snickersville Turnpike to Aldie and pick up the main roads to Leesburg, I decided to take the long way on the winding back roads. It gave me time to speculate on why Jen might be lying about her relationship with Randy. If he’d killed Georgia and she knew something, then Jen was an accessory to murder. All the reason in the world to tell a few whoppers.
Unless there was something else. Something I hadn’t figured out yet.
I followed the turnpike to Mountville, where it made an elbow-shaped turn thanks to Ezekial Mount’s decision back in the 1800s to plant a single apple tree in the middle of the road and call it an orchard. In those days the town laws forbade disturbing orchards, so the pike had to be rerouted around the tree. While the tree was long gone, the kink in the road remained.
You could drive for miles without ever running into another car on these bucolic country lanes edged with undulating gray ribbons of low stacked-stone walls dating from Civil War days. Usually I liked the solitude and the serenity as the view opened up each time I rounded one of the many serpentine turns to reveal farmhouses, barns, and stables with their backdrop of sweeping expanses of fields and pastures dotted with placid cattle and expensive thoroughbreds—and always the lovely, hazy Blue Ridge Mountains defining the scene. But today I stared at the mountains and wondered where the hell Randy was.
Alive or dead, the answers lay with him.
I pulled into the parking lot at Catoctin Hospital about twenty minutes later and got Hector’s flowers from the backseat of the Mini. Hector was asleep, but Sera, who’d been reading in an uncomfortable-looking fake leather chair next to the bed, stood up and came over when I tapped gently on the door. She wore her steel-gray hair in a bun, as neat and tidy as everything else about her. As she got up, she removed her glasses, letting them hang around her neck on a silky black cord. I caught sight of her book. A Farewell to Arms. Hemingway.