by Lanyon, Josh
“I mostly work for jealous spouses.”
“It must give you a jaded view of relationships.”
“Says the man with five stepmothers.” Jeff added lightly, “Fortunately I had a jaded view to begin with.”
“Ah.”
“What’s ah mean?” Jeff threw him another of those quick, almost wary looks.
“Mostly that I don’t always think before I speak. You do seem sort of…smooth.”
“Smooth?” Jeff laughed. “And you prefer rough?”
“No.” No. Definitely not.
Jeff turned off a road lined with oaks. They passed through tall iron gates that led down a long tunnel of trees. He said with satisfaction, “Here we are. Hope you’re hungry.”
Old Plantation House. Why did that ring a bell?
The drive ended at the entrance to a crowded parking lot surrounded by tidy green lawns and meticulously kept flower beds. A few yards farther on, a small mansion in the Greek revival style was illuminated by strategically placed spotlights.
“Old Plantation House? Isn’t that where Dominic Williams was master sommelier?”
“Yep,” Jeff replied. “It’s also the best restaurant in town.”
“I see. So you’re actually working tonight?”
“Naw.” Jeff turned off the engine, not meeting Austin’s gaze. “They make the best fried green tomatoes you’ll ever taste.”
Austin smiled without humor and refrained from commenting that they were likely to be the only fried green tomatoes he’d ever taste.
Abruptly they seemed to be out of things to talk about. They strolled up the brick path to the house in silence. Jeff had made reservations, and they were taken immediately to their table in the long dining room with its eighteenth-century paintings and crisp white linens. The walls were the crimson that seemed so popular here in Georgia, and the tables and chairs were a dark wood that looked antique.
Once they were seated, Jeff made an effort to regain their former harmony. Austin studied the menu while Jeff advised him on such heirloom dishes as Southern panfried quail with country ham or St. Simons Island shrimp bog. Austin smiled and tried to respond normally, but his pleasure in the evening had dimmed.
The sommelier brought the wine menu.
“He’s the expert,” Jeff said, nodding at Austin.
The man started to hand the red leather book to Austin. He snatched it back and gasped. “Wait.”
Austin looked up in inquiry.
“You’re Austin Gillespie.”
Austin assented cautiously.
“Only I read your column religiously. ‘Message in a Bottle.’ It’s me. Corky. I’m one of the regular commenters on your blog.”
Ordinarily Austin would have been pleased to put a face to the name, but his heart just wasn’t in it right now. Still, he made an effort. “Sure. Of course. Nice to meet you, Corky.” Austin offered a hand. They shook.
Corky spent the next half hour explaining the wine list and giving his opinions and tips. Austin consulted with Jeff as to his preferences and likes—which took about two seconds, since when it came to wine, Jeff had none. When Corky at last departed with Austin’s order for Domaine de la Pépière Clos des Briords 2007, Jeff said, “Whew. Does that happen every time you go out to dinner?”
“If I can perfectly match the wine to the meal, it makes for a better overall dining experience. And that makes for a better overall evening.” He probably sounded slightly defensive.
“I meant do you often run into fans?”
“Oh. No. Almost never. More in DC.” Austin buried himself in his menu once more, although he had already figured out he was going to try the lobster Savannah. He had been glad of the diversion offered by Corky. He was still bothered by the realization that Jeff either suspected him of something nefarious or was using him as cover for his investigation.
“Austin—” Jeff broke off as the waitress reappeared to take their order. “We need another minute, honey,” he said, smiling but firm.
The waitress retreated.
Jeff leaned forward and said quietly, “I don’t want there to be any misunderstanding. I am supposed to be working tonight. At least, that would be the smart thing. But you’re leaving tomorrow, and I wanted to have dinner with you—take you someplace nice. Someplace they don’t have in Washington DC. So I did think maybe I could kill two birds with one stone. It could be useful to see how the people Williams worked with are reacting to his death, but it won’t be so useful that it’ll make a big difference if you’d rather go somewhere else. If you’re uncomfortable, we will.”
Jeff seemed perfectly sincere. Austin was surprised by that—and by the fact that Jeff had picked up on his slight hurt. He relaxed. “No. It’s okay. Unless you plan on working through dinner.”
“No. I just wanted to get a feel for the mood here tonight.” Jeff’s smile was confident again. “I promise you’ll have my complete and undivided attention for the night.”
Austin found himself amused. Jeff clearly knew exactly how attractive he was and had no hesitation using his charm as necessary, but that was okay. Austin liked confidence as much as the next guy. He was reasonably confident himself. He glanced around the busy room. “I don’t know what it’s usually like, but it seems pretty much like business as usual to me.”
“I agree. Nobody’s cryin’ in their soup over Dominic Williams.”
“Maybe they don’t know yet?”
“They know.”
“Do you work for an agency, or are you a solo operation?”
“Solo.” Jeff added rather darkly, “Which is just the way I like it.”
“I can see the allure of self-employment.” Austin was thinking of Whitney and his own imperiled position.
Jeff beckoned to the watchfully hovering waitress, and they gave her their orders.
When she departed, he said, “Two days ago Dominic Williams disappeared. His wife, Henrietta, hired me to find him. She believed he’d run off with a local girl he’d been having an affair with all winter.”
“Carson Cashel?”
“Very good. Yeah, Carson. But when I did some checking around, I found out pretty quick that Carson hadn’t run anywhere, so if Williams was with her, they were both staying out at Ballineen. Last night I followed Carson to the Blind Pig and…” Jeff shrugged.
“You seduced her?”
“She seduced me, actually. But I don’t keep score.”
“You take your job pretty seriously.”
“Naw. I like sex.”
Austin couldn’t tell if it was a kind of bravado or not. At times Jeff seemed callous and shallow—even hard—but at other times he seemed unexpectedly sensitive and unexpectedly candid. Which was the real Jeff?
“With anyone?”
“I prefer attractive people.” Now Jeff was laughing at him.
So…okay. This probably was the real Jeff. Good to know the ground rules before they got started. It wasn’t a problem. Maybe a little disappointing to realize that Jeff was just your average, run-of-the-mill horndog, but the disappointment wasn’t logical. It wasn’t like this was the start of a relationship. They lived seven hundred miles—and a couple of universes—apart. They had absolutely nothing in common but lust. So why pretend it was anything else? Jeff had it right.
“You went home with Carson last night so you could look around for Dominic Williams?”
“That wasn’t any hardship, let me tell you. Carson is one sweet peach of a gal. Anyway, it was obvious early on that she didn’t have Williams stashed at the house. Her mind was on one thing and one thing only.” Jeff’s smile was smug, and logical or not, Austin began to get irritated.
Fortunately, Corky returned with the wine Austin had ordered, and they went through the ritual of uncorking and pouring and tasting.
The muscadet had a bright color and a scent of wet stone and warm citrus. Austin took a sip. Slightly bubbly, round, and…supple. Very nice. And a complex but sound structure: crisp, dry, but with a clean
and fruity finish.
“Will you try it?” Austin asked Jeff. “I don’t believe this will give you indigestion.”
Jeff’s hesitation was kind of amusing. You just didn’t expect a big, tough private eye to be nervous of a little glass of wine. He nodded, though, and Corky poured a second glass of wine and withdrew.
“That’s not bad,” Jeff admitted after a swallow.
They sipped their wine for a few moments. Austin asked, “I’m just trying to understand. Are you bisexual? Or are you gay, and last night you were working undercover?”
The effect on Jeff was instantaneous. He set his glass down so hard the wine sloshed onto the tablecloth. He looked stricken and then furious. “Shut your mouth,” he whispered harshly.
Shocked, Austin shut his mouth.
Jeff said, still with that quiet, furious intensity, “There is no gay here.”
Austin managed to keep his mouth shut. Just.
A very long minute passed while they both struggled in silence to find a way through the stark, unbending awkwardness that had sprung up between them. Now Austin remembered why he didn’t do this kind of thing, why the strangers-in-the-night scene was almost always more trouble than it was worth.
He sipped his wine and forced himself to analyze that and only that. High acid, a bit minerally… Aromatics of apple, citrus, and saline… Yeah, plenty of saline. He pulled out his iPhone and made some quick notes. Why not make it a business dinner all-around?
Jeff seemed to struggle inwardly. He made an effort. His tone was almost normal, though still low as he said, “Sorry. Sorry, Austin. That must have seemed… You have to understand. This is a small town. We’ve only got a population of about three thousand.”
And bed checks every night. But Austin still kept his jaw clamped shut. He was not yet willing to write off the probability of getting laid. Even by this self-hating redneck jerk.
Jeff was still talking softly, urgently. “I have to live here and work here. It’s not like the North. It’s not even like Savannah. Hell, it’s not even like Athens. You ever check the Web for a listing of gay nightlife in Georgia? There aren’t fifty listings in the whole state.”
“That can’t be true.”
Jeff didn’t respond.
“So you’re in the closet.”
Jeff laughed, a short, hard laugh. “Yeah. That’s one way of putting it.”
What was another? Secret compartment? Hidden safe? Safety-deposit box? Austin struggled with himself and managed, “Then I’m flattered you invited me out tonight.”
“No, you’re not,” Jeff said grimly. “You’re appalled. And I apologize. Again. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked you out. Maybe that’s offensive to you. Maybe my whole situation is offensive. I don’t know. I just know”—his voice dropped so low Austin could barely hear the words—“I want to be with you tonight more than I’ve wanted anything in years. And I assure you I will make certain it is the best you’ve ever had.”
Austin couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from Jeff’s intense stare. He swallowed, surprised to find his mouth dry with longing. It was so wrong, but he wanted it too.
Jeff added, “But…no pressure.”
A splutter escaped Austin. He put his fist to his mouth to make it look like he was clearing his throat, but Jeff made a choked sound. Unbelievably, insanely, they were laughing. Maybe it was borderline hysteria, but Austin welcomed the release of nervous tension.
Their meals arrived then, and they turned with relief to that small diversion.
The lobster was excellent, and the wine perfectly complemented the undertones of butter and sherry and pimento. Austin realized he hadn’t eaten all day and was genuinely starving. While they ate, Jeff took the conversational lead, offering a couple of amusing anecdotes about his early days in the private-eye business. He showed an engaging willingness to share stories where he looked anything but glamorous or heroic.
Granted, there was nothing of a revealing personal nature in these reminiscences—unless the fact that Jeff could laugh so easily at his mistakes was insight into his character. Sexually arrogant he might be, but in regard to the other facets of his life, he seemed totally without pretension. It was equally clear that despite the good-old-boy attitude, he was smart, worked hard, and took his job seriously.
“What sports did you play in school?” Jeff inquired when he had finished making fun of his early career.
He’d figured this was coming. “Cross-country, swimming, lacrosse.” Austin had been a competent but not stellar athlete. He’d probably have enjoyed sports more if he hadn’t always been competing against Harrison’s record. He knew without asking that Jeff had excelled at sports. He’d be willing to bet Jeff could have given Harrison a run—literally—for his money.
“I always wanted to play lacrosse. Me? Football and cross-country.” And sure enough, Jeff had been captain of every team he’d ever been on and, undoubtedly—though he was too modest to say so—had a shelf full of trophies he now used for doorstops or paperweights.
They exchanged a few cross-country war stories, and then Austin asked, “What was it like growing up in a Norman Rockwell painting?”
It was the wrong question, though he wasn’t sure why. Jeff didn’t exactly freeze, but the guarded look was back, despite the fact that he was still smiling.
“It’s got its pluses and minuses. It’s a slower pace, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. You walk down the street in Madison, and people say hello. People look out for each other. There’s a sense of community. Everybody knows everybody else.”
They don’t know you. But Austin didn’t say that. “You’ve lived here your whole life?”
“Yep. Well, not counting the years at college. The Bradys have lived in these parts since the Revolutionary War.”
“Did you ever consider living anywhere else?”
Jeff’s smile was odd. “In college. It didn’t work out that way.” He changed the subject, turning the conversation away from himself and back to Austin.
Austin recognized the maneuver for what it was, but he went with it. He liked Jeff too much to want to risk making him uncomfortable, and it was clear Jeff had a number of “no trespassing” areas posted. Even so, Jeff was very easy to talk to. Partly it was his skill as a listener—his private-investigator training maybe?—and partly it was knowing that this night would be the entire extent of their affair that gave Austin the rare freedom to be completely honest. It was like talking to a stranger on a plane. That was what Austin told himself, anyway. The fact was, he was talking more openly and honestly with Jeff over the course of two hours than he’d talked to Richard in two years. Austin even found himself opening up about the situation with Whitney at work—and then, unbelievably—about his need to prove himself to his family. Especially to his father.
“Who is your father?” Jeff asked finally.
Now that was almost funny. He’d been talking to Jeff steadily for half an hour, revealing his greatest hopes and deepest fears, but had managed to skip right over that essential information. “Harrison Gillespie.”
“The Harrison Gillespie? The news commentator?” Jeff looked impressed—but then everyone always did. “You’re kidding. That’s like having Dan Rather for your daddy.”
“Tell me about it.”
“We used to watch him on TV every night when I was growing up.”
“Everyone did.” Except Austin. They hadn’t watched much TV at his boarding school.
Jeff studied him thoughtfully. “I see.”
“What do you see?” Austin asked, afraid that Jeff probably did see only too clearly.
“That’s quite a pedigree.”
“And I modeled underwear in college and drink wine for a living.”
“You didn’t just model underwear, and you don’t just drink wine.” Jeff was studying him. “You’re good at what you do. You’re successful, right?”
Austin nodded.
“And you like what you do?”
�
��I love what I do.”
“Well, there you go.” Jeff seemed to think he had made some point, but if he had, it was lost on Austin. Lifting his glass in acknowledgment, Jeff added, “For the record, you were totally right about this wine.”
“Thanks. The Pépière Clos des Briords are kind of a legend with wine geeks.” Austin suddenly remembered the Lee bottles. Another failure. Not his fault, but that wasn’t the point. Had he found those bottles, had they been the real thing, it would have bulletproofed his career. Good luck Whitney’s getting rid of him, then.
Once again Jeff seemed to read his mind, because he said, “What do you think of the chances those antique wine bottles are in that cellar?”
“I’d barely got started looking. I still don’t know how much on those original inventory sheets is really down there. I did come across some nice vintage wines, and I’ll cross-reference those I had time to list. It was such a mess down there I’d decided I could move faster and be more accurate if I tackled the shelves one by one.” Austin admitted, “I should have just searched for the Lee bottles, I guess, but I was caught between wanting to know if they were really there and avoiding the disappointment of finding out for sure that they weren’t.”
“If they were there, how much would those bottles be worth?”
“The sheriffs asked the same thing. There are supposed to be four of them. If they do exist, if they are the real thing, well, the minimum I’d expect to see each bottle go for at auction would be around five hundred grand.”
Jeff whistled. “You’re talking two million dollars worth of wine?”
“It’s the Lee affiliation that makes them close to priceless.”
“And how did old Dermot Cashel get his hands on them?”
“That’s the tricky part. He’s not here to ask, and no one seems to know. Roark collected the old man’s notes on his wine purchases and sent them on to us. I think he had only the vaguest idea of the value of those bottles alone. But really the whole cellar—just the little I saw—was thrilling.”
“Thrilling, huh?” Jeff’s smile was teasing but not unkind. “Well, in a couple of weeks, the Cashels will have their cellar back, and you can finish your inventory.”