by West, CJ
“Hey, I’m going to get the gas. We can’t wait around all night hoping this thing will catch fire. He’s got to burn up good. There’s no telling what that chick’s going to say tomorrow.”
Charlie wondered if she could hear them from the passenger’s seat. “Maybe you shouldn’t have slapped her around,” he whispered.
“Well it’s a good thing we didn’t leave her tied up in there. She’d rat us out for sure. Unless of course, she starved to death before she got free.”
“I’m telling you –” Charlie didn’t have a chance to finish.
The particles of sawdust reached the candle. The first few heated and they all seemed to catch fire at once. The flames ripped through the house, filling it, heating the air and in an instant the windows exploded outward, sending glass fifty feet in every direction. The entire house was engulfed in wild orange and red streaks that reached out the windows and wrapped up and around the roof. The trees that had grown alongside the house burst into flame from the intense heat.
“No, I don’t think she would’ve starved to death. But I could be wrong.” Charlie grinned and opened his door.
Randy couldn’t contain himself. He jumped up and hollered as he watched the flames shoot skyward. He practically dove into his car. It lurched into the street and stopped for a second before the rear tire began to screech. Blue smoke clouded around the back end as it shimmied around in a circle. Randy had one foot on the brake and one on the gas, both to the floor. When he completed the circle, he released the brake and the car swerved off into the darkness leaving the blazing building behind. Charlie and Deirdre pulled away in the opposite direction.
Chapter Three
Charlie coasted the first two miles from the inferno in complete darkness before he flipped on the BMW’s lights. Heavy cracks appeared in the graying pavement and bright-green branches sprang up beside a section of road Charlie didn’t recognize. He’d been to most of the area bars with Randy, including the one Deirdre was directing him to now, but Randy had always driven. Charlie’s cautious driving irritated Randy. And since he was dangerously unpredictable even when he was happy, Charlie yielded to his superior skill behind the wheel. Letting Randy drive had never bothered him until now.
As he pushed the car down dark deserted roads, he wished he’d paid closer attention on their previous trips. He needed to find a way back to the vineyard without passing the fire again; a way to get home without being seen. The first person who passed the twenty-foot flames would call it in. The orangy red fire and billowing smoke flashed to mind; he recalled the pine tree beside the house flaring like a giant matchstick.
He wished he hadn’t set the fire. Randy had killed the guy. It was his problem. Charlie couldn’t turn his new friend in, but why had he sacrificed his own innocence? He was clean until he lit that candle. Clean. Trespassing was nothing, and Perry practically invited him. Charlie could have walked away and let Randy soak the house with gasoline. Just looking at the two men, the police would focus on Randy if it came to that. Deirdre might help. She saw Randy whack her husband with the bottle and she saw Charlie try to resuscitate him.
What a fool he’d been to fetch the sawdust. Soon police and fire vehicles would be all over the roads. They’d notice any car out this late and then there’d be questions; questions Charlie couldn’t answer. He pushed the accelerator. He’d square an alibi with Randy back at the guesthouse.
A sniffling sound from the passenger’s seat interrupted his thoughts. The car had been nearly silent for five minutes, but now he could feel her seat shake with quiet sobs. He couldn’t see the tears running down her cheeks, but he knew they were there. Her head bobbed slightly as she wept. He grasped for something to say, but nothing seemed repentant enough.
After another half mile, he reached over and placed his hand on hers. “I’m sorry,” he said simply.
She yanked her hand away and sputtered through her tears. “I shouldn’t have been there. Why did he have to follow me tonight? Why? Such a good man. I didn’t deserve him.” Her voice trailed off.
“It was an accident. It’s not your fault,” Charlie reassured.
Randy’s wine-bottle attack was anything but an accident.
Charlie stole a glance at his passenger, his eyes drawn to her neckline as she bowed forward. For a moment, he let himself imagine the scene playing out uninterrupted by Henri. Horrible luck, Charlie thought. How close he’d come to a night of intense pleasure with this woman. A flood of guilt washed away his regret and he shifted his eyes back to the road.
“Such a good man…” Deirdre muttered again.
Charlie recalled the man’s stupefied expression as he walked in the door and saw his wife entertaining two strange men. Rage pulsed through him so furiously he was unstoppable, unthinking, as he pummeled Randy bloody. Charlie remembered watching his elbow rise and slam down on Randy, blood splattering under his knuckles, Randy’s head lolling lifelessly. Charlie had to help or he would have met a similar fate when Henri was finished with Randy. Charlie’s first punch had had the effect of a pebble bouncing off a boulder. The next punch knocked Henri down, but it took both of them to stop him. They stood him up, half dazed then rammed his head into the wall.
If they’d stopped there, Henri would be alive. But when he regained his senses, he would have resumed his savagery. Charlie knew he’d tried his best to save him, yet the bulging eyes haunted him. Randy smacked him with the bottle. Randy killed him, but somehow Charlie couldn’t help feeling responsible. Randy’s words came to mind: “You bring him back and he’ll be so pissed we’ll have to kill him again.” Henri might have waited months or years to seek his revenge, but Randy was right, Henri would have come for them. The flames were devouring his body now. Charlie should have been glad to be safe, but the thought provided no comfort.
They approached a fork in the road. “Which way?”
Deirdre barely lifted her head to point left. She dropped it again and stifled more tears. “He didn’t deserve this,” she sniffed.
Charlie could still see the man lying on his back, eyes bulging. The image made him shudder and he shook it away. He needed to get control, more importantly he needed Deirdre to get control. The police would visit her soon. If she gave them a reason to hunt a killer, Charlie wouldn’t be far from the fray. His future depended upon her portrayal of the innocent, mournful widow. If the cops didn’t believe her, Charlie was just half a step from prison.
He wished again he hadn’t torched the damned building. He’d be clear if he hadn’t. He reassured himself that the body would cook; the old house would burn to the ground, no evidence would survive. Still there would be clues. The most obvious one sobbed in the seat next to him. He peeked at the silky dress and wondered what kind of wife gets drunk and strips off her clothes for two strange men. Judging by her Internet ad, she’d done it before. Deceit was nothing new to Deirdre. Her grief was genuine, but when she collected herself she’d play her part well.
Charlie decided the best way to calm her down was to get her talking. A conversation would clear her thoughts and prep her for the morning.
“What was he like?”
Deirdre ignored him as if he didn’t have the right to intrude on her grief.
The question lingered as he drove. After a minute, she softened, considered, and said, “He was the most gentle man in the world, a farmer, a simple, kind farmer.” Her head hung heavily. The car drove another hundred yards before she continued. “He lived on the spot where his family has lived for generations: three stone houses at the edge of the farm. They’re born there, tend the animals there, grow old there.”
“What kind of farm is it?”
“Dairy. They raise cows. Everyone else around here seems to grow grapes, but they’ve been tending cows for generations.”
Someone’s got to make all that cheese, Charlie thought.
Deirdre looked out the window at the darkness. Her tears stopped and her voice grew stronger. “He barely left that farm. I doubt he’s even been t
o Paris.”
“How’d you meet? You aren’t French.”
“Definitely not. I’m from New York, upstate. I was vacationing here. A girlfriend and I saw Henri working on a fence by the roadside and we asked for directions. He gave us lunch and a tour of the farm instead. I was overcome by the scenery that day and I guess I just fell for him.” She smiled at her memory.
“What about Henri?”
“I think I was the first American woman Henri ever met.”
“And he married you?”
“Six months later.” Deirdre was sounding stronger with every word she spoke.
“Sounds romantic.”
“At first I was captivated by the views around the farm. The hills would burst with color. I remember when we were first married. I used to watch Henri tend the cows. I would sit outside and soak in the sun for hours.”
“You know, that reminds me of home. I grew up on a farm and just being out there with the fields stretching out all around you is really something.”
“It’s beautiful.”
Charlie sensed she was holding back. Something in the scene had troubled her, something had driven her to seek what she was missing, but he wasn’t about to pry. He drove on content to listen, but comfortable with the silence. He’d done well to help her compose herself before sending her back to that farm alone.
After another mile she went on. “I really missed home after a while. Henri worked incredibly hard and it drove me crazy being stuck in that house every day.”
“And that’s how you ended up with us?”
“Yeah.”
They both quieted as the car passed darkened fields. Neither of them wanted to relive the events of that night. Charlie felt the stiffness in his knee as he held steady on the gas. He switched to cruise control even though he was traveling barely fast enough.
Deirdre broke the silence. “So how’d you get mixed up with Randy? He’s such an animal.”
Of all people he thought she’d understand.
“He keeps things interesting,” he said.
Deirdre turned to face him. “You don’t seem the wild type.”
At twenty-four, Charlie had a face that made him look nineteen. He’d tried a beard, but the sparse growth made him look even younger, like a teenager trying to look mature. The rented BMW completed the image of a rich kid with daddy’s money; an image that hit painfully close to home.
Deirdre’s question pricked something within Charlie he didn’t quite understand. Randy was obnoxious and dangerous. He constantly needled Charlie, challenged him, annoyed him, and yet Charlie never considered cutting him loose. He explained that Randy helped him break away from his father and the monotony of the winery. She offered to trade his father for her inlaws sight-unseen.
Charlie bet she’d give anything to avoid breaking the news to them.
The car approached a darkened building with three cars scattered around the parking lot. Their owners were too drunk to drive, had made an unexpected liaison, or both. Deirdre pointed to a gray Volkswagen and Charlie pulled up next to it. She looked composed, but ten minutes earlier she had been a blubbering, jumble of emotions. Who knew what she would say when the police arrived later that morning. He thought he heard her mutter something as she got out.
“Are you going to be ok?”
She shrugged, her features scrunched together, her eyes red and swollen.
“You need to report him missing.”
“Why?” Deirdre seemed surprised.
“Does he ever stay out all night?”
“Never.”
“Then you better call the police before they call you.”
Deirdre didn’t respond.
“They’re going to ask lots of questions. When did you see him last? Where was he going? Did you have a fight? Get yourself together and rehearse your answers.” Charlie looked her over. “Can you handle this?”
“I don’t want this public any more than you do.”
Charlie prayed that could be true.
Deirdre walked to her car, got in, and just sat there. After nearly a minute, the car came to life and she drove away. He watched her taillights disappear. He was glad to be rid of her, but somehow he felt they’d be forever linked after this night.
Deirdre was going to be a problem. The police would have her talking soon. Randy had said too much, and if there was ever a night she’d remember details, it was this one. If trouble came, it would come soon, and it would come to his doorstep in uniform. He figured he had three days to leave the country.
Charlie pulled the map out of the glove box and studied a route around the fire that would only cost him a few kilometers. He raced the BMW out of the parking lot and down the center of the road. With luck no one would report the fire before he reached the chateau.
Charlie Marston pressed the accelerator. He was an easy man to find.
Chapter Four
The lights at the chateau burned bright as Charlie approached and he considered driving on and finding a motel down the road. The police might know about the fire by now, but they couldn’t have found the winery already. He wondered if Deirdre had called them as he hesitantly rolled along the drive. A tall man with a flashlight stood in front of the guesthouse. Charles Senior, dressed in his robe, inspected the trim around Randy’s garage door. The damage was evident as Charlie drove past his father and into the garage. He braced himself as he got out of the car and stepped outside under the lights.
“Look what that hippie freak did to my garage!”
Randy, unfazed by the insult, continued assessing his damaged front bumper. He’d heard worse from Charles Marston. Charlie looked beyond his father up to the main house where two faces were pressed to lighted windows. It was three am and tonight of all nights he hadn’t wanted to advertise his late arrival.
When he looked back, his father was staring at him, fuming.
“He’s more of an anarchist than a hippie.”
Charles recoiled. “I never heard crap like this from you before you started hanging around with that loser.” He pointed in Randy’s direction without looking.
Charlie shrugged. There was no defending Randy. He didn’t try.
“What’s wrong with you? Have you been drinking?” Charles barked.
Charlie hadn’t had a drink in two hours. Any buzz he felt had been wiped away by the fight and the discovery of the money. He could pass for sober, but even at twenty-four years old his father’s piercing eyes still had a power he couldn’t deny. Charlie hated that, but accepted it as one of those things wired-in at birth. Someday he’d get those wires unhooked, but not today. “We had some wine earlier, but that was a long time ago,” he admitted.
“It’s three o’clock in the morning. Do you expect me to believe you stopped drinking at midnight and waited until three to come home? More likely you were thrown out of wherever you were and dragged yourselves home, stumbling drunk.” Charles peered into his son’s eyes for signs of inebriation. “You’re lucky I don’t call the gendarmes to take away your wine-soaked friend.”
Charlie’s heart thumped, his breath caught in his throat at the mention of the gendarmes. He turned to hide his expression, bent down, and picked at the splintered trim board with his fingers. There was no damage to the stonework.
“It’s just cosmetic. A few hours and some paint. It’ll be fine,” he said without lifting his eyes from the wood.
“Fine, sure. Nothing fazes you, does it?”
Charlie didn’t answer.
“It’s time you got off your butt and started pulling your own weight. That one batch of wine’s not going to pay off six years of tuition.”
Charlie imagined pulling ten or twelve packets out of the trunk and slapping them in his father’s hand, ending this dialogue forever. Of course he couldn’t do it. He stood up and faced his father again. “Give me a break. I’ve only been out of school three months. I’ve got plenty of time to make wine.”
“And I suppose I should keep handing you m
oney in the meantime?”
Charlie gestured to the trim. “I’ll get on this first thing.”
“First thing my ass. First thing is in three hours. If you made half as much wine as you drank, you’d know that.”
So far that was only true because the six thousand gallons of sparkling he’d just finished fermenting wouldn’t be ready until it aged for ten years. He doubted he could drink that much wine in a lifetime, but there was no use arguing the point.
“You’re right. My sparkling is ready to take back to Westport. After that–”
“You’ll do no such thing!”
“It needs to be bottled and aged. You can’t expect me to stay here and watch it for the next ten years. You never stay anywhere that long.”
Randy shifted to the rear of his rental. He gave Charlie a thumbs-up behind Charles’ back and patted the trunk. With luck, they could get out of France and away from Deirdre, her dead husband, and the gendarmes. They’d smuggle the money out with the wine. Randy smiled at his quick-thinking protégé.
“Do you have any idea how much it’ll cost to ship that wine to Westport?”
“All I need is two containers.”
“We harvested those grapes here. We’ll age them here.”
“I can’t work with the equipment you’ve got here. It’s ancient. Ever wonder why the Poriers were going broke?”
Charles almost broke a smile. “Three months out of college, one batch of wine under your belt, and you’re an expert?” This same self-righteous tone had regularly taunted Charlie since childhood.
“These guys never went to college. They’re just technicians, only as good as the guy who taught them. And that guy never went to college either.”
“That’s why I have you, smart guy. You’re going to help me upgrade this place to U.C. Davis standards.”
“Why bother?”
“I didn’t buy this place to lose money.”
“No. But if you’re going to invest, then invest in the right place. Build a processing house in Westport, import the juice from all the vineyards and centralize the winemaking talent in one place. That’s how you make money. Not with a bunch of rinky-dink operations that still make their own barrels.” Charlie half-convinced himself the scheme would get him and his newfound wealth home.