by Ellen Crosby
The screen door banged behind me. Quinn sat down, coffee mug in hand, his legs dangling over the ledge. “I can borrow a few pieces of equipment from John Chappell over at Hogsback Mountain Winery.” He sipped his coffee. “When you see Eli, tell him I need to talk to him, will you? The motor on the destemmer’s broken. It’s going to cost eight hundred bucks, give or take, to get it fixed. I’ll need the money today.”
I was pretty sure Eli didn’t have that kind of spare cash lying around anywhere, after what Fitz had told me about the state of his finances. Nor had I realized the immediacy of our need for money.
“You mean…from Eli?”
His eyes narrowed. “I don’t care which one of you gives it to me, if that’s what you mean. I’ve been dealing with Eli for financial matters since…” He paused. “Since a few days ago. If you want to give it to me now that’s fine by me.”
“I’ll get it to you by the end of the day.”
His face was bland but his eyes were skeptical. “Fine, then. I’ll call Carlyle’s and order the part right now.”
The screen door banged shut as he left. I finished my coffee and followed him inside. Dominique, barefoot and wearing an oversized T-shirt from the prep school where Joe taught, was spooning fresh-ground coffee from the grinder into the coffeemaker. She looked up when she saw me and spilled coffee on the counter.
Her eyes looked like two bruises.
“I’ll take care of that.” I crossed the room and took the scoop out of her hands. “I like my coffee strong after two years in France but you’re making paint stripper.”
Her pale smile seemed more like a grimace. She reached for a pack of cigarettes on the counter and lit one with shaking hands.
“I thought you quit,” I said, wiping up the spilled coffee.
“I did.”
“You slept here last night?”
She exhaled a cloud of smoke through her nostrils. “I couldn’t stay at Joe’s. I wanted to come home. I tried not to wake you.”
“Are you all right?”
“Who would do this?” She chewed on a fingernail and her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t understand. Who would do such a thing?”
“Someone took the payroll money out of the safe in the lab. Bobby thinks Fitz might have surprised whoever it was.”
“I should have gone. I should have picked up those cases. He asked me to go for him and I…” She sucked hard on her cigarette. “It should have been me.”
I pushed the button on the coffeepot and after a second, it started to gurgle. “How long had he been depressed?” I asked. “How long had he been taking antidepressants?”
She looked stunned. “I don’t know. He was taking pills? How did you find that out?”
“I, uh, found them.”
“He’d stopped confiding in me. He was very angry with me.” She blew out another fierce stream of smoke. “The last time I spoke to him we argued. You can’t imagine how much I wish I could take it back and do it over again.” She froze. “Mon Dieu. I’m so sorry. Of course you can imagine. You must relive that accident every day of your life. What a stupid thing to say.”
“It’s okay.” I picked up a dish and began washing it. “I’ve moved on.”
She looked at me shrewdly. “That’s a clean dish you’re washing.”
I set the dish on the counter and wiped my hands on the towel. “Okay, so I think about it.” I folded the dish towel, carefully aligning the edges and laid it on the counter. “I’m not Mother Teresa, but what’s the use? What’s done is done. I can’t think about ‘what if.’ That goes nowhere.”
She sucked hard on the cigarette again and eyed me up and down. “Then you are a saint. He walked away without a scratch on that beautiful face. If it was me, I’d want…I don’t know. I guess I’d want him to suffer, too.”
She squashed her cigarette in a saucer and sat down at the kitchen table, tracing a finger over a series of indentations in the soft pine. Eli’s math homework from about twenty years ago was memorialized when the numbers transferred through his paper to the table.
“It was an accident,” I said softly. “And I think we ought to change the subject.” I picked up the coffeepot. “Want some?”
She nodded as her mobile phone rang. “Hello…yes? Where? No, wait. Don’t do anything. I’ll be right over.” She disconnected and sighed, reaching for the coffee cup. “That was Joe. We’re still trying to figure out what to do about tonight. In spite of everything we still have one hundred and fifty people coming for a sit-down dinner and three hundred more for the opening-night performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I don’t know how we’re going to pull this off.”
“You’ll have to move the dinner to the inn,” I said. “Bobby shut down the winery completely.”
“It’s fully booked.”
“Then maybe we ought to think about canceling.”
She drank some of her coffee and reached for the pack of cigarettes. “Too late for that. Everything’s ordered…and paid for.”
“You’re saying you can’t give people their money back?”
She busied herself lighting another cigarette. “Have you ever heard the expression ‘robbing Peter to pay the piper?’”
“Sort of.”
She took a drag on the cigarette. “I ordered some new equipment for the catering company. The company I bought it from went bankrupt right after I paid for it.”
“Before you got the equipment?” What was it about my family and money? She and Leland weren’t even blood relatives. “So how much money are you talking about?”
“Seventy thousand.”
“You’re out seventy thousand dollars?”
“Closer to seventy-five. I’ve got it under control, though,” she said. “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.” Her phone rang a second time and she glanced at it. “Joe. Again.”
She had another monosyllabic conversation, then hung up and rubbed her eyes. “He had some of Hector’s men haul the picnic tables from the orchards to use as buffet tables for tonight. But Hector needed the guys somewhere else so they left all of them sitting in the road over by the Ruins.”
“The men?”
“The tables. What a mess. I’d better get over there and straighten things out.”
“Leave them there,” I said. “Have the dinner right there in the middle of the road. There won’t be any cars coming through since everything is off limits. You could string lights in the trees and use hurricane lamps for the tables. It’ll be like fairyland.”
“That,” my cousin said, “is a brilliant idea.” She stood up and smiled tiredly. “I need to shower and change. Then let’s get over there.”
“You go ahead. I’ll have to join you later. The destemmer’s broken. Quinn needs eight hundred dollars to fix it. Today.”
“And where are you going to get that? Money. It’s always about money.” She picked up the pack of cigarettes and concentrated on rubbing a thumb across the cellophane wrapping. “You know, chérie, no one knows what I just told you, about the money, I mean. Be an angel. Keep quiet about it, won’t you?” She wasn’t really asking and her thin-lipped smile was chilly. “Besides, I’m taking care of it.”
I said uneasily, “Sure.”
She set her coffee cup in the sink as she left. A few minutes later I heard the pipes knocking in the walls and the sound of running water. Had Fitz known about the money? Dominique never explained what they argued about during that last conversation. Eli said they had quarreled over the subject of Fitz retiring.
Now that he was dead she wouldn’t have to explain the seventy-five thousand to him. Nor did she need to persuade him to retire.
Just what I needed. Another family member with a motive for murder.
The door to Leland’s study creaked as I opened it. Someone had closed the curtains and the hot, dark room smelled vaguely mummified. The air-conditioning seemed even feebler in here than in the rest of the house. I flipped on the light switch and saw the stack of yel
lowed newspapers that had toppled over, covering one of the floor vents. Opening the curtains set off a tornado of dust motes and the gloomy shadows became—wherever I looked—stacks of magazines, books, and newspapers piled carelessly and untidily on all flat surfaces or sticking out of shelves on the floor-to-ceiling cherry bookcases.
When my parents were first married, my mother had redecorated the study and she’d gone a bit mad in her use of the Montgomery tartan. Our ancient tartan was a lovely subdued heathery green-and-blue plaid, but for some reason, she’d decided to use only the modern tartan, a bold red-and-green plaid on a lavender background. She’d put it on the sofa, the recliner, an ottoman, and even the curtains. It was a lot of tartan in one room, even one as high-ceilinged and imposing as this one. Now, though, it was only evident in the faded sunbleached curtains. Everything else was covered with papers and books. The only place to sit was Leland’s desk chair.
I found his appointment book on top of a pile of books on the edge of the desk, opened to the date he died. I shuddered as I leafed through it. He’d never been much for keeping records. A few names—the Romeos, mostly—scribbled on some pages, but that was it. I closed the book and sat down in the chair, sneezing in another storm cloud of dust.
The edge of the hunter-green notebook-style checkbook we used for vineyard business stuck out from under a pile of unopened mail. “Final notice” was stamped in heavy black letters across an alarming number of envelopes. After my mother died Leland had moved the winery’s records from her study to his, and her tidy files and meticulous bookkeeping had quickly disintegrated into chaos. I slid the checkbook out from under the bills. There were dozens of missing checks with nothing written against them in the ledger. Half a dozen unopened bank statements had been stuffed in the back of the checkbook.
No way to tell if we had eight hundred dollars in the account—or eight cents. I reached for the telephone—under a copy of the Wine Spectator—and set it on my lap. We did our banking where everyone in Atoka banked, at Blue Ridge Federal. The private phone number for Seth Hannah, who handled our account, was written in my mother’s handwriting in the flyleaf of the address book, which I found in the top desk drawer. Seth’s secretary put me through right away.
“Lucie honey, there’s just over four hundred dollars in that account as of today,” he said immediately. He sounded friendly, but not happy. “You’re a bit late with your loan payments, as well.”
We had a loan. Wonderful.
“I’ll get it to you, Seth. I promise. But couldn’t you advance us just a little more to get us through harvest?” I asked.
“I’d like to, darlin’, but I’m afraid that dog just don’t hunt anymore. I’ll give you a little extra time to make your payment, though. That’s as much as I can do.” He paused. “I hear you’re going to sell the place, so I reckon we can settle up then.”
This probably wasn’t the moment to tell Seth we weren’t going to sell, so I didn’t. Instead I thanked him sweetly for throwing us a lifeline, although in reality what I’d probably gotten was more rope to hang myself.
Then I called my bank in France. At least I could get the few thousand dollars of remaining insurance money transferred back to the States.
I knew the woman who answered the phone. Gisèle. She sounded flustered and asked me to wait un petit instant. After a few thousand “instants” Bertrand Thayer, the manager, got on the line.
He sounded confused. “Mademoiselle, we closed that account for you yesterday,” he said. “Monsieur Broussard gave me your letter stating that you returned to the États-Unis and wanted him to withdraw the money to send to you. Usually we cannot close an account without the owner being present, but under the circumstances, we did you this favor. Your ami was very persuasive.”
I was silent for a long time.
“Eh, bien,” he said at last. “The letter had your signature on it, even the notaire, so we assumed it was genuine.”
“It probably was my signature,” I said, “knowing Philippe.”
“Désolé,” he said. “I’m terribly sorry. I don’t know what to say. Unfortunately he asked for cash.”
Cash. So like Philippe.
He’d cleaned me out.
Chapter 9
The money was gone. Philippe had helped himself because he needed it and that was reason enough, as far as he was concerned. No doubt he was gone, too. The note I’d left him said I wasn’t sure when I’d be back from America and he probably took that as a golden opportunity to float, along with the other flotsam and jetsam with whom he kept company, to some friendly new port. Of course she would have money, and Philippe would charm his way into her bedroom, putting him on a fast-track to her wallet. He did some of his best work lying down.
The phone rang on Leland’s desk. I grabbed it before it rang a second time and answered in French, without thinking.
“Oui, bonjour, yourself.” It was Kit and she was mad. “Have you read the Post today?”
“No,” I said. “It’s been a bit busy here.”
“Well, guess what? Someone gave them the full story on Fitz’s death and obviously didn’t put a gag order on them, either. Do you know what my boss said this morning? ‘If it’s news, it’s news to us.’ Did you talk to them?”
“He was my godfather, Kit.”
Silence. Then she said, “I’m sorry, Luce.”
“What did the article say?”
“That he was found floating in a tank of Merlot.”
“Oh God.”
“So was it Merlot?”
“Does it matter?”
“Whoever talked to the Post, it couldn’t have been that winemaker of yours,” she said. “I couldn’t get two words out of him.”
“I think it might have made the rounds at the Goose Creek Inn last night.” Mason said he’d heard from Elvis Harmon, who was dining with the Romeos. All that was lacking, probably, was the megaphone. “Some of the Romeos had dinner there.”
“The Romeos? Aw, for crying out loud. Of course it was them. They can be a bunch of real old ladies sometimes, gossiping the way they do,” she said. “No wonder the Post got the story. Joby Matsuda eats at the inn all the time with that exotic dancer he’s been trying to get into bed with. He probably didn’t even need to interview anyone, just opened his notebook and listened.”
“The difference between the Romeos gossiping and you gossiping would be…what, again?”
She said a bit stiffly, “It’s an open secret about Joby and that woman. The only one who doesn’t know is his wife. And we’re off topic.”
“It was Merlot and it doesn’t really matter.”
“Meet me for lunch? We should talk.”
“I can’t,” I said. “I’ve got an errand in Middleburg.”
“I’m driving over there myself. The deli. Twelve-thirty.”
“You’re going to grill me for this story, aren’t you?”
“Of course not.”
“You lie.”
“I’ll buy.”
“I’ll come.”
“Good. See you there.”
On my way out of the room I stopped and removed the water-color of Hugh Montgomery’s gravestone from its hook on the paneled wall. Unlike everything else in here, there was no dust on the picture or the frame. Someone had done just what I had done, and not long ago, either.
More than likely it was Fitz. He’d probably wondered—as I did—whether it was a random choice that she used that note card or whether the painting held some clue about the location of whatever the key unlocked. I turned the painting over. Fitz, or whoever it was, already would have found a note or anything else she’d left tucked between the frame and the canvas. I checked anyway.
Just her signature, written lightly in pencil, and the vineyard’s twining vine logo, which she’d designed.
I replaced the painting and met Dominique in the foyer. Her phone was clamped to her ear and she was giving orders. She nodded when she saw me, pantomiming that I should meet her at
the winery.
I mouthed “later” and went into the kitchen. Quinn showed up while I was getting ready to put a plastic platter of Thelma Johnson’s buttermilk fried chicken into our old cooler.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got that money for me yet?” he asked, leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded across his chest. He was staring at me in that predatory way of his. I felt like he was mentally undressing me.
The platter slipped in my hands and two pieces of chicken skidded off and landed on the floor. “Damn.” I put the chicken back where it belonged. “I said I’d get it to you by the end of the day. Why? Is there a problem?”
“I need it sooner than that. Carlyle’s won’t fix the destemmer without cash up front.” He walked into the kitchen and lifted the top off a casserole dish, peering at the contents.
“If you’re hungry, there’s more in the refrigerator. This is spoken for.” I took the lid from him and re-covered the dish. “Since when does Carlyle’s need cash before they fix something for us? We’ve been going to them for years.”
He opened the refrigerator and looked inside, then closed the door. He turned around and looked at me blandly. “Since the last time they fixed something for you.”
I fiddled with the latch on the cooler and hoped he couldn’t see my face, which suddenly felt quite warm. “I’ll talk to Lew. He always takes care of us. You must be dealing with someone new.” Before he could answer, I said quickly, “You’ll have your cash this afternoon. I’m on my way to the bank right now.”
I heard the refrigerator door open one more time. Philippe had the same exasperating habit, like a six-pack of beer might have materialized while he wasn’t looking. “Are you taking all that food with you to the bank?” he asked.
“Of course not.” I snapped the cooler latch shut. “I’m taking it to the soup kitchen near Philomont. I’ve put some aside for the crew, but there’s more than we could possibly eat here. I thought we should donate it to them.”