The Merlot Murders wcm-1

by Ellen Crosby

  “Oh my God! Lucie! What are you doing here?” I didn’t hear her come down the stairs since my ears were still ringing but suddenly her arms were around me and she was crying. “I didn’t think it was you.”

  She helped me up, our arms around each other. “Where’s the gun?” I asked. “Please, honey. We need to put it somewhere safe.”

  She had left it on the bottom step, next to her suitcase. I unloaded the remaining bullets. “You got this out of my nightstand,” I said. “Why?”

  “I was leaving you something.” She spoke through hiccupy breaths, her tears making canyonlike tracks in what looked like an excessive amount of face makeup. “I could have killed you. Oh my God. I could have killed you.”

  “You didn’t. No one got hurt. I want you to go outside on the veranda, okay? I’m going to put this gun away like I should have done this morning, then I’m going to get you something to drink. I think I saw a box of chamomile tea in the pantry. Go on, now.”

  “I’ll clean up this mess.”

  “Leave it.”

  “No. I’ll take care of it. It looks…awful.”

  She must have worked quickly because she was swinging absently in the glider, twisting a strand of hair around and around one finger, when I came outside carrying the russet-and-gold autumn leaf Rosenthal teapot that had been our mother’s favorite. “Everything else is on a tray in the kitchen,” I said. “Do you think you could carry it out here for me? The tea needs to steep for a while.”

  When she returned with the tray she said, “Mom used to make this for me when I got nightmares. Tisane, she called it. I haven’t had it for years.”

  “I’m afraid the tea is old.” I handed her a cup. “The box says chamomile but it smells like straw.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” She kicked off her sandals and tucked one foot under her. With the other, she pushed herself back and forth on the glider again. Someone might have taken her for about fourteen or fifteen just then. I couldn’t reconcile this sweet-looking girl with the person who drew those violent pictures, including that brutal one of me. She leaned forward and took the cup and saucer I gave her.

  “What were you doing with the gun?” I asked. “Why did you get it out of my nightstand?”

  “What were you doing with it?” She sipped her tea.

  “I asked first. I’m older.”

  Her smile was wan. “I was leaving you something. Mom’s diary. The one missing from her bookshelf. I didn’t expect to find the gun. Then I heard a noise downstairs.”

  “Go on.”

  I looked at my sister’s lovely profile. Where her tears had left streaks, the bare skin around her eye was dark. She wasn’t wearing makeup. It was some of the camouflage cosmetic war paint that I’d used to hide bruises on my face after the accident. “Who hit you, Mimi?” I asked quietly.

  She turned toward me and her eyes were brimming with tears again. “Greg. I thought he was coming back for me.”

  “Come here.” I held my arms out. She set down her teacup noisily on the glass coffee table, then came around to the wicker love seat and into my embrace. I stroked her hair and waited until she stopped crying. “Why did he do it?”

  She wiped more tears and revealed more bare skin. It was a hell of a shiner. “He said it was an accident. He said he was sorry. But he got mad at me for something I did and, oh my God, Lucie, I’ve never seen him like that.” Her voice shook. “Afterward he tried to make it up to me. He wanted to make love but I wouldn’t let him touch me…he got so mad.”

  “Shhh. It’s all right.” I closed my eyes and rocked her. “He can’t hurt you anymore. Don’t you worry.”

  “I’m scared of him. I’m leaving,” she said. “I’m going to New York.”

  I said surprised, “With Sara Rust?”

  “How did you know?”

  “I talked to her today. I know you’re friends and that’s where she’s going, too. Does she know about this?” I pointed to the bruise.

  “No!” She sat up, panicky. “Don’t tell her, either! I don’t think anyone knows about him—or this—except me. And now you.”

  “Knows what about him?”

  She reached for her teacup and stared into it. “Wonder if you can really tell your fortune with tea leaves?” After a moment she said in a more composed voice, “I needed to finish registering for my fall classes at school. I didn’t think he would mind if I used his computer. Lucie, he goes to those Internet chat rooms where you set up meetings with a stranger.” She shuddered. “He said it’s not breaking the law if both parties are consenting adults. I think he’s sick.”

  I thought so, too. “You know he’s been hanging around Sara at work,” I said. “He told me he gave her money because she was in a jam.”

  “He must be lying or she knows about the sex stuff and she’s blackmailing him. Greg never gave anyone a dime unless he had to.”

  Sara had been pretty quick to ask for the hundred and fifty dollars before I even got two words out of my mouth. A real hustler, that one. When I’d looked into her eyes earlier today it was like looking at two dead planets. Not the most wholesome friend Mia could have.

  “I always wondered why Uncle Mason helped him out,” Mia was saying.

  “What?”

  “Uncle Mason and Aunt Linda paid Greg’s tuition at UNC. The full ride.”

  “I didn’t know that. Why?”

  “I don’t know. They’re rich. It was probably Aunt Linda’s idea. She’s always taking care of lost causes, the real no-hopers, helping out behind the scenes. Besides I think it bothered her that she and Uncle Mason didn’t have kids. I think there were a lot of medical bills after Greg’s dad died.”

  “Look,” I said. “Go to New York for a few days, then come home, okay? Your classes will be starting soon. You need to pack and get down to Harrisonburg. James Madison University is a long way from where Greg is and, anyway, I’ll take care of him. He’ll never go within miles of you as long as he lives. Just promise me you’ll come back.”

  She played again with that strand of hair, absently braiding and unbraiding it. “I never registered for my classes, Luce. I missed the deadline. Technically I’m not enrolled in school this semester.”

  “I can call someone…”

  “I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” she continued as though I hadn’t spoken. “College is so hard, you know? Maybe I should just go to art school. I think I could get into a place like the Corcoran. It probably doesn’t sound too modest, but I think I’m pretty good.”

  “You’re very good,” I said. “I saw the oil painting you started on Mom’s easel. And your sketchbook.”

  She smiled. “What did you think?”

  Maybe she was thinking about another sketchbook. She seemed genuinely interested to know how much I liked her work.

  “That was a perfect likeness of me,” I said carefully. “I always wondered what I’d look like with snakes in my hair.”

  She laughed. “Oh God, that’s right. I forgot about those drawings. I had some horrible English class in allegory and mythology last semester that I absolutely hated. So I did those sketches for my final project. Got me out of taking the exam. My professor thought it showed what she called ‘remarkable creativity, effectively demonstrating mastery of the material.’ I got the highest grade in the class. I used a family picture of you that I had on the bulletin board over my desk.”

  “Who was the guy in the robe?”

  “The Grim Reaper,” she said. “Death. I was going to give it Eli’s face from that same photo, but it kinda weirded me out. So I left him faceless.” She stood up. “Sara’s coming for me soon. I need to fix my makeup. I’ll take the tea tray in.”

  I set the empty cups and the teapot on the tray. “How did you know I was looking for that journal of Mom’s?”

  “Brandi told me.” She saw the surprised look on my face. “Eli told Brandi. You did talk about it with Eli, Lucie. I know you did.” She bent over and picked up the tray and said without
looking at me, “You two talked about Mom and Fitz.”

  “Brandi told you that?”

  She straightened up. Her eyes had that same brightness as the day I saw her at the funeral home. “It’s okay, Luce. I know people have affairs and I know what happened.”

  “You read all the diaries?”

  “I had to use a dictionary, but yeah, I did. Really improved my French.” Her smile was heartbreaking. “After Mom died and you and Eli left, I was alone with Pop…when he bothered to come home. He used to look at me in the oddest way, like I was some kind of alien. Once when he was drunk he let something slip about Mom and Fitz. I didn’t hear him right and when I asked him to repeat it, he got mad and hollered at me. He never brought it up again and I was too scared to ask.”

  “Did the diary say anything…I mean, did she write about what happened?”

  She stood in a shaft of strong sunlight, as fragile and beautiful as a porcelain angel. Except for the bruise.

  “She was lonely, Luce. Who could blame her?” she said. “She loved Fitz, but she never stopped loving Pop. They were still sleeping together, right up until the time she died. She slept with Fitz, too, but…jeez, I mean…I’m Leland Montgomery’s daughter, same as you are, if that’s what you’re getting at. She never wrote that I wasn’t.”

  “He wasn’t around when I was born,” she continued. “Kind of a metaphor for my whole life.” She smiled another poignant smile. “He left Mom for some big hunting trip in Montana when she was about eight months pregnant. I thought that was pretty callous. Of course she didn’t criticize him. She never did.” She paused, then added, “Did you know I was born in the backseat of Fitz’s car?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I swear to God. Apparently Mom called Uncle Mason when she went into labor but he never showed up. So she panicked and got Fitz to leave the inn and come get her in the middle of somebody’s wedding reception.”

  “What happened to Mason?”

  “He’d hit a deer. Speeding on Bull Run Mountain Road trying to get to the house. He practically totaled his car. Mom had no idea and he had no way of telling her.” She shrugged. “Makes you glad there’s cell phones now, hunh?”

  “Yes. I suppose it does.”

  I was still on the veranda when she came back, makeup reapplied, looking calmer and more collected. “Sara’s here. I’ve got to go.” She touched a finger lightly near her eye, but this time she didn’t wince. “Don’t say anything to anyone. Promise?”

  “It’s pretty hard to miss.”

  “I walked into a door. Clumsy me.”

  “He shouldn’t get away with it.”

  “Promise me, Lucie. I’m begging you. Please?”

  I nodded, feeling sick.

  She blew me a kiss. “I’ll call you from New York.”

  The screen door slammed and a moment later I heard a car engine. Inside the house the phone rang. After a few rings the machine kicked in. With a small shock I heard Leland’s voice. We had never changed the recording.

  “You’ve reached the Montgomerys. Leave a message.”

  By the time I got inside the caller hung up. I hit the play button. A familiar Hispanic accent. “This is José at the Gas-o-Rama. We got your Volvo here and I need your approval and a credit card before I can fix your car. It’s gonna be ’bout six hundred fifty dollars. Please call me soon as you get this message.” He rattled off a number that I recognized as the one I’d called the other day.

  The earlier messages from Kit and Hollis Maddox were still on the machine. I hit delete and dialed Kit’s number.

  “You sound terrible,” she said. “Like you lost your last friend.”

  “What’s wrong? Your message said it was urgent.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s a long story.”

  “Wanna tell me?”

  “Not right now.”

  “How about later? I need to talk to you, anyway. Meet me after I leave work, say eight-fifteen? The home helper can’t stay with my mom too late, so it’s got to be quick. I know you’ve got that jazz concert tonight, but maybe you could slope off for a half hour.”

  “We could meet at the villa. Eight-fifteen’s fine.”

  “See you.”

  She hung up and I glanced at my watch. Six-thirty.

  I got the keys to Hector’s truck and drove over to the winery. As I pulled into the parking lot, Mason Jones was climbing out of his silver Mercedes.

  “Well, hey there, Lucie!” He came over and helped me climb down from the cab. “What’re you doing driving that thing? It doesn’t have any shocks left. I thought you were Hector, the way you tore in here. You’re lucky you still have the teeth in your head, rattling around like that.”

  “Hector let me borrow his truck. The Volvo’s in the shop.”

  “What’s wrong with the Volvo? Don’t tell me it finally gave up the ghost after all these years?” He sounded concerned.

  “It’s still got a heartbeat. Though it’s going to cost me six hundred and fifty dollars to revive it.”

  He reached inside the breast pocket of his white linen suit and pulled out two tickets to the jazz concert. “That must be why you’re looking so perturbed. You need a little help, sugar? I could give you a loan to tide you over.”

  “I’ve got it covered. Thanks, anyway.”

  He tucked my arm through one of his. “You going over to the concert? I’ll walk you there. I’m surprised there aren’t more folks showing up for this.” He waved his tickets. “Parking lot’s pretty empty.”

  “That’s because the concert doesn’t start for another hour. You’re very early.”

  “Lordy. Guess I should have looked at these, shouldn’t I? I must be getting old. I’d better call Linda and tell her she doesn’t need to rush.” He patted his breast pocket. “Left my mobile in my car, too. Old and forgetful. I’d better go get it.”

  The sun, blisteringly pitiless earlier in the day, was setting in the west, coloring the horizon rim pale red. “Can I ask you something first?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Did you know that someone tried to buy the vineyard from Leland before he died?”

  Mason tucked the tickets back in his jacket pocket and pressed his lips together, his expression slightly forbidding like I’d blundered into something the grown-ups were trying to keep hidden from the children. “I did. How’d you find out? We went to great lengths to keep that quiet.”

  “Fitz told me. Who was it? I’d like to know.”

  “Why, the consortium, of course.”

  “The Blue Ridge Consortium?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He reached into the pocket of his trousers, pulling out a folded nail file. I watched him unfold it, then gently pick at an imaginary piece of dirt under an immaculately manicured fingernail. Over the years I’d seen him do that dozens of times. A lawyer’s delaying tactic. It gave him time to think.

  “I’m going to tell you something.” He leaned closer so I smelled his cologne. For a man who could afford anything, he still wore the same inexpensive scent that he’d always worn. “I didn’t want you to know this, either. But, yes, we did offer to buy the place from Lee. Everyone figured out he was cash-strapped. Hell, you could have guessed even if he said nothing from the way he burned through money on those bogus investments of his. The consortium just wanted him to know his friends would help him out if he felt he needed to sell.”

  “Was someone else trying to buy the vineyard?”

  “Besides us?” He shrugged. “Not that I know of. Your daddy had his pride, Lucie. It was just a quiet little talk among friends.”

  “Eli says we can’t afford to keep the place.”

  “Well, can you?” he asked gently. When I didn’t answer right away he added, “Look, sugar, I’m going to tell you the same thing I told your daddy and your brother when he talked to me the other day. If you decide to sell, come to me. I’ll put together a deal so’s the house and the land w
on’t get split up. I’ll take care of you. You’ll get a fair price.”

  I leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You better call Aunt Linda. I’ll meet you later at the concert.”

  “I won’t be a minute. We can still walk over together.”

  I did not want to see Greg right now, especially with Mason by my side. I would keep my promise to Mia—for the time being—but my fury at what he’d done to her would almost certainly bleed through anything I said and Mason would start probing. The next time I spoke to Greg I wanted to be alone.

  “Actually, I’ve got some winery business to take care of.” I smiled. “You go ahead. I’ll be there soon.”

  I waited until he left, then walked down to the barrel room. The shiny new heavy-duty lock was in the hasp.

  I unlocked it, propping the door ajar with a brick. I hit the lights and held my breath. The grapevine thermometer now read sixty degrees. The carbon dioxide had built to toxic levels so I kept holding my breath as I swiftly crossed the room and flipped the switches on the fans. In another few minutes when the CO2 cleared out, I could close the door again.

  We had no money and no resources. How much longer could I keep the vineyard going on fumes? Leland’s friends—out of pity—had tried to help him out, save him from further embarrassment and the crushing debt he’d left us.

  I walked into Quinn’s lab and leaned against the counter staring through the glass window at the rows and rows of casks. My mother’s lifetime work. Something bulky dug into my hip. The reading glasses Sara Rust had given me were in the deep pocket of my skirt. I took them out and set them on the counter, just as the lights went out.

  The light switch was next to the laboratory door. I groped until I found it, then flipped it on and off. Power failures were nothing new, the consequence of winter ice or summer thunderstorms, so we had a backup generator that would kick in momentarily.

  I stood in the bleak silence of total darkness and waited for the small exploding sound of the generator, followed by the flash of lights, the whirring of fans, and the burbling sound of water moving through the space between the tank jackets as the refrigeration system kicked in again.