by Ellen Crosby
“Lucie, Quinn, come in. Come in. Nice to see you both.” He waved us inside and shook hands with Quinn after kissing me on both cheeks. “Robyn will be down any second now. She spent the afternoon in her studio and she’s just showering and changing.”
“I heard that.” Robyn Callahan ran quickly down the wide staircase and joined us in the spacious foyer, which was dominated by a large bronze-and-granite sculpture that reminded me of an enormous conch shell though I had been told it was called The Womb.
The ends of Robyn’s long auburn hair were still damp and she was dressed in a pair of flowing, brilliantly colored harem pants, a sleeveless white silk blouse, and gladiator sandals that perfectly suited her slim, willowy figure. She looked fresh and dazzling, smelling faintly of an old-fashioned scent that made me think of lily of the valley.
“Thanks for coming, you two,” she said.
She was taller than Toby by a couple of inches and younger by probably twenty or so years, which put her in her late forties or early fifties. Just now, though, she could have passed for Toby’s daughter. And she had clearly claimed the spotlight as the center of attention. She gave Quinn and me each a quick hug, before dropping a kiss on Toby’s cheek.
“Thanks for inviting us,” I said. “We haven’t seen you for a while.”
“That’s because I was up in New York for a meeting of the Council on Foreign Relations and then a series of discussions and dinners with friends for the opening session of the UN General Assembly,” Toby said. “And before that, Robyn was in Morocco.”
“Studying their art and textiles,” she said. “I spent two weeks with a group of Berber artists in the High Atlas Mountains.”
I did not meet Quinn’s eyes. According to what he’d told me, Robyn and Jean-Claude had slept together while Toby was in New York at those meetings.
“How was Morocco?” I asked.
“Fabulous, simply fabulous. I adore that country, so much culture and history and color in that part of North Africa. And the food. I’ll have to show you the Berber carpet I brought back for Toby’s study. And some of the fabrics I got for a new series of projects I’m working on.”
“Woven out of twenty-four-karat gold,” Toby said in a dry voice, “if the price she paid for my rug is anything to go by.”
Robyn grinned and said, “It was worth every dirham. And I did some serious bargaining for it, too.”
“How about a drink?” Toby said. “We’ll have cocktails in the drawing room.”
“I’ll ask the maid to bring the hors d’oeuvres,” Robyn said and disappeared.
The furniture in the drawing room was mid-twentieth-century modern, sleek lines and blond wood. The colors were straight out of the 1950s: teal, coral, peacock blue, and chartreuse. More art hung on the walls, though the primary focus was a large abstract oil by Robyn in shades of navy, chartreuse, egg-yolk yellow, and turquoise that she had painted when she and Toby were vacationing in the south of France one year. It was the centerpiece of the room and hung over the fireplace. A small plaque at the base of the frame read Plage du Cap d’Antibes.
I caught Quinn staring at it, starting to tilt his head to view it from a different angle as if he couldn’t make hide nor hair of what he was looking at, and nudged him with my elbow. Modern art was not his thing. He straightened up as Toby urged us to take a seat.
Toby made wickedly strong cosmos for everyone and the maid served Moroccan pastries with savory fillings, tapenade with crusty slices of homemade bread, and spicy Moroccan cookies called fekkas, all of which Robyn described for us as we ate.
We talked about their travels, a quilt and textile exhibition Robyn had become involved in with the Loudoun County Museum, and Toby’s latest appearance on Meet the Press to discuss world politics. They were on their second cosmos—Quinn and I declined—when I asked, “How’s harvest coming along?”
Toby glanced sideways at Robyn and said in a neutral voice, “Fine. It’s our first, so we don’t have anything to compare it to, but it seems to have been a good year.”
After an awkward pause, Robyn said, “How about you?”
Quinn glanced at me. “Going good,” he said. “Considering.”
“Considering what?” Toby asked.
“We’re having trouble getting enough men to work in the fields,” I said. “They’re all scared of ICE and being deported or jailed. By the way, Jean-Claude said it would be okay if we asked Miguel to work for us this Saturday. We’re short-handed and we need to get in our Cab Franc.”
“If Jean-Claude said it’s okay, I’m sure Miguel would be glad to have the extra income,” Toby said. “He’s a good man.”
“Yes,” I said. “He is. And everything is going well with Jean-Claude?”
It hadn’t exactly been a subtle segue into the subject and Toby raised an eyebrow, regarding me with one of his piercing looks. “What do you mean?”
“Oh you know, new winemaker, new to Virginia,” I said in a bland voice.
“There have been a few bumps in the road, but nothing serious.” Toby seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “Everyone is getting acclimated. Jean-Claude runs a tight ship.”
A knock on the open drawing room door interrupted our conversation. An attractive blonde who looked to be in her late forties stood in the doorway, holding a sheaf of papers in one hand and her eyeglasses in the other, an apologetic look on her face.
“I’m so sorry for intruding, Mr. Secretary. I hate to bother you but I know you need these pages first thing in the morning and I’m having trouble transcribing part of your conversation with the president,” she said. “Could I trouble you for a quick second?”
Toby stood up. “Will you excuse me for a moment, please? Lucie Montgomery and Quinn Santori, I’m not sure you’ve met Colette Barnes, my right-hand woman. I recently managed to persuade her to come back and work for me after she unkindly ditched me for the president of the World Bank when I retired as secretary of state. She knows I can’t do anything without her.”
Colette smiled, obviously used to the ribbing. “Nice to meet you both.”
“He can’t do anything without me, either,” Robyn said, smiling. “I’m his left-hand woman.”
“Of course I can’t.” Toby kissed the top of her head as he walked by.
Quinn and I both said “Nice to meet you” to Colette, who acknowledged the remark before following Toby out of the room.
“His memoirs,” Robyn said after the two of them had left. “He’s finally settled down to write them. Of course, a hefty six-figure advance from his publisher and some approaching deadlines provided quite the incentive. That’s why he had to have Colette by his side. He’s paying her the proverbial fortune.”
“I never understood how someone could write a whole book starting from nothing,” Quinn said. “I have trouble filling out our monthly reports.”
Robyn grinned. “He’s in his element. Plus now that he’s got Colette, it’s smooth sailing. He’d be lost without her. She was with him for years, so she remembers a lot of what he’s writing about because she was there, too. Sometimes her memory is better than his.”
“How did they meet?” I asked.
Robyn sipped her cosmo and leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs at the ankles. “Way before my time,” she said. “Toby was the consul in Bordeaux, just starting his diplomatic career. He was married to his first wife and his kids were young. Colette was a teenager working as a nanny for another American couple and she often babysat for Toby’s children.”
“Is that when Toby met Jean-Claude?” I asked.
“Yes, although he was closer to Armand, Baron de Merignac, in those days. Jean-Claude was young, in his early twenties. Or mid-twenties. I don’t remember.”
“So how did Colette end up as Toby’s secretary to begin with?” Quinn asked.
“He really took a liking to her. She was hardworking, trying to make her way in the world. I think she’d had a falling-out with her parents so she was truly on her o
wn,” Robyn said. “Toby stayed in touch with her—she got married, then divorced soon after—so he eventually hired her as his secretary when he was DCM in Paris. Years later he went back to Paris as the U.S. ambassador, then on to the UN, then he became secretary of state. One of the perks of her working for him on his memoirs is that she lives here in one of the guest cottages.”
“By herself?” I asked. “No family?”
“She’s very close to a nephew who lives in Boston, but otherwise, there’s no one. Except us.”
“What’s a DCM?” Quinn asked.
“Deputy chief of mission,” I said. “The number-two person at an embassy.”
“That’s right,” Robyn said. “Sorry for the alphabet soup. Toby talks in acronyms all the time, so I’ve finally learned most of them out of necessity. How did you know what it was, Lucie?”
“My grandfather was in the French diplomatic corps. My family in France knows the de Merignacs as well.”
“How interesting. So did you know Jean-Claude before he came here?” She sat up straight suddenly and I wondered if I was imagining that she seemed to take a keen interest in my answer.
“I did,” I said. “I spent a summer in France when I was thirteen and met him then. We hadn’t seen each other in nearly twenty years until he came to La Vigne.”
The doorbell rang and Robyn’s eyebrows furrowed. “I wonder who that could be. We aren’t expecting anyone else this evening.”
“I’ll get it,” Toby, apparently finished helping Colette with her transcription, called out.
“He really should let the maid…” Robyn began.
We could hear the front door opening and then Toby, sounding puzzled, “Why … hello … good evening. What can I do for you?”
A male voice, loud and agitated, spoke in a jumble of English and Spanish.
“Slow down, man. Slow down,” Toby said. “I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”
Robyn stood up. “Good Lord, that’s Miguel. I wonder what’s wrong.”
Quinn, whose second language was Spanish, said, “I’ll tell you what’s wrong. Miguel’s been robbed. Right here at the vineyard.”
Seven
Quinn and I followed Robyn into the foyer where Miguel Otero, looking distraught and angry, was trying to explain to Toby what had just happened. His English had apparently deserted him and Toby wasn’t fluent enough in Spanish to follow Miguel’s torrent of words.
Miguel looked up as the three of us walked into the room, registering surprise at seeing Quinn and me. Like Antonio he was good-looking, someone you’d turn your head for, to catch a second glance if he walked by on the street. Tall, slim, with the well-muscled build of an athlete, he had the same straight black hair and soulful brown eyes as Antonio, along with a winning smile when he wanted to flash it, which was not now. He was wearing faded jeans rolled up at the cuffs and a gray La Vigne Cellars T-shirt stained with sweat and dark purplish-red wine spatters that, if you didn’t know better, looked as if he’d been shot multiple times.
Antonio told me once that even though Valeria and Isabella were sisters, no one ever thought they were related. But people did mix up Miguel and him all the time. In fact, the two of them looked so much alike they could have been twins.
“Quinn,” Toby said, sounding frustrated, “can you please ask Miguel to explain what happened? I’m a bit at sea here.”
Like me, Quinn had grown up in a bilingual household. I learned French from my mother; he learned Spanish from his.
He nodded. “Miguel, qué pasó? Dígame todo. Y hay que hablar más despacio.”
I understood enough to know he had asked Miguel to slow down and start his story at the beginning. Miguel’s English was as good as Antonio’s, but he answered Quinn in rapid-fire Spanish. Miguel’s gesticulations, however, were universal. He was upset and starting to panic.
“Someone broke into his car and stole everything in his glove compartment,” Quinn said finally. “Unfortunately, all his documents were there: green card, driver’s license, and his Mexican birth certificate. He has no way to prove who he is without them and he’s supposed to take his citizenship test the week after next. Not only that, his license just expired so he was going to the DMV to renew it.”
Robyn groaned and I gave Miguel a sympathetic look.
“Miguel,” Toby said, “calm down for a minute. I’ll make some phone calls tomorrow and we’ll get this straightened out. You don’t have to worry, okay? I know people who can help with this.”
Miguel still looked like a hunted animal that wanted to flee, but Toby’s words started to sink in and he seemed to calm down and breathe more normally. “Okay,” he said. “Thank you, Secretary Levine. Thank you very much.”
“No problem,” Toby said, continuing in that reassuring voice. “What I don’t understand is how someone knew your documents were in your glove compartment in the first place? Wasn’t your car locked?”
I knew Miguel’s car. It was an old Honda Civic, silver with one burgundy front fender that he’d had to replace and a few dents in the rear bumper and front passenger door. If you were hunting for something valuable to steal, his car, which looked like it was held together with chewing gum and duct tape, would be just about the last place you’d consider looking.
Miguel shook his head. “I didn’t lock it so that’s my fault. But my car was parked around back by the door to the barrel room. Only staff goes there. Workers. No customers.”
“Do you think one of the workers could have taken your documents?” Robyn asked. “Maybe someone who needed them?”
In other words, someone who was in the country illegally. All vineyards had a don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy where day laborers were concerned. And we paid in cash. It’s just the way it was.
“I don’t know who could have taken the papers,” Miguel was saying to Robyn. “Jean-Claude knew I wanted to go to the DMV. My license was … vencido.”
“Expired,” Quinn said.
“Yes. Expired. Jean-Claude told me he needed me to clean barrels, so I couldn’t go today. I had everything in my wallet, so I put all of it in the glove compartment to be safe.”
“Someone must have seen you,” Toby said.
Robyn folded her arms across her chest. “Well, what are we going to do now? The day workers have gone home. We can’t go after them and search them. We don’t even know where everyone lives.”
“We’ll file a report with the sheriff’s department that the documents were stolen and Miguel will replace them,” Toby said. “Though the Mexican birth certificate is going to take some time.”
Miguel’s eyes widened. “No. No sheriff. Please, Mr. Secretary. They can’t know I don’t have any papers. They’ll tell ICE and send me back to Mexico. I’ll have to leave Isabella. And the baby. Isabella is a U.S. citizen and the baby will be, too. Only me. I’m not American yet. You can’t call the policía.” He was upset all over again, agitated.
“Darling,” Robyn said to Toby, “he has a point.”
“All right. Let’s take this one step at a time, shall we?” Toby had slipped into the authoritative voice I remembered from hearing him on the news when he was about to tell the ambassador or minister of some country that the United States expected it to knock off whatever shenanigans it was engaged in and shape up.
“Miguel,” he said, “I think the best thing you can do is go home and get some sleep. Isabella’s baby is due any day now and you need to be with her. Let me think about this and make some calls in the morning, okay? You have to trust me.”
Miguel nodded. His eyes were still big and dark with worry, though his fears seemed to be subsiding. “Okay. Thank you. Good night, Secretary Levine. Good night, everyone.”
He slipped out the front door and sprinted down the driveway, disappearing into the darkness. Toby shut the door and leaned against it, closing his eyes.
After a moment he opened them and said, “Well, that’s certainly enough excitement for one night. I’ll make some call
s in the morning and get this taken care of. Now, who would like another cosmo?”
Quinn, who had been standing behind me, placed his hands on my shoulders. “Thanks for the offer, but Lucie and I ought to be going,” he said. “We’re supposed to meet Eli for dinner at the Goose Creek Inn in a few minutes.”
“Thank you for your hospitality,” I said. “It was nice to see both of you.”
“Our pleasure.” Robyn still looked rattled. “And our apologies for what just happened.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for,” I said. “We’ve been lucky enough not to have any theft or vandalism at our place—yet—but it happens. Poor Miguel. His citizenship test coming up and Isabella’s baby due momentarily. Plus…”
I caught myself. Jean-Claude was the one who had told me that he’d attempted to fire Miguel, but Robyn had put a stop to it when she found out and told Toby not to let it happen. No one else standing here was aware that I knew and I had been about to say something indiscreet about Miguel’s relationship with Jean-Claude.
“Yes?” Robyn crossed one foot over the other and gave me an inquiring look.
“Plus Antonio and Valeria’s wedding is coming up the week after next. Miguel and Isabella are supposed to be their witnesses.”
“I’m sure I can do something about getting his green card replaced,” Toby said. “And we’ll see about the driver’s license. I’m also friendly with the current Mexican ambassador.”
“Seems to me you’ve got enough contacts to get this all squared away pretty quickly,” Quinn said.
“Maybe even before Miguel’s citizenship test?” I added in a hopeful voice.