by Ellen Crosby
I hung up as Quinn texted me.
Home in 20 minutes. Ready for a drink. What’s for dinner?
I wrote back. More than ready for a drink. Persia’s eggplant parmigiana & homemade garlic bread. Just talked to Eli.
He texted a smiling emoji, presumably because of the meal and not my talk with Eli. I put the eggplant parmigiana in the oven along with the foil-wrapped garlic bread, and went into the library. David Phelps’ email was still sitting in my in-box waiting for my answer. I booted up the computer. Did I want to meet him?
Who was he, anyway? He’d been cagey and fairly opaque in giving out any details about himself except for mentioning a few things about his adoptive parents and the highly personal fact that he and I shared DNA, thanks to my father having sex with his biological mother. Once? More than once? When?
I sat down and reread his email. He wanted to know about his father—our father—but now he’d aroused my curiosity as well. I wanted to know about his mother. Who was the woman with whom Leland had had an affair? David Phelps at least owed me that information after detonating a bomb in the middle of my life and leaving me feeling like I was holding pieces of Humpty Dumpty. I would never, ever be able to put everything back together again.
I heard Quinn’s truck pull into the circular driveway. I glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel. He was five minutes early. I clicked on the icon for a new email before I changed my mind, and wrote quickly.
Dear David,
You are correct that your letter has come as a huge surprise, and I do think it would be a good idea for us to meet. I have no idea where you live—you have dropped into my life out of nowhere—but perhaps we could meet some place in the Middleburg area? First, though, please tell me about yourself as I am totally in the dark about you while you have the advantage of apparently knowing quite a lot about me.
The front door opened and closed. I heard Quinn call my name and the dull thud of his keys landing on the telephone table in the foyer.
I didn’t know how to sign David’s email. Your half-sister Lucie? Sincerely? Hope to hear from you? Cheers?
Finally I just typed my name.
“In here,” I called and hit Send. By the time Quinn poked his head around the door, I had turned off the computer screen.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Just checking email.”
“Jean-Claude’s murder is going to be on the six o’clock news. I didn’t know if you wanted to watch it, see what they’re saying. I’ll pour us drinks.”
Eli was right: the death of Jean-Claude de Merignac was the lead story on the news, even ahead of Hurricane Lolita. As soon as the announcers said “Good evening,” a Breaking News banner flashed across the bottom of the screen and the camera switched to Pippa, who was standing in front of the La Vigne Cellars sign. It was a live report. Frankie had already told her I wasn’t around and I wondered if she would make any comment about my unavailability.
She did. “… body was discovered this morning by Lucie Montgomery, owner of Montgomery Estate Vineyard in Atoka, and next-door neighbor of former secretary of state Tobias Levine and his partner, Robyn Callahan. Ms. Montgomery was—apparently—not available for an interview, but News Channel 3 has learned that the murder weapon was a pair of pruning shears owned by Miguel Otero, an employee at La Vigne Cellars. The Loudoun County Sheriff’s Office is looking for Otero, who disappeared shortly after de Merignac’s body was discovered. The Sheriff’s Office says Otero should be considered armed and dangerous. Anyone with information…”
“Apparently not available?” Quinn asked. “That was a dig.”
“Well, I was available. Just not for her. But ‘armed and dangerous’? Miguel?” I said. “Is she kidding?”
Quinn pointed the remote at the television and hit the Mute button. “Antonio’s really upset. I finally sent him home to Valeria.”
I drank some wine. “I know Antonio’s upset. He says Miguel’s innocent and wants me to prove it or no one will show up to pick the Cab Franc on Saturday. Or do anything else around here. He says all the guys are scared of ICE. Even the legal ones.”
Quinn eyed me. “You? Why is it your responsibility?”
“Because my family and the de Merignacs go way back in France, which apparently is supposed to give me an in with finding out who really killed Jean-Claude. Oh, yes, he also called off the wedding until this is all sorted out.”
Quinn got up off the sofa and held out a hand to me. “Come on,” he said, pulling me up. “Let’s eat. I’m starved. We can finish talking about this over dinner.”
“What about Lolita?” I said. “Don’t you want to see the latest?”
He gave me a weary look. “I think we’ve both had enough bad news for one day, don’t you?”
But even after dinner we were still talking about Jean-Claude’s murder. We both heard the rumble of a helicopter crisscrossing the sky overhead while we were eating. The Loudoun County Sheriff’s Office didn’t own a search-and-rescue helicopter, but next-door Fairfax did. The Fairfax County Police Department must have sent it to help Loudoun in the search for Miguel. I wondered how long they would continue looking for him before quitting for the night.
“Someone must have seen Miguel in the area,” Quinn said as the sound of blades whirred overhead one more time. “Those helicopters have huge searchlights.”
“They’re flying over us. Highland Farm.”
“I know.”
“Do you think he’s hiding here?”
“He left on foot. Maybe he’s still in the area. I can’t imagine he’d want to be very far away from Isabella, especially in her condition.”
“He must be terrified.”
We had gone outside on the veranda and were sitting on the glider finishing the last of the dinner wine. The weather had cooled off and a fresh, clean breeze rustled the trees. The faded chirping of the cicadas and a dog barking in the distance were the only sounds now. The noise of the helicopter’s twilight search had receded, which I hoped meant it had gone back to Fairfax.
“If Miguel didn’t kill Jean-Claude,” Quinn said, “then who did? There’s a murderer out there somewhere.”
I set my wineglass on the floor and shifted so I was lying with my head on Quinn’s lap, staring up at the pale blue veranda ceiling, a color we called haint blue. It had been painted that soft blue-green as long as I could remember because of an old Southern superstition that the color warded off haints, the restless spirits of the dead who still hadn’t moved on from the physical world. Tonight I didn’t want any spirits—specifically Jean-Claude de Merignac—lurking here, or anywhere in my thoughts for that matter.
“I know,” I said and shuddered as one of our phones, which were lying on the coffee table, rang.
“Yours,” Quinn said and handed it to me.
“It’s Yasmin Imrie.” I swung my feet around so they hit the floor and sat up. “I completely forgot about her with everything that’s happened. We were supposed to talk at the end of the day.”
When I answered she apologized for calling so late.
“I was at the grave site until it was too dark to see anything,” she said. “I hope I’m not bothering you at this hour. Win Turnbull stopped by after he finished over at La Vigne Cellars, so I heard that you were the one who discovered the winemaker who was murdered. What an awful experience for you. I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks. It was a shock. Actually, it still is.”
“You know, maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to call you tonight. Why don’t we talk in the morning?” she said. “I can tell you my news then. It’s nothing that can’t wait.”
My pulse quickened. Yasmin had spent the entire day at the gravesite. She must have found something to keep her there so long.
“You have news?”
“I do, but I’m fairly certain it won’t be what you’re expecting. It’s a bit grim. After everything you’ve been through today…”
I didn’t need any more grim news,
but there was no way I was going to let her go without finding out what she’d discovered.
“It’s okay. Maybe you should just tell me what it is. Quinn Santori, my fiancé, is listening now, too.” I put the phone on speaker.
“Hi, there,” Quinn said.
“Hello.” She blew out a long breath that sounded like air being let out of a tire. “If you’re sure, Lucie.”
“I am.”
“All right. First the good news, relatively speaking. The rest of the skeleton was in that grave. Not only was it completely intact, it was quite well-preserved. The shed did a good job protecting it from the elements and keeping out predators. Otherwise the bones would have been scattered to the four winds.”
I waited for her to go on.
“Also, it looks as if the body was placed in the grave, not dumped in the ground. It was wrapped in a quilt.” It sounded as if she paused to take a sip of a drink before continuing. “Now for the bad news. Unfortunately after I removed the skull from where you discovered it, I found signs of blunt force trauma to the back of the head. It had nothing to do with something that might have happened in the grave. Someone hit her with something. Hard.”
I envisioned the skull as Yasmin described it, what it must look like after a massive blow. And then wondered about the flesh-and-blood woman who’d been the victim. “Hard enough to kill her?”
“There was evidence of multiple blows, so yes, I’d say so.”
The coppery smell of Jean-Claude’s blood came back to me as sharp and pungent as if I were standing next to him again in the wine cellar.
I sucked in my breath. “Wow.”
“We don’t have to go on, Lucie. I know this is not pleasant.”
“It’s okay. Do you think the quilt was used to transport her to where she was buried?” I asked.
“It’s possible. I didn’t see any traces of blood on the fabric where it came in contact with the wound. So maybe she was already dead when she was wrapped in it,” Yasmin said. “Still, it’s hard to say after all this time.”
She paused and I had the feeling she was holding some information back.
“Is there anything else?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” she said. “I found a man’s cufflink in the grave. It was engraved with the initials CM.”
“What would a cufflink be doing in her grave?” I asked.
“My guess would be that it belonged to whoever dug that hole. It’s not uncommon for a button or a cufflink to come off a jacket, or a pair of glasses to fall out of a shirt pocket and disappear in the soil without the individual realizing it at the time.”
I closed my eyes. “CM,” I said. “The M might stand for Montgomery.”
There was no point stating the obvious. If that were true, one of my ancestors had buried this woman in an unmarked grave. Maybe the woman wasn’t related to me. Maybe whoever killed her was. Maybe CM was the murderer.
I felt as if I couldn’t catch my breath. “If I’m right, it changes everything,” I said. “Someone in my family was trying to hide this woman’s body. Possibly the person who killed her.”
Quinn covered my hand with his. “You don’t know that. A lot of people have last names that begin with M.”
“It’s too much of a coincidence,” I said. “What do you think, Yasmin?”
“I don’t know,” she said in a thoughtful voice. “If I were a member of your family and I’d killed someone—let’s say the owner of the cufflink was the murderer—I’d put her body in a field in the middle of nowhere or dump her in a lake. I wouldn’t bury her a few feet from the family cemetery.”
“And if she’s a Montgomery—the victim, that is,” Quinn said, “why wasn’t she buried in the cemetery?”
My head was starting to ache. “None of this makes sense,” I said. “Yasmin, do you have any idea how old this grave is?”
“Eighteen hundreds,” she said right away. “Probably mid-eighteen hundreds; say around eighteen fifties or eighteen sixties.”
“So either immediately before or during the Civil War,” Quinn said.
“That’s right,” she said.
“If CM is related to me,” I said, “every Montgomery since the early eighteen hundreds is listed in the record section in our family Bible. Including the name and birthdate of spouses, along with names and birthdates of all their children. Now that I know roughly when she died, maybe I can figure out who he was, which would solve one of the mysteries.”
“You might be able to find out something about her as well,” Yasmin said, “in that family Bible.”
“Meaning one of my relatives killed another member of the family?” Now we were really moving into uncharted territory, something out of a Greek tragedy or a bad reality television show, a place I had no desire to explore.
“It happens, Lucie.” Yasmin’s voice was gentle. “It might explain the rationale for the grave being so near your family’s cemetery.”
“What about the quilt?” Quinn seemed to want to change the grisly subject. “Did you find anything wrapped in it? Besides her, I mean.”
“Unfortunately no,” Yasmin said. “I had to remove it in order to get at the rest of the remains. I’m afraid I’m no expert on quilts, so I can’t really tell you anything about it. I’ll give it to you when I see you, Lucie. It’s quite fragile, but perhaps you can have what’s salvageable restored. I imagine it would be of historic interest.”
“I know a textile expert I can ask about that,” I said. “Now what happens next?”
“It’s up to you,” she said. “I don’t know if you want to see her in situ, or if, under the circumstances, you’d prefer for me to remove the samples I need and bring them to the lab so I can conduct some tests. I could cover the site until you’re ready to make any arrangements. And don’t worry, I’ll make sure it will be as watertight as possible so there won’t be any damage from the hurricane. In the meantime, perhaps you want to contact a funeral home that would be able to help you with properly interring the remains.”
“I plan to have her reburied in our cemetery,” I said. “And before you take your samples I’d like to see her just as you found her.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am.”
“All right, then, why don’t I do that buccal swab when you come by? That way the lab can compare your DNA with hers. How about tomorrow morning, say nine o’clock?”
“Tomorrow at nine is fine,” I said.
“We’ll both be there,” Quinn said.
After she disconnected, I said to Quinn, “You don’t have to come. There’s so much going on at the winery … so much work to do.”
“The place will survive without us for half an hour. I’m coming,” he said. “No arguments.”
I gave him a wan smile. “Thanks.”
“Are you going to be okay?”
I knew what he was asking. “Quinn, she was buried in a storage shed. No coffin and someone apparently murdered her. Maybe someone related to me.”
“You might never know what really happened, sweetheart. How she died. How she ended up where she did.”
“I have to at least do my best to find out.”
He pulled me into his arms and whispered into my hair. “Let’s take this one step at a time. It’s also possible someone didn’t have time for a proper burial and she was put in that shed to protect her remains. Maybe she was hidden there on purpose.”
I sat back and stared at him. “You could be right. Maybe whoever buried her there didn’t want anyone to know she was dead, so it could appear she just vanished, or ran away.”
He reached for my hand and pulled me up from the glider. “Look, it’s been a hell of a day. What about taking out the telescope and doing some stargazing?”
Getting lost in the stars and planets and all the other phenomena in the night sky was Quinn’s escape when things became too intense right here on earth. “You’re reduced to your proper size in the universe,” he’d said to me once. “Even the biggest pr
oblems don’t seem that important once you can actually see how small our galaxy—and Earth—really is in the vastness of outer space.”
I disentangled my hand from his. “Would you mind if I don’t join you? I’d like to take a look at the Bible and maybe some of Leland’s genealogical records. I really do want to find out who CM is.”
“Do you have to do that tonight?”
When I didn’t answer he said, “All right, I know when you’ve already made up your mind. I’ll be at the summerhouse all by my lonesome self, if you decide to join me.”
I kissed him. “I love you.”
He kissed me back. “I love you more.”
I left him on the veranda and went inside, waiting until I heard his footsteps and then the treads creaking on the stairs. Through the window I watched his dark silhouette moving through the garden. When it disappeared I walked into the library, flipped on the lights, and hit the space bar on the computer. The screen flickered to life and the mail icon indicated eight new emails. I sat down and opened my inbox. The very first email that had come in was from David Phelps. He had wasted no time in replying.
I opened it and read.
Dear Lucie,
I apologize for being so mysterious in my first email and sharing so little information about myself. So here is my story: I grew up in Washington, D.C., and lived here all my life, so I’m a local boy. I had what can only be described as an idyllic childhood and never doubted that Joe and Margaret Phelps loved me as if I were their own son, so I was blessed. I was fortunate to be educated in private schools in D.C. and went on to study theology and history at Harvard. After that I got a master’s in history at Princeton. For the last five years I have been working as a photographer for National Geographic since I have never been without a camera in my hands my whole life. My parents gave me my first one when I was ten and it has been a love affair ever since. I also freelance on the side—mostly pro bono work for charity—but I am a restless soul, a travel junkie, and constantly seek out new places and the next adventure. Photography gives me a good way to express what is important to me, to show my worldview. More on that another time. I have been told by friends that I am never far from a soapbox.