Hen of the Baskervilles

by Donna Andrews

  Nothing I could do about spies any more than chicken thieves. I headed back to the arts and crafts barn so I could find Mother and make good on my promise to Molly. I paused just inside the doorway where the building’s volunteer monitor was sitting and craned my neck to see if I could spot Mother.

  “She’s over in the wine pavilion,” the volunteer said. “Your mother, I mean, if that’s who you’re looking for.”

  I thanked her and began picking my way through the gathering crowds to the wine pavilion. We’d originally planned to have the wine competitions in the same barn as the rest of the food and craft exhibits, but a few weeks before the opening of the fair our registrar had reported, with a note of panic in her voice, that we already had enough wine bottles, pies, quilts, preserves, carvings, paintings, sculptures, sweaters, photographs, and other arts and crafts to fill the barn, and entries were still pouring in. We’d solved that problem by erecting an enormous tent and christening it the “wine pavilion.” With the help of the ladies of the Caerphilly Garden Club, Mother had decorated it. One end resembled a Mediterranean villa, with tile, pottery, fountains, iron tables and chairs, well-aged barrels, and vintage riddling racks. Midway through the tent the style made a graceful, nearly seamless transition toward the neoclassical, with red brick, white columns, and Chinese railings, echoing Monticello and evoking Thomas Jefferson, founder and secular patron saint of Virginia’s wine industry. And of course, scattered throughout were several tons of potted foliage. The winemakers loved it.

  So did Mother. Even though she was theoretically also in charge of the quilt and pie barn, good luck ever finding her there short of a disaster like this morning’s quilt theft. She preferred the more elegant company of the winemakers.

  “Meg, dear,” she said, when I strolled into the tent. “What’s wrong? Are the boys all right?”

  “They’re fine,” I said. “Michael will probably bring them by to see you later.”

  “More unpleasantness, then?”

  “No more thefts or vandalism as far as I know,” I said. “But a friend of mine has a problem.”

  I glanced around to make sure no one else was nearby and then relayed Molly’s situation to her as succinctly as I could.

  “The poor dear!” she exclaimed. “You’re right—we simply must do something.”

  “Shall I tell her to come and talk to you?”

  “Good heavens, no,” Mother said. “I’ll make a few calls and then go over and talk to her. She wouldn’t want to come here.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Don’t you realize—never mind. You need to see for yourself what the poor girl is up against. Follow me.”

  Mother swept through the tent, giving the impression that her simple day dress came with an invisible train and possibly a tiara. She exchanged cheerful greetings with most of the arriving winemakers, and even air kisses with some of the women. I followed in her wake, hoping to pass unnoticed and avoid another round of interrogations about fair security.

  “Here we are,” Mother said, stopping at one of the booths. “Don’t mind us, Dorcas,” she stage-whispered to the woman behind the counter. “I just wanted Meg to get a good look at her.”

  “Be my guest,” Dorcas murmured. “And if you block my view, all the better.”

  “Her?” I asked.

  “Genette Sedgewick,” Mother said. “The Other Woman.”

  Chapter 8

  “Other woman?” I repeated. “Oh! You mean Molly’s husband’s new—”

  “Precisely.” Mother didn’t point, or even move her head, but she indicated, with her eyes, the booth diagonally across from Dorcas’s. Then she and Dorcas and the winemaker from the booth next door began talking in low voices. I turned around, pretending to be waiting for them to finish, and studied the Other Woman’s booth.

  It was jarringly out of place. Some of the booths were fairly plain. Most echoed either the Mediterranean or the Palladian theme, whichever prevailed at their end of the tent. Or perhaps Mother had anticipated the booths—she had a keen appreciation of good wine, and had probably already seen the different winemakers’ booths at other festivals—and visited their vineyards, too. And had designed the wine pavilion to coordinate with them.

  Genette’s booth was … well … loud. It was made of chrome with panels of translucent acrylic or opaque plastic in a variety of harsh, garish colors that clashed horribly with each other, like mustard yellow and bubblegum pink, which seemed to be her signature colors. The booth did provide a perfect background for her wine bottles, whose labels featured the same horrible colors in a jagged abstract design. I’d seen better artwork from Josh and Jamie, and they weren’t even three yet. The booth had little alcoves here and there, each displaying a single wine bottle with a couple of wineglasses in colors that matched the labels—where on earth would anyone find mustard-yellow wineglasses? Tucked in with the wine bottles and glasses were peculiar decorative elements, like small trays made of rough-cut trapezoids of corrugated sheet metal, little tangles of barbed wire, and angular bouquets of short PVC pipes. Some enormous letters sprawled across the back panel of the booth, probably spelling out the name of her winery, but in such an odd, jagged typeface that I couldn’t actually read it. Two rectangular blocks constructed entirely of black metal and industrial steel grating jutted out into the aisles, impeding traffic. The lighting, a combination of neon and bare lightbulbs, didn’t help.

  “We made her turn off the blinking lights,” Dorcas murmured.

  “And the music,” Mother added, with a shudder.

  Genette herself stepped into view. She was talking on a cell phone, and not, apparently, enjoying her conversation. She was pushing forty, but trying her best to look on the sunny side of twenty. Blond, but probably not by nature. On the slender side, but not nearly enough for the short, tight, bright red dress she was wearing. Considering how she was snarling and gesticulating at the phone, I found it astonishing how serene her face was. After a few moments it occurred to me that perhaps she’d had Botox.

  I was watching her out of the corner of my eye, trying to prove or disprove this theory, when another, stouter figure sailed into view.

  Brett Riordan. Molly’s not quite ex-husband.

  “Babe!” he cried, as he approached Genette’s booth. He had a half-full glass of red wine in one hand. He wrapped the other arm around Genette and pulled her into a prolonged kiss. Prolonged, but with curiously little heat—he didn’t seem to be expressing passion so much as marking territory.

  For that matter, so did Genette.

  I looked away, and glanced around to see how the other denizens of the wine pavilion were reacting. Most of them were also looking away—some of them rather ostentatiously. A few were tittering or rolling their eyes.

  Brett and Genette had finished their kiss but were clinging together, giggling and pawing each other. Brett was still handsome in a beefy way, but he’d gained bulk. His jowls were softer now, and his nose and cheeks a lot redder. I didn’t think much of Genette, but she could do a lot better than Brett.

  Then again, I’d always been immune to his boozy charm.

  “They put on quite a show, don’t they?” Dorcas murmured.

  “Are we supposed to believe that they can’t resist each other?” her neighbor added.

  I had the feeling that what they couldn’t resist was the opportunity to shove their affair in our faces.

  Or had my arrival had something to do with it? Brett was no rocket scientist, but he knew who I was. Was he hoping I’d go back and tell Molly what I’d seen? Not a chance.

  A pity I couldn’t tell him that. But he probably knew I’d never been his biggest fan. Molly and I had become better friends in the last several years, when I no longer had to rack my brain for the right thing to say when she burbled about how wonderful Brett was. I’d been a lot more comfortable sympathizing when she complained about his spendthrift ways, his inability to hold or even get a job, and her growing awareness that he was turnin
g from a happy-go-lucky young man with a fondness for restaurants and parties into a loud middle-aged alcoholic loafer.

  But “I told you so” isn’t something you can say to friends. I reminded myself that however tempting it would be to criticize Brett to Molly, it wasn’t a wise or kind thing to do. What if they got back together again after I’d told Molly exactly how little I thought of him? Or, more likely, what if slamming him, instead of cheering her up, made her feel like an idiot for marrying him in the first place? No, as long as Molly was around, I’d keep my opinions of Brett to myself.

  But Molly wasn’t around. And Mother was.

  “Honestly,” I said, rolling my eyes slightly.

  Mother shook her head.

  “Precisely.” She arched her neck and deliberately turned her back on the two of them. “By the way,” she went on. “I want you and Randall to know right now that next year I’m imposing rules on the decor. Shopping malls do it, and homeowners’ associations, so I don’t see why we can’t.”

  “You think the winemakers will stand for that?”

  “They’re asking if we can’t impose them this year,” she said. “I don’t think that’s fair, but next year, we will send out lists of acceptable colors and materials, and any exceptions must be approved by me. Or whoever you appoint to be next year’s arts and crafts director.”

  “Does this mean you’re volunteering to be Quilts, Pies, and Wine Czarina again next year?” I said. “Awesome.”

  “Only if I’m allowed to evict eyesores like that,” she said.

  “If you can come up with some enforceable rules, we’ll enforce them.”

  Actually, I had no doubt Mother could do it herself.

  “Thank you, dear. And you did have that rule against exhibitors interfering with other booths. I was able to use that to shut down the music.”

  “I remember you mentioned music,” I said. “I gather we’re not talking anything tasteful and classical?”

  “Sounded like someone killing hogs,” the neighbor said.

  “People fled the tent when she turned it on,” Dorcas added.

  “It made the Rancid Dreads’ music sound melodious,” Mother said. Possibly the first time she’d every used the word “music” to refer to the sounds emitted by our local heavy metal band, so I deduced that Genette’s taste in music must be very strange indeed.

  Brett and Genette were still pawing each other, obviously aware of the disapproving stares they were getting. Well, a few disapproving stares, and a lot of disapproving backs of heads. Mother raised one eyebrow and sighed.

  “Not a big fan of public displays of affection?” Dorcas asked.

  “As long as they’re tasteful,” Mother said. “But there are limits.”

  “Like when one of the displayers is still married to someone else,” I said. “That’s Molly Riordan’s husband, you know.”

  “Don’t you mean ‘ex-husband’?” Dorcas asked. “I thought I heard they were divorced now.”

  “They will be, eventually, but right now they’re only separated,” I said.

  “The jerk,” Dorcas muttered.

  “Precisely.” Mother’s voice dripped with icy disapproval.

  “And Mother, before you ask,” I went on. “I don’t think we can enforce a rule against adultery in the wine pavilion next year, but we can misplace Genette’s application for a booth until all the spaces are taken.”

  “Thank you, dear.” Mother was almost purring with satisfaction.

  “Great idea,” Dorcas said. “Wish you’d known her well enough to do it this year. Of course, I’m hoping she’ll get bored with her vineyard by next fall.”

  “Yeah,” her neighbor put in. “She bought it almost three years ago now. It only took her two years to get tired of running that restaurant she bought in Middleburg.”

  “And before that, three years to give up on being a world-famous fashion designer,” Dorcas said. “Wonder what her next hobby will be?”

  “She seems to have expensive hobbies,” I said. “Where does she get the money?”

  “Inherited it, or so I heard,” Dorcas said. “Her family must have been really loaded.”

  “Wasn’t her family, from what I heard,” the other winemaker said. “Came from her late husbands—two of them, both with big wallets and weak hearts.”

  “Sounds plausible,” Dorcas said. “However she got her hands on her money, she certainly never seems to have a problem paying for what she wants.”

  Genette and Brett finally tired of their exhibition. She fussed over his hair, straightened the collar of his shirt, topped off his wineglass, and waved like a housewife in a fifties sitcom as he ambled off.

  Then she turned around, scanned her surroundings, and spotted me. Her face twitched slightly, in what I realized would have been a frown if her forehead could move. Then she pasted an artificial smile on her face and gestured to me in much the way an impatient diner would summon an errant waiter.

  “Uh-oh,” Dorcas said. “You’ve been summoned.”

  “Don’t let her bully you,” the other winemaker said.

  “Meg will be fine.” Mother smiled encouragement at me.

  Armed with that vote of confidence, I strolled over to Genette’s booth.

  Chapter 9

  “Finally,” she said, as if she’d summoned me hours ago. “I need to talk to someone about getting my music back.”

  “I can check with our lost and found,” I said, pretending to misunderstand her. “Are we talking sheet music or CDs or—”

  “I haven’t lost my CDs,” she said. “But that woman made me stop playing them!”

  She was pointing to Mother.

  “Yes, she’s in charge of the wine pavilion,” I said. “And you do realize that we have a rule prohibiting anything that interferes with your neighbors’ ability to do business in their booths, right?”

  “But music wouldn’t interfere,” she protested. “It would liven things up around here. I mean, look at this place! It’s dead in here.”

  I looked. Considering that it was barely a quarter to eleven in the morning—not a time of day I, at least, associated with drinking wine—the tent was pretty busy. A fair number of visitors were already strolling up and down the aisles, or stopping to talk to the winemakers. You could hear the occasional pop of a cork or clink of a glass, and the conversations blended into a pleasant hum, occasionally punctuated by laughter.

  “Sounds fine to me,” I said.

  “Maybe for a morgue. Check this out.” She turned around, punched a button, and a tsunami of noise erupted from the two speakers that had been masquerading as ugly occasional tables. It sounded as if someone were torturing half a dozen cats by throwing them onto drums, into trash cans, and through a couple of large plate-glass windows.

  “Turn it off,” I shouted. “Turn it off!”

  But she couldn’t have heard me, and wasn’t looking my way to see that I had my hands clapped over my ears. She had her eyes closed, and was swaying and twitching spasmodically.

  Evidently neither shouting nor miming was going to work. I glanced down and saw power cords snaking down from the speakers and across the open ground in the middle of her booth to disappear under a chrome and Plexiglas panel. I leaned down and gave one cord a hard yank. A power strip slid from under the booth. I hit its off switch and sudden, blessed silence prevailed.

  Utter silence. As I stood up again, I glanced around to see that all up and down the tent, people were staring at us with their mouths wide open and their hands protecting their ears.

  “What did you have to do that for?” Genette was actually pouting.

  “I’m afraid I agree that your music is in violation of the wine pavilion rules,” I said.

  “And the county’s noise ordinances,” called a nearby winemaker.

  “I want to challenge everyone’s conservative perceptions about wine.” It might have sounded plausible if she hadn’t said it in the whiny voice of a thwarted toddler—a tone that was beco
ming all too familiar to me lately. “I want people to stop thinking of wine as something that only staid, middle-aged, affluent people can buy.”

  A well-dressed middle-aged woman who was in the process of buying several cases of wine at the next booth turned and glared at her briefly.

  “That’s the whole idea behind my brand identity.” She indicated her booth with a sweeping gesture. “I hired an expensive, cutting-edge New York brand management firm to design it, because I wanted something edgy and urban and new! Not all this medieval Jefferson crap.” This time she waved vaguely at the rest of the tent. If looks could kill, Mother would already have felled her from across the aisle. “You need to bring wine into the twenty-first century!”

  “We’ll certainly take your suggestions under advisement,” I said. “For next year. But we have neither the time nor the money to change the decor for this year’s fair. So we’d appreciate it if you’d try to work within this year’s guidelines.”

  “So what am I supposed to do with the forty-thousand-dollar sound system I had made for my booth?” She pointed to the hulking speakers, now silent but still radiating potential menace.

  “They make … interesting occasional tables,” I said. “But do keep them clear of the aisles—we wouldn’t want anyone to damage them.”

  With that I went back to where Mother and Dorcas were waiting.

  “That woman,” Mother said, shaking her head.

  “If anyone kills her, I expect an alibi,” I said.

  “If anyone’s planning to kill her, tell them to come see me,” Dorcas said. “I want to get in on it.”

  I glanced back at Genette. She was tugging one of her hideous speakers back behind the booth line, glaring my way as she did. I’d probably made an enemy just now.

  I didn’t much care.

  “Let me know if she causes any trouble,” I said.

  “I think I can handle any trouble she causes.” Mother sniffed slightly.

  “Yes, but I can’t ban anyone from the fair for misbehavior unless someone tells me about the misbehavior,” I said. “So I want to hear chapter and verse.”