The Bordeaux Betrayal wcm-3

by Ellen Crosby

  “You all right?” I asked.

  “Have a seat,” Mick said.

  “Thanks. I’m fine. Sorry about that scene earlier.”

  “Forget it,” Mick said.

  “She’s a fraud,” Ryan said. “And she knows how to goad me. I shouldn’t have let her get to me.”

  “You accused her of plagiarism,” I said. “Are you sure about that?”

  He blew out a breath that sounded like air leaving a tire. “Hell, yeah, I’m sure. You think she wrote that book herself? Or her other one, on the first harvest at Jamestown?”

  “If she didn’t, who did?”

  “The Jamestown book.” He ticked items off on his fingers. “One, she was sleeping with one of the archaeologists when they discovered that James Fort wasn’t washed into the river like everybody had thought it was for the past two hundred years. Two, the glass they found, the artifacts dating from the first harvest in America in 1609—she got lucky because he was the one who unearthed them. Three, her boyfriend spoon-fed her everything. It doesn’t get much easier than that.”

  “What about the Jefferson book?” Mick asked.

  Ryan looked pained. “That book was my idea. I planned that tour of the vineyards Jefferson visited. When I went down to the UVA library and Monticello for some preliminary research, I ran into her and stupidly told her about it over a drink. Next thing I know, she pitched it to her publisher and they bought it. I was dead in the water when I finally got around to putting my proposal together.”

  “So who wrote the Jefferson book?” I said.

  He was incredulous. “Have you read it?”

  I said, “No,” and Mick shook his head.

  “A kid in grade school could have done a better job. She plagiarized the good parts. What she wrote is pathetic. The reason she’s traveling all over the country on a book tour is because her publisher is trying to recoup the whopping advance she got based on the Jamestown book.” He sat back in his chair and downed more champagne. His Van Dyke quivered and the pursed-lip smile looked pinched.

  Someone came over and tapped Ryan on the shoulder. “You’re on,” he said. “Time to introduce her.”

  I wondered if he was the groveler from Valerie’s publisher.

  Ryan stood up and put a hand on the table to steady himself. “Sometimes I hate myself for being such a whore,” he said. “I wish I hadn’t said yes to this.”

  Despite his acrimonious feelings, he gave a perfectly correct, if unenthusiastic, introduction to Valerie and her book. He also apparently decided to cut his losses since Valerie knew about the Margaux, and brought up the wine, its connection to George Washington, and our auction. He ended by plugging his column. Valerie glared at him as she got up to take her place at the podium but he walked past her and kept on walking. He never did return to our table.

  Her talk was a sleeper, literally. Mick leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. A moment later, I heard his breathing, regular as clockwork. Even Joe’s head bobbed once or twice like he might be nodding off. We’d clearly been invited to pad the attendance numbers. When Valerie finished, I nudged Mick.

  “It’s over,” I said. “Safe to wake up now.”

  “What happened?”

  “Jefferson made it back to Paris at the end of his trip.”

  “I like happy endings. Guess I don’t need to read the book.”

  “Me, neither. Let’s go. I’d like to avoid both Valerie and Joe.”

  Mick took my hand and we started to walk across the lawn toward the colonnade. Someone touched my arm.

  “I want to talk to you,” Valerie said. “I don’t have much time.”

  “About what?” But I knew about what. The Washington wine.

  “I’ll meet you out front in the courtyard,” Mick said, “after you’re done here.”

  I nodded, wishing he’d stayed.

  “I’m giving a talk to some kids at Middleburg Academy tomorrow,” Valerie said. “I thought I’d drop by your vineyard on my way and see the wines you’ve got for your auction. Check them out for myself. Let’s say nine o’clock. That will give me time to get to the academy by ten.”

  Middleburg Academy was the private girls’ high school where Joe Dawson taught history. So he and Valerie were seeing each other tomorrow, too.

  I hate being bullied or told what I will or won’t do. “The public will get a chance two days before the event to preview all the wines we’ll be auctioning. You’re more than welcome to have a look then.”

  Her eyes widened and she drew her head back. She looked like a snake about to strike. “Honey, you haven’t got a clue what you’ve got sitting in your wine cellar. If you’re smart you’ll let me come by tomorrow.”

  I leaned on my cane and moved my face close to hers. “I’m plenty smart and I know the Margaux isn’t in the best condition. Don’t worry. We’ll be up-front about it.”

  “The Margaux.” She gave me an imperious look. “I knew you didn’t know what you had. I’m talking about provenance.”

  “Valerie!” Her publicist showed up at her elbow. “Where the hell have you been? People are leaving. You’ve got to get over to the signing table now. Come on.”

  She said over her shoulder as he hustled her back to the piazza, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Lucie. Nine o’clock.”

  I told Mick about the conversation on the way back to the gravel parking lot just outside the mansion grounds.

  “Do you think she knows what she’s talking about?” I asked.

  “There’s one way to find out, isn’t there?” We’d reached his car, a black Mercedes. He opened the door for me. “Let her look at the wine and hear her out.”

  “I don’t like the way she tried to push me around.”

  “So don’t let her look at it.”

  “This affects you, too, you know. You agreed to have the auction at your home.”

  “I’m missing some connection in your logic.”

  “You don’t seem that bothered by what she said.”

  “I’m not.” He glanced over at me. “Darling, stop it, will you? Make a decision and forget it.” His words were clipped.

  I stared out the window as the D.C. skyline came into view across the Potomac. The Capitol and the Washington Monument stood out like cardboard pop-ups on the otherwise flat landscape before disappearing as we turned west for the forty-five-mile drive home to Atoka. Mick found a jazz station on his satellite radio and we listened in silence to wailing saxes, piano riffs, and smoky voices for the rest of the trip.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. We had stopped at the lone traffic light in Middleburg. The next town was Atoka. “You’ve gone awfully quiet.”

  “Just thinking.”

  We didn’t speak again until he turned off Atoka Road onto Sycamore Lane, the private road that led to the vineyard and Highland House, my home.

  “If you don’t let her come by tomorrow you’re not going to be able to get it off your mind. So do it and that’ll be the end of it,” he said.

  I smiled in the darkness, wondering how he knew what I was thinking. “All right, although I think she just wants to stir up trouble. What would she know about that bottle that Jack Greenfield wouldn’t know? Ryan implied she’s not that bright.”

  “You know the difference between men and women? Women make up their minds more than once. You agonize over every detail. Blokes just decide and we’re done with it.”

  “Is that a criticism?”

  He pulled into the circular drive in front of my house and stopped the car. “Take it anyway you like.”

  I knew what was coming next. After four months of abstinence his kiss was like drinking from a well after a journey through the Sahara. I’d forgotten how much I missed him, or maybe I hadn’t let myself think about it. His breathing was hard and shallow as he laid me back against the seat. I wondered why he wanted to make love here first when we could just go inside and do it in my bed. I felt dizzy as his hands moved to unzip my dress. I arched my back to make it
easier for him.

  “Bloody hell!” He sat up suddenly. “I knocked my knee on the gearshift.”

  I started to laugh and pull him down on top of me, but it was over for him as quickly as it started. He untangled himself from my arms and sat back up. “Maybe we shouldn’t. Not tonight. Sorry, love.”

  My face was flushed and my clothes were disordered. He’d unhooked my bra and I was having trouble rehooking it. I tried to dress without looking at him.

  “You all right?” he said. “Sorry. I just—”

  “Please don’t apologize. We haven’t come to that, have we?”

  “No, of course not. Look, Lucie—”

  “It’s okay. Good night. Thanks for coming with me and being a good sport about this evening.”

  I escaped from his car before he could say anything else. I’d taken two steps when I realized I’d left my cane in the Mercedes. My face burned as he handed it to me.

  “Let me know how it goes with Valerie,” he said.

  I kept my voice deadpan. “Sure.”

  As soon as I got inside I undressed and went straight to bed. All night long he’d been sending an unmistakable message that he wanted to rekindle our relationship, hadn’t he? So what had just happened? Did he want to jerk my chain to see if I’d still respond?

  He found out, all right, but I had no intention of letting it happen again.

  At least I hoped not.

  Valerie never showed the next day. Nine came and went and so did ten. I went to my office to finish the monthly tax return we needed to file with the Alcohol and Tobacco Tax and Trade Bureau. It was overdue but harvest had been a bear and we’d worked almost around the clock. I punched figures into a calculator and wondered why the government couldn’t find someone to draw up these forms who spoke the same English I did.

  The phone rang and “Middleburg Academy” showed up on the display. After last night I didn’t feel like talking to Joe. I let the call go to the answering machine.

  He sounded agitated. “Sorry to bother you, Lucie, but I was wondering if Valerie Beauvais was still there. I’ve got a second period American History class in the middle of meltdown. She promised to come by and talk to them this morning and she hasn’t shown. Could you call me when you get—”

  I picked up the phone. “Hey, Joe. You’re looking for Valerie? She never came by here, either.”

  “You serious? I just called her cell and got her voice mail,” he said. “The academy put her up at the Fox and Hound last night. She hasn’t checked out but she doesn’t answer the phone in her cottage, either. The staff swears she’s not on the property and says her car’s gone. I can’t figure out where she went.”

  “Sorry I can’t help.” I didn’t like sounding brusque but Valerie could take care of herself and if she was lost then she wanted to get lost.

  “I hate to impose but do you think you could possibly—”

  The Fox and Hound was just up the road from the vineyard. He wanted me to check on his girlfriend. I cut him off. “I’m pretty tied up here.”

  “I’d go myself but I can’t leave the kids and I’m worried about her. Please, Lucie? If you could just swing by and see what’s up, I’ll owe you. It’ll take you less than fifteen minutes.”

  I propped my bad leg up on the credenza and stared at the photos lined up on it. Framed pictures of my parents, Chantal and Leland Montgomery—now both dead—as well as my brother Eli with his wife and daughter, my sister Mia, Hector and his family, and photos taken with Quinn, our current winemaker, and Jacques, our former winemaker, with our crews at harvest. I picked up a silver-framed photo of Dominique and Joe at the Goose Creek Inn’s fortieth anniversary party when she officially took over as owner. Both of them laughing and clowning as they fed each other cake. Except for the clothes they were wearing it could have been their wedding day.

  He had been trying to get her to set a date for the past few years but my workaholic cousin always found a reason to postpone. Joe was a patient man, a good man—like an older brother to me.

  “All right,” I said. “How do I get in touch with you after I check the Fox and Hound?”

  I heard his sigh of relief. “Call the school and they’ll put you through to the phone in my classroom. And thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it,” I said.

  I’d left my new car, a red Mini Cooper convertible with white racing stripes, in the winery parking lot. I put the top down and grabbed a baseball cap from the backseat to keep my hair from blowing in my eyes.

  Many of the roads around Atoka and Middleburg were ancient Indian trails now lined by Civil War–era stacked stone walls. Some were paved but many were still dirt or gravel because this was also horse-and-hunt country and it was better for the horses. Almost all of these pretty country lanes were hilly, filled with twists and turns that followed the contours of the land or Goose Creek as it meandered its way to the Potomac River just past Leesburg. I could drive them with my eyes closed because I knew them so well, but the corners were treacherous for anyone new to the area or not paying attention.

  The bright yellow SUV lay on its roof in Goose Creek at a sharp elbow bend in Atoka Road. The moment I saw it I knew it was Valerie’s. I pulled off the road and reached for my phone, murmuring a prayer. As near as I could tell she had made no effort to get out of the SUV.

  The woman who answered my 911 call asked calm, quiet questions. I gave her what little information I could. She promised help was on the way and I hung up.

  I waded into the chilly water until I got close enough to see inside the car. When I did, I felt sick. Valerie hung suspended upside down, trapped by her seat belt. Her face was bloody and she wasn’t moving.

  I wondered if I was too late and she was already dead.

  Chapter 2

  I didn’t expect the water to be so cold, nor the current so strong. Fortunately the creek was only knee-deep where her car had gone in and I could use my cane to keep steady against the swiftly flowing water.

  I called her name as I looked through the passenger window, but she didn’t stir. The car was full of water as high as the creek level. The noise as it rushed through the open windows roared in my ears. Near Valerie’s body it was a pale shade of pink and my stomach churned some more.

  I guessed that her car must have rolled like a barrel down the embankment head first because the roof was crushed in at the windshield and her airbag had been deployed, meaning the front end had struck something solid. A faint gunpowder odor still permeated the air inside the car. So far Valerie’s face was above water but the caved-in roof—which looked like it was responsible for her injuries—had diminished the interior headroom, leaving little clearance between Valerie and the water level. The ends of her blonde hair, which she’d worn loose, skimmed the surface of the eddying water as did both hands since her arms were now thrown above her head like a supplicant.

  I sloshed around to the front of the car, hanging on so I wouldn’t slip. At one point the chassis rocked crazily and I let go in a panic. Had it landed on a tree limb or something else that made it so unsteady? Whatever it was, I had to get Valerie out of here—release her from her seat belt and get her to the bank of the creek.

  I hung my cane on the side mirror and fought the urge to throw up as I looked through the driver’s side window. Valerie’s face and hair were blood-soaked and it looked like she’d sustained some injuries on the left side of her chest. Her eyes were closed and she didn’t appear to be breathing. I tried to find her carotid artery and my hand came away bloody.

  She was dead.

  “Oh, God, Valerie,” I said to her. “I’m so sorry. I’m getting you out of here, honey. They shouldn’t find you looking like a trussed fish.”

  The collapsed roof had crushed both front doors making them impossible to open. The back doors were locked. I found the unlock button and heard the click releasing all four doors.

  Once I undid her seat belt Valerie would drop like a stone straight into the water. I’d hav
e to grab her before she did, then try to pull her out of the car. She was taller than I, and probably weighed about ten pounds more—maybe a hundred and thirty, give or take. Hopefully I’d be able to carry her, but I wouldn’t be able to use my cane. If worse came to worse, I’d have to drag her.

  It no longer mattered if her injuries worsened.

  The only way to get into the car was through one of the back doors. The frame between the doors on the driver’s side was also bent, but not so badly that I couldn’t open the back door. I tugged hard on the handle and the car rocked back and forth again.

  “Oh, God,” I said under my breath. “Please stay where you are.” I jerked the door and the motion caused my cane to jump and slip off the side mirror. It dropped in the creek with a graceful plop and immediately caught the current, floating downstream. I started to go after it, then let it go. I’d never catch it.

  By now the water in the car was a darker shade of pink, almost cherry-colored. I squeezed between the front seats. If I could get Valerie’s seat to recline fully, I could pull her straight back once I released her seat belt, though it meant I needed to do both actions nearly simultaneously and somehow keep my balance in the cramped space.

  I snaked my hand between her seat and the door and found the lever. The seat groaned with her weight but I pulled on it so the back was nearly horizontal. Valerie’s face was suddenly right next to mine, bloodied and battered. I sucked in my breath.

  “Okay,” I said to her. “Let’s do this on three.” I counted and pushed the release for her seat belt. It caught a button on her blazer and I tried to loosen the belt as she fell on me knocking me backward against the rear seat. My bad foot collapsed and I lost my balance, though at least I didn’t swallow any water.

  I backed out of the car and stepped into the creek, tripping over something. Valerie came along with me and we went down together. My head snapped like it was on a spring and my back felt like someone had sliced it open with a razor. This time I did swallow water and it tasted like sour metal. I coughed and spat. God Almighty, what did people dump in Goose Creek?