by Ellen Crosby
“This is not going to be good,” Quinn said.
“No,” I said, “it isn’t.”
It was nearly midnight by the time Nicole’s body was lifted into the medical examiner’s van. I watched it drive off into the darkness, taillights bumping and jouncing on the rutted dirt road. Earlier Quinn, Pépé, and I had been separated and questioned. It didn’t take long before Pépé was allowed to return to the house. He wanted to stay with me, but he’d also been sneezing for the last hour and I worried that he could catch his death out here in the night air.
“Go home,” I said. “An officer will drive you. Make yourself something hot to eat and I’ll join you when I can.”
Finally he agreed.
Bobby Noland showed up just as Pépé left and took me aside. “We’d like permission to search your farm,” he said. “Including the winery. Barns, sheds, the whole ball of wax.”
“Why the winery?” I asked.
“Killer probably did it here somewhere.” He took a pack of gum out of his pocket and offered it to me.
I shook my head. To be honest, it hadn’t occurred to me that Nicole might have been at the vineyard—alive—before she was murdered.
“You don’t think she was brought to this place after she was dead?” I asked.
“Now why would someone strangle her, then lug her dead body all the way out here when they could dump her anywhere in the county?” He tucked the gum into his mouth. “Hell, yeah. I think it’s a very good possibility.”
“She was strangled?”
“Looks that way.”
“You’re saying someone who works here might have done it?”
“I’m not saying anything. Do you think someone who works here might have done it?” He blew a bubble.
“Quinn didn’t kill her,” I said.
He popped the bubble with a smack. “I didn’t bring up Quinn,” he said. “You did. Something you want to tell me?”
“Look, we have people in and out of here every day buying wine. On weekends during apple season they take this road to the orchard. The Goose Creek Hunt held a meet here yesterday. That’s a lot of cars and people coming and going,” I said.
“We’ll talk to everybody who came here to hunt, you can be sure of that. But I still think there’s a reason her body was left here.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Which is why I want to search your place. Are you gonna give me permission or not? I can always come back with a warrant.”
“You’ve got permission,” I said. “And you won’t find anything.”
“Maybe yes,” he said. “Maybe no.”
Pépé was sipping a glass of Armagnac and smoking a Boyard when I got back to the house.
“What happened after I left?” he asked.
“Bobby Noland thinks she might have been killed at the vineyard because we found her body here. They’re going to search the place.”
“That seems logical if that is what they believe.”
“It means they believe Quinn did it.”
“It doesn’t mean anything until they find something. And if he is innocent he has no worries.” He reached for the bottle of Armagnac. “A drink?”
“No, thanks.”
“Go to him.”
“What?”
“Go see Quinn, Lucie. It’s what you want to do.”
“Will you be all right if I go?”
“I think I can manage for one evening without you, mon ange.” His eyes were kind, but concerned. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
I kissed the top of his head and he patted my arm. “Que le Bon Dieu te portes bien,” he said.
I hoped God was listening to my grandfather because I was going to need all the help I could get.
A light shone in the living room window of Quinn’s cottage as I pulled up next to the El Camino. I sat in my car and stared at the house. Coming here was a mistake. Maybe I should just go home and leave him—
He tapped on the car window and I jumped. I hadn’t heard him come up.
He opened my door. “You waiting for a better parking place? Or did you think you’d sit out here all night and watch my house in case I make a run for it?”
“You scared the wits out of me. I never saw you come out of the house.”
“That’s because I went for a walk.” I thought he slurred his words slightly. “On your way home from the crime scene?”
“No. I came by to see if you were okay.”
He laughed. “That’s great. I really ’preciate that. Am I okay? Come on inside and have a drink with me.”
“I think you’ve probably had enough.”
He grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the car. “I would have to drink the ocean for it to be enough,” he said. “Please come drink with me.”
He climbed the stairs unsteadily. When we got inside I marveled, as I always did, how anyone could live for as long as he’d been in this house and leave no trace of himself.
“Can I offer you a Scotch?” he asked. “Or do you prefer wine?” He looked like he was having trouble focusing.
“Wine. I can get it.”
“Naw, I got it. Right here.” There was a collection of bottles on a scarred-up table next to the entrance to his dining room. He picked up a wineglass and frowned at it. I wasn’t sure if the glass was clean or not and he seemed in no shape to make that determination, either. He glanced over at me. “What?”
“I shouldn’t have come here,” I said. “This wasn’t a good idea.”
He was across the room before I knew it, pulling me into his arms. His kiss tasted like fire and it felt like he was pulling the oxygen out of me. I wanted to kiss him as fiercely as he wanted me—but I wanted to be more than just the vessel into which he poured his grief and anger. He must have felt me go tense because he pulled back his head.
“I’m sorry.” He buried his face in my hair. “That was stupid. I shouldn’t have done it.”
“It’s okay.” I stroked his hair, still reeling from that kiss. “You were going to get me a drink.”
He dropped his arms and stared into my eyes. The depths in his were vast enough to lose my moorings.
“Do you still want to leave?” he asked.
“I’ll stay if you want me to.”
“I want you to.” He led me over to the couch and got my wine, refilling his glass with Scotch. When he sat down, he pulled me close. This time more brother than lover. I leaned my head against his shoulder and closed my eyes.
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
“About what?”
“Everything.”
“I called Nic’s brother,” he said. “He’ll fly out here when they release her body and bring her home. I hadn’t talked to him since she and I split.”
“That must have been a tough phone call.”
“Yup.” He picked up my glass and handed it to me. “Now I’m asking. You want me to stay?”
“It’s your house.”
His smile was rueful. “I meant the vineyard. Even though I didn’t do it, there’s going to be a hell of a scandal.”
“There’ll be an even bigger one if you cut and run. It will look like you did it.”
“I suppose.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “about Nicole.”
“Whoever killed her,” he said, “it wasn’t random. She was into something worth killing for. Something she had, something she knew.”
“Do you think she was involved with the break-in at Jack’s place?” I asked. “Even though she was with you that night?”
He shrugged. “I dunno anything anymore. Maybe she was mixed up in it. Set it up or something.”
“Then she had to have a partner. Or partners.”
“Like Noah, Nic believes the world should be two by two. Yeah, she had a partner all right.”
“I guess she never got the Washington wine, after all,” I said.
“If she did she sure wouldn’t have left it lying around the Fox and Hound.”
“What are
you talking about?”
“She moved there after she left Shane.”
“You were staying in touch with her? You said the other day she called you and you didn’t call her back.”
“I didn’t call her back.” He ran a finger around the rim of his glass.
The hair on the back of my neck prickled. If he was innocent, why so evasive?
“Did she leave a message when she called?”
He shook his head and I could feel things start to unravel. “She had something she wanted to tell me and it had to be in person.”
“Did you tell Bobby this?”
He shook his head.
“Quinn,” I said, “don’t be dumb. You have to come clean about everything. If Bobby finds out—and you know they’ll get her phone records like they did with Valerie—you’re going to be in a hell of a mess.”
He gulped his Scotch and set his glass on the table hard. “I already am.”
“What are you talking about?”
“They’ll find out I lied for her once and they’ll figure I’m lying for her again.”
“Because you are! That’s why you have to tell the truth. You can’t protect her anymore. She’s dead.”
“It’s too late.” He covered his face with his hands and moaned softly. “Years too late.”
Chapter 24
Quinn finally fell asleep with his head on my shoulder, an arm thrown across my waist pinning me down. I must have dozed off, too, because the next thing I knew he was shaking my arm. It took a moment before I realized where I was and what I was doing here—and why there was a blanket covering me.
He stood over me, barefoot, unshaven, shirtless, and dressed in a pair of camouflage trousers. Last I remembered he’d been fully dressed and in other pants.
“Lucie? You awake?” He held a coffee mug in one hand.
“I am now.” I sat up, feeling awkward, and surreptitiously checked my own clothes. I was still wearing them.
“Here. Drink this. You feeling all right?” He handed me the mug.
Our fingers touched as I took it and I remembered last night’s kiss. The mug had “Somewhere between Forty and Death” stenciled on it. I wouldn’t turn forty for more than a decade, but given the way I felt at this moment, death didn’t seem that remote.
“I don’t know yet.” I sipped the coffee. It tasted like boiled tires. “What kind of coffee is this?”
“Yesterday’s. I ran out, but there was some left in the pot so I stuck it in the microwave. I figured you could use it.”
“Oh.” Either he was being gallant or I looked as bad as I felt.
He sat on the far end of the sofa. I drank more bad coffee and tried to ignore how good he looked half-naked.
“I owe you an apology for last night,” he said. “I said some things I shouldn’t have said.”
“Why don’t we forget it? You were upset. We both were.” I ran a finger down the side of the ceramic mug. Would he apologize for the kiss, too?
“I, uh, unfortunately don’t remember much except I think I slept on your shoulder. I’m really sorry about that. I hope I didn’t drool on you or anything.”
He wouldn’t apologize because he didn’t remember it. I tried to smile. “Nope. No drooling. And it’s all right.”
“I couldn’t get the sight of Nicole lying there in that field out of my mind. I appreciate you being there for me. I probably said a bunch of things you didn’t need to hear.”
So he’d been thinking about Nicole the whole time. “What are friends for?”
He stood and ran a hand through his shaggy hair. “I’d better shower and get over to the barrel room. I need to get to work, get my mind off all this.”
“Sure.” I stood, too. “Last night you were kind of rambling. If there’s anything you held back from Bobby, I think it would be a good idea to get it out in the open and tell him, you know?”
He scratched behind one ear. “What kind of things? What did I say?”
“That Nicole contacted you after she moved to the Fox and Hound. And that she might have been involved—indirectly—with the break-in at Jack Greenfield’s place.”
“I said that? Jeez. I really must have been loaded.” He shook his head. “I don’t know anything about the break-in at Jack’s. Guess I was running my mouth.”
“You said Nicole left a message for you to call her back, but you didn’t.”
“That I remember.” He began balling and unballing his fists. “Maybe if I had she’d still be alive.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No,” he said, “I don’t. And that’s why I got so stinking drunk last night. Because I’ll never know if I could have saved her and I’ve got to live with that.”
“Quinn—”
He held up a hand. “Look, I know I’ve been a complete asshole lately and I’m sorry. Once we get done with the Cab I thought I’d take some time off since it will be quiet around here. Get lost and get past all this. Past her.”
“Sure. Fine.” I set down my coffee mug. “I guess I’d better get going, too. I might be in late today.”
“No problem. And, hey, thanks for being a good sport. I apologize for anything else I said or did that I don’t remember.”
“Don’t mention it,” I said and left.
I drove home and felt like I’d spent the night rubbing sand in my eyes. My head ached and, to be honest, my heart ached, too. The sooner I forgot last night, the better.
Pépé was still asleep. I showered and changed, then went downstairs to fix breakfast. Quinn wasn’t the only one out of coffee. Pépé must have gone through both bags of the Ethiopian and Sumatran I liked to blend so that he could make the robust rocket fuel he craved. And we had no bread.
I got my coat and car keys and drove to the General Store. I needed something to eat and Thelma would have home-baked muffins and fresh coffee. She would also have her antennae up and ready to receive any gossip she could extract from me by fair means or foul. But I reckoned that she knew everything that had been whispered about Nicole Martin—and, for a change, maybe I’d be the one to glean new information from her.
I angled the Mini into a place on the chunk of cracked asphalt that Thelma liked to call “the parking lot.” She’d been running the General Store for as long as I could remember; there had been some sort of store on this spot since Atoka was founded in the mid-1800s. Thelma swore Mosby had used the place as a hideout, which probably was true, but she also enjoyed dropping names of other famous people she claimed had frequented her establishment. FDR, when he came through to dedicate the Blue Ridge Parkway. The Kennedys when they’d lived here. Movie stars. Politicians. European royalty.
The silver bells on her door sounded like wind chimes when I entered. During the day Thelma stayed glued to the soaps when she didn’t have any customers, but at this hour of the morning the tabloids, spread out on the counter by the cash register, had her undivided attention. Until she saw me. Her smile made me think of cats and canaries.
The General Store got stuck in a time warp a few decades ago, deciding to let the rest of the world pass it by. No computerized cash register, no bar codes, no mist watering the fruits and vegetables. Thelma fit right in with the bygone era of the decor, dressing for work with a vampy flair that was half Auntie Mame, half Roxie Hart.
She clapped her hands together like a child. “Why, Lucille! What a treat! I haven’t seen you for an age. Come right on in. How about a nice cup of coffee or a muffin? You’re lookin’ a bit peaky.”
She tottered over in stiletto slingbacks, dressed today in fire-engine red a few shades off the current color of her teased helmet of hair. She surveyed me with the practiced eye of a 4-H judge looking over prize livestock.
“Your eyes are all bloodshot,” she said before I could answer. “You get any sleep last night, child? ’Course you didn’t, all those doings out at your farm. I didn’t like that woman much but what someone did to her was turrible. Just turrible.”
“Yes,
ma’am.”
“Sit yourself down in that rocking chair over there and let me pour you a cup of coffee. On the house. You want a muffin?”
“Yes, please.”
“Muffin’ll cost you a dollar-fifty. You can pay me on the way out. I got blueberry or blueberry. The Romeos were in this morning and ate up most everything I had like a plague of locusts come through.”
“Blueberry’s fine.”
She poured my coffee from a pot labeled “Fancy” and handed it to me. “It’s got a little pumpkin and cinnamon spice in it, this one,” she said. “On account of Halloween and all.”
The coffee bordered on cloying but the muffin, filled with tart blueberries, offset the sweetness and the combination hit the spot.
“So tell me all about it.” She sat next to me in another rocking chair like a queen on a throne. The store smelled of fresh-brewed coffee, spices, and homemade pastries mingled with the slightly baked odor of her central heating. Sunlight filtered through an east-facing window making lattice stripes on the floor.
I knew she wanted details—the more lurid, the better.
“I’m sure you’ve heard everything already.” I didn’t want to relive finding Nicole’s body, especially after last night with Quinn, and flattery was Thelma’s weak spot.
“Well, a person does need to keep informed.” Her faced twitched in a smile, accepting the compliment as her due. “Especially if we’ve got a serial killer running loose around here. First that writer, now the ex-wife of your winemaker. He must have taken it hard.”
I ignored the wide-enough-to-drive-a-truck-through opening to talk about Quinn and said, “What makes you think the same person killed them both?”
Thelma leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. Her eyes, behind thick glasses, showed surprise. “Why, I couldn’t say. It’s just one of my feelings. You know, Lucille, some people believe I have psychotic powers. A God-given ability to know things from…”—she paused for drama—“…the Great Beyond.”
Thelma, like Dominique, had issues with the English language. “You’ve often talked about that,” I said.
“Oh my, yes. And, of course, I always watch those police shows and such on television. A person can learn a lot from them. The way things are really done.” She straightened up. “How’d you happen to find her, anyway? I heard someone left her in a field in the middle of nowhere.”