The Riesling Retribution wcm-4

by Ellen Crosby

  The lump in my throat made it hard to talk. “I know. Thanks, Seth.”

  “You’re welcome.” He paused and I thought he was going to say good-bye or something else in parting. “By the way, any word on that body you found on your land?”

  I sat up straight. He knew as well as I did it was too soon to know anything official. This was fishing to see what I’d tell him.

  “Nope. Nothing.”

  “Well, I sure hope…” He left the sentence unfinished.

  I waited as though I expected him to tell me what he sure hoped, which was that Leland had nothing to do with it.

  “Thanks for the advice, Seth. I appreciate it.”

  “You all right, darlin’?”

  “Don’t you worry about me. I can handle this.”

  “Of course you can.” He backed off. “Look, Lucie, I want you to know that I’m in your corner whatever happens. If you ever need to talk or you have any questions, all you need to do is pick up the phone. I owe that to you children and the memory of your mother.”

  He hung up and I wondered why he hadn’t mentioned anything about what he owed to the memory of my father.

  Bobby returned to the villa at the end of the day while I was in my office filling out the endless tax forms we sent the government so they’d grant us the privilege of selling wine. Frankie showed up in the doorway and told me he was waiting in the tasting room.

  She kept her voice low. “I have a feeling they’re done. The other cruisers and that crime scene van just left.”

  “It only took them one day?”

  “Guess so. Maybe you can ask him.”

  “Don’t worry. I will.”

  Bobby’s shirt was soaked with perspiration and his hair was plastered to his head like he’d gone swimming.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” I asked. “We’ve got bottled water and a few sodas in a cooler. They’re still cold.”

  “Thanks, but I got my own cooler in the car.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, revealing a triangle of white skin at his hairline that contrasted with the rest of his sunburned face.

  “I came by to let you know that we’re finished,” he said. “The crime scene tape will stay up for a few more days and we’re coming back to clear out the underbrush that’s nearby in case we missed something there.”

  “You’ve removed the remains?” I asked. “Completely?”

  He nodded.

  “Did you find anything else besides the skull and that bone Bruja dug up?”

  His smile was weary. “Sorry. I can’t say.”

  “Well, could you identify him from just the skull, if that’s all you got?”

  “That’s Junie’s department.”

  “You’re not going to tell me anything.”

  “Right now there’s nothing to tell.”

  I sighed and gave up. “You and Kit are coming this weekend for our twentieth?”

  His face cracked into a small smile. “We’re counting on it.”

  “I knew I’d get you to answer at least one question,” I said.

  “You always were like a dog with a bone,” he said. “As long as I’ve known you.”

  “You could have picked a different analogy than dogs and bones. Or answered a different question.”

  He grinned. “I kind of liked that one. Be seeing you.” He had his hand on the doorknob when he paused and turned around.

  “I will tell you this. It seems like we’re talking about only one person out there.”

  After he left I made so many mistakes on the tax report that I finally threw down my pencil and went outside on the terrace. Frankie found me there, staring at the fields and vines. She handed me a glass of wine that I hadn’t asked for. Perfectly chilled Riesling.

  “Where’d you get this?”

  “I went over to the barrel room. Want to talk about it? Might make you feel better.”

  I drank some wine as she sat down in one of the wicker chairs and pulled it closer.

  “I know I should be focusing on the tornado damage, but I just keep thinking about that skull. Wondering who he is and how he got there. Bobby thinks the odds are good whoever killed him had ties to the farm.” I paused. “Even Eli wondered if Leland might be involved somehow.”

  “And you don’t think he was?” Her voice was gentle, but there was a hint of reproach that I shouldn’t kid myself.

  I chose my words with care. “My father was a complicated man who didn’t always show good judgment. He made lousy business decisions and he gambled. And he had his share of affairs, though through everything he loved my mother. Sometimes I think he didn’t believe he was worthy of her and that’s why he had the affairs.”

  “I wish I’d known your mother,” Frankie said.

  I raised an eyebrow. “You don’t wish you’d known Leland, huh?”

  “I didn’t say that—”

  “Never mind. I’m just giving you a hard time.” I sipped my wine and touched the chilled glass to my cheek. It felt good. “It probably seems odd that I’m defending my father, but I know he’s no murderer. He didn’t kill that man and then cover it up for the rest of his life. It would have consumed him if he did.”

  Frankie put two fingers across her lips like she was thinking as her eyes roved over my face. I thought I saw pity in them.

  “You don’t believe me?” I asked. “You think I can’t be objective.”

  “Of course I believe you,” she said. “Maybe the best thing is to put this out of your mind until they identify the body. Then take it from there.” She stood up. “Let me get that bottle of wine.”

  Plato said that wine fills the heart with courage. Frankie refilled my glass and poured a glass for herself.

  My heart was not filled with courage as I drank. Instead it was filled with foreboding and a sickening feeling of apprehension. Until yesterday I thought all my family’s sins and secrets lay buried in our graveyard.

  What if I was wrong?

  B. J. Hunt called at the end of the day. I’d been expecting to hear from him once word got out about the discovery of the body on land he planned to use for the reenactment.

  “Wondering if I could drop by and check things out,” he said. “Sounds like we might have to change our plans now that you got crime scene tape strung up in that field. I understand you had some tornado damage as well.”

  “Bad news travels fast,” I said. “I suppose Thelma had her megaphone out this morning?”

  “Word does get around, doesn’t it?” He chuckled. “Well, it’s not just me that’s interested in coming by. Ray Vitale is in town. He wants to see the site, too, especially since he hasn’t been here before.”

  “Who is Ray Vitale?”

  “The Union commander. The guy’s so hard-core he lives like it’s still the 1860s. All my communication with him has been by mail. That’s U.S. Postal Service mail, not e-mail. He’s such a stitch Nazi that he won’t do it any other way. Damn annoying at times.”

  “What’s a ‘stitch Nazi’?”

  “A guy who says everything has to be absolutely authentic right down to the number of stitches it takes to sew a buttonhole,” he said. “Me, I don’t care what a person’s wearing for Skivvies and I don’t think you need to piss on your uniform buttons to make them look old. Stinks like hell when you do. As long as no one shows up wearing Nikes and a wristwatch, and carrying a cell phone, it’s good enough for me.”

  “Your friend sounds like a zealot,” I said, laughing.

  “Nope. A zealot is someone altogether different. “The South shall rise again.” That’s a zealot. They haven’t forgiven the Union for winning. Some of them never stopped fighting the war. And a Yankee zealot still wants to punish us.”

  “How’d you get involved with someone like Ray?”

  “Oh, the usual. Business. He owns several assisted-living centers in Virginia and North Carolina. We’ve handled funerals for a number of his residents.”

  “How about if you come by first thin
g tomorrow morning?” I asked. “I’ll take you over there myself.”

  “How about right now? Say, half an hour? Ray’s heading back to Richmond this evening.”

  B.J.’s event had been attracting considerable media attention and that meant publicity for the winery. We had no idea how many people would show up, but it was possible that as many as a thousand visitors could pass through the vineyard that weekend, including both reenactors and spectators. For us, it was a big crowd.

  I’d been hoping to close up the villa and head home, but if B.J. wanted to come by tonight, we’d do this tonight.

  “Of course,” I said. “Meet me in the parking lot at five thirty.”

  “I appreciate this, Lucie,” he said. “Ray’s awful anxious about your goings-on over there so it’ll be good to calm him down.”

  My goings-on. Bad news really did travel fast.

  I locked up and called Quinn on my cell phone, which finally had service restored. He sounded tired.

  “We made some progress cleaning up, but it’s slow,” he said. “I’ll probably rent a Bobcat in the next day or two once we finish pruning and tying up vines that can still be saved. And, uh, Benny took the chain saw over to where the sycamore came down. The road should be passable now if you’re heading home.”

  He caught me off guard about the tree.

  “Thanks, but I’m not going home yet,” I said. “B.J. and some guy who’s the Union commander want to see the site. They’re worried about the reenactment. The Union guy heard about the body and he’s really anxious. B.J. needs to calm him down.”

  “You don’t think they’ll cancel, do you?”

  “Nope. They just want to know if they need to adjust their plans.”

  “Want me to come along?”

  “I can handle it, but thanks anyway. Go home and get some rest. You sound beat.”

  “Yeah, guess I am.” He paused. “All right. Wait a minute. Tyler wants to know if he can come, too. He wants to meet the Union guy.”

  B.J. once explained to me the three main reasons people got involved in Civil War reenacting. Either they were so fascinated by a period in history they wanted to experience it as fully as possible, something akin to time traveling, or they were like boys with toys—men who liked shooting guns and playacting war. The third reason fell somewhere between the first two and had to do with teaching the next generation about a time in our history when America had gone to war with itself. It also was a way of honoring those who had given their lives for what they believed was a worthy cause. Tyler got involved for reasons one and two. He became interested in the Ball’s Bluff reenactment soon after he started working at the vineyard and signed up with B.J’s home unit, Company G of the 8th Virginia Infantry.

  “If you don’t need Tyler—” I began.

  “Oh, believe me,” Quinn said, “he’s done here.”

  I decided not to pursue that. “Tell him to meet me in the parking lot in fifteen minutes. I’m on my way to the equipment barn to get one of the Mules.”

  “I think Chance is over there,” he said, “fixing a broken weed whacker. Do me a favor and tell him he needs to start answering his phone. I’ve been trying to reach him for the last hour.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t get service there.”

  Quinn snorted. “We’re missing the dodine and I want to do the bâttonage tomorrow on the Cab and Merlot. Tyler says he has no clue what happened to it. Maybe Chance stashed it somewhere.”

  A dodine was a stirring paddle used to move around the lees, or sediment, in wine barrels and looked like a long metal pole with a small propeller attached at the bottom. Once it was lowered inside the barrel it whirred away, stirring up everything much like shaking a carton of pulpy orange juice after it sat in the refrigerator for a while. Quinn believed in frequent bâttonages, or barrel stirrings, for both reds and whites. He said it yielded better results, softening the red tannins, deepening the aromas and flavors, and making a creamier, smoother wine.

  A broken weed whacker and a missing dodine. Was Quinn right that we had more than our usual share of bad luck and trouble?

  “I’ll speak to Chance.” I sighed. “How could something as big as the dodine go missing?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know.” His words were clipped. It sounded like he blamed Chance again.

  “Okay,” I said, but he’d already disconnected.

  The simmering headache behind my eyes began to throb. When I got nearer to the equipment barn, the thudding bass from a boom box turned up loud enough to make the ground pulse beneath my feet mirrored the pounding in my head. Chance didn’t notice me until I tapped his arm. Bruja, improbably, was sound asleep but her front paws covered her ears.

  “Can you turn that down?” I mouthed at him.

  He went over and hit the power switch. The silence seemed to fill the space between us and Bruja raised her head, her tail thumping.

  “Now I know why you didn’t answer Quinn’s phone calls. Next time, at least set your phone to vibrate.”

  He smiled his mesmerizing smile and pulled the phone out of his pocket. “Battery’s run down. I forgot to recharge it last night. What does Quinn want?”

  His eyes held mine, friendly, questioning, with a hint of suggestiveness in them. I needed to get the conversation directed back to business.

  “The dodine’s missing. He’s wondering if you know where it is.”

  I pawed through the key cabinet until I found the key to the red Mule. It wasn’t on the hook where it belonged. Nor were most of the other keys. I began moving them to the correct hooks.

  “That barrel stirrer? Sorry, no idea,” he said. “I haven’t seen it for a couple of days.”

  “What’s wrong with the weed whacker? Whoever is using these keys needs to put them back properly. You can’t find anything here. It’s a mess.”

  “I’ll talk to the guys. And the weed whacker needs a new string. I’m replacing it.”

  I finished sorting the keys. “You’d better see Quinn before you leave tonight.”

  “I’d just as soon avoid him when he gets like this.”

  “Like what?”

  He was still smiling, but now his face showed genuine puzzlement. “Come on, Lucie. Don’t tell me you don’t know. I figured you’ve just been turning a blind eye to it all this time.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The way he treats the crew. Me. How do you work with someone who’s so…” He shrugged.

  “So what?”

  He stared at his feet for a while, then looked up. “Abusive. That’s the only word I can think of to call it.”

  It stung like a slap. Quinn could be abrasive, even irritable and ornery. But I would never characterize him as abusive. That implied cruelty.

  “Quinn’s a good winemaker,” I said. “Sometimes he can be curt and maybe he’s short-tempered when the pressure’s on during harvest. But he’s harder on himself than he is on anyone else.”

  Chance shook his head like I didn’t get it.

  “Sorry. Not true. He’s really tough with the crew when you’re not around. You don’t see or know everything that happens.”

  I ran my finger over the notched edge of the ignition key.

  “I’m not blind to his faults. But in the two years he’s worked for me, I’ve never had a single complaint.”

  “You really want to take his side over something like this? Come on, Lucie.”

  He sounded almost jocular, as though he were trying to cajole me into something as innocuous as joining him for a drink, instead of indicting Quinn for violent behavior toward the men.

  “I just can’t believe—”

  “The guys won’t speak up about it, either. They’re scared of him.”

  My phone rang and “Hunt & Sons Funeral Home” flashed on the display. “Hang on, I’ve got to take this.”

  I opened my phone. “Hey, B.J. Yes, I’m on my way. Is Ray Vitale with you? He is? Give me two minutes…Right…’Bye.”

>   I closed the phone and said to Chance, “Look, this is a pretty serious accusation. I’ve got to go, but we need to finish this conversation another time.”

  He stood there, holding the new line for the weed whacker, a flat, unreadable expression in his eyes. Disappointment in me? Disgust?

  Actually, it seemed like something else.

  “Sure,” he said. “We’ll talk whenever you want.”

  “Chance,” I pleaded with him. “I’m sorry but B.J. wants to calm down the guy in charge of the Union reenactors because he’s all freaked out about that grave. I need to take them out to the site.”

  “You’re the boss.” He picked up a rag and wiped grease off his hands.

  “You want me to tell Quinn you don’t know where the dodine is?”

  “That’s okay. I’ll talk to him. I’ll be over in a few minutes.”

  “Don’t worry. He won’t bite your head off.”

  “Unlike the day laborers, I can handle myself with Quinn.”

  He was still wiping his hands with the rag, no longer looking at me. I wanted to say something to end this conversation on a better note, but for the life of me, I couldn’t think of anything.

  Instead I turned and left, clenching the key until the hard edges dug into the palm of my hand.

  It was true that Quinn had become increasingly exasperated with the inexperienced day laborers who worked for us. Many had never worked in agriculture before and often didn’t seem to know what they were doing out in the field when it came to some of the tedious but necessary chores like leaf pulling or dropping fruit. Had the never-ending series of accidents and mistakes along with an erratic and inept crew caused Quinn to cross the line into abuse as Chance suggested?

  If the men were too terrified to complain, Chance had just put another problem on my overfull plate, in addition to the tornado damage and Bobby’s investigation. Right now, this one crowded out the others.

  Sooner or later, I would have to confront Quinn. I got in the Mule and drove over to the parking lot. It was a conversation I dreaded.

  Chapter 7