by Ellen Crosby
“Why aren’t you at home?”
“I’m not living there anymore. We’re splitting. Trial separation.”
I bent down so my cheek rested on top of his head. “I’m so sorry.”
“Yup.” His voice sounded strangled.
“You all right? Where’d you sleep last night?”
“My car. My office.”
He hadn’t answered the first question. “Since when?”
“Couple of nights.”
“Why didn’t you come here?”
“I couldn’t.”
I closed my eyes, not wanting to imagine what he’d done on those nights.
“You’re staying here tonight,” I said. “And as long as you need, until you get things sorted out.”
“Thanks.” He patted my arm, but he still sounded lost.
“You going to see a marriage counselor?”
“Don’t think so. Right now she just wants her space.”
“Where’s your stuff?”
“I grabbed some clothes and threw them in the car. Everything else is still at the house.”
“Well, get what you’ve brought and put it upstairs in your room. I’ll go fix us drinks and dinner. I stopped at Safeway today and restocked my fridge after the power failure. You okay with grilled chicken and asparagus? If you want to take a shower, I’ll start getting it ready.”
“I’m not hungry. Thanks, anyway.”
“You have to eat.”
He got up and looked around the familiar room. “What am I going to do, Luce? What am I going to do?” His voice broke.
“First you’re going to get your clothes out of the car. Then you’re going to take a shower and change. After you eat something you’re going to get a decent night’s sleep in a bed. The rest will come.” I shoved him gently toward the door. “Go on.”
He showed up in the kitchen twenty minutes later wearing old jeans and a faded maroon-and-orange Virginia Tech T-shirt. His dark hair was still wet and he hadn’t bothered with the usual gel, so it fell across his forehead the way it used to before Brandi began masterminding his clothes and appearance, turning him into her own personal dress-up doll.
“Where’d you get that T-shirt?” I uncovered a ceramic bowl of homemade topping for bruschetta.
“There’s still a couple of things in my old dresser upstairs.” He stuck a finger in the bowl and licked it. “Tomato salad?”
“It’s for the bruschetta. Use a spoon if you want to taste it. It’s gross when you use your finger.”
“My finger is very clean. Don’t worry.” He rummaged in the silverware drawer and found a spoon, helping himself to another mouthful. “Tastes good.”
“It ought to. Tomatoes and basil are from my garden.” I pulled a baking pan with half a dozen slices of toasted baguette drizzled in olive oil out of the broiler and handed him a spoon. “Here. The tomatoes go on top of the baguette. Not too much or it gets messy. I’ll finish the asparagus.”
“Brandi orders from every restaurant in Leesburg. Otherwise, it’s frozen.” He heaped tomatoes on a piece of bread and ate it. “Where’d you learn to make this?”
“Dominique served it as an appetizer a couple of times at the Inn. It’s her recipe. Are you planning on eating everything as you fix it, or will you leave some for our drinks?”
“Sorry.” He unclipped his phone from his belt and checked it, setting it on the counter. “I stopped by the General Store. Heard they identified the guy you found. An old friend of Leland’s.”
“Business associate. Doesn’t sound like they were friends,” I said. “His name was Beau Kinkaid. Does it ring any bells?”
Eli picked up his phone and checked his messages again. “Nope. I was probably in diapers when it happened. I was precocious, but not that precocious.”
“It seems it happened thirty years ago,” I said. “So you would have been one.”
“My two-year-old memories are kind of dim.”
“Bobby said Beau Kinkaid’s ex-wife is coming up here from Charlottesville to talk to him. She says the last time she saw her husband alive, he was mad at Leland and wanted to settle things.”
Eli finished fixing the bruschetta and went over to the refrigerator. “What do you have to drink around here? I don’t see any beer.”
“I didn’t know you were coming. There’s a nice bottle of Crémant.”
“Fizzy white. I guess I could drink that.”
We brought the wine and hors d’oeuvres outside to the veranda. Eli took the glider and I sat in the love seat. He popped the Crémant cork and poured, but when we clinked glasses neither of us made a toast. I watched him check his phone yet again.
“Beau Kinkaid’s ex-wife is now Mrs. Sumner Chastain,” I said. “You ever run into Chastain Construction in any of your projects?”
“Chastain Construction has tentacles that reach every state in the southeastern United States. It’s impossible not to run into them.”
“Do they have a good reputation?”
He bit into a piece of bruschetta and thought while he chewed. “Let me put it this way. You know how Quinn talks about the homogenization of the wine world where everybody ultimately ends up making the same Chardonnay or the same Pinot? No distinguishing characteristics of terroir, nothing to reflect the land and soil it came from, or the personality of the winemaker?”
“They build the same buildings?”
“Over and over and over again. Churn ’em out, one homogeneous subdivision, shopping mall, and planned community after another.”
“Nice.”
“They’re big and they get the job done.” He shrugged. “You can’t fight big.”
“Their press people are in charge of managing Annabel Chastain. Kit tried to talk to her. They’ve erected a fortress,” I said.
He glanced at his phone for a few seconds and did some scrolling, then set it on the coffee table.
“You keep doing that,” I said.
“Habit.”
“More like an addiction. Though I don’t blame you for checking in case—”
He cut me off, looking pained. “I’m not just looking to see if she called. I gotta stay on top of stuff at work. This thing gets e-mail, you know.”
“Which you read the millisecond it comes in.”
“So sue me, I’m curious. Anyway, that last one was personal. Remember Zeke Lee? From high school?”
“Vaguely. Friend of yours.”
“He’s coming to that reenactment. Says he belongs to B.J.’s regiment. He asked if I’ll be there.”
“You are coming, I hope?”
“He means as a participant. He says he can loan me whatever clothes and gear I need, if I’m interested. It’s too late to sign up, but I could be a walk-on.”
“They didn’t have cell phones during the Civil War. Or e-mail.”
“What, you think I can’t do without twenty-first-century gadgets for a weekend?”
“Not really. Do you?”
“Of course I can.”
“Maybe you should try it. You mind lighting the grill? I’ll get the chicken.”
“Where’s the electric fire starter?”
“I knew it,” I said and left for the kitchen.
We ate dinner outside by candlelight. By tacit mutual agreement we avoided the subject of Brandi and his marriage. Finally, I brought up Annabel Chastain again.
“Beau’s dead and Leland’s dead. That leaves her,” I said. “That means it’s going to be her word against no one’s. I think she’s setting Leland up for this.”
“If she’s got the Chastain Construction public relations machine behind her, she’s got no worries. They’ll roll right over Leland and that’ll be the end of it. That company’s got more lawyers on their payroll than you got grapes in the vineyard.”
“Well, we’ll just have to fight back.”
“Luce…” He leaned his elbows on the table and massaged his temples. “How are we going to do that? They’ll keep hammering at us until we qu
it. We haven’t got the money or the resources to go up against them.”
“So you’re saying we should just give up?”
“Look, they must have found a thirty-eight slug if they came by and took Leland’s thirty-eight. What if they find a match? The guy was buried on our land. The ex-wife says there was bad blood. So if I were a betting man I’d say it’s not looking too good for our side.”
“What if he didn’t do it?”
“Then who did?”
“I don’t know.”
Eli clasped his hands behind his head as he stared out toward the mountains.
“I don’t want to believe it, either, but there doesn’t seem to be any evidence to refute that he didn’t murder that guy and then cover it up for thirty years.”
“There has to be something,” I said.
Eli looked at me with something between resigned sadness and pity.
“If there is,” he said, “it’ll take a damn miracle to find it. And you can bet Chastain Construction will do their best to make sure you don’t turn up anything. Be careful, Luce. You’re playing with fire.”
Chapter 12
The weekend celebration of the twentieth anniversary of Montgomery Estate Vineyard will be indelibly etched in my memory, but not for reasons I would have imagined. Though we started on a high note with an unexpected celebration, it didn’t take long for things to head south.
Ironically, the weather for the entire weekend couldn’t have been more perfect if we’d ordered it up ourselves. Sparkling sunshine, the vivid blue skies of a Van Gogh painting, scattered thin-ribbed clouds, a soft breeze, and none of the oppressive energy-sapping humidity that was our usual summer fare.
The first people to arrive showed up at the villa before we’d even opened the doors. Kit and Bobby, arms around each other, walked in looking like they’d just won the lottery.
“We wanted to tell you first. Well, second after my mother and Bobby’s folks.” Kit held out her left hand where a small diamond in a plain gold setting sparkled on her finger.
I had started to set a large tiered platter of grapes and assorted cheeses on the oak trestle table when she waved her ring under my nose. The tray tipped sideways as I bent to examine it. Bobby grabbed one of the handles before anything could spill and we set it down together. Everyone laughed.
“Told you Lucie’d be surprised,” Bobby said to Kit, who continued admiring her ring and grinning like a fool. “She thought I’d never do it.”
“Darling, I thought you’d never do it.” Kit arched an eyebrow as she ate a grape and looked seductively at him.
We laughed some more and I hugged Kit. “I’m so happy for you.”
I hugged Bobby, too, but his eyes, though smiling like hers, turned grave as he patted me on the back. Something was wrong.
“We have to make a toast,” I said. “To celebrate. The Middleburg Business Association sent a bottle of champagne for our anniversary. It’s chilling in the fridge. I’ll get it.”
“You should save it,” Kit said.
“Nonsense. Just a small glass.”
Kit glanced at Bobby. “I guess we could. Though my fiancé, here, would prefer a beer.”
“Those bubbles give me gas,” he said, “but I suppose I can make an exception.”
I got the bottle and Bobby opened it on the terrace. The cork flew out and the fizzy liquid erupted. We laughed again as I held a champagne flute underneath and he filled it with champagne.
“So wen did this happen?” I handed Kit her glass. “Tell me everything.”
“Last night,” Kit said. “We had dinner on that boat that goes down the Potomac to Mount Vernon.”
“You think you were surprised.” Bobby poured two more small glasses of champagne. “Kit nearly went over the railing when I got down on one knee. Got me all worried I might have to call the dive squad to find out if she accepted or not.”
“He lies.” Kit grinned at him and blew him a kiss. Their eyes met, exchanging a coded look.
Bobby set down his glass, from which he’d taken only a couple of sips. “Sorry we can’t stay for your party, Lucie.”
Kit looked like she was confessing a guilty secret. “We’ve both got to work. Things came up. But we wanted to make sure we told you about the engagement in person. That’s why we came by on our way.” She also set down her glass.
I wanted to ask if the murder investigation of Beau Kinkaid had anything to do with the reason they both got called into work on a weekend, but the look in Kit’s eyes asked me not to push it and spoil the moment. Still, a heaviness had settled over us like a shroud, so maybe I already had my answer.
“At least let me give you a bottle of wine for dinner,” I said.
Kit twisted her engagement ring on her finger, glancing at Bobby.
“We’ll take your wine, but I insist on paying,” Bobby said.
“No, please—”
“Let us pay, kiddo,” Kit said. To Bobby, she added, “I’ll take care of it, honey. Why don’t you talk to Lucie while I do that?” She opened her purse and pulled out her wallet.
“It’s not a bribe,” I said to Bobby. “You know me better.”
“I know. But under the circumstances, it’s just better if we pay.”
I nodded, numb. “Have you talked to Annabel Chastain yet?”
“Sorry, but I can’t say. Look, Lucie, I want to make sure you understand that this isn’t about you. You’re not being accused of anything.”
“It’s my family and our reputation that’s at stake.”
Kit came outside cradling a bag with a bottle of wine in it and holding a credit card receipt. “Chance tried to give me another bottle on the house once he found out the news. He says ‘Congratulations.’” She winked at Bobby. “And he gave me a little kiss. He’s sweet.”
“Yeah, but I’m sweeter. And I better not catch him flirting with my fiancée.” Bobby’s smile was tolerant. “We should be going.”
Kit kissed me good-bye and squeezed my arm. “Enjoy your big party and try not to worry about anything. It’ll all work out, I promise.”
Later I would wonder if that had been a Judas kiss or if she really didn’t expect what would come next.
I didn’t have much time to think about it, though, because after that, people began arriving in waves that never seemed to end. The villa and the terrace filled up and soon everyone spilled into the courtyard where we’d placed additional bistro tables and chairs. Frankie had hired a disc jockey to play songs that had been popular twenty years ago. We had him set up out there so folks could dance if they wanted to, along with eating and drinking. Besides our usual fare of crackers, cheese, and fruit, we served birthday cake and sold wine at a 20 percent discount.
By noon it was shaping up to be our best day in history with the girls so swamped pouring wine for the tastings that Eli, Quinn, Chance, and I pitched in, serving wine and ringing up sales instead of spending time with our guests. Quinn sent Tyler out to direct traffic and Benny and Javier ferried cases of wine from the barrel room to the tasting room when we ran out of supplies.
“I never expected anything like this,” I said to Quinn when he and I took a break to check on how things were going in the courtyard. “Wish we had more help.”
“I wish the songs of the eighties were better,” Quinn said, as a singer I didn’t recognize sang about being addicted to love with a thudding bass backing him up. “How come your parents couldn’t have founded this place in the sixties? Did you actually like this music?”
“I was in grade school,” I said. “I don’t remember.”
“Why don’t I call Savannah?” he said. “Maybe she can give us a hand. She had something to do this morning but she’s probably free now.”
“Sure.” My heart gave an unwelcome lurch, but I kept my voice neutral. “Give her a call.”
He pulled out his cell phone and turned away for some privacy. I leaned against a pillar in the shade of the arcade. Though the courtyard was overflowing wi
th people, I felt a stab of loneliness that was becoming familiar. A light breeze blew, fluttering the red-and-white-striped umbrellas we’d placed to shade each of the tables. The music changed to a song by Madonna—“Holiday,” with its bouncy dance-tune beat.
“Hey, Lucie.” Seth Hannah, president of Blue Ridge Federal, held a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon in one hand and two wineglasses between the fingers of the other. He was dressed for the occasion in a straw boater, seersucker jacket, pale blue shirt, and khakis. “I was hoping I’d run into you. Great party, sweetheart. Your momma’d be proud.”
“Thanks, Seth. Glad you could come.”
I wondered if he hadn’t mentioned Leland on purpose once again. In the beginning, my father had been involved in the vineyard along with my mother. Later, she took over running it by herself while he went off on one of his many business ventures.
Seth smiled. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I remember the day this vineyard opened. One of the first in Virginia back then. Saw that slide show you’ve put together in the library in the villa. What a lot of memories.”
“I know. I wish my parents were here to see this.”
“I’m sure you do.” He paused. “I thought you should know. Bobby Noland stopped by the house yesterday wanting to know if I knew anything about that business associate of your father’s.”
“What did you say, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“That I had no recollection of the fellow. Never met him as near as I can remember.”
“That was it?”
“Well, we talked generally, of course. It’s no secret that your father made some bad business decisions, honey. Lost a lot of money. His friends had to bail him out more than once.”
“Is that a roundabout way of saying you think he might be guilty?”
“Now I never said that, Lucie.” Seth adopted the tone of an adult who didn’t expect to be second-guessed by a child. “Bobby’s making the rounds, talking to the Romeos. I had drinks with some of the boys over at the Inn last night. Thought I’d help you out here by giving you a head’s up.”
“Do all the Romeos feel the way you do?”
“I think we agree that Lee had some questionable business associates.” He’d hedged his answer, but his tone was still tough.