The Riesling Retribution wcm-4

by Ellen Crosby

  I picked up a bunch of grapes. “I have to ask you something.”

  “What is it?”

  “Have you ever threatened to turn any of the day laborers over to the Department of Homeland Security if they didn’t do something you asked them to do?”

  “Have I what? What the hell are you talking about? Where’d you get an idea…Chance?” He looked stunned. “He told you that and you believed him?”

  “If I believed him he’d still be working here,” I said. “It’s not true, is it?”

  “Do you even need to ask?”

  “Quinn, don’t make this difficult for me. Yes or no?”

  He shook his finger at me. “I have never, never threatened anyone.”

  “What would you call that little smackdown, then?”

  He shook his head. “Aw, come on. Okay, so I slugged Chance. He had it coming. But you know me. You really think I’d physically abuse the men? Or threaten to turn someone over to DHS? They’d be deported so fast it would make your head spin. Tell me you never took that jerk seriously.”

  I threw the grapes in the destemmer and avoided his eyes.

  “You did believe him.” His voice was hard. “Jesus, Lucie. Look, if you want my resignation, too, you can have it.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I just needed to ask, is all.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me as soon as he made that accusation? Why did you wait?”

  “Because I was afraid you’d do what you did today, that’s why. Between Bobby telling me my father is guilty of murder and everything with Eli, I didn’t need more heartache. Back off, please, okay?”

  He was angry, but that was too damn bad. Some of this was his fault, too.

  I picked up more grapes. “Let’s get back to work.”

  “Sure, boss,” he said. “Whatever you say.”

  We barely spoke to each other for the rest of the night. Around midnight, Savannah showed up. Quinn told her he’d walked into the press when she asked about his eye. She looked like she knew she’d been asked to swallow a whopper but didn’t bring up the subject again, at least in my presence.

  Someone turned on loud rock music and Quinn brought out a couple of cold six-packs. While he and Savannah were busy filling one of the tanks with juice, I asked Benny if we could talk.

  “Sure,” he said. “Want a beer?”

  “No, thanks.”

  He pulled a bottle out of the cooler for himself and opened it with his knife. We walked into one of the cool, dark bays and stood next to a row of barrels of Pinot Noir. The tangy odor of fermenting wine filled my head.

  “Chance told me those guys he hired as pickers today came from the camp in Winchester,” I said.

  “They aren’t from Winchester,” he said.

  “How do you know?”

  “I heard one of them talking. I think they’re from Herndon.”

  “What’s in Herndon?”

  “A lot of places where ten guys live in two-bedroom apartments. The guys who came today just got here from Salvador.” He pronounced the name of the country in his rich accent.

  “Meaning what?” I asked.

  He shrugged and took a pull on his beer. “They’ll do anything. Work más barato than guys who’ve been here awhile. Cheaper.”

  “I paid the wages of an experienced crew,” I said. “The same as we always do.”

  There was no way, try as we might, that we could find enough workers with green cards who were willing to pick grapes or work in the fields. As a result, we kept a lot of cash on hand because that’s how we paid the crews. I didn’t always feel good about hiring illegals, but don’t-ask-don’t-tell was the way it was. And we paid a fair wage—always.

  Benny gave me a shrewd look and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Chance paid the guys. You paid Chance.”

  A small shock went through me. And the memory of that fierce kiss. “He pocketed some of the money that was supposed to go to the men?”

  “People are greedy. I’ve seen worse. Ilegales? Especially new guys. They got no rights. What are they gonna do?” he said.

  “That’s despicable.”

  “¿Cómo?”

  “Awful. Disgusting.”

  “Sí. In Spanish we say something about his mother.” He smiled and showed two silver teeth.

  “Is there any way you can locate one or two of these men and find out if Chance underpaid them?” I asked. “And let me know?”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he said. “I could even make Chance sorry about what he did.”

  “Let’s take it one step at a time.”

  More vigilante violence over labor problems was the last thing I needed.

  By the time we finished getting the juice out of the press and into tanks it was three in the morning. Quinn said he planned to sleep in the barrel room to keep an eye on things and Savannah showed no sign of being ready to leave.

  Tyler had downed a couple of beers during the evening and I worried about him driving home, even though his parents’ bed-and-breakfast was just up the road.

  “I’ll drive you,” I said. “I didn’t drink.”

  “What’ll I tell my folks if I don’t show up with the car?”

  “That you behaved like a responsible adult who turned the keys over to someone else.”

  It was a five-minute drive to the Fox & Hound on a deserted road. Tyler yawned and moved restlessly in his seat.

  “This is hard work,” he said. “And these are killer hours.”

  “Surely you stayed up this late in college?”

  “That was for fun stuff.”

  “Looks like your folks have a full house,” I said, pulling into his driveway.

  “A lot of people coming for the reenactment.”

  The sweep of my headlights caught a vanity license plate on a burgundy Mercedes. “CHASTAIN.”

  “I suppose this is a stupid question, but are Annabel and Sumner Chastain staying here?”

  “They showed up a few days ago. Mom says they’re sticking around awhile longer because Mr. Chastain wants to look at a horse he might buy.”

  “Have you met them?”

  “Sure. They’ve had breakfast in the dining room a couple of times when they’re not having it in their cottage.”

  “Which cottage is that?”

  “Devon.” He eyed me. “You going to talk to them or something?”

  “Uh, well, maybe. I didn’t realize they were still in town,” I said. “Nor that they were staying here.”

  “It seemed like a good idea not to mention it to you.” He sounded wary as he opened the car door. “Thanks for the ride. Can I come in late tomorrow?”

  “Of course. Get some sleep.”

  Tyler got out and I waited so he could see his way to the front door in the wash of my headlights. He swayed a little as he walked and I was glad I’d driven him.

  On my way home I thought about calling on the Chastains.

  In fact, as soon as possible.

  I slept for a few hours and finally got up around eight. My eyes felt like I’d rubbed sandpaper in them. Quinn and I had agreed to finish pressing the last of the Riesling later this morning after yesterday’s marathon session. Working around heavy equipment—the forklift, the destemmer, the press—when we were all exhausted was hazardous. I didn’t want any more accidents.

  I called the Fox & Hound as I stood in front of kitchen windows drinking my morning coffee. The cloud-covered sky gave everything a closed-in melancholy look that suggested a long spell of inclement weather to come. At least it wasn’t raining.

  Jordy Jordan, Tyler’s father, answered the phone. He didn’t sound happy when I asked whether the Chastains were in their cottage and if I could speak to them.

  He came back on the line a minute later, his voice dry as autumn leaves. “I’ll put you through.”

  Sumner Chastain took my call. “Ms. Montgomery. This is a surprise.”

  He spoke with the self-assurance of someone who he
ld all the cards and knew it. Though he could have asked Jordy to tell me to get lost, I thought it was interesting he agreed to talk to me. Maybe it wasn’t such a surprise that I called, after all. Perhaps he’d been expecting it.

  “I was wondering if I might come by to speak with your wife, Mr. Chastain.”

  A pause, then, “I don’t see any purpose in that. Or any value.”

  “I’m sure you know the Loudoun County Sheriff’s Office now considers the murder investigation closed,” I said, “largely based on evidence your wife provided to Detective Noland that apparently proved my father murdered Beau Kinkaid. There would be great purpose and value to my family and me if Mrs. Chastain could explain what happened all those years ago. She’s the only person who can answer our questions.”

  “There’s no ‘apparently’ about your father’s guilt, Ms. Montgomery. And my wife has already answered—”

  “Put yourself in my place,” I said. “You’d want to understand what happened, too. You’d want some closure…some peace, wouldn’t you?”

  There was a long silence and I wondered if I hadn’t been on a speakerphone all along, so that Annabel had heard everything I’d said.

  “One moment, please.” Sumner sounded brusque. When he spoke again, I realized I’d been right. He’d turned off the speaker and now it was just the two of us on the line.

  “My wife says she will see you,” he said. “It would not be my decision, but I respect her wishes. Let me warn you before you get here. I will not tolerate any accusations or threats against her. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Like many of the buildings in Middleburg and Atoka, the Fox & Hound had been built in the early 1800s. Over the years it had gone through numerous changes, including joining the separate kitchen to the main house and adding double-tiered verandas that overlooked Grace Jordan’s lush English gardens, until it evolved into the graceful, rambling estate it was today. The grounds possessed many outbuildings, some of which had been enlarged and converted into guesthouses, which were now the more sought-after lodgings.

  Sumner Chastain answered the door to Devon Cottage when I knocked. Taller than I expected, I guessed him to be around six foot two. He wore an open-necked dress shirt, well-cut slacks, and a double-breasted navy blazer, radiating authority and the craggy bonhomie of a good fellow who belonged to all the right clubs and sat on boards of numerous charitable foundations and civic organizations. His eyes lingered on my cane as he looked me over and it seemed to surprise him.

  He turned away and called to the bedroom. “Annabel, she’s here.”

  It bothered me that he didn’t use my name. I wondered if it was deliberate or if I genuinely didn’t register with him as someone of any consequence. After this conversation, we’d have no further reason to speak with each other.

  Annabel Chastain—or Annie Kinkaid, as my father knew her—seemed tense and nervous when she walked into the elegant sitting room, which Grace had furnished with fine English antiques and oil paintings of pastoral settings, mixed in with hunting scenes. Like her husband’s attire, Annabel’s clothes spoke of understated wealth and good taste. Cream-colored slacks, matching open-toed heels, bottle-green silk tunic, and the same oversized choker pearls I remembered from the Internet photograph.

  She examined me with undisguised curiosity and also appeared startled by the cane as her eyes darted between it and my face. I knew then she’d never met my mother. If she had, it would be like seeing my mother’s ghost nearly thirty years later. But there was no flicker of recognition when she looked into my eyes.

  “A car accident,” I said.

  She colored faintly. “I apologize for staring. You’re just so young…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Are you all right, darling?” Sumner asked.

  “Yes, of course. Won’t you sit down, Ms. Montgomery?” she asked.

  “No, thank you. I won’t take much of your time.”

  “As you wish.” Annabel walked over to a carved button-back chair and sat on the edge as though she were poised for flight.

  “Would you like your tea, Annabel?” Sumner asked. “I can bring it from the other room.”

  “No, thanks, darling. I’m finished.” She fluttered a hand.

  He came over and stood behind her chair, resting his arms on the rosewood frame as he leaned forward, a tender gesture that made it seem like he was physically shielding his wife. Annabel reached up and stroked the sleeve of his blazer, fidgeting with one of the buttons on his cuff.

  “Forgive me for being blunt,” I said, “but I understand you and my father were having an affair at the time your ex, rather, Beau Kinkaid, was killed. I wondered how it started.”

  It didn’t appear to be the question she was expecting. Or maybe she was expecting denials or accusations first.

  Annabel’s eyes grew wide and she briefly tilted her head in Sumner’s direction, as though he had an answer for her. For a moment, I thought he was going to be the one to do the talking.

  “Beau and…your father…met each other through a mutual friend,” Annabel said finally, her voice breathy and her words rushed. “Some business deal. Sorry, but I don’t remember the details. There were so many with Beau, always something. Your father came down to Richmond for a meeting. On his own.”

  She stroked her husband’s sleeve again. “Leland, Beau, and I went out to dinner. Beau’s club. A private place with a top-floor restaurant that had a splendid view of the James River.”

  “That’s how you met?”

  Annabel shrugged. “Things happen. It was obvious he was attracted to me and I won’t deny I was attracted to him. I’ll spare you the details, but the next time he came to Richmond, Beau was out of town.”

  “How long did your relationship go on?”

  The litany of questions seemed to pain her. I wouldn’t be able to ask many more.

  “Six, maybe seven months. Then Beau found out. There was a horrible scene. He threatened to kill your father. Left our house in an awful state and took a gun so I knew that’s exactly what he intended to do. I managed to call Leland and warn him.” She looked down and stared at her perfect manicure, but her hands were trembling. “For all these years it’s haunted me that I might have signed Beau’s death warrant, telling your father Beau was on his way.”

  “Darling, we’ve been over this. You mustn’t blame yourself.” Sumner put his hands on his wife’s shoulders and massaged them gently. “You’ve been through too much.”

  “Or perhaps you saved Leland’s life,” I said.

  My comment seemed to surprise her. “Perhaps.”

  “Did you know my mother was pregnant with me that summer?” I asked. “My cousin remembered Beau visiting my father the day she went into labor with me.”

  Sumner’s eyes darkened, but Annabel nodded and said in that breathy voice, “Yes. I did know.”

  “Why didn’t you report him missing?” I asked. “Didn’t you speak to my father when Beau didn’t return home? I don’t understand how you could not have known what happened. Or not cared to find out.”

  She sat up straight like I’d yanked a puppeteer’s string. “You have no right to judge me.”

  “I’m not judging you. But I don’t understand how you know for sure that Leland killed Beau unless my father told you so himself.”

  “I believe Detective Noland has been over all that with you.” Sumner’s voice held a warning that I’d crossed a line and his tolerance was wearing thin. “There’s nothing further to discuss here.”

  I asked, anyway.

  “Please, Mrs. Chastain. What happened between you and Leland after Beau died?”

  Sumner looked like he was ready to come around from behind the chair. I ignored him and focused on Annabel.

  “Please,” I said to her again. To him I added, “My last question. I promise.”

  “I didn’t want to know what happened.” Her voice was still tight with anger. “I was glad Beau didn’t come back. You can�
�t possibly understand how it was.”

  “Show her, Annie,” Sumner said. “Then she’ll understand.”

  Annabel slowly raised her hands and tried to unhook her pearls.

  “Help me,” she said to Sumner.

  When he removed them, I saw the large red welt—an enormous slash that girdled her neck—that had been hidden by her jewelry.

  “Beau did that,” she said. “I nearly died.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Let me tell you something.” She gripped the arms of the chair and this time I could see the bones of her fingers sharply defined against her thin, taut skin. “I never asked Leland if he did it, but we both knew he did. Afterward your father wouldn’t let go of me, and that terrified me. If he could kill Beau, what could he do to me? Especially because I could link him to Beau’s murder. Your father called constantly, hounding me until I would no longer answer the phone. One time he drove to Richmond. I left my house by the back door and ran away to spend the night at a friend’s place. Then there were the letters. So many letters.”

  “Some of which you kept as blackmail.”

  She drew back. “I prefer to think of it as insurance. They were the only proof I had that Leland killed Beau.”

  “All it proves is that you were having an affair.”

  “Motive,” she said. “It gave him a motive. Leland knew Beau abused me and he probably saved my life by killing him. But I couldn’t bring myself to continue the affair, once I knew what he’d done.”

  “You wrote him letters.”

  “Asking him to leave me alone.” Her eyes swept over me. “You seem like a nice young woman, Ms. Montgomery. Believe it or not, I admire your spunk and your courage in coming here today. It may surprise you, but I hoped your father would return to your mother and his new daughter. You have a brother, too, I believe?”

  “And a younger sister,” I said. “You said my father was crazy about you. Did you take advantage of that and set him up to kill Beau?”

  “This is over,” Sumner said. “I will not allow my wife to be subjected—”

  “No,” Annabel’s voice cut through his. “No, I did not. At least, I never asked him outright. I told you he was madly in love with me. He would have done anything for me. Anything to have me. Anything to save me. Your father knew if I stayed with Beau, I would end up dead. The beatings were growing more savage.”