The Chardonnay Charade

Chapter 12

I drove slowly back to the vineyard. Sometimes there’s nothing worse than being alone with your own thoughts. Marty’s secret hung around my neck like a noose.

I called Quinn from the car and asked if he needed me in the barrel room. He sounded surprised. “I thought we were gonna sort out the Chardonnay once and for all. You sound weird. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” I lied. “I’ll be there.” I disconnected before he had another chance to quiz me.

But Quinn, like me, also seemed distracted as we made the final decisions about yeast and sugar content. “There’s not going to be enough oak in the finish,” he said. “So I think we ought to hang the chips in the tanks for a while.”

My mother and Jacques had been purists. They produced our wine based on the grapes God gave us and the decisions they’d made in the barrel room ever since harvest. When it was time to finally bottle it, they believed you worked with what you had. So there was no excessive fiddling or changing the wine they’d ended up with. Hanging a bag of oak chips in one of the stainless-steel tanks was the speed-dial equivalent of making unoaked wine taste like it had just spent the past nine months gracefully aging in oak barrels—in about an hour. Jacques would have thought it was cheating. Quinn thought it was brilliant.

Today I didn’t feel like disagreeing with him. “Fine,” I said, “we’ll do it that way.”

“We’ll bottle Friday,” he said. “I’ve got to get the bottling equipment in tomorrow. Plus the rootstock is arriving.”

“If we’re done here I think I’ll head back to the house to change before everyone shows up later,” I said.

“Shows up?”

“Austin’s reception. You reminded me about it this morning.”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.”

There is a French expression my mother often used when someone was behaving oddly or out of character. Il n’est pas dans son assiette. Literally it means, “He’s not on his plate.” It didn’t translate too well in English, but right now it described Quinn and me perfectly. Neither one of us was on our plates.

I had no idea where we were.

I tore Ross’s envelope open as I walked through the front door of my house. A brochure from a company that made orthotics. He’d circled one of the models, a clunky affair that wrapped around the ankle and foot like a molded plastic boot. I stared at it. How did you wear shoes—normal shoes—with a contraption like that? I shoved the brochure back in the envelope. No way. If I wore one of those, I’d look crippled.

I started to slowly climb the stairs when Mia appeared at the top of the landing. Dressed in a short blue jean skirt, white camisole, and high-heeled beaded sandals, she looked pretty and fresh. She froze in midstep when she saw me.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I live here. Going somewhere?” I shouldn’t have let my anger over what Kit had told me about the police blotter show, but I was tired. This would be another showdown.

“Out.”

Might as well get right to it. “I heard about the misdemeanor charge for public drunkenness. Nice going.”

She stomped down the stairs until she stood a step above me. It gave her the psychological advantage of looking down on me. “Who told you?”

“Kit gave me a preview of tomorrow’s weekly police blotter.”

Her face grew pale. “Oh, crap. That’s just great. It’s going to be in the newspaper?”

“Yep.”

“It was just a stupid fine. I paid it already. So it’s not like I had to go to court or anything.”

“Yeah, but next time you will go to court and you will spend a night in jail.”

“No, I won’t.” She banged down the last few stairs in the high heels and then across the foyer, long-legged as a colt, ponytail bouncing like an angry exclamation mark.

“Hey!” I called. “Are you coming home tonight? Or are you still sleeping over at Abby Lang’s?”

She spun around. “I’m not sleeping at Abby’s, that’s for sure. Neither is she. I don’t know what we’re doing tonight.”

I stared at my sister. That last remark sounded more desperate than threatening. She meant it that she really didn’t know what she was doing. Kind of a leitmotif for her life right now. But it would probably be whatever came easiest in the heat of a what-the-hell night.

“Come home, Mimi,” I said gently. “Please?”

She seemed to waver. “I don’t know. I’ll see. Anyway, we’ve got plenty of places to stay.”

“Why isn’t Abby sleeping at her house anymore?”

She threw her hands up in the air. “Because her dad is so totally flipped out about the cops showing up and asking him about Georgia Greenwood. And he’s, like, going nuts because he wants to get nominated to be vice president. Abby’s going to the convention in San Francisco and she might take time off from school to campaign with him. She says it will be so cool.” She splayed her feet sideways like a young girl would do and it made her seem infinitely more vulnerable. “But this Georgia stuff could wreck everything if it gets out about him being with her the night she was murdered.”

“Are you saying Georgia was sleeping with Abby’s dad?”

Mia looked disgusted. “God, no. He didn’t even like her.”

“Then why did he support her campaign?”

“I dunno. Why don’t you ask him?” She pulled out her mobile phone from a tiny purse and looked at the display. “It’s five-thirty already. I gotta go. See you maybe tomorrow.”

“Please be careful with the drinking. The next time you get caught—”

“Lucie,” she said impatiently, “give it a rest. I have no intention of getting caught again. ’Bye.”

The door slammed and I heard her car engine start a moment later.

It wasn’t until I was standing in the shower with the water sluicing over me that I thought again about what she meant by that last remark. She wasn’t going to stop drinking.

She just wasn’t going to get caught when she did.

I was surprised to see Bonita setting wineglasses on the bar when I arrived at the villa. The college-kid outfit she had on this morning when I first saw her had been replaced by an elegant black and white knit top, cropped black pants, and slingbacks. She’d pulled her hair back in a loose knot and wore a light floral scent. Altogether, she looked lovely and very sophisticated.

“Thanks for setting up,” I said. “Where’s Quinn?”

“At his place. I saw his car as I drove by. I figured I should get here, you know, a little early. Quinn’s so busy now that he’s working two jobs. You guys need me more than you thought.” She smiled, sounding cheerful.

“Pardon?”

“Well, with him working for that British guy.” Her smile froze.

“Quinn is working for Mick Dunne?” There was no point trying to act like I knew. My face gave away completely that I had no idea.

“Well, not exactly working for him, I guess,” she said uneasily. “But he, like, agreed to help him.”

“You mean as a consultant?” When did that happen? This morning Quinn had been as friendly as a Rottweiler toward Mick.

“Yeah. A consultant.” She knew now she’d let the cat out of the bag. Maybe a lot of cats and a lot of bags. She added, “You seem pretty mad, Lucie. I shouldn’t have opened my big mouth, but I figured you knew.”

“Looks like it slipped his mind to tell me.”

“Oh, God. Please don’t say I did. Could you act surprised when he brings it up?”

“Sure.” Me and my telltale face. “I’ll do that.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.” She sounded relieved. “Because I think he’d, like, kill me.”

Not before I, like, killed him. “I wouldn’t worry,” I said.

I kept my word about not saying anything to Quinn when he finally showed up a few minutes later dressed in khakis and another in his extensive collection of Hawaiian shirts. This one was multiple shades of blue with fish swimming all over it.

“That is such a cool shirt,” Bonita said. She went over and fingered the fabric of one of his sleeves. “I totally love it.”

Quinn looked down at her and something twisted in my heart as I watched the way he smiled at her. No doubt about it. He was falling under her spell, fascinated by her transformation from college kid to beguilingly sexy woman.

“It’s vintage,” he said, still smiling. “One way you can tell the quality of a print like this is by the size of the fish’s lips. This one is kind of special.”

“I didn’t know that,” she said. “That is so awesome.”

“Sorry to interrupt this discussion about fish lips,” I said, “but do you think we have enough bottles of wine open? I just heard the Goose Creek Catering truck pulling up.”

They both turned around. Bonita let go of Quinn’s shirt and blushed. Quinn’s dark eyes held mine for a long moment. What was in his made me feel like an overbearing schoolteacher yanking her fun-loving pupils back in line, which wasn’t too far off the mark. I don’t know what he saw in mine, but I hoped it wasn’t wistfulness.

“I think we’re fine,” he said. “But just in case, I’ll get more glasses. They’re in the barrel room. Excuse me.”

He held the door for Dominique’s new assistant and two waitresses. When he came back a few minutes later, we were almost done setting out the hors d’oeuvres. Besides our just-released Cabernet Sauvignon and an older barrel-fermented Chardonnay, Austin had asked for champagne, which we’d bought from Harry Dye since we didn’t do any sparkling wines of our own yet.

I checked my watch. “What time are they coming?”

“Now,” Quinn said. “Three limos just pulled up.”

Austin Kendall had rounded up the region’s wealthiest citizens and it was immediately clear why when he walked into the room with his arm clapped around Hugo Lang’s shoulder. For a man who’d been questioned by the sheriff so recently, Hugo looked like he didn’t have a care in the world as he worked the room, slapping backs, shaking hands, and leaning in for the kind of whispered confidences that implied an inner sanctum aura of power and influence.

The mission tonight was to raise money for the upcoming campaign, so Hugo would have even more to bring to the table in San Francisco with his campaign war chest and platinum-plated connections. A nimble-minded Southern senator who chaired the Foreign Relations Committee and spoke with the charismatic eloquence of Bill Clinton, he’d be a definite asset to the ticket.

Quinn was right that Hugo bore a resemblance to President Kennedy, whose memory still had plenty of cachet around here, especially for the old-timers. People still talked about the Kennedys as neighbors, since they’d once owned a home in Middleburg while JFK was president. Afterward, Jackie returned often to ride with several of the local hunt clubs and a pretty pavilion on Madison Street was dedicated to her memory. Hugo had the same Kennedyesque striking good looks and strong profile—though he was now gray-haired—but his most magnetic feature was an irrepressible boyish smile. He flashed it often and it never failed to dazzle whoever he was with.

“How are you this evening, Lucie?” He came up to me after drinks had been served and Austin had proposed a toast to Hugo and “our worthy cause.”

“Fine, thanks, Senator. Congratulations.”

He smiled. “That’s probably a little premature, but thank you.”

“Can I talk to you for a second?” I asked. “I won’t take long, but it’s important. It’s about your daughter and my sister.”

Dark clouds replaced the sunshine. He took my elbow. Somehow I didn’t think he was going to be surprised by what I had to say. “Why don’t we go out on your terrace?” he murmured. “We’ll have more privacy there.”

“Hugo…?” Austin looked questioningly at both of us. “Going somewhere?”

“Be right back, buddy,” Hugo said. “I need a moment.”

“Sure, sure.”

We walked over to the railing. Hugo leaned against it, his back to the panoramic view and the Technicolor sunset. He was all business. “Let’s hear it.”

“Abby and Mia spend their nights out drinking. They’re drinking pretty heavily, too. Mia got a misdemeanor fine for public drunkenness the other day since she’s underage. They’re hanging out at the old temperance grounds.”

He brushed imaginary lint off the cuff of a beautiful custom-tailored suit. “Abby’s over twenty-one,” he said. “I’ve talked to her about this and she said she has everything under control. I believe my daughter. She’s a good girl.”

“With all due respect, I’m not sure she has it under control, Senator.”

His face hardened. Not a man used to someone telling him his business. “I appreciate your concern for Abby’s well-being, but I think you’re overreacting. Perhaps your sister’s the one who needs reining in.”

“I’m working on that.” The rebuke stung. He was digging in his heels because he didn’t want to believe what I was saying. Or maybe the timing was inconvenient. On impulse, I added, “By the way, why did you endorse Georgia Greenwood for state senate if you didn’t like her?”

What the hell? I probably wasn’t going to get another chance to ask him now that I’d ticked him off.

For a moment his eyes went glassy with shock, but he recovered immediately. “I do a lot of things I don’t always want to do or agree with,” he said coolly. “It’s part of the job description. Georgia was my party’s candidate, right here in my backyard. This was one of those situations.”

“So it’s true you didn’t like her?”

“I didn’t say that. And frankly, it’s none of your business what my personal opinion of her was.”

He was right, of course, but I kept going. “I saw the two of you leave the fund-raiser together. You’re one of the last people to see her alive, except for whoever had sex with her. And her killer. Unless they were the same person. Then you’re probably the next-to-last.”

He leaned toward me and poked his right index finger at my chest, jabbing the air as he spoke. “How dare you? I have no idea who she was with that night. And as for your smutty insinuation, I volunteered to give the sheriff a DNA mouth-swab sample. No one had to coerce me. After I left Georgia—alive—I was on the phone most of the night making fund-raising calls to the West Coast and talking strategy with my campaign manager in L.A.”

He lowered his finger and, instinctively, it seemed, began twisting his wedding ring around and around. But his hands trembled. So he had a verifiable alibi.

“I didn’t mean to offend you, Senator. But the sheriff thinks Ross Greenwood killed her and he’s innocent, too.”

The temperature between us hovered near absolute zero. “Then let the sheriff do his job and mind your own business. I need to get back to my guests. I think we’re done here.”

After the limousines had gone and Quinn and I were cleaning up, he said to me, “What the hell happened with you and Lang out there on the terrace? What’d you do to him to get him so royally pissed off?”

“I tried to talk to him about his daughter and my sister, who spend their evenings together getting drunk,” I said. “He said Abby’s over twenty-one and that was the end of the conversation.”

“What else?”

“What do you mean?” I was stalling and he knew it.

“Don’t make me drag it out of you. Right after he came back in I heard him ask Bonita for a glass of water. He took a pill and I saw his hands shaking so bad he spilled the water. Must have been something you said to him.”

“I asked him about Georgia,” I said. “So did the sheriff. He said he did one of those DNA swabs proving he didn’t have sex with her. I guess talking about it rattled his cage.”

Quinn put a cork in a bottle of Cab and set it under the bar. “So he’s off the hook, is he?” He looked at me soberly. “You never should have said anything to him. He’s right. You were out of line.”

“Maybe so, but you know something? I think he’s hiding something.” I wiped the tile counter with a sponge, then wrung it out like it needed strangling. “Lot of that going around lately.” I slapped the sponge down on the edge of the sink.

“Something else bugging you?” he asked. “You’ve been in a rotten mood all day. Ever since you came back from Leesburg.”

“I feel great,” I snapped. “See you tomorrow.”

Afterward at home neither the novel on my bedside table nor an old movie on television held my interest, so I finally gave up around midnight and went downstairs to the kitchen. An open bottle of California Chardonnay—what else?—in the refrigerator looked pretty good. I poured a glass and drank it sitting in the glider, pushing myself back and forth with my good foot.

I didn’t see the faint light coming from beyond the rosebushes until my eyes adjusted to the moonlit darkness. Quinn must have gone to the summerhouse with his telescope. He probably couldn’t sleep any more than I could. Maybe the tension between the two of us kept him awake, too.

I picked up my cane and walked across the dew-damp grass. In the stillness, his voice startled me. I was about to call out when I heard the other voice. Female. For a moment I stood there like I’d grown roots, waiting.

Then I heard her giggle. “You are so awesome.”

Less than a day and he already made a move for Bonita. Their voices rose and fell, sweet chuckles and gentle teasing. Too quiet to understand what they were saying, but expressive enough to know what they were doing.

He’d asked me to look at the stars with him—but that was before he met her. If I had secretly hoped Quinn’s invitation to go stargazing was anything more than a casual offer, then it was my own stupid fault. I walked back to the veranda and threw the rest of the Chardonnay onto the lawn. Halfway up the spiral staircases on my way back to bed, the phone rang.

“Sorry to be calling so late, but I knew you’d want to know.” Kit sounded agitated. “Bobby just told me the D.C. police found Randy.”

“D.C.?” I said. “What’s he doing in Washington?”

“He probably didn’t start out in D.C.,” she said. “They found his car upstream parked near White’s Ferry. The cops fished his body out of the Potomac. He must have floated downstream. You were right. He’s dead. Shot himself through the head at point-blank range.”