The Merlot Murders

Chapter 16

I slammed the book shut and flung it across the room.

The image was so lifelike, so true, that I wondered if she’d used a photo or if she’d been able to draw my face that perfectly from memory. The sketchbook had landed behind my mother’s desk. I retrieved it and opened it again to that last drawing.

If it weren’t so hideous—and it weren’t me—I could admire it for her talent as an artist.

Now what? Ask her about it? Pretend I hadn’t seen it? Were there more sketchbooks, more tortured drawings? Whose faces had she drawn in those? Fitz’s? Leland’s? More drawings of death and killing?

I left the book where I found it, then got the keys to the Volvo. I didn’t know where I was going until I stopped at the cemetery. My old refuge.

For a long time after my mother died, I used to talk to her headstone, telling her about my day, my problems, my life. Since my accident, we hadn’t spoken much.

Today I had questions for both her and Leland. Was Fitz Mia’s father? If he was, had Leland known about it? It was an open secret that he had a roving eye, so by then did he care if she’d strayed? Maybe he’d sown a few oats of his own and I had other half brothers and half sisters out there somewhere who didn’t know about me, either.

By the time my mother died, the state of my parents’ marriage—if the truth must be told—was like the Easter eggs we used to make as kids where we’d first prick pinholes in both ends and blow the raw contents into a bowl. We’d paint the shells with my mother’s paints or dye them pastel colors, then decorate them. They were always beautiful on the outside like small jewels, but so fragile—because they were hollow.

I left my parents’ graves and went to sit by Hugh Montgomery’s sun-warmed headstone. Hugh was buried on the crest of a hill at the highest part of the cemetery from where there was a magnificent panoramic view of the Blue Ridge. I watched stray clouds make harlequin patterns of sun and shadow on the mountains, then closed my eyes.

It had been hard enough maintaining the flimsy bonds that held Eli, Mia, and me together these last few years. Like the tilt-a-whirl ride at an amusement park, we stayed pinned in place as we spun around faster and faster, as long as there was some inner pull that kept us from flying off in different directions. Now that both my parents were dead, the inner pull—the centripetal force—was the vineyard.

I didn’t hear the gate open and close, but I felt a presence in front of me that suddenly blocked the light against my eyelids. I opened them, shielding my eyes.

“Can I join you?” Greg sat down next to me.

“You just did.”

“I was on my way over to the Ruins,” he said. “I’m emceeing that jazz concert you’re having tomorrow night. I thought I’d check out the sound system.” He broke off a few stems of wild chicory from a clump next to us and handed me the pale blue flowers. “Peace offering? You’re mad about the other night, aren’t you?”

Wild chicory only opens briefly, in the morning. I loved the flowers, but it was a hit and run affair since they were gone almost as soon as they bloomed. Just like him.

“Those flowers belong to my Great-Great-Great-

Uncle Hugh. Family lore has it that they were his favorite because they were exactly the color of his wife’s eyes.”

He set the flowers down near where he’d picked them and leaned against the gravestone. Our arms were touching. I shifted so they weren’t. “I’m sorry if I upset you the other night. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Nothing came over you. It never does.”

“Look, Lucie, I know this is awkward because of Mia. I swear to God, she reminded me so much of you.”

Not if he’d seen that drawing, she wouldn’t. Still, he was a cad playing us off against each other. “How could you do this to her? And me? What do you want, anyway?”

He flushed underneath his sun-god tan. “I know what I did after you got hurt was unforgivable. But give me another chance. I promise it will be different this time.”

After I got hurt. That was one way of putting it. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Come on, honey. Your sister’s the one who came on to me. What was I supposed to do? I mean, look at her. She’s gorgeous.”

He’d said those exact words to me once before. The night of the accident, when he was driving too fast in the rain down Atoka Road. We’d been talking—no, arguing—about Brandi when he took that last corner and lost control of the car.

“Yeah,” I said, bitterly. “She is. Don’t worry, I remember how it goes. You can’t help yourself.”

“What are you talking about?” His pupils were two pinpricks in eyes the color of cold sapphires.

“Who’s Sienna? Is she the new one?”

“What?” He looked stunned, then he laughed. “Oh my God. You think…it’s not what you’re thinking, Lucie.” He seemed to relax visibly. “You must be talking about Rusty’s daughter. Her name is Sara Rust. She’s the daughter of my old man’s business partner at the garage.” He picked up a stone that was lying on the ground near the headstone. He tossed it in the air and caught it. “How’d you hear about the ‘Sienna’ name-thing?”

Greg’s father, Jimmy Knight, and John “Rusty” Rust had owned Knight & Rust Auto Body in Aldie. After Jimmy died of lung cancer Rusty sold the business to an auto repair chain, then retired. Greg almost never talked about his family. I always thought it was because he was vaguely ashamed that his father came home at night with dirt under his fingernails and grease on his clothes.

“From Angela Stetson. She works with her at Vinnie Carbone’s club,” I said.

“I never understood how a guy who looked like a ferret in high school ended up getting himself a gig like that. The guy used to be a twerp. No girl would date him unless they got paid to.”

“The story I heard is that you’re at the twerp’s place all the time.”

“Look,” he said. “Sara is like a kid sister to me. She got herself in a bit of a jam so I gave her some money.” He didn’t look at me while he spoke, just kept concentrating on tossing and catching that rock.

“I don’t…” I said, then stopped. The girlish—almost childish—voice on the answering machine. “Hi, it’s Sara! I’m not here. Leave a message and have an awesome day. Here’s the beep.”

It had to be the same girl. Sara Rust—Sienna—was the one whose phone number I’d found in Leland’s folder. Though why he would be interested in a young girl who was an exotic dancer at Mom’s Place was a mystery. The obvious reasons didn’t add up. He didn’t like them that young.

“You don’t what?” Greg asked.

“I don’t believe anything you say anymore. I want you to leave.”

“Say you forgive me.”

“No.”

“Say it.” He reached over and pulled me to him, just like the other night. “You know you want to,” he murmured, pulling the clip out of my hair and easing me down so I was lying on my back. He pulled away the straps of my tank top and my bra as his mouth came down on mine then traveled down to the space between my breasts.

He shifted and moved on top of me, sliding his hand down to the top button of my jeans. I put my hand on his and pushed it away.

“No,” I said. “I can’t do this.”

He sounded drowsily surprised. “Come on, Lucie. Just like old times.” He grabbed my hand and pinned it behind my head. “You know you want to.”

“Get off me,” I said. He pulled back so he was straddling me now, sitting on his haunches. He caught my other hand and held them together. I wriggled against him and he tightened his grip. “What are you doing?”

“Having fun.”

“Get off me, Greg. I mean it. You’re hurting me.”

Unexpectedly he let go of my hands and stood up. “Have it your way.”

I sat up and fixed my bra and tank top without looking at him. Then I found my hair clip and twisted my hair back into a knot. He stood there, watching. I half-expected him to extend a hand and help me up but he did nothing. I leaned on my cane and pulled myself up so I was facing him.

“Don’t ever do that again,” I said. “It was a mistake.”

“It was no mistake.” He pulled me roughly to him and kissed me, a hard fierce kiss that was brutal, not tender. “We’ll finish this another time.”

He walked down the hill to the steal-me red Mustang convertible Mia had driven the other night. He’d left the top down on a perfect summer day. I watched as he angrily sped off, never turning his head to glance my way as his car churned up a cloud of boiling dust.

I put the back of my hand to my mouth. My lips felt bruised, but at least they weren’t bloody. We’d done that before.

There was something different about this time. The passion I remembered from our marathon sessions at the Ruins two years ago was gone. Instead it seemed efficient and almost mechanical, like he was taking care of business.

Before I left I apologized to Hugh for cavorting on his tombstone. Then I said good-bye to Leland and my mother.

Why did all the secrets, all my unanswered questions, keep bringing me back to this cemetery? I stared at Hugh’s grave for a long time.

The answer, I was sure, lay somehow with him.