The Riesling Retribution

Chapter 16

Savannah Hayden’s muddy Jeep was in the winery parking lot when I got back from the General Store fifteen minutes later. Quinn hadn’t mentioned that she’d be dropping by. The last time I’d seen her was when she helped out at the anniversary celebration a few days ago. I wondered if he asked her to come over or whether it had been her own impulse.

I had hoped to talk over what Thelma had said about Annabel Chastain and her relationship with my father when I dropped off the coffee and donut. Now I regretted buying them. Maybe I could just quickly leave them and say I had business to take care of in my office.

It looked like Quinn had put Savannah to work cleaning the stainless-steel tanks we planned to use for the Riesling. I heard her laughter echoing inside one of the tanks, followed by Quinn’s deep voice.

“It has to be completely clean before the wine goes in so there’s no contamination,” he was saying. “I’m using the smaller tanks because we’re going to be working against the clock and the wine needs to cool down fast. But we gotta get all the schmutz out before any wine goes in.”

More laughter from Savannah and muffled words.

He turned around as I stood there, feeling foolish clutching the Styrofoam coffee cup and the little white bag from Thelma’s. One of his hands, I noticed, rested on Savannah’s shoulder. Her head was still inside the enormous tank.

Something flickered in his eyes when he saw me, but he kept his hand where it was.

“I brought you breakfast. Payback for the other day. I’ll just leave it on the table. Didn’t realize you were busy. If I’d known, I would have bought two of everything.”

“Thank you. So you went to Thelma’s?”

I nodded.

“Did you get answers to your questions?”

“My questions?”

“When you left here you said you were going to talk to someone who could answer your questions.”

“It’s a long story,” I said. “Why don’t we save it for another time?”

Savannah’s head popped out of the tank like a jack-in-the-box when the music stopped.

“Morning, Lucie.” She rubbed the palms of her hands on the seat of her jean shorts like she was trying to clean them. Today she looked about Tyler’s age in a faded University of Montana T-shirt with ripped shorts and no socks showing above her red high-tops.

“I had a few hours off so I thought I’d stop by. Quinn says you’re pretty short-handed.”

“I appreciate that. We could use the help.”

“I can probably come back on Thursday when you pick the Riesling.”

“Don’t let us down, sweetheart,” Quinn said. “We need you.”

Savannah blushed. “I won’t.”

“I heard your investigation is all wrapped up,” I said. “So I guess that’s off your plate now that the sheriff’s department is closing the case.”

Her smile faded. “Once the final report’s written. Look, I’m sorry about how it turned out.”

“Why did you come back after Bobby finished recovering everything?”

“Why do you think? Because he didn’t recover everything.”

“He still moved from A to Z awfully fast the day after you were out here,” I said. “Either you didn’t find anything else or you found something really significant.”

“Look,” she said, “I can’t even begin to imagine how difficult this must be for you. I’m not supposed to talk about the case, but there is one thing I’ll tell you. Off the record.”

It sounded ominous, whatever it was. “What?”

“Beau Kinkaid was killed somewhere else.”

“Where? How do you know?”

She laced her fingers together and turned her arms inside out, splaying her feet so she was resting on the sides of the high-tops. With her white-blond hair and jet-black eyebrows she reminded me again of a pixielike Peter Pan.

“I don’t know where.” She paused. “But I found evidence the body had been wrapped in something, meaning odds are good it was transported from another place.”

“So you’ll be able to figure out where he was killed?” I asked.

“I doubt it. Anyway, it’s a moot point since the case is closed.”

“Meaning we’ll never know.”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “Sometimes ‘good enough’ has to be ‘enough’ when you’re trying to allocate resources and you’re cash-strapped. Maybe not for the family who wants absolute certainty, but in this case the evidence is so lopsided…”

“It’s okay.”

I’d been through all that with Bobby. It was clear she was in lockstep with him. I knew a door slamming when I heard one. I set the coffee and the white bag on the winemaker’s table.

“You don’t have to explain,” I added. “I know it wasn’t your decision. I’ll be in my office taking care of paperwork if you need me, Quinn. See you later.”

“Sure.” Quinn nodded. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

If he didn’t believe me, he didn’t let on. “Look, after we’re done here, I’m taking Savannah out to the field to teach her how to measure Brix. I’ll call you with the numbers.”

“Terrific.”

They started talking again before I even got to the barrel room door. Outside in the courtyard, it seemed cooler than it had earlier in the day.

But maybe I was only imagining a chill in the air.

When I got to the villa a few moments later, Frankie was talking on the phone by the bar.

“I’m so sorry,” I heard her say. “No problem. No, no, that’s okay. It must have been awful when you found out…come on by and we’ll take care of it. See you soon.”

“What was that all about?” I asked after she hung up.

“One of our customers. Poor thing. She was in here this weekend with her boyfriend. They bought a case of Cab and a case of Chardonnay for an engagement party they’re throwing for some friends. Over five hundred bucks. Charged it on her Visa, then the next day found out someone had gotten hold of her information and made purchases on that card so she canceled it. Our transaction was still pending. Apparently there was some kind of mix-up and it got canceled, too. She promised to come in and pay us for the wine,” she said. “She’s bringing cash.”

“When’s she coming?”

“Uh…soon.”

“You think she’s legit?”

Frankie looked unhappy. “It never occurred to me she wasn’t. I trust everybody. Maybe I should have gotten her to secure those cases on another credit card until she showed up with the cash.”

“I’m sure it will be fine,” I said. “We’ve had our share of bad checks and people who try to charge things on credit cards that have hit their limit. It comes with the territory.”

“She’ll show up,” Frankie said, pulling on her lip. “Or else I’ll cover it.”

“You will not. Forget it.”

“Speaking of questionable credit, you had a couple of visitors awhile ago. Eli.” She gave me a significant look. “And Brandi.”

“Both of them?”

“He came first, then she showed up. They, uh, adjourned to your office. I didn’t say anything since he’s your brother and it’s none of my business.”

“What were they doing in my office?”

“Talking.” She raised her eyebrows. “Fortunately we didn’t have any customers at the time.”

“You mean they were fighting?”

“Yup. Money again. I heard that part. I finally went out on the terrace so I don’t know the rest of it.” She shrugged. “When the front door slammed, I figured they might have left together, but then I saw her walking to her car by herself. The Jag was still in the parking lot.”

“When did he leave?”

“About ten minutes later.”

“He say anything?”

“Yup. ‘Good-bye.’”

“I think I’ll give him a call.”

But Eli had either turned off his cell or he was ducking calls because he never answered mine. After leaving three messages, I gave up.

I had no better luck at his office. The receptionist at his architectural firm in Leesburg said he hadn’t been in to work since last Friday. When I called his house as a last resort, I got the default message on his answering machine. Random words stitched together meant to imply that a genuine human being was asking me to leave my name and number and someone would get back to me. I hung up without saying anything.

Quinn called at the end of the day with the Brix numbers on the Riesling. A lot of people believe we pick our grapes when we think they’re ready and that it’s a somewhat subjective call based on upcoming weather along with a few other seat-of-the-pants assessments. It’s true there’s a certain crapshoot element in the decision-making process but there is also science, math—and the law.

Brix is the primary indicator in determining ripeness and when to pick because it measures the amount of sugar in the grapes. That measurement allows us to calculate the percentage of alcohol in the wine, which, by law, must range between 7 and 14 percent, depending on the wine varietal. Because Quinn and I liked our Riesling dry rather than sweet, we favored a low-alcohol wine that showcased the fruit—or as he said, a wine that wouldn’t blow the top of your head off because of too much alcohol—so we picked at a lower Brix.

“We should be ready on Thursday,” he said. “It’ll be about twenty-one and a half or twenty-two Brix by then. We’ll beat the rain, but just barely.”

“All right,” I said. “You’d better tell Chance to make sure we have enough pickers so we can wrap it up in a day.”

“Don’t you worry, I’ll talk to him,” Quinn said. “One more thing. When we drove back from the field I saw Eli’s Jaguar parked over by the Ruins. Didn’t see him, just the car. Everything all right?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “Thanks for letting me know. I’ve been trying to reach him all afternoon.”

“Lucie?”

“Yes?”

“Are you okay? You seemed kind of distant this morning.”

How could I answer him? My father had been accused of murder, my brother’s life was falling apart as I watched, and Kit and I weren’t speaking to each other. Despite what was going on between Quinn and Savannah, fundamentally I knew he was my friend, and that had to be good enough.

“I’ve got a lot on my mind right now, but I’m okay,” I said. “By the way, Savannah’s nice. I can see why you like her.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing. Just, she’s nice.”

“Sure. Yeah. Nice kid. Smart, too.”

After he hung up I wondered why he sounded puzzled that I’d figured out he was interested in Savannah. He’d been anything but subtle about it.

It was dusk when I stopped at the Ruins on my way home. My brother’s Jaguar was still there. I parked next to it and got out, calling his name.

The color had faded from the sky and the Blue Ridge was in silhouette against a bright white sky. The fields and stands of trees in the middle distance between the Ruins and the mountains already looked less substantial in the murky light. In a short while, it would be dark. The languid days of summer were already waning. On my way back from the General Store this morning I passed a Loudoun County school bus, the driver no doubt trying out a new fall route a few weeks early.

I found Eli on the far side of the Ruins, sitting where Quinn would not have been able to see him when he drove by. Eli had supervised the conversion of the burned-out tenant house into a stage for plays and concerts. He’d also added a dressing room and an equipment storage area. He knew the Ruins and its hideouts better than anyone else, including the places that weren’t entirely safe to climb on like the old brick hearth where he was now sitting, along with a bottle of Leland’s favorite single-malt Scotch.

There had been one last full bottle of Macallan twenty-five-year-old Scotch in the armoire of the dining room. If that was the bottle he now cradled, he’d put a nice dent in it, though I would have guessed that anyway the moment I laid eyes on him.

“You’re drunk,” I said.

“And I plan to get drunker still.” He smiled the stupid smile of the woefully inebriated and patted a place next to him. “Join me.”

The brick floor was uneven and what was left of the chimney didn’t look like it could support much weight if I needed to hold on to it while I navigated my way to where he sat. Eli reached out his hand.

“Here. I’ll help you. Be careful.”

“Why don’t we move someplace safer? The mortar between these bricks is practically dust. It could collapse right under us.”

“Just like my life.”

“Don’t.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

“How about letting me drive you back to the house?”

“Thanks, but I’m staying here until this bottle is empty.”

“That doesn’t sound like a very smart idea.”

“Does to me.”

“Why?” I gave in and eased myself down next to him.

“Because this is where I took Brandi when I proposed to her.”

In the aching silence that followed, I knew my brother had hit rock bottom if he had come back to the place where it all started with Brandi. I closed my eyes and listened, certain I would hear the sound of his heart breaking into pieces.

“Frankie said the two of you spent some time in my office today.”

Eli picked up the Scotch and took another swig. “She wants a divorce. There’s someone else. Has been for quite a while.” He handed me the bottle. “Fabulous stuff. Best in the world.”

His eyes slid over mine and I saw his grief.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I had no idea.”

“You and me both. What an ass I was not to see it coming.” His mocking laugh echoed against the old bricks. “The husband’s always the last to know. You think that’s such a crock, but you’d be surprised how easy self-delusion is.” He nudged me. “You’re not drinking.”

“You know I don’t like Scotch.”

“Am I going to be turned down by two women in one day? Come on, keep me company. Macallan’s liquid gold. The old man had first-class taste in booze. You have any idea how much this bottle costs?”

“Nope.” I tipped my head and drank. It warmed my throat and I coughed, but Eli was right. It did taste like liquid gold, making me think of oranges, spices, and a vague vanilla scent. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand as he reached for the bottle.

The Roman philosopher Seneca said that drunkenness is nothing but voluntary madness. Tonight my brother was crazy with hurt, betrayal, and anger. It scared me to think what he might do in this self-induced state of reckless grief.

“Do you know who it is?” I asked.

“Someone with money.”

“He won’t have money for long after she gets hold of him,” I said.

His laugh was short and crude sounding as he drank more Scotch.

“You can stay at the house as long as you need to, you know,” I told him.

He set the bottle down and rubbed his face with his hands. “I appreciate that, Luce, but I’ve got to find someplace to live. I can’t keep mooching off you. Taking your charity.”

“It’s not charity. You’re family. You also don’t have to make any decisions right now.”

Especially when he was so drunk his breath was flammable.

“I’m going to lose Hope,” he said.

I knew he meant his daughter, but the desperation in his voice jangled my nerves like he meant something more.

“You’re her father. You’re not going to lose her.”

“How did Leland and Mom stick it out? He had affairs but he always came back to her.”

“They loved each other. I talked to Thelma this afternoon. She told me something.”

He slugged some more Scotch and handed me the bottle. “What?”

I drank, too. “She says Leland wasn’t the one pursuing Annabel Chastain. It was the other way around.”

Eli’s eyes narrowed as he tried to focus on my words. He was already starting to slur his. “So whadda’s that mean?”

“It means Annabel lied.”

“Any way to prove it?”

“Thelma said Mom told her Annabel wrote letters to Leland. Annabel hung on to Leland’s and that was the proof she showed Bobby. But you know Leland. He’d never keep someone else’s love letters as a memento.”

“So we have nada.”

“That’s the way it looks.” The sky had paled to a silvery gray. “When it’s dark out here we’re not going to be able to see a thing.”

“Relax.” He leaned over me and pulled away a brick that I thought was solid in the mortar. “Look what I found.”

A couple of fat, partially burned pillar candles and a box of matches.

“Who put those there?” I asked.

“No idea. Not me. Back in the day Brandi and I used it to keep, uh, other things there.”

“What other things?”

He eyed me. “You weren’t the only one who used the Ruins as a hideout for sex.”

“Oh. Those other things.”

The matches were still good. He lit the candles and set them between us, a soft pool of flickering light in the darkness. Overhead a pale nearly full moon became visible between banks of clouds.

“Looks like we’re going to see a ring around the moon when it gets darker,” I said. “Means rain’s coming.”

“Mom always used to say that.”

“I hope the reenactment isn’t a washout if that hurricane hangs around through the weekend.”

“I talked to Zeke Lee. He said they’ll be there come hell or high water. Literally. Said it’d take a monsoon for them to cancel.”

“You going to join them?”

“I dunno.” He cradled the Scotch like a baby. “Zeke says one of those weekends beats a visit to a shrink. You go back in time so none of your problems happened yet.” He gave a drunken chuckle. “Says it’s better than free therapy. Anything free looks pretty good from the bottle of the hole I’m in. I mean, bottom.”

“Give me that Scotch. Maybe two days of pretend war and shooting at people isn’t such a good thing for you to be doing right now.”

“Anger management. Sounds terrific.” He leered at me and uncorked the bottle again. “Remember when we used to play Civil War here?”

“How could I forget? I always had to be your Union prisoner and you’d stick me in the basement.”

“Scared you, huh?”

“I wasn’t scared.”

“Yeah, you were. Especially the night we told you we saw Mosby’s ghost.”

“I knew you were joking.”

He drank some Scotch and pointed at the moon. “Who says we were? You know he comes out looking for Yankees when there’s a full moon.”

“He comes out on moonless nights and I’m not falling for that again.”

“If you say so. But I feel his presence, moon or no moon. Something’s out there.”

“Cut it out, Eli.”

“You’re spooked. I can tell.” He chuckled again. “Wonder what happened to all my Civil War stuff?”

He lifted the bottle for another drink. This time I reached over and took it from him. “You’ve had enough. What Civil War stuff?”

“All the stuff I found out here. Bullets and buttons. You know, stuff. I even found a Condeferate belt buckle.”

“You don’t say.” He seemed oblivious that he’d mangled his syllables. “What’d you do with all of it?”

“Put it in one of Leland’s old cigar boxes. It’s shumwhere.”

“Maybe we can find it and have those things authenticated. Display them at the winery.”

“Yeah, sure.”

He tried for the Scotch again, but I blocked him with my arm and moved the bottle out of his way.

“Nice try, but it’s time to go home.”

“I think I’ll just stay right here.”

“And wait for Mosby?”

His laugh sounded like a pig hunting truffles. “Maybe. He could be along any minute.”

“I have a better idea. You come home with me.” I blew out the candles and put them back where he’d found them. “The moon’s out from behind the clouds. Let’s go while we can see our way. I don’t want to fall and break my leg.”

“The drunk leading the lame or the other way around?” He hiccupped. “Sorry, babe. That was stupid. I didn’t mean it.”

“Forget it.”

It hurt, but he was too drunk and depressed to take him seriously right now.

I helped him up and he leaned on me as we staggered to the staircase. It felt like I was dragging an anchor for the Queen Mary. By the time we made it back to our cars, I was sweating.

“First one to get back to the house wins.” Eli fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his car keys.

I held out my hand. “I’m going to win because you’re either walking or riding with me. I suggest the ride, so hand ’em over, sport.”

He looked annoyed but at least he didn’t protest. Instead he shoved the keys in his pocket and let me help him into the passenger seat of the Mini.

“I wonder who left those matches and candles there.” I started the engine and backed on to the main road.

“Mosby.”

“I’m serious.”

“You ’lose and clock both gates every night?”

“Close and lock? Of course. Quinn takes care of it himself.”

He shrugged. “Maybe you’ve got people who sneak in shum other way.”

Which is what I’d suggested to Bobby and he’d pooh-poohed it. Unless it was someone who was here on a regular basis and didn’t need to sneak in. Had Quinn used it for trysts with one of his girlfriends? Chance? Tyler?

I drove back to the house in the quiet darkness, the silence broken only by the waning sound of the cicadas. We couldn’t possibly patrol all five hundred acres of this farm, nor keep someone out if he or she really wanted to gain access to the property.

“I’m gonna call Brandi when we get back to the house,” Eli said all of a sudden. “Have a lil talk with her.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Eli.”

“Why not? Tell the lil woman she’s makin’ a huge mishtake. She needs to know.”

“Maybe you should sleep on it.”

“Who you tellin’ what to do? I’m the man of my own housh.”

Once when we had to deal with an extremely inebriated client who’d become hostile during a wine tasting, Tyler had recited something in Latin. I couldn’t remember the words, but I did remember the translation: To quarrel with a drunk is to wrong a man who is not even there.

I hoped Eli wouldn’t call Brandi. But right now, I was talking to a man who wasn’t there. Which was a pity because after tonight’s discussion—all teasing about Mosby’s ghost aside—I wouldn’t have minded the sober comfort of a coherent conversation with my brother to shake off my worries.

Instead I put him to bed and undressed in my own room as the tree branches made skeletal patterns against my windows in the shifting moonlight. Too much talk of ghosts and spirits and hauntings. Mosby, Beau Kinkaid, the restless spirits at Ball’s Bluff.

I climbed into bed and lay there, rigid with the irrational fears I knew would seem foolish by morning. I closed my eyes and waited for sleep to come.