The Riesling Retribution

Chapter 18

Chance’s smile didn’t fade, but something in his eyes went dead as they flickered down to my cane and my deformed foot, before settling on my face.

“If that’s your decision.”

“It is.”

Quinn got up with Javier’s help. “Get out of here. You heard her. You’re fired.”

“Quinn,” I said, “he’s going.”

“Pretty cruel turning me out on the street like this.” Chance stared hard at me. “Especially after your winemaker tried to kill me. That’s not your style, Lucie. You’ve got more class than that, don’t you?”

“I’ll give you two weeks’ severance pay.”

“Make it three. And I’ll overlook the assault charge.”

“Forget it,” Quinn said. “Don’t do it, Lucie.”

Chance shrugged. “Up to you. You know he started it. What I did was only in self-defense.”

“Three weeks,” I said. “I’ve got to write a check and the checkbook’s in my office. Chance, you come with me. Everyone else get back to work.”

Quinn started to protest but I silenced him with a look.

“I can handle this.”

Neither Chance nor I spoke as we walked to the villa. I asked him to wait in the tasting room while I wrote the check. When I came back, he had a bottle of wine in his hand.

“Okay if I take this as a souvenir?”

It was a bottle of Riesling.

“What if I said no?”

“I’d take it anyway.”

He flashed a shadow of the heart-stopping smile and I looked away as I handed him the check. He folded it and put it in his pocket without looking at it.

“You’re making a mistake,” he said, and pulled me into his arms.

Before I could protest his mouth came down hard on mine as he drew me closer in a viselike embrace.

“Chance—”

He loosened his grip on my waist, but it was only to put a finger under my chin and tilt my face to his for another long, bruising kiss. I felt the wine bottle press hard into the small of my back. It hurt. He was making me dizzy, breathless.

“Don’t! You can’t do this.” I put my hands on his chest, gasping, as I tried to push him away.

He laughed and released me. “I just did. I’ll be around for a few days. Then I’m probably leaving town. You could change your mind. We could finish this. I’ve seen the way you look at me, Lucie. I’ve known for a while that you want me.”

He traced his finger down my cheek and my throat. When it moved between my breasts, I caught his hand.

“Stop it, please.”

His laugh was low and seductive. He bit my neck and I stifled a cry at the unexpectedness of the sharp little pain.

“I know what you want, too, baby. And I’m good. I’d undress you nice and slow—”

“That’s enough!”

He laughed again. Then he walked over to the front door and opened it. I thought he’d look back, but he didn’t. I stood there, numb.

How could I have let him do that? Was he right? Had I asked for that kiss?

The door opened again and Benny walked in. How long had I been standing here?

“Jesus, you scared me, Benny!”

“You okay, Lucie? Queen sent me to check on you. Make sure nothing happened.”

My face was scarlet. I moved my hand to my neck to the place Chance had bitten me and pretended to rub it. Had he left a mark?

Benny’s expression was bland.

“Nothing happened,” I said.

He stared at me. “Good.”

We both knew that was a lie.

By the time Benny and I got back to the crush pad, Quinn had cleaned up, changing his bloodstained T-shirt to a clean one. His face looked puffy and he was going to have a hell of a shiner. He moved and looked like a dog that had just dragged itself home from a losing fight.

“Maybe you should go back to your place and get some rest,” I said. “You look like hell.”

“And lose all these grapes? No way.” He glanced up at me and went back to sorting fruit. “I’m sorry I took a swing at him. But he was asking for it.”

He kept concentrating on the grapes, but I could see his Adam’s apple move in his throat. I’d never seen him this uncomfortable before.

“Can I talk to you in private for a minute?” I said.

Benny and Javier glanced up.

“We can take a break, Queen,” Javier said, pulling cigarettes out of his pocket. He looked at Benny. “Vámonos.”

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 held 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.”

“How did it end with Leland?”

“Badly. I left him. Finally ran away and hoped I’d never see him again. I moved to Charlottesville and tried to start my life over. Later I married my Sumner. He’s given me a wonderful life.” She patted Sumner’s hand and he smiled. “That part of my old life is over now. Except for one last thing. Something I’d like you to do for me.”

I hadn’t expected the request. “What is it?”

“I would like to see the place where your father buried Beau.”

“Annabel!” Sumner chided her, stroking her shoulders. “My darling, you don’t want to do that. Let me send one of the company photographers—”

“I’d be glad to take you there,” I said. “But it has to be today. We have a Civil War reenactment on the farm this weekend. There’ll be hundreds, perhaps as many as a thousand, people attending.”

“What time today?” she asked.

I looked at my watch. “Noon. Meet me in the winery parking lot. And I suggest changing your clothes, or at least your shoes. We have to walk and it’s muddy out there.”

After I left, I heard their voices rise and fall behind the closed door. Sumner didn’t want her to see the grave site. She wasn’t giving in.

I drove back to the vineyard and wondered why Annabel wanted to do it. What if she were lying about not seeing Leland again after Beau was murdered? Suppose she killed Beau and then got Leland to help her bury the body? She seemed like the sort of woman to go over the edge if someone pushed her too far and maybe that’s what Beau had done. If Leland were besotted, it wasn’t hard to imagine him agreeing to help her out. That made him an accessory to Beau’s murder, but not a murderer. Nevertheless, it had made it easy for Annabel to shift the guilt solely to my father, absolving herself. He’d been involved—just not the way she said.

After the brutal beatings Beau had inflicted on Annabel, I couldn’t say I blamed her for killing him. Maybe in her shoes, I’d do the same thing—or would I?

But why revisit Beau’s grave? Unless she hadn’t come along when he was originally buried there, so she’d never seen the site and now merely wanted to satisfy a morbid curiosity. Gloat to herself and to Beau’s memory that she’d managed to get away with murder.

Maybe at noon she’d tip her hand and I’d find out. Maybe this was the instance of Locard’s principle Officer Mathis had tried to explain to me—that a killer either takes something away or leaves something at the scene of the crime.

Annabel Chastain was finally leaving something behind by visiting Beau’s grave nearly thirty years later.

Her guilt.