The Sauvignon Secret

Chapter 25

The expression of terror and gratitude on Eli’s face when he picked up Hope at the Thiessmans’ house was the same look you see on every television report or newspaper photo when parents get a reprieve from nearly losing a child to someone they thought they could trust and shouldn’t have done. He looked wrecked, choking back sobs as we stood there with our arms twined around each other, crushing Hope between us. We were outside by the kitchen door, the exact spot where Dominique and I had chatted only a week earlier as she sneaked a smoke.

The grounds around the house were overflowing with cruisers, vans, EMTs, sheriff’s department officers, crime scene investigators, ambulances, search dogs, even a fire truck. My head ached. It would be hours before I could go home.

I’d already called Dominique and warned her she’d have to make do at the dinner without Jasmine or me.

“What about the flowers?” she asked.

“You’ll have to make do without them, too.”

“What’s going on? Someone who just got here said she saw ambulances and sheriff’s department cruisers with their lights and sirens on making a beehive for the Thiessmans’ house,” she said.

“I’ll explain everything when I can.”

“Lucie?”

“I promise. I gotta go.”

Bobby showed up right behind the first responders, letting Eli leave with Hope but sequestering me in the kitchen and putting Pépé in, of all places, the library with Juliette’s portrait, until he could take our statements. Jasmine had vanished on foot since her silver Honda was still parked next to the back door.

“We’re looking for her. We’ll find her eventually,” Bobby said. “And, uh, Juliette Thiessman …”

“Yes?”

“Bullet went straight to her heart. She didn’t have a prayer.”

“Does Pépé know?”

“Yup.”

By the time he finished with us, it was nearly ten o’clock.

He came into the kitchen. “You two are free to go,” he said. “I could confiscate that gun of your father’s since Luc was carrying concealed without a permit. A French hunting license. Nice try.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Ah, forget it.” He rubbed his tired eyes with both hands. “You and I are going to be talking again.”

“I understand.”

Bobby stopped rubbing and looked at me, fatigue and worry making canyonlike furrows that creased his forehead and deepening the marionette lines on his face.

“Jesus,” he said, “isn’t this a hell of a mess?”

Pépé stayed in town for Juliette’s funeral. The press had a field day with the story; it was sensational, all the necessary elements—a secret society, murder, lust, greed, corruption, sex, and steeped in decades of lies and deception—that made it perfect for the tabloids. The Fauquier County police came out in force to keep the scrum of reporters and photographers away from what had turned into a major national media event as Pépé and I joined the other mourners at the old Episcopal church near Upperville.

The only person not in attendance was Charles, who was still in the hospital and expected to recover. Ironically, I heard from Kit that he was on a suicide watch. She had picked up the story for the Trib and kept me up-to-date on everything that happened in the weeks to come—that the police in Half Moon Bay were reinvestigating the death of Mel Racine, and in Maryland, the case involving Maggie Hilliard’s accidental death was being reopened. The Loudoun County Sheriff’s Department had also been in touch with French authorities concerning Vivian Kalman.

The day after Juliette’s funeral, Kit interviewed Elinor Falcone and broke the story about Stephen, precipitating the national firestorm of moral outrage and shocked incredulity that Charles had predicted. She kept my name out of it and I was grateful.

Jasmine Nouri turned up in a motel in Charlottesville. Bobby told me the charges against her, which included being an accessory to attempted murder, would probably be reduced. She might even get away with a suspended sentence by cooperating with the police in putting together their case against Charles.

After the funeral, Mick Dunne cornered me and led me outside to the cloisters, where we stood as the rain poured down around us in the swirling gray mist. I told him then that it wasn’t going to work between us.

“Because of Quinn?” he asked. “You got back together in California, didn’t you?”

“No,” I said, “we didn’t. You were right, Mick. He’ll be back for harvest this year, but that’s it.”

He put a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Lucie.”

“It’s all right,” I said. “I’m over it.”