The Chardonnay Charade wcm-2

by Ellen Crosby

  “He stopped by tonight.” I turned on my high beams so I could see in the inky darkness as we went off-road toward the fields. “Right before Harry went nuts. God, that was embarrassing.”

  “Who cares? Good old Harry. The only vineyard owner around here smart enough to put in turbines.” Quinn finished juggling the thermos and cup and leaned his back against the door of the small car so he was facing me. “Where was Ross? Wasn’t he around to defend his wife’s honor?”

  “He left early. Medical emergency. One of his patients went into premature labor with twins. Was that another dig about the turbines?”

  “Would I do that?” he asked unconvincingly as I pulled over by the Riesling block and parked. “Here. Have some coffee. It’s going to be a long night.” He handed me his cup and unscrewed the bottom cap from the thermos for himself.

  “Thanks.” I warmed my hands on the cup and blew on the steaming liquid. “Hugo spent a long time talking to Georgia. He didn’t look too happy about it, if you ask me. They left together, too. It was odd. The whole endorsement thing is odd.”

  “Odd, how? You think they’re screwing?” Quinn perked up. Sex interested him. “Georgia’s a knockout even if she is a bitch, but I don’t think Hugo’d bang a married woman. The guy’s a Boy Scout.”

  “You can be so vulgar sometimes, you know?” I said. “You never knew Hugo’s wife. No one could take her place. He’s definitely not…banging…Georgia. Or anyone else.”

  He laughed, unrepentant, and set the thermos on the floor. “She’s doing it. You can tell. She puts out vibes. If you ask me, she’s got something going with Randy.”

  “No way.” Our body heat and the steam from the coffee had fogged the windows so it was like being in a cocoon. I turned the defroster on high and raised my voice to be heard over the gusty roar. “Randy could be her son. He’d be more likely to go out with Mia than Georgia.”

  “Sweetheart, this may come as a news flash to you, but there are some men who sleep with more than one woman at a time. He could still date your sister and have a little on the side with Georgia.”

  “Georgia shops at Saks and Tiffany’s. She and Ross have a Picasso in their living room. Randy’s an Elvis-on-velvet NASCAR kind of guy. Sorry. I don’t see it. He could be sleeping with ten women, but she wouldn’t be one of them.”

  Quinn made a bad job of whistling “The Devil Went Down to Georgia,” then said, “That phone of his goes off all the time. And the song is no coincidence. It’s hard not to overhear sometimes. I think he’s been talking to her a lot.”

  “She got him the job playing tonight. Why wouldn’t they be talking?” I turned the defroster down, since it had worked its magic.

  “Where there’s smoke there’s fire. You heard it here first.” In the newly quiet darkness, one of the sensors went off and we both jumped. “Damn! First one to go. I’ll check it out. You stay put. I’ll be right back.”

  I watched his dark, solid figure disappear in the star-filled night. The waxing quarter moon’s silvery light caught the tops of the nearby vines so they already looked frost-covered. Hopefully only an optical illusion. Otherwise it would be the beginning of the end. Quinn opened the passenger door a few minutes later, bringing frigid air into the car.

  “Show time,” he said. “Thirty-two degrees and it’s not even three a.m. I called Chris and woke him up. He’s on his way. We’d better turn on those flashlights.” He reached in the backseat and picked up what looked like two sets of earmuffs, handing one to me. “Here. These are from Chris. Make sure you wear them or you’ll go deaf.” He paused, then said, “You know, it’s going to be really hard to see in the dark. Maybe I should call Hector.”

  “No. He hasn’t been looking too well lately. I’m worried about him. Let him sleep and he can take over in the morning.” Hector Cruz, our farm manager, had been with us ever since the first vines were planted twenty years ago. Now he and his wife, Sera, were the only ones left among our employees who remembered every one of our harvests.

  “You sure?” Quinn asked quietly.

  I appreciated the fact that he didn’t glance down at my feet, even if we both knew what he was talking about. It had been nearly three years since a car driven at high speed by an ex-boyfriend plowed into the stone gate at the entrance to the vineyard. Only one of us walked away from that accident and it wasn’t me. In fact, I did not walk again for a long time—and the reason I did was due, in no small measure, to Ross Greenwood. Even so, after I got out of the hospital there were months of therapy, then a wheelchair, walker, and finally graduation to the cane I will need forever because of a now-deformed left foot. Quinn and I rarely discussed my disability, and though I knew he thought my knowledge of wine making could fit on the head of a pin—with plenty of room left for the dancing angels—he’d never, ever said I wasn’t physically up to the job.

  “I’ll be fine.” I put the Mini in gear. “Are you positive we’re going to be okay with the helicopter stirring up all the air and that pesticide next door in the new fields?”

  “Of course I am.” He sounded annoyed. “I told you already. We’re in no danger. The guy from Lambert Chemical even called his head office in Roanoke to double-check. We’ve got tarps on the fields and we’re more than three hundred feet away from them. Technically we’re safe at anything beyond a hundred feet.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I know I’m right. He’ll be back Monday to haul away his equipment. You can talk to him yourself.”

  “I thought he took everything today.”

  “Nah, by the time he finished it was late. So I told him he could leave it out by the fields. No one will go near it. His next job is in Haymarket, so since he’s saving money on gas he cut me a break on our price.”

  “Really? That’s good.”

  “I knew you’d be happy.” Quinn got in his share of jabs about my Scottish thriftiness. Or, as he called it, penny-pinching.

  Thanks to me, though, the vineyard was now once again running in the black. I ignored the crack, as usual. “I hear the helicopter. Let’s go.”

  Chris had told us he’d only be flying fifteen to twenty feet above the vines, so if we valued our heads, we needed to stay well away when the helicopter hovered over the fields. Under normal circumstances the higher the altitude, the colder the air. Sometimes, though, the opposite situation—known as an inversion—occurred and the cold air sat next to the ground with a layer of warm air above it. That’s what we had tonight and why we needed Chris. The helicopter could push the warm air down so it was next to the vines where we needed it to keep the fruit from freezing.

  For the next few hours, as the cold seeped into my fingertips and toes, Quinn and I grimly hopscotched across the fields, calling to Chris, who trained the helicopter’s large searchlight on us, tracking us like a couple of fugitives on the run, as we led him to the places where beeping sensors indicated the temperature had again slipped into the danger zone. Once every hour Chris set the helicopter down to reorient himself. Twice he and his partner refueled.

  “Why can’t you use your instruments?” I asked during one of the breaks.

  “Because we’re flying too low. It has to be all visual,” he said. “The problem is I can’t see anything, and in the dark your worst nightmare is losing the horizon line. Then you don’t know whether you’re right side up or upside down. That’s why I need to get back on land every so often to get my bearings again.”

  “My God, how scary,” I said. “How much longer do you think you need to stay up there?”

  “Another hour. Until dawn. Then the sun will take over and warm things up.”

  True to his word, Chris set the chopper down for the last time just after six a.m. I handed him a check, which he stuck in the pocket of his leather jacket without looking at it. “Call me if you need me again,” he said.

  “I think this was a onetime deal,” I said. “According to the National Weather Service.”

  “I hope so, for your sake.
Sometimes I think those guys use a dartboard to make their forecasts.”

  Quinn hitched a ride back to the vineyard parking lot with Chris’s partner, who needed to retrieve a backpack he’d left at Quinn’s place. The two of them took the pickup with the now-empty fuel trailer rattling behind them as it bumped down the dirt road. Then the helicopter lifted off and Chris waved, heading east.

  The sunless sky, milk-white a while ago, had turned ash-colored. I collected the flashlights, leaving the sensors so we could continue to monitor the temperature. When I was done, I took the south service road in order to get a look at the new fields. In the distance Randy’s neon-orange “Danger—Keep Out” signs looked almost gay—bright splashes of color against the plastic tarps, which shone like dull mirrors.

  I did not see the parked car, which was partially screened by a grove of bushes, until I was only a few yards from it. Actually what I spotted was the vanity license plate—“IXMN”—through a break in the foliage. “I examine.” Ross Greenwood’s license plate. Then I saw his black Ford Explorer.

  What was he doing here? Cold as it was, I started to sweat.

  I reached for my cane and got out of the Mini. The body was on the driver’s side, on the ground. I nearly tripped over it, since I’d been peering through the frost-covered windows instead of watching my feet. Still wearing the mint-green jersey evening gown and mink jacket from last night’s fund-raiser, Georgia Greenwood lay facedown in a pool of frozen vomit congealed near an outstretched arm.

  Whatever had made her sick like that, it was clear she was beyond medical help.

  She was dead.

  Chapter 2

  A single bar on the battery display of my mobile phone after a long day—and night—of use meant I didn’t have much juice left. It survived the call to 911 and then another brief call to Quinn. His comment was, fortunately, succinct and to the point.

  “Shit,” he said. “Where are you? Don’t move. I’m coming.”

  The hardest call came next. I dialed Ross’s home number. Their answering machine picked up—his voice, not Georgia’s—and I disconnected. You didn’t leave a message about something like this. I managed to get a call through to his mobile phone. He answered immediately.

  “Lucie!” He sounded tired, but I could tell I hadn’t woken him up. “What are you doing calling at this hour? Is everything okay?”

  “Ross, I’m so sorry. I’m at the vineyard. I just found the Explorer when I was driving down the south service road. Did you and Georgia switch cars last night? I mean…she’s lying beside it…I’m so sorry.” I swallowed. “Ross, I think she had a seizure or something. She’s dead.”

  For a moment I thought the phone had finally died, because of his silence. Then he said in a soft, stunned voice, “Oh, God. You found Georgia?” After that, more silence.

  “Ross? Are you there? My phone battery is going. Look, I called 911 and they’re on their way.” The phone beeped in my ear. “Where are you?”

  “Heading home,” he said. “I’ve been out all night. One of my patients had twins. I’ll be right there. Give me five minutes…”

  Another beep and the display went black. I flung the phone on the passenger seat as Quinn’s metallic green El Camino came down the road from the opposite direction. He pulled up next to me and got out.

  “You all right?” he asked. “Where is she?”

  “Over there.” I pointed. “Next to the door by the driver’s side.”

  “You’re sure she’s dead and not passed out?”

  “She looked pretty dead to me.” My voice shook.

  “Stay here.” When he came back, his face was somber. “I didn’t touch her, but she’s dead, all right. Looks like she puked her guts up. God, does Ross know yet?”

  “He’s on his way. I got him on his mobile. On his way home after delivering twins all night.” In the distance, the sound of more tires on gravel. “I bet that’s him.”

  A moment later Georgia’s burgundy Mercedes Roadster came into view. Ross, behind the wheel, looked grim.

  “Where are the cops?” Quinn asked quietly. “I thought you told me you called 911 right before you called me.”

  “I did. They should be here any minute.”

  Ross got out of the Roadster and ran to the Explorer.

  “He shouldn’t be alone with her,” I said. “I’m going to him.”

  I’d gotten to within ten feet of where Ross knelt over his wife when I felt Quinn’s restraining hand on my shoulder. “Leave him, Lucie.” He kept his voice low.

  As Quinn spoke, Ross gently turned Georgia over and took her in his arms.

  “Oh, my God!” I cried softly. “What happened to her face? All those blisters and burn marks. How did they get there?”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” Quinn sounded shaken. “Exposure to methyl bromide can do that.”

  I stared at him, not wanting to believe what he’d just said. “You don’t think she got too near the fields?” His eyes connected with mine and then I got it. “Oh, my God. Someone did this deliberately?”

  “Unless she crawled under one of the tarps—which I seriously doubt—then, yeah, it was deliberate. Christ, who would do that?”

  I swallowed. “We better get Ross away from her.”

  “It’s a gas. There’s nothing left. We should tell him, though.” Quinn sounded tense.

  In the distance, sirens wailed. “The sheriff’s here,” I said.

  “Sounds like they’re heading toward the winery,” Quinn muttered. “Didn’t you tell them where to come?”

  “I think so. I don’t remember. My battery was dying, so I made it quick.”

  He gave me his phone. “Call them. And this time tell them to get the hazmat guys here, too.”

  “Looks like we can tell them in person.” The first tan and gold cruisers from the sheriff’s department seemed to change direction and now screamed down the service road toward us. “Looks like they found us after all.”

  As the crow flies, Loudoun County, Virginia, is only about fifty miles from Washington, D.C.—a city that vies annually for the dubious honor of murder capital of the U.S. Here, though, in the rural affluent heart of horse and hunt country, the crimes are minor—mostly juvenile in nature, pranks gone awry. Toilet-papering some-one’s house at Halloween. Turning street signs around. Graffiti spray-painted on a wall somewhere. Harmless stuff.

  A murder was a big deal. This one was about to be an even bigger deal when we told the police what we suspected. A couple of uniformed officers went straight to Ross, who was cradling Georgia in his lap. Another officer approached Quinn and me.

  “What happened?” he said. “Do you know who she is?”

  “Georgia Greenwood. That’s her husband.” My mouth tasted like I’d just chewed sawdust. “I found her and called him. But there’s something you need to know right off the bat. We treated some nearby fields with a pesticide called methyl bromide yesterday. It’s a gas, but it’s highly toxic. We’ve got tarps over the fields and we posted warning signs.” I glanced at Quinn and continued. “But there’s still some of the stuff here at the vineyard. We’re storing it for the company that applied it for us.”

  The officer’s eyes grew big. “Where here?”

  “About half a mile away,” Quinn said. “But those blisters on her face. They could be from exposure to methyl bromide.”

  “Holy shit.” He turned and called to the other officers. “We got a hot zone here. Methyl bromide. It’s a pesticide.”

  He had their undivided attention.

  “Then we better get the fire boys here quick,” one of them said. “I heard the hazmat team was looking for volunteers so they could run a drill. Looks like they got lucky. We got the real thing.”

  I lost track of the number of vehicles and uniformed men and women who showed up, but it looked—from a distance—like every cop, firefighter, and EMT in Loudoun and Fauquier Counties was on the scene. While we waited for the hazmat team to arrive, Quinn, Ross, and I were
isolated with the officers and Georgia in the area they’d called the hot zone. Two officers escorted Ross over to where Quinn and I stood, though he hadn’t wanted to leave his wife.

  Last night he’d been elegant in a tuxedo. Now he looked exhausted in faded jeans, running shoes, and a plaid flannel work shirt over a gray athletic T-shirt. He was sandy-haired, with a fair complexion and pale eyes, and when I first met him as his patient I thought Ross looked like someone who could have been delicate or often sick as a kid—an easy target for bullies. I’d been right, but years of taunting and bullying the child had shaped the man into someone tough as old boots when he needed to be. He’d earned a black belt in karate and ran the Marine Corps marathon every year. And ever since he’d joined the clinic, he’d been tireless in caring for the large local immigrant community. Legal or illegal, insured or uninsured, it didn’t matter.

  “I don’t think we’re in any danger ourselves from being exposed to Georgia,” Ross was now saying tiredly. “But I guess the hazmat guys will probably err on the side of caution.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “They may want to decontaminate us, though I doubt it.”

  A large black man wearing a bright yellow jumpsuit, a mask, an oxygen tank, and salmon-colored rubber boots came over to us. “What do we got, folks?” His voice, through his mask, sounded muffled.

  I opened my mouth to explain, but Ross took the lead. “Possible exposure to methyl bromide.” He spoke now with a doctor’s brisk efficiency. “I’ve treated a number of farmworkers for it. If any of us have been affected, there’ll be signs of respiratory distress, probably in the next four to twelve hours. Otherwise, we’re looking for headaches, dizziness, nausea, slurred speech…and I don’t think we’ve got any of that here. To be perfectly honest, I don’t think you need to keep us in the hot zone.”

  Something nearby beeped. “What is that?” I asked nervously. “Is something wrong?”

  The firefighter shook his helmeted head. “Calm down, miss. Happens when one of us stands still too long. You hear a beep in a burning building and maybe you got a buddy dead or passed out somewhere.”