by Ellen Crosby
“Oh.” My head started to ache, along with my bad foot and just about everything else, but it was probably the lack of sleep and maybe dehydration after drinking so much coffee. And maybe the power of suggestion. Ross said we were in no danger, even if we were being treated as though we might suddenly start glowing.
One of the other yellow-suited men called to our firefighter.
“I gotta look at this. Stay put, folks,” he told us, and left.
“How would they decontaminate us? What do they do? And how do you know so much about it?” I asked Ross.
“I’ve been helping out with the mandatory hazmat training at the hospital,” he explained. “We’re doing terrorism drills just like the police and the fire department. Like I said, I don’t think they’re going to put us through it today. But if they did, first we’d have the gross decon, where they’d make us strip and then hose us down.”
“Hose us down with what?” My heart began thudding against my ribs.
Ross pointed over to the fire trucks. “Those.”
“Oh, my God.”
“You mean strip to our underwear?” Quinn asked.
“Nope. Right down to our birthday suits. Then after the hoses, a second shower or lots more water to remove whatever’s left.”
“I do not need to do this,” I said emphatically, leaning on my cane. “I’m fine.”
Ross had seen my ugly twisted foot often enough, but I never let anyone else get close enough to look. I’d take my negligible chances of chemical poisoning over parading around naked in front of every firefighter and cop in two counties. Stupid, maybe, but we all have our vanities.
“It’s for your own good,” Ross said. “And they wouldn’t ask, either. But don’t worry, it’s probably unnecessary in this case.” His voice shook a little. “On the other hand, they will decontaminate Georgia.”
For a moment I thought he might break down. They would hose Georgia’s body down like they were cleaning a fish on a pier. I said, chagrined, “I’m so sorry. Sometimes I should just keep my mouth shut.”
Our firefighter returned and led us out of the hot zone through a maze of emergency vehicles. It had been less than two hours since I’d found Georgia alone on this deserted road. Now there were easily a hundred people milling around. Ross, Quinn, and I were separated, each of us accompanied by a police officer.
I lost sight of them in the crowd, but I didn’t have much time to speculate where they went before Bobby Noland, carrying a reporter’s notebook with a pen clipped to it, stood in front of me looking none too happy. We’d known each other since I was in the second grade and he was in the fourth. Now he was a detective with the sheriff’s department and caught criminals. He unclipped the pen and clicked it like he was detonating something.
“Hey, Lucie,” he said. “I need to talk to you. First, I’m asking as a formality if we’ve got your permission to be here so we can process the scene. If you say no, I’ll be back with a search warrant.”
If it had been anyone else but Bobby, I might have been intimidated. “Of course you have permission. But be careful around the vines, okay? It’s easy to knock the grapes off and that’s our harvest.”
Bobby tapped the pen against his notebook and looked annoyed. “You got a homicide here. Not to mention a serious EPA violation on your hands. From what I hear, that menthol bromite is supposed to be under lock and key.”
“Methyl bromide.” I said. “I know. It’s a long story.”
“Well, you’ll get to tell it to someone from the EPA soon enough. And speaking of stories, is it true you were here all night with a helicopter flying overhead that had a searchlight on it? And nobody saw anything? Not even that chopper?”
“He was paying attention to a couple of blocks of vines, flying about fifteen feet off the ground. It was all he could do to see them. Quinn and I wore protective headgear because of the noise. We wouldn’t have heard a bomb go off,” I said.
In the past hour the mist had rolled in, softening the hard edges of the scene unfolding around us. The earlier cacophony of sirens, walkie-talkies, and shouting voices overlaid with the droning engines of emergency vehicles grew muted as though filtered through gauze.
“You had a party last night, too,” he said. “Georgia Greenwood came.”
“Along with almost everyone else in Atoka,” I said. “We hosted the fund-raiser for the free clinic.”
“When’s the last time you saw Georgia? Alive.”
“When the party ended around eleven.”
“What was she doing? Was she with anyone?”
I nodded. “Just saying good night to everyone. Then she left with Hugo Lang.”
Bobby rolled his eyes. “He was the last person you saw with her before she got popped? Aw, jeez. A U.S. senator. Just what I need. Where was Ross?”
Popped. I winced. “He got called away early. One of his patients went into labor. He was out all night delivering twins.”
Bobby wrote in the notebook. “What time did he leave?”
I tried to remember. Last time I’d seen him he’d been talking to Siri Randstad, the clinic’s executive director.
“I think it might have been when the band finished their last set. So around ten-thirty.”
“I need a guest list,” Bobby said. “Everyone who was there. Also waiters, waitresses. And anyone you got working at the vineyard.”
“The guest list is in my office at the winery. Quinn has the information on our workers and the day laborers. Dominique can tell you about the catering staff.”
“Anybody else I missed? You have any music or entertainment?”
“Randy Hunter’s band played all night.”
Bobby looked up from his notes. “You kiddin’ me? No offense, but what’s a redneck band doing playing for that kind of fancy-dress crowd?”
“Georgia set it up,” I said. “Randy did it for free because it was good exposure, plus it was for charity.”
“She did, did she? All right. Anything else I should know?” When I hesitated, he added, “Make my job easy, Lucie. If you don’t tell me, I’ll find out anyway.” He tapped his pen on the notebook.
“Harry Dye got drunk and gave Georgia a piece of his mind.”
“Talk to me.”
“She and Hugo Lang went up onstage during one of the band’s breaks so she could announce that he was endorsing her for state senate.”
“Harry went with them?”
“No, of course not. Actually…” I stopped.
He was right on top of me. “Yeah? What?”
“Harry’d just finished having it out with Randy. Then Georgia started to talk and Harry started in heckling her. Something about, ‘Gals like you ought to stay home where you belong instead of trying to mind everybody else’s business.’”
“You mean he had words with Georgia and Randy? Jeez. What’d he say to Randy?”
“I didn’t hear.”
“All right. Go on about Georgia.”
“It was over pretty quickly. The place went completely quiet, then Georgia told him he’d obviously had one too many drinks and that he wasn’t a good advertisement for his own vineyard,” I said. “Polite, but you could tell she was ready to rip his insides out and tie them in a knot. Luckily, a couple of the Romeos hauled Harry out of there right away. I think they took him home.”
The Romeos were a group of retired businessmen whose name stood for “Retired Old Men Eating Out.” Patrons of a grateful network of local restaurants and cafés, they played poker, solved the world’s problems, and, along with Thelma Johnson, who owned the general store, were the richly vibrant source of local information otherwise known as gossip. In Atoka the six degrees of separation rapidly compressed to two.
“Which Romeos?” Bobby asked.
“Austin Kendall and Seth Hannah.”
He noted that, then said, “You got any idea what Georgia would be doing on your service road in the middle of the night?”
“No. It’s not open to the public u
nless it’s apple-picking season. The only people who used it yesterday were the caterers and the people who brought in the tents. The guests came by the main road and parked in the winery parking lot. Then they walked to the Ruins.”
“Everybody leave the way they came?”
“I’m not sure, since I took off around midnight. But usually once the guests leave, the staff takes Sycamore Lane. The service road’s full of potholes. If you don’t know where they are—especially in the dark—it’s hard on your alignment.”
He shut the notebook. “I’d appreciate having that guest list. My officer will drive you over to the winery.”
“Okay if I take my car?” I asked. “It’s over by where Georgia…The hazmat guys don’t need to decontaminate it, do they?”
Bobby eyed me. “I’ll ask. Stay here.”
He returned about fifteen minutes later. “You can take your car. They don’t need to do any decon,” he said. “By the way, who uses that old hay barn you got over by the creek?”
“We let Randy’s band practice there,” I said.
“Practice what?”
“Music. What else would they be practicing?”
Bobby eyed me skeptically. “One of my men just radioed from your barn. He found an open package of condoms in the loft. Some quilts and a sleeping bag, too. You know anything about that?”
I blushed and said, surprised, “No, I did not.”
“Any idea what women Randy and his band might have brought there?”
“No.” I’m a terrible liar. My face always turns red. Bobby’d been watching it do that since I was eight.
“Lucie?” He waited.
“Just a rumor about Randy. He, uh, might have brought Georgia.”
Now it was his turn to look surprised. “Are you kidding me? Randy and Georgia, huh?” He shook his head wonderingly. “You see him leave the party last night?”
“When it was over and the band packed up. About eleven-thirty.”
“Was he with anyone?”
“Nope. Alone. The rest of the band left earlier.” I leaned on my cane. My throbbing left foot felt like hundreds of pins and needles were stabbing it. “Anything else, or can I go now?”
“As a matter of fact, there is something else,” he said. “I got good news and bad news for you. The good news is that considering the location of the crime scene, we’re not going to make you temporarily close your winery while we do our investigation.”
“I appreciate that. And the bad news?”
“The EPA might not be feeling so generous by the time they get through with you. Those boys could slap a big ole fine on you and take your bonded license away for leaving that menthol stuff out by those new fields.” He looked at me severely. “In other words, they could shut you down for good.”
Chapter 3
After I gave a copy of the guest list to the officer who accompanied me to the villa, I dropped off the flashlights at the equipment barn. Another tan and gold cruiser was parked in front of the barn door. Two uniformed officers came out as I pulled up.
“Can I help you?” I asked. Hardly necessary. They’d already helped themselves.
“No, thanks, miss,” one of them said. “That door usually unlocked?”
“No, but we were working last night so we didn’t lock it.”
“And what brings you here now?”
I said evenly, “I’m dropping off a couple of boxes of flashlights we were using to mark the fields so the helicopter knew where to go.”
My answer seemed to satisfy him and they got in the Crown Victoria and drove off. I left the flashlights, locked up, and headed home. Would I find a cruiser there, too? Or maybe someone from the EPA?
Lord, was Bobby right? Could they really shut us down?
No car in the driveway. And no sign that anybody had been here, either. Relieved, I parked the Mini and went inside.
My home, Highland House, had been designed and built by my ancestor, Hamish Montgomery, in the early 1800s after he received five hundred acres from the sixth Lord Fairfax as a reward for distinguished service during the French and Indian War. The house was a pleasing combination of Federal and Georgian architecture, built mostly of locally quarried stone, except for the foundation. Those stones came from Goose Creek, which meandered through two counties—and our property—as it snaked its way to the Potomac River. According to family lore, Hamish had hauled them himself to the highest bluff on our land. There he’d watched the sun set in all its vivid glory behind the low-slung Blue Ridge Mountains, then sited his house so he’d always have that spectacular view.
Last year a fire had destroyed part of the first floor, but from the outside the place looked like it had for the last two centuries, as the fire had miraculously spared the stone façade. The Montgomery clan motto carved over the front door—Garde bien, which means protect well, defend well—was grimier, but still quite appropriately intact.
As I walked inside, I heard the answering machine’s monotonous chirp. One message. My brother, Eli, sounding garbled. He must have been calling from his mobile phone while he was on the road, because he kept fading in and out.
“It’s me. What the hell’s going on…heard about finding Georgia Greenwood dead at…on the news just now and I nearly drove off the…on my way to Hilton Head with Brandi and Hope for a week. You know I’d come home, but I don’t see what I could…were you, I’d be trying to cover my…so you really ought…”
The message ended there and he hadn’t called back to finish telling me what I really ought. As for the offer to change his beach plans and come home, the fake sincerity in that gesture was patented Eli. The way he was now. Since he married Brandi a few years ago, he had changed from the big-hearted brother I could count on no matter what to a self-absorbed stranger who decided what to do after calculating first what was in it for him. Sometimes I wondered what had happened to his conscience. He used to have one.
In fact, he used to care about a lot of things, like this house and the vineyard. Even after the fire, he’d been pretty blasé when I asked his opinion—whether I should restore it as it had always been or change it.
“Do whatever you want, Luce,” he’d said. “It’s your house now. You wanted it, you got it. I don’t have such great memories of growing up there, so you can dynamite it, for all I care.”
Eli, an architect, now lived in an eight-thousand-square-foot palace he’d built outside Leesburg for Brandi and their new daughter. My sister-in-law’s idea of “old” or “antique” meant anything still hanging in her closet from last season. She and Eli owned the latest-model everything. Clothes. Car. Gadgets. Eli didn’t know I’d heard that Brandi called Highland House “a great place, if you like funeral homes.”
Our sister, Mia, was equally indifferent. “This house is dead, Lucie. Full of ghosts. Why do you want to live here, anyway?” she asked. “It smells like old people ever since Mom died and really creeps me out. I don’t care what you do with it. I’m moving out for good after I graduate.”
So I’d hired a young interior designer who did not share my siblings’ anathema of the past, though I did decide, finally, that it was time for a change. Last fall I’d returned to Atoka after spending two years living in my mother’s family home in the south of France. While there I’d fallen in love with the sun-drenched Provençal colors of earth, sky, sea, and sand, and that’s what I wanted around me now. The transformation of Highland House was magical and I loved it.
As for the furniture, my budget wasn’t grand enough to replace the antiques destroyed in the fire, but we salvaged what we could, bringing any items that could be restored to my designer’s father, a retired carpenter who lived nearby in Culpeper. One by one, the pieces returned, gleaming with a burnished elegance I had not seen for many years.
Though the place was more sparsely furnished, I liked it better this way. It seemed less cluttered and more open. By the time we were finished, the old bones of the house were still evident, but the fustiness and burned smel
ls embedded in the walls and furniture had vanished, replaced by the clean scent of polished wood, freshly cut flowers, and the calming fragrance of dried lavender.
Right now, though, a stiff drink appealed better than aromatherapy and counting to ten. I punched the delete button on the answering machine more savagely than I needed to. No point returning that call. I’d just have to listen to Eli tell me what I was doing wrong, and there’d be plenty of time for that. My watch read just after eleven a.m. Thirty hours with no sleep. I thought about that drink, then I thought about my aching muscles and the gritty tiredness in my eyes. I headed for the stairs and bed.
It had been another miracle that the grand circular staircase that Hamish had designed so it looked as if it were floating in midair had survived the fire structurally intact, when so much around it did not. The only repairs to the carved walnut banister involved replacing the newel post and a few singed balusters, but now it looked as good as new—or rather, as good as old.
When I got upstairs I checked Mia’s room, across the hall from mine. Her bed was made. No idea if she’d slept in it last night, since I hadn’t been home myself.
My bedroom, the former master bedroom suite, had also been completely transformed since the fire. The walls were painted a warm yellow that reminded me of the sunflower fields in France. I’d bought inexpensive unfinished furniture from a factory in North Carolina, which my designer had whitewashed. The result gave the room a Quaker-like simplicity and clean style. Inexpensive green, yellow, and cream-colored braided oval rugs covered the floor, and my one splurge—an antique wedding-ring quilt in faded sherbet-colored fabrics—lay across the four-poster double bed.
I pulled back the quilt and stripped off my clothes, leaving them on the floor. The moment my head hit the pillow I fell asleep, too tired to think about anything that had just happened. There would be enough time later to deal with all my problems. God knows, I had plenty of them. And they were just beginning.
I don’t know when the phone on my nightstand started ringing, but by the time I got to it the caller had given up. Outside my window, the light was dusky. I’d slept all day. A moment later it rang again. This time I answered right away.
