by Ellen Crosby
“Do you believe he killed himself?” Kit swallowed more beer.
“As opposed to what? Someone staged it to make it look like he did?” I asked.
Kit nodded. “There’s one person who wanted them both dead.” She picked up her beer coaster and began rolling it back and forth like a wheel. “Ross.”
“Who couldn’t have done it,” I said flatly. “He wasn’t there. So let’s move on. Georgia left the party with Hugo Lang, but he was on the phone all night making calls after he said good night to Georgia. And he gave a cheek swab for DNA. So he wasn’t the one who had sex with her, though I think he’s nervous about something.”
“Hell, yeah. It’s called the vice presidential nomination,” Kit said. “He needs this kind of tabloid fodder tarnishing his pristine image like a hole in the head. I’m sure he can’t wait for the funeral and everything to blow over.”
I thought about what she’d said and Hugo’s shaking hands. That kind of high-stakes politics—even without all the tawdriness of Georgia’s death and now Randy’s body being recovered—could account for the strung-out nerves. “I guess you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right. So eliminate Hugo. You want something to eat? I’m starved.” Kit signaled for the waitress and asked for an order of french fries. Then she said, “So who did it, if you’re so sure it wasn’t Ross?”
“I still think we ought to consider the possibility someone was after Randy, rather than Georgia.”
“You mean besides the Cancún girlfriend?” she asked, and I nodded. “Who’ve you got in mind?”
“Jen Seely seemed too defensive when I asked her about Randy. I think she knows something. Or she’s hiding something. Maybe about Randy.”
The french fries arrived with two plates. Kit picked up the ketchup bottle and went to town. “Are you serious?” she asked. “Sorry, I can’t picture her mixed up in this. She’s not the type.”
“She used to date the drummer in Randy’s band and she’s pretty tight with everyone in Southern Comfort.”
“Maybe we’re knocking ourselves out for no good reason,” Kit said. “It could just be a case of Occam’s razor.”
“What’s that?”
“A principle that some guy named William of Occam came up with. Kind of the KISS theory of the fourteenth century. You know, ‘Keep it simple, stupid’? Occam was a Franciscan friar, so he lived a really simple, spartan life and that’s his theory. Don’t make anything more complicated than it is.”
“What’s the ‘razor’ part?”
“That you should shave off the assumptions that don’t make any difference in the outcome.” Kit picked up a french fry and laid it on her plate. “One. Georgia is found dead at the vineyard.” Another french fry parallel to Georgia. “Two. Randy’s body is pulled out of the Potomac River. Looks like suicide because he left a note.” A third french fry across Georgia and Randy. “But we’re thinking maybe it’s a double homicide faked to be a suicide.” She picked up the connecting french fry and bit into it. “According to Occam’s razor, it’s always the simplest explanation. So it is what it looks like. Randy killed Georgia, then he killed himself. Period.”
She picked up the other french fries. “And that’s probably what the cops are going to go with, unless something else turns up,” she added. “If they can close a case, that’s what they’ll do. They’ve got too many others to solve to start asking a million what-ifs once they get all the ducks in a row. Don’t forget, it’s an election year and the sheriff’s running, too.”
Her explanation was neat and tidy, tying up all the loose ends. Plus, it meant Ross was no longer a suspect. But what was still nagging at me?
Kit wiped her hands on a paper napkin and set it by her beer glass. “Something else bothering you? You seem kind of preoccupied. Is it that thing with the EPA?”
“That’s part of it.” I picked up the saltshaker and studied it. “Mick Dunne hired Quinn as a consultant. He’s looking for land to buy a vineyard.”
Kit traced a pattern in the ketchup on the plate with one of the fries. “That’s no big deal, is it? Just some consulting work?”
“I guess.” I pulled my wallet out of my purse and made a check-writing gesture to the waitress, who immediately set the bill down next to me. I handed her my credit card right away.
“What else?” she asked shrewdly. “It’s not like you to pay without at least looking at the bill.”
I blushed and thought about Bonita and Quinn last night in the summerhouse. This I couldn’t talk about. “Nothing,” I said. “Nothing else.”
She didn’t ask again.
The sensational nature of Georgia’s death and the aura of scandal meant the press was well represented in front of B. F. Hunt & Sons Funeral Home when I arrived shortly after seven-thirty. A couple of cruisers and a handful of officers from the sheriff’s department tried to keep them at bay, but it didn’t stop one woman with a microphone from sticking it under my nose. She knew who I was, too, thanks to the cane, which not only gave me away but also slowed me down so there was no chance of outrunning her.
“Lucie Montgomery,” she said. “The woman who found the mutilated body of Georgia Greenwood on a deserted road on her vineyard. Tell our viewers, Lucie, what you saw and how you felt.”
“I saw a dead woman. I felt horrible,” I said. “Excuse me.”
The carnival-like atmosphere outside had pervaded the funeral home. A crowd already packed the place. I signed the guest book and glanced at the long list of names. Hugo Lang had been one of the first to arrive. Mick Dunne had signed in as well.
Many of my neighbors own farms, so the cycle of life and death is something we live with all the time. But an unnatural death like Georgia’s is something you never get used to. Friends and neighbors had come to pay their respects, but everyone was curious, too.
Georgia’s closed casket, which I nearly ran into as I rounded the corner to the viewing room, was surrounded by flowers. A heart-catching photo of her and Ross in happier times, arms twined around each other and leaning against what looked like a ship’s railing with water and tropical paradise as a backdrop, was propped on a stand next to a large bouquet of white roses. The card, clearly visible, read, “I love you, darling. Ross.” A basket of prayer cards sat next to the flowers. Georgia’s name and the dates of her birth and death were on one side. I picked up a card and turned it over. Ecclesiastes.
For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain,
A time to search and a time to give up…
I stopped reading. When was it ever a time to kill?
Someone took my elbow.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” Mick Dunne said quietly. He wore an expensive-looking charcoal gray pin-striped suit, a sober tie, and a pale gray shirt. Same wing tips as the other day.
“I just got here. I haven’t had a chance to pay my respects to Ross,” I said coolly. “I really ought to go find him.”
He let go of my arm. “Is something wrong?”
“How did it go with the real estate agent?”
“Brilliant.” He looked curiously at me. I’d avoided his question. “I found a place I quite liked.”
“Good for you. Did Quinn like it, too?” I asked. “That is, since you’re paying him to advise you.”
He wore the expression of someone who had just been slapped. “He’s not what you’re thinking,” he said. “Please. Let’s get out of this crowd. I’d like to explain.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Indeed it is
.” This time the grip on my arm was firm as he maneuvered me to an unoccupied corner of the room next to a large silk schefflera.
“First, I apologize for not telling you sooner, but I wanted to do it in person,” he said, his beautiful green eyes gazing down into mine. “I came back to see you after Erica Kendall took me ’round and ran into Quinn, who told me you were out. We started discussing land and vineyards and he gave me some advice.” Mick rubbed a silk leaf. It was dusty and left a dark stain on his fingers. “I told him I’d like to pay him for the help and call on him if I need more. That’s it. That’s how it happened.”
“I thought you might be interviewing him for a job.”
“No.” He removed a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped away the dirt. “I would never do that to you.”
The crowd parted at that moment, so I could see Hugo Lang embracing Ross. They spoke earnestly, then Hugo clapped Ross on the shoulder and moved away. Then someone blocked my view and I lost sight of both of them.
Mick followed my gaze. “I’m keeping you from seeing Ross, aren’t I?”
“Will you excuse me, please?”
He tilted my chin so I had to stare into those depthless eyes. “Only if you tell me that we’re okay now.”
“Sure,” I said finally. “We’re fine.”
He knew a brush-off when he got one. “Glad to hear it. I need to have a word with Austin Kendall, anyway. I’ll be seeing you.”
I watched him cross the room and join Austin Kendall, who was with several of the Romeos. Austin’s daughter Erica now ran the family real estate business, but Austin still put his oar in when the deal was in the multimillions of dollars. If Mick was talking to Austin, then he must be contemplating buying a significant piece of property.
I threaded my way through the crowd and found Ross. A group of dark-suited men were with him, but he nodded when he caught sight of me. As soon as they left, he pulled me to him and hugged me. Despite the air-conditioning, he was perspiring heavily.
“Are you all right?” I asked. “You don’t look too good. Can I get you some water?”
He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his forehead. “The sheriff still thinks I did it, Lucie. He’s going to let me get through Georgia’s funeral, which is pretty decent, then they want me to come in for more questioning. I think Bobby Noland is behind this. He doesn’t seem convinced Randy committed suicide, in spite of that note. Sam’s trying to find out what’s going down, but it’s not looking good.”
His voice shook and that’s when I saw just how scared Ross really was that he might actually be convicted of killing his wife…and maybe her lover, too. All because he had no alibi.
“I talked to Manolo about Emilio and Marta,” I told him. “They’re hiding. Manolo says they’re too frightened to talk to the police.”
Ross grabbed my shoulders so hard it hurt. “Manolo knows where they are?”
“No, but he said he’d try to find out.”
“You’ve got to find them and talk to them. Tell them this.” For the first time since I’d known him, he sounded desperate. “Tell them Dr. Ross says everything will be fine if they tell the police that I was there that night delivering the twins. That’s all they have to say. Nothing else. I will take care of them and their babies and the older boy. Tell them I give my palabra de honor.”
I nodded. “Your word of honor. Okay. I promise. Don’t worry.”
“Good girl.” He kissed my forehead, then pulled back and scanned my face, still apprehensive. “I knew I could count on you. You won’t let me down, will you?”
“No,” I said. “You saved me once. Now it’s my turn.”
I left after that, shaken by Ross’s palpable fear. He said he didn’t do it and I believed him. What evidence did the police have that indicated otherwise? Why weren’t they convinced by the suicide note?
Something wasn’t right.
Later, when I was home alone, I opened a bottle of Gigondas and brought it out to the veranda. No light from the summerhouse tonight.
I lit the citronella candles and torches and sat there in the gilded darkness. “Wine is a perfect cure for heaviness and sorrow,” wrote Seneca, the Roman statesman and philosopher, nearly two millennia ago. Tonight it wasn’t doing anything for me.
I thought of the prayer card Ross had made for Georgia and the verse from Ecclesiastes. We’d used the same verse on Leland’s memorial card nine months ago—though a different interpretation. The version Ross chose talked about “a time to search and a time to give up.”
Maybe it had been prophetic, but I hoped not. As far as I was concerned, it was still a time to search.
It was no time to give up.
Chapter 14
The impact of Randy’s death on top of Georgia’s murder hit Atoka somewhere between seven and eight on the Richter scale. The continuing reverberations eventually reached the tasteless domain of journalist bottom feeders who mined every tawdry detail. Our barn, Ross and Georgia’s home, T. R. Island, and White’s Ferry all made up what one reporter called “the trail of lust.”
“Makes me ashamed of my profession reading crap like this,” Kit said to me. She’d called my mobile as I was pulling into the church parking lot for Georgia’s funeral.
“We had to throw a reporter off the property this morning,” I said. “Quinn said Manolo caught him moving the barrier so he could get access to the south service road.”
“Jeez,” she said. “Tabloid heaven, but hell for everyone involved.”
“I just got coffee at the general store. Thelma’s got every newspaper she could get her hands on laid out by the cash register and she’s poring over them,” I said. “It’s better than her soaps.”
“Yeah, we get ’em at work. I swear to God, whoever writes those headlines really scrapes the bottom of the barrel. ‘All Washed Up Boyfriend Kills Lover, Then Takes the Plunge Himself.’ Or ‘Country Boy Fell for Sexy Socialite Hook, Line, and Sinker.’”
“My favorite was ‘Corked—Vineyard Victim’s Slayer Found Dead at Potomac Bottleneck.’”
“I missed that one.”
“I’d better go,” I said. “I’m at the church. There’s a van with a satellite dish out front and reporters crawling all over the place. Even more coverage than her wake. I suppose you guys are here.”
“It’s not like we have a choice. Jerry Roper’s on it.”
“Well, so are the cops. This is going to be a three-ring circus.”
“Georgia always did like to be the center of attention,” Kit said. “Looks like she still is.”
The Episcopal church on Mosby’s Highway was located just outside the village of Upperville, where it straddled the boundaries of Loudoun and Fauquier Counties. Built in the late nineteenth century from Virginia sandstone and limestone, the church had been constructed by local workers trained as stonecutters, masons, and carpenters, all of whom had made their tools at a forge on the property.
The building could have been transported to twenty-first-century Virginia from twelfth-or thirteenth-century France because of its unusual architectural features—shallow transepts and a narthex that became the base of the bell tower. It was purposely built off-center because of the ancient belief that no matter how people strive, their work is not perfect. So the church, too, needed to have a tangible sign of imperfection. It seemed fitting for Georgia’s casket to lie here, in a deliberately flawed place.
Ross had chosen all the traditional readings from The Book of Common Prayer—Isaiah, the Book of Revelation, the Gospel of John—and the old, familiar hymns. But despite the beautiful setting, soaring music, masses of flowers, and the well-heeled sober-suited crowd who gathered to pay their final respects, when it was over I felt hollow inside. The place was dry-eyed, no one moved to tears by sorrow or loss. Georgia had not been religious and the rector, who had given an eloquent tribute, knew her only slightly. The homily had been crafted, not heartfelt. Correct, but not quite right.
At the end o
f the service everyone was invited to a reception in the fellowship hall to pay respects to the family. As the organ postlude ended, I walked outside into the sun-dappled courtyard with Harry and Amy Dye.
Harry glanced in the direction of the throng of reporters, still kept at bay by the Fauquier County Sheriff’s Department. “I’ll be glad when this is over,” he said. “I heard the cops aren’t exactly buying it that Randy committed suicide. What if they’re right? Maybe the real killer is someone who’s here right now at her funeral.”
“Harry!” Amy scolded him. “You’re still in church. Enough! At least no one thinks it’s you anymore. Thank God for that.”
He grew serious. “Yeah, I know. Sorry, Ame. I shouldn’t joke about it.”
“What about Gaby?” I asked. “Is she still a suspect?”
“The sheriff let her go home finally,” Amy said. “But they told her they might bring her back for more questions if they need to.”
“She didn’t do it,” Harry said. “Gaby was hysterical when she saw Randy, but she didn’t kill him. Or Georgia. Come on, ladies. I’m starved. Let’s get something to eat.”
“You two go ahead. I’ll catch up,” I said. “I left something in my car.”
“Parking lot’s that way,” Harry said, as I started to leave.
“I’m taking the long way.”
The navy pickup, backed up to the side entrance next to the church thrift shop, looked as if it had just rolled out of the dealer’s showroom. The license plate, though, was familiar. “SVANH.” Stephanie van Holland. Ross’s ex-wife. I found her in the basement, elegant in jodhpurs, boots, and a fitted white shirt, pulling clothes out of a duffel bag and piling them on a table.
As I walked into the room, she stopped folding what looked like a cashmere sweater and held it up against her chest. “Hello, Lucie.”
Ross and I hadn’t become close until my accident and by then he and Georgia had already been married about a year. Stephanie and I knew each other as passing acquaintances, meeting at local social events or occasionally in Middleburg shops. She was good friends with Dominique, though, and my cousin still considered Ross a cad for divorcing her.
