by Ellen Crosby
“So you’re finished?” I kept my voice steady. “And it’s ‘Ms.’”
“Oh, no,” he said, “I haven’t begun. But I always like to get out and see what I’m dealing with before we get into the paperwork. You’ve got the records for me to look over?”
“Of course. Please come inside and I’ll get them for you.”
“That’ll be fine.” He gestured for me to lead the way.
John Belcher refused coffee a second time but, to my surprise, decided to sit at one of the tables on the terrace. I expected him to say that he wanted to review the documents together, but he shooed me off and told me he’d find me when he was done.
“I assume you’ll be around?” He smiled without showing any teeth.
My life depended on what he was going to find in those papers. We both knew I wasn’t going anywhere.
“I’ll be in my office,” I said pleasantly. Calling Quinn the second I got there and telling him we got the inspector from hell on our case.
“That’ll be fine,” Belcher said again. Another pinched smile.
I bit my tongue and left. Dammit. He had all the body language of someone who’d already made up his mind. Showing up today was part of the process, so he did it because he had to. But his judgment had been formed strictly based on rules and regulations, not people and circumstances. Black and white.
I closed my office door, though there was no way he could hear me, and punched in Quinn’s mobile number on my phone.
“What’s up?” he said.
“He’s here.”
Silence. Then he said, “Aw, crap. The EPA guy? He came early?”
“He’s already been out in the fields. Now he’s sitting on the terrace, reviewing the paperwork.”
“What’s he like?”
“What little bit of bureaucratic power he has means life or death to us and he knows it. I think he’s trying to see how badly he can make me squirm.”
“Crap,” he said again. “I’ll be right there.”
It was at least another ninety minutes before John Belcher was ready to talk.
“Woodshed time,” Quinn muttered, as we both stepped out on the terrace.
I introduced Quinn to Belcher and we sat down across the table. Quinn patted his breast pocket where he usually kept a cigar and I nudged him surreptitiously. We were in enough trouble without adding secondhand smoke to our woes. So instead he began pulling on the gold chain he wore on his left wrist.
Belcher looked up from his clipboard and straightened out the sheaf of papers he’d been studying, aligning the edges perfectly.
“Well,” he said, “let’s talk.”
What he meant was that he would talk and we would listen. Like Quinn had warned, it was the whole megillah.
He began by stating somewhat unctuously that he was sure we were aware that methyl bromide had recently been phased out under the Clean Air Act because of its deleterious impact on the ozone. However, exemptions continued to be granted for certain quarantine and emergency uses. We were one of them.
I did not glance over at Quinn, but I did thank God for small favors.
Then Belcher rattled off with well-practiced fluency the names and numbers of the forms we and Lambert Chemical had been required to fill out. “I’ve concluded that your restricted materials, recommendation, and fieldwork order appear to be correct. I’ve also gone over your buffer zone calculations, which were more than adequate.”
I gave a silent prayer of thanks. So far, so good. Maybe I’d misjudged him.
“I know. We were careful about that,” Quinn said firmly.
I nudged him again with my good foot. Belcher didn’t seem like the kind of guy who tolerated interruptions when he was in the midst of handing down the stone tablets. I was right.
Belcher regarded Quinn with renewed annoyance and my heart sank. “Then why were you not careful about locking the canisters in a secure area? The UW regs are clear. Your negligence contributed to the commission of a homicide.” He enunciated each word, then sat back and folded his arms.
“We are very aware of that, Mr. Belcher,” I assured him. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what ‘UW regs’ are.”
“Universal Waste regulations.”
“There were also extenuating circumstances that night.” Quinn was not prepared to be so conciliatory.
“If everyone broke the law when it was convenient, Mr. Santara, we’d have anarchy.”
This time I kicked him under the table. “Please go on,” I said to Belcher. “You were talking about our buffer zone calculations when we got sidetracked, I believe.”
“Only in that you are extremely fortunate the homicide occurred in an area that did not impact Goose Creek. Had any methyl bromide seeped into the creek water, I can assure you we would have already revoked your bonded license.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
Quinn folded his arms across his chest. He was at least twice Belcher’s size. “What’s next?”
Belcher picked up his clipboard and stood. “You’ll hear back from me in approximately ten business days.”
Judging by that tone of voice, we weren’t going to like what we heard, either.
“Can you please give us any indication—” I began.
“Ten days,” he repeated. “I said you’ll know in ten days. And I can show myself out.”
“You antagonized him,” I said to Quinn when he was gone. “He’s really going to throw the book at us now.”
“He was going to do it anyway,” Quinn retorted. “You said so yourself. His mind was made up before he even got here. Did you see the way he looked around the place? I have no time for petty bureaucrats who abuse their power. That guy was mean. He liked sticking it to us.”
“What we did was wrong,” I said. “And he’s fully justified in holding us accountable. But unlike you, I think honey works better than vinegar. Goading him was not smart.”
“Whose side are you on, Lucie?” He sounded incredulous. “Look, I got work to do. I’m going back out in the fields and try to forget about that asshole. I’ll talk to you later.”
But he didn’t come back for lunch, like he often did. Bonita, however, did show up. I found her in the kitchen microwaving a container of Ramen noodles.
“Were you just out with Quinn?” I asked.
“Nope. I was in the barrel room.” She gave me an odd look. “Hey, Lucie, is he leaving?”
“Leaving what?”
“The vineyard. I, like, overheard him talking to Mick the other day. Quinn told Mick he was going to think about some offer. Then I saw the box of Cohibas sitting on Quinn’s desk and, um, well, I was in there and I happened to see Mick’s business card, too. Man, a whole box. Just one of those things costs a fortune.”
“Cigars?” I asked.
She nodded. “They’re, like, one of the most expensive Cuban cigars in the world. Illegal, too. But you can get ’em if you have connections.”
“I see.” I picked up the coffeepot and poured myself a cup. “I’d better get back to work. Thanks, Bonita.”
“Hey,” she said. “You didn’t answer my question about him leaving. And that coffee’s, like, stone cold. The coffeemaker shut off hours ago. Don’t you want to heat it up?”
I dumped it in the sink. “Quinn’s not leaving,” I said. “And I didn’t really want coffee anyway.”
It occurred to me later that if Belcher revoked our license Quinn wouldn’t have to look far to get another job. He could afford to piss the EPA off.
I couldn’t.
Kit called that evening and cajoled me into getting together after she got off work. “I’m lousy company,” I said.
“Then you need cheering up,” she said. “I’ll bring dinner.”
She arrived with a couple of white bags. “Two double burgers with cheese and extra fries.”
“Fast food? We’re eating fast food?”
“Listen, Julia Child, it’s dinner. How about a bottle of wine to wash it down?”
> “I’ll see if I can find something to do it justice,” I said.
“Great,” she said. “Why don’t we go down to your pond and take the rowboat out? We haven’t done that for ages. The sunset ought to be pretty tonight.”
My balance was not what it used to be before the accident, so Kit had to help me climb into the boat. She handed me a basket with the wine, a corkscrew, plastic cups, and our dinner, then got in herself. The boat rocked crazily and I hung on to the basket with one hand and the side of the boat with the other.
“Guess we weighed a little less when we did this as kids, huh?” Kit sat down and faced me. “Or at least I did. You haven’t gained an ounce since you were sixteen.”
“Maybe not, but plenty of other things have changed.”
She picked up the oars. “How about we go out in the middle and just drift around?”
The burgers were now lukewarm, but I’d skipped lunch after that session with Belcher and the talk with Bonita, so now I ate ravenously. Kit watched me with amusement.
“I haven’t seen you this hungry for ages. You brought good wine, by the way.”
“It’s a Chardonnay from a new vineyard down near Charlottesville. I wanted to try it.” I uncorked the bottle and poured more wine into plastic cups. “We ought to keep this chilled. Hand me that plastic grocery bag, will you?”
I put the bottle in the bag and tied the handles in a knot, which I looped over one of the oars. Then I lowered it partway into the water. “That ought to do it.”
“Great. So how was your day?”
“Lousy. The guy from the EPA showed up.”
Kit looked sympathetic. “It didn’t go well?”
“He was the kind of person who’d normally blend in with the wallpaper and he knows it, too. So now he’s got absolute power over our fate and he means to make the most of it,” I said. “I have a feeling he’d made up his mind to throw the book at us before he even set foot on the property. Quinn thinks so, too.”
“Jeez. You mean he’s going to shut you down?”
I trailed my hand in the water and watched the ripples I made fan out and recede. “We’ll know in ten days.”
“Maybe you’ll only get a fine. Can you hold my cup? It’s not very deep here and we’ll scrape the bottom of the boat.” She gave me her cup and removed the bag with our wine from the oar. Then she grabbed the other oar and rowed us into deeper water while I poured more wine.
“I like this time of day,” I said as she reached again for her cup. “The lighting’s nice.”
We drank in silence.
“What else, Lucie?” Kit said after a while. “Something else is bothering you.”
“I think Quinn might be leaving,” I blurted out.
Her eyebrows went up. “He told you?”
“No, Bonita did. She thinks she overheard Mick Dunne offering him a job. I got the impression it was for more than just the consulting work Quinn’s been doing for him. You know Mick bought the Studebaker place? He wants to start a vineyard.”
She whistled. “Boy, he sure didn’t waste any time, did he? Mick, I mean. He is one smooth operator. I bet he gets whatever he wants. It’s got to be that accent. You can say anything in British and it sounds good. Even if he were robbing a bank, he’d probably sound incredibly polite. I think it’s sexy as hell.”
“Well, thank you for that honest but shallow opinion,” I said as she grinned. “But I doubt Mick’s accent was the deciding factor for Quinn. More likely it was the money.”
Kit nodded. “Dunne Pharmaceuticals? Yeah, money wouldn’t be a problem after what he got when he sold that company.”
“If this is your idea of cheering me up…”
Kit looked penitent. “Sorry, Luce. Sometimes you ought to tell me to just shut up.” She reached for the bottle and topped off our cups.
“It’s all right. I’m just feeling sorry for myself.”
She tapped her cup against mine. “You think Quinn really might leave on account of money?”
“Is there another reason?”
“Oh, come on. How about whatever is going on between the two of you?” she said. “That reason.”
“Nothing’s going on between Quinn and me. He’s seeing Bonita.” I drank a large gulp of wine.
Kit stared at the perfect fire-engine-red kiss mark she’d left on the rim of her cup. Then she said, “I wasn’t talking about a romantic relationship. But I always did think you two had feelings for each other. What I meant was your working relationship.”
“Oh. Well, sure. I knew that’s what you meant.” My face probably matched the color of her lipstick.
“I see.”
“Don’t say ‘I see’ like that, either,” I told her crossly. “There’s something else you don’t know. Mick Dunne came over the other night and made dinner for me.”
The eyebrows went up again. “You lucky girl.”
“He stayed until breakfast.”
“Well, hallelujah and pass the ammunition. About time, if you ask me. I hope it was good.”
“Shut up.”
She grinned. “So Mick is putting the moves on you and Quinn?”
“I think his technique is a little different with Quinn than it is with me,” I said. “It’s just that he didn’t say a word to me about offering Quinn a job.”
“So you’re just speculating,” she said. “Have you talked to either of them about it?”
“No.”
“Then ask.” She looked at me steadily. “I know you want Quinn to stay, Luce. You should tell him.”
“I can’t match the salary Mick can offer him.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. Stop dragging that Scottish pride around like you’re hauling the Stone of Scone, will you? It’s not always about the money.”
I smiled. She knew her Scottish history. “Maybe I should just let this run its course and see what happens. It’s not fair to stand in his way.”
“Maybe you should tell the man how you feel,” she said with heat. “Me, I’d rather regret something I did. You get over that eventually. But to regret something you didn’t do…that eats at you forever. You wanna keep your mouth shut and let him walk because he thinks it doesn’t matter to you?”
“No.”
“Okay, then. You know what you gotta do.”
We tied up the boat just as the sun dipped behind the Blue Ridge. Kit drove the long way back to Highland House, passing by the winery.
“Quinn’s car is still in your parking lot,” she said. “He’s working late. Perfect opportunity for you to talk to him.”
“Not tonight.”
“Luce,” she warned. “The longer you wait, the harder it will get.”
She dropped me at the house. “I’ll call you later and find out how it went.”
“You’re very pushy.”
“It’s one of my endearing qualities.”
The El Camino was still there when I drove to the winery a few minutes later. The villa was dark, so he was probably in the barrel room. I went in through the side door. The lab was dark, so I headed for the alcoves. He was there, all right.
With Bonita.
Both of them mostly undressed, her back against one of the pillars as he leaned into her. Fortunately, the noise of the refrigeration equipment and fans drowned out the sound of the door opening and closing. Anyway they were oblivious of anything but each other. I wanted to leave, but I couldn’t. Instead, I watched as his mouth and his hands traveled from her hair to her mouth, her neck, her breasts…her eyes were closed, her head thrown back.
Probably not a good time to bring up the subject of whether he was staying or leaving.
I drove back to the house, feeling numb. Maybe I’d lost him already. In more ways than one.
Quinn had been my father’s choice as our winemaker, not mine. Would I have hired him if it had been my decision? We got along like oil and water most of the time. And we had completely different philosophies about how we wanted to do the same thing—make great wine.
This was about my hurt pride and his big ego. No woman was going to tell him what to do. He wanted to run the show and I wanted a partner. Maybe I was better off without him.
So why did I feel so melancholy?
On Friday afternoon Mick called and asked if I wanted to come along to the polo field and watch him play in the twilight games later on.
“We could have dinner afterwards,” he said.
“Thanks, but I’m busy.”
He was silent, perhaps expecting an explanation or something more polite, but I didn’t oblige. Finally he said, “Is something wrong? You’re angry with me, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Would you mind telling me why?” He sounded guarded.
“I guess you’re used to more ruthless ways in the world of big industry, but here in Virginia, in the wine-making business, we’re still a bit civilized.”
“Pardon?”
Was he pulling my leg? He had to know what I was talking about.
“If you wanted to hire Quinn to run your vineyard it would have been common courtesy to at least say something to me. Especially since you practically went straight from my bed to his office to offer him the job.”
Another silence, this time from him. “It was a hammock,” he said finally. “And that’s not what happened.”
“What about the cigars? Why the extravagant gift?”
“I see,” he said. “Now I understand. Well, I am very sorry indeed, Lucie, that you feel this way. I wish you a pleasant evening. I’ll be late for the match, so I’d better ring off.”
That night I stayed out on the veranda, rocking myself in the glider until the mountains disappeared into the velvet night sky. For once, I didn’t bother to light the candles or the torches. Finally I lay down and fell asleep in my clothes.
Kit was right. Regretting something you didn’t do ate at you until it broke your heart.
Chapter 21
I spent the weekend pulling weeds and cleaning garden beds around my house. It turned out to be a good way to keep my mind off what was really bothering me, especially after wading blindly into a thicket of ivy-covered pyrocanthus. Not for nothing do they call it the firethorn. From then on I made a point of paying attention to what I was doing and by Saturday night I was so exhausted, bloodied, and dirty that I fell into bed and slept straight through until noon. I was on my knees tackling the last weed-tangled patch by the veranda on Sunday afternoon when Mick showed up.
