by Ellen Crosby
I walked into the barrel room and saw Quinn through the plate-glass window of our new laboratory. He was sitting at the workbench, probably figuring the ratios for the Viognier. Over the winter we’d modernized and upgraded this part of the winery, which hadn’t changed since my parents built it twenty-one years ago. A brand-new catwalk ringed most of the Olympic-pool-sized room and we’d added a second-story loft where the new lab and an adjoining office were located. Originally we planned to build a staircase with landings between the two floors until Frankie found an antique wrought-iron spiral staircase at a marine salvage depot that fit perfectly and took up less space. The other option for reaching the loft was my favorite—the scissor lift, a kind of open-air elevator.
Quinn threw down his pencil as the lift reached the catwalk and I climbed out. He pushed his reading glasses up on his salt-and-pepper hair, which he’d let grow so that it now curled over the collar of his flannel shirt.
“I finished calculations for the first batch of trials.” He squinted at his paperwork. “And we need to talk about that barrel of funky wine. It smells like your worst nightmare in high school chemistry lab.”
We had only seven barrels of Viognier; three in brand-new French Allier oak that would give the wine a strong oak flavor and four in older American ones where the oak would be muted. We also had about five hundred gallons in a stainless-steel tank. One funky barrel was a lot of spoiled wine.
“Which barrel, new or old?”
“New.”
“What if we just do nothing and see how it develops?” I asked.
“That’s what you want, that’s what we’ll do.”
“Pardon?”
“I said, whatever you want to do.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Dead serious. Why?”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think we ought to discuss it. We never agree on anything without an argument—sorry, discussion—first. What’s going on?”
“Nothing. There’s nothing to discuss. I happen to agree that a minimalist approach would be worth a try. It’s no big deal.” He gave me a wide-eyed look that I recognized as feigned nonchalance.
I leaned on my cane and waited as he shifted in his seat.
“You’ve come a long way in the last year,” he said. “You’re perfectly capable of making smart decisions without me weighing in.”
Three years ago, shortly before my father was killed in a hunting accident, he hired Quinn. When Quinn and I finally met, he made it clear he thought that what his new young boss knew about winemaking and growing grapes could be written on the back of a postage stamp with room to spare. As for me, I wondered how to handle a mouthy winemaker with a macho personality who seemed better suited as a bouncer in a bar. A compliment from Quinn was the mountain coming to Muhammad—maybe the whole mountain range.
“Do you want something? A raise?” I asked. “Is that what this is all about?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, stop reading into things. All I said was that you know what you’re doing. Grab that plastic beaker and the bottle of SO2.” He pointed to a graduated cylinder and a spray bottle next to the sink. “I got the rest of the stuff.”
I obeyed, but it felt like I was talking to a stranger. We took the lift down together in silence and I followed him into one of the bays as he flipped on the low-wattage lights. We generally kept this part of the barrel room completely dark since nothing kills wine faster than light, air, and bacteria. The sulfur dioxide spray was something new learned at a winemakers’ conference a few months ago. By spraying the top of a barrel before we opened the bunghole—where most of the germs were located—we prevented bacteria spreading from one barrel to another.
He found the one he was looking for and used the SO2. Then he took a wine thief and siphoned the liquid with his mouth. He released the straw-colored wine into the beaker and passed it to me. Our fingertips brushed and his eyes met mine.
His were opaque and unreadable, but I couldn’t hide my confusion and misery. He pulled me close. “I’m trying to work out a few things. All I’m asking for is some time and space by myself. That’s why I took off this weekend.”
Working a few things out. Time and space by himself. I said things like that. Quinn, who thought real men worked out their problems with a bottle of Scotch or in a barroom with the guys, did not.
He kissed my hair and I leaned my head against his chest. “Are you talking about us?”
“I thought we’d backed off ‘us.’” His voice was soft. “It got pretty intense for a while, remember?”
I didn’t want to feel what I was feeling, didn’t want to have this conversation right here, right now.
“We never talked about it,” I said. “Backing off just kind of happened.”
He didn’t reply.
“So how long do you need?”
“Lucie—” he began.
Already I knew I was not going to like his reply, but before he could finish the winery telephone rang in the main part of the barrel room.
“I got it.” I hated the relief in his voice at the reprieve.
I followed him into the other room. We weren’t done yet. He said, “Hey, Mick. Yeah, long time no see. Sure, she’s right here. Hang on.”
He held out the cordless phone and said in a toneless voice, “It’s Mick Dunne.”
“Thank you.” I took the phone and tried to keep my expression as deadpan as he was. “Hello, Mick.”
“Morning, love. Just wanted to call to see how you’re doing. I was hoping you’d stick around a little longer last night at the Inn once Simon showed up. Too bad your friend wanted to push off so soon.”
Quinn’s mouth twitched. He’d heard that “love” and the mention of last night. I walked over to the row of stainless-steel tanks where the humming of the cooling system and the gurgling of glycol moving through the tank jackets as it chilled the wine gave me some privacy.
“I’m all right, thanks.”
“Simon told me about your friendship with Rebecca Natale. I didn’t realize you’d been with her just before she disappeared. No wonder you seemed so upset.”
I probably shouldn’t have been surprised that Simon deWolfe knew about my relationship with Rebecca since he handled security for his half brother. Had Olivia Tarrant told him? Who else in Sir Thomas Asher’s circle knew about the two of us?
“I hope they find her soon. I’m going crazy wondering what happened to her.”
“Simon’s in constant contact with the D.C. police while this is going on. He’ll probably be one of the first to know when something new develops. I promise I’ll pass along anything I find out.”
“You seem to know him quite well.”
“Of course. We met through Tommy and Mandy,” he said. “At their place in West Palm. All of them come down every year for winter polo. We used to party together when I was living there.”
Before Mick moved to Virginia, he owned a pharmaceutical company in Florida that he sold for a bundle of money after growing bored with it. I had sensed that same restlessness and what seemed like an incessant need for a new distraction when we were seeing each other. It wasn’t long before he moved on from me to the earl’s daughter. That’s when I’d realized it was only a matter of time before he tired of his life in Virginia as well and left for the next adventure. With Mick the future was an ever-shifting horizon.
“So you’ve known Simon for a while?” I asked.
“Yeah, we’re mates. We go hunting together. Now that he’s buying a house here I expect I’ll see more of him.”
So Simon deWolfe was a hunter, too.
“Look, I was serious last night about dinner,” Mick went on. “I know you may not be up for it with what’s just happened, but why don’t I call back in a day or two? I need to see you, Lucie. You know I’m not going to stop asking until you say yes.”
He’d said “need.” What was going on? “Mick—”
“I mean it.”
“Okay,” I
said. “But give me a couple of days.”
“Whatever you want.”
I disconnected and I walked over to the long pine table we used for winemaker’s dinners. Quinn pulled out a chair for me.
“You all right?” He took the seat next to mine.
“Fine. Why?”
“No reason. Here, try this.” He pushed a glass of wine over to me.
“Mick knows the Ashers,” I said. “Kit and I ran into him last night at the Inn with a guy called Simon deWolfe. Turns out he’s Sir Thomas’s brother. Half brother, actually. Mick just wanted to see how I was holding up with all the news about Rebecca.”
“Nice of him to look out for you. You don’t owe me an explanation, Lucie. Mick’s a good guy.”
I took a deep breath. “It’s not what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking a friend called to comfort you on a tragedy involving another friend. Is it something more than that?”
“No.”
“Okay, then. Bottoms up.”
I swirled the wine, then held the glass to my nose before I drank. He did the same. Back to business. Fine by me.
“It’s okay,” I said. “Good nose, smooth finish.”
“It’s a fifty-fifty blend from the barrel with the South African yeast and the wine in the tank with the American strain.”
It was the blend we used for the Viognier that won the Governor’s Cup.
“This time around it doesn’t taste like wine that would win a prize,” I said. “It’s good but not fabulous.”
“That’s why we’re doing trials.” He shrugged. “Okay, how about the same ratio with the Rhone strain?”
“All right. Or maybe a different ratio of South African to American.”
“Sure. Sit tight and I’ll get it.”
He disappeared into the bay like a shadow vanishing into the night, and I felt as though a glass curtain had descended between us. He was shutting me out of whatever was really going on in his life. I didn’t know whether to be hurt or angry or both.
A phone rang, but this time it was my cell. A Washington, D.C., number, no caller ID.
“I’m looking for Lucie Montgomery.” The male voice sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it.
“Speaking.”
“Detective Horne here.”
I licked my lips and tasted Viognier. The road to hell. “You found Rebecca?”
“I’m afraid not, but we’ve located her purse and ID. We’ve also got a person of interest temporarily in custody.” Horne still sounded beat and I wondered how much sleep he’d gotten since I saw him yesterday. “A homeless guy living down in the woods by the river. A pawnshop owner in Georgetown called nine-one-one when he showed up trying to sell that wine cooler you told us about. And some jewelry. Can you describe what she was wearing?”
I did. Then I said, “Do you think this man killed Rebecca?”
Horne snorted. “He said he didn’t. He claims some dude showed up in his tent and just gave him all her stuff. Told him to sell it and use the cash for food and a warm place to stay. It was like Robin Hood stopped by.”
Rebecca still missing and someone giving away a priceless antique and her jewelry? No way. “Do you believe that?”
He sighed. “Like I told you, I don’t discount anything. Sometimes the most bizarre thing you hear turns out to be what really happened. Look, did Ms. Natale mention meeting anyone once she picked up that package for her boss? A man, maybe? A date with anyone?”
“No. No one.”
“All right. Thanks for your time.”
“Before you go,” I said. “Are you looking for this other person? Robin Hood?”
“We’ll follow up,” he said. “If he exists. But to tell you the truth, the number one person I’m looking for is Rebecca Natale. I got her clothes, her jewelry, and that wine holder. What I don’t have is a body.”
Chapter 8
Quinn and I went our separate ways after the bench trials. He took one of the all-terrain vehicles out to the vineyard, saying he needed to check some trellises, and I pretended to believe him. If one wanted time and space, a good place to find it was the churchlike solitude of acres of bare vines where the only sounds were the whistling wind and the sweet cries of the first birds of spring.
I, on the other hand, sought company that I knew I’d find in the ivy-covered villa my mother had designed for our tasting room. Last fall after harvest, Frankie had planted winter pansies in the halved wine barrels that lined the courtyard portico between the barrel room and the villa. As I walked along the portico I deadheaded white, yellow, and plum-colored blossoms to distract me from thinking about a winemaker who wanted to get lost and a friend who hadn’t been found.
More pansies—lilac and white—bloomed in the border gardens around the villa. A straw basket with gardening tools sat by the door next to a tidy pile of weeds. Frankie must have been cleaning the beds and decided to take a break. I called to her as I walked inside the airy, light-filled room and felt the familiar heart tug as I thought of my mother who had chosen this place for her winery because of its breathtaking view of the vineyard framed by the layered Blue Ridge Mountains.
The room still bore the unmistakable stamp of her style and flair—her oil paintings of the vineyard on the walls, the cheery Provençal fabrics she loved on the sofas and chairs, and the brilliantly hued Turkish carpets brought from my grandparents’ home in France. Frankie wasn’t here, nor was she in the small galley kitchen. I found her in my office, pink cheeked and mud spattered, perched on the edge of my desk watching television, her garden gloves in a heap on the floor.
“Hope you don’t mind.” She twisted her blond windblown hair into a knot and stuck a pencil through it. “A friend called to tell me to turn on CNN so I came inside. The D.C. police are holding a press conference about an antique silver wine cooler that belonged to James Madison. They said Rebecca Natale had it with her when she went missing and that Sir Thomas Asher was supposed to return it to the White House today.”
So the news about the wine cooler finally leaked out.
“When did the press conference start?” I asked.
“About five minutes ago. Look, there’s Asher and his wife next to the mayor and the chief of police. She looks really upset, but he seems like he’s handling it pretty well.”
I threw myself into my desk chair and stared at the screen as the D.C. police chief, the mayor, and Tommy Asher answered questions ranging from serious to borderline lewd asked by a packed room of reporters and photographers. Frankie was right. Miranda Asher, pale and ghostlike, looked as though she hadn’t slept much recently, but her grim-faced husband answered questions put to him with calm stoicism. Detective Horne was there, too. He must have called me from that auditorium.
“Boy, Asher is like the Rock of Gibraltar,” Frankie said.
“Isn’t he?”
As the press conference wore on, the questions kept coming back to an almost prurient interest in Rebecca’s clothing found folded in the rowboat and the fact that she was now nearly nude. The subject of rape was raised and someone else asked about a possible sexual ritual. The mayor and the chief exchanged glances, and it seemed clear neither he nor she wanted to go down the kinky road. Instead, the chief brought up the man Horne had referred to as Robin Hood.
“We’re asking for the public’s help in locating this individual,” she said. “Sir Thomas Asher has generously pledged a one-hundred-thousand-dollar reward to be paid to the person or persons who provide information leading to an arrest and conviction in this case.”
There was another barrage of questions about Robin Hood and how much longer the search for Rebecca would go on.
“Thanks, folks,” the mayor said. “I think we’ve worn this subject out. This is all we have for you now.”
The chief and the mayor drifted away from the podium as one last question concerning the stolen wine cooler and referring to the British soldier who took it as a thief was picked up by a live microphone. Si
r Thomas Asher, on his way out the door, turned and strode across the room to the podium.
“Who asked that question? Who referred to that British soldier as a thief?” His mouth was a thin, angry line. “Identify yourself please.”
“Boy, somebody pushed his hot button,” Frankie said.
The press room was as silent as death. A hand finally went up in the crowd and the camera panned to a familiar face.
“Oh, God, it’s that reporter from Channel 3 who was down on the river last night,” I said. “Kit thinks he’s a jerk.”
“I’d hate to be in his shoes,” Frankie said. “Look at Asher. Like a volcano about to go off.”
“Shh … listen.”
“My wife and I have donated millions of dollars to charity in this country and around the world.” Asher’s clipped British voice was calm, but there was no mistaking his outrage. “Next week we plan to give the Library of Congress one of the largest gifts in its history, outside of the Jefferson library and the Lessing Rosenwald rare book collection. That anyone should question my integrity and the integrity of my family is personally offensive. The Madison wine cooler will be returned to the White House as soon as the police release it from evidence. I hasten to add that I had no idea it was in my family’s possession, no clue about its provenance, until Dr. Alison Jennings, a historian who works with me, discovered it and did some investigating. Had I known what it was, it would have been returned long ago. I find the word ‘thief’ insulting and reprobate, and I expect an apology from your network, sir.”
He turned abruptly and left the room as the place erupted. A moment later the picture flashed to the shell-shocked reporter. I picked up the remote and hit the mute button.
“Now I know why they call him ‘Tommy the Barracuda,’” Frankie said. “He ate that kid for lunch.”
“If he’d let it go, no one would have focused on it,” I said. “Why didn’t he ignore it? Now it’s going to be a story of its own.”
“Probably because the kid hit a nerve.” Frankie bent and picked up her gloves. “That’d be my guess.”
“Well, his ancestor did steal the wine cooler,” I said. “He didn’t borrow it for two centuries. I don’t think Channel 3 owes him an apology at all.”
