The Merlot Murders wcm-1

by Ellen Crosby

  “Which Romeos?”

  “Austin, Mason, Doc Harmon…I forget who else was there.”

  “Oh Lord. I bet Eli told Erica who told Austin, who told the rest of the Romeos,” I said. “They probably know about it all the way to Richmond. What else did you hear?”

  She took a drag on her cigarette. “Brandi’s upset, too, and spent the day in bed. Eli won’t be coming by tonight. He said to tell you he probably won’t be coming by the vineyard for harvest. Or any more festival events, for that matter. He’s got some deadline at work.”

  “That’s an excuse. He’s playing hardball. He really wants to sell.”

  “She really wants to sell,” Dominique said. “They need the money.”

  “I thought her family had money.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Her father’s an actor and her mother is a dancer. Brandi says they travel all the time because of their work. I think they travel to avoid paying their bills.” She looked at me significantly. “Brandi thought Eli had money. And of course she was impressed that he has relatives who are counts and countesses in France. Eli made it sound like she was going to be ‘Madame la Marquise’ when she married him. I think she wasn’t too happy when she found out the family ties were so remote it’s like saying we’re all related to Adam and Eve.”

  “Do you think she loves him?”

  She chose her words carefully through a cloud of exhaled smoke. “I think she likes the way he treats her. Like she is some kind of goddess.”

  “He carries it a bit far, don’t you think?”

  She stared at the lighted end of her cigarette. “Well, that depends. He didn’t used to act like this before Gregory moved back to Atoka.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You of all people,” she said, “ought to know exactly what I mean.”

  I looked across at the mountains, already growing paler in the silky light. “She said nothing happened that night.”

  “Well, what would she say? That she seduced him and cheated on Eli? Especially after Gregory dropped her like a dead balloon.”

  “So what’s going on now?”

  She dropped her cigarette and ground the butt under her foot. “I heard a rumor about the two of you the other night. Is it true?”

  “He made a pass at me. I lost my head. It was stupid,” I said. “Besides, there’s Mia. Do you think there’s something new going on between Greg and Brandi?”

  “I think he makes Brandi nervous now that he’s back here,” she said, bending down and picking up the cigarette butt. “If those old rumors are true and I were Brandi, I’d want the rug swept under the carpet, too. Wouldn’t you?”

  “I suppose I would.”

  She glanced at her watch. “We’d better get moving. Be an angel. Can you go down to the barrel room and make sure there are enough wineglasses? I asked one of the men to set them out, but I’m not sure he understood where he was supposed to put them. Quinn said he’d be tasting Chardonnay and Merlot in the barrel room and in the villa it will be the new Cab and Sauvignon Blanc.”

  I hadn’t been in the barrel room since I’d returned home. I expected the sudden drop in temperature—nearly forty degrees colder than it was in the courtyard—but I still shivered. It was an enormous space, the length of an Olympic-sized swimming pool, with thirty foot ceilings, fieldstone walls, and four deep interconnected bays where oak barrels were kept in cool darkness. It smelled of the familiar tangy odor of fermentation, an acrid scent like vinegar but infinitely more potent and complex.

  Near where I stood by the roll-up hangar door were pallets stacked with cases of wine being held back until they had been in bottles long enough. The wine that was ready to be sold was on another section of pallets. Along the right wall were the numbered stainless-steel fermenting tanks, some with wax-crayon writing on the front panel indicating the variety and how many hundred gallons were in the tank, but most with the hatch door popped open ready for harvest. In the middle of the room and along the other long wall were rows of oak barrels on metal stands. Quinn’s glassed-in lab was at the back of the room.

  I didn’t see him when I walked in, but I heard voices. He must have heard the metal door as it shut because a moment later he stepped out from behind a row of barrels.

  “Hi. Looking for something?” Somewhere, surely, there was a world shortage of Hawaiian shirts because it seemed most of them hung in his closet. This one was gray with pink flamingoes.

  I smiled brightly. “Yes, actually I am. The wineglasses for tonight’s tasting. Dominique asked me to make sure they were set out where they’re supposed to be.”

  He must have wondered what was going on with the toothpaste-ad smile because he looked puzzled, then turned and spoke to someone obscured by the wine casks. I didn’t catch what he said but a willowy blonde stepped out from behind the barrels. “Hello, Lucie. I was just starting to do that. Long time no see.”

  “Hello, Angela.”

  Angela Stetson looked nothing like she had in high school. Like Kit, she’d switched hair color from brunette to blonde. Unlike Kit, she didn’t look as though she’d dumped a bottle of peroxide on her head. Instead her long, straight hair, which she wore in a high ponytail, was honey-colored and sunstreaked and it flattered her immensely. Her close-fitting cream-colored halter dress showed off tanned, well-defined arms; her legs, revealed through an off-center slit in the dress, were long and lithe.

  Quinn was watching me watching her. “You two know each other?”

  Angela nodded. “We went to high school together.”

  “Really?” He was still looking at me. “That’s great because Angie’s agreed to help out for harvest this year when she’s not at her other job. We’re going to need all the help we can get.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Wow.”

  “I’ve got to take care of something over at the villa. You guys can handle this.”

  “Sure,” Angela said, sounding perky.

  He laid a hand on her back and looked into her eyes. “Thanks, baby. I’ll be back.”

  After he left, Angela studied her manicure. I walked over to a long table covered with a white tablecloth. Hector’s man had neatly stacked the boxes of glasses next to the table, but hadn’t set any of them out.

  “Well,” Angela said, “long time no see, hunh, Lucie?”

  “I’ve been away.”

  “I know. France.”

  “Maybe we could get started with the glasses?”

  “You got a problem with me being here or something?”

  “No.” I set a box on the table. “I have a lot on my mind, that’s all. Thanks for helping.”

  Her eyes, which were expertly made up with smoky blue eye-shadow and blue eyeliner, narrowed. Before she’d looked innocent. Suddenly she looked tough. “I’m only doing this for Quinn.”

  “How did you meet him?” I asked, pulling glasses out of the box.

  “He showed up at Mom’s Place one night.” She sounded tough, too. “We’ve been seeing each other for a few months.”

  “Weren’t you and Billy King…I mean, I thought you…”

  “Eloped? Yeah, we did. I got tired of being his punching bag when he came home drunk.” She placed glasses on the table with aggressive precision. “When Raven—that’s my kid—was born, I threw him out. Then I needed a job so Vinnie hired me. It beats working checkout at Safeway for eight bucks an hour getting varicose veins.”

  “Vinnie?”

  “Carbone. From high school, remember? He owns the place.”

  I did. A nerdy, overweight guy with acne and greasy hair. “The guy who set fire to the chemistry lab with his model rocket fuel?”

  “I forgot about that. Good ole Vin.”

  “So what’s it like working there?”

  She tossed her head and her ponytail swung jauntily. “Come around and see for yourself.”

  I shoved an empty box under the table harder than I needed to. It bounced against a table leg and hit my shin. “I think we’re about do
ne.”

  She continued as though I hadn’t said anything. “You’d be surprised who you’d run into, you know?” She gestured at my cane. “Including the asshole who did this to you.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You heard me.” She picked up a wineglass and ran a thumb along the stem. “He comes by a lot before he goes to work. He’s got a thing for Sienna. He’s always trying to pay her for a private dance.”

  “Who’s Sienna?”

  “A friend of your sister’s.” She leaned over to get her purse. I could see a generous amount of cleavage down the front of her dress. “The guy’s bad news. Mia ought to stay away from him. He’s just using her like he uses everyone else. See you around, Lucie.”

  As she passed by, I smelled her perfume. I didn’t recognize it though I did detect something floral mingled with the earthier scents of incense and musk. It was as provocative as everything else about her. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what attracted Quinn.

  After she was gone I straightened a row of glasses that didn’t need straightening, then reached for my cane. Men paid to see Angela Stetson dance with no clothes on. Why did that bother me? I was halfway back to the villa when I finally admitted to myself that I knew perfectly well why.

  For the rest of my life, I would try to hide my body—at least, my bad leg—because I was ashamed and embarrassed to let anyone see it.

  I was jealous.

  * * *

  Joe Dawson, dressed in khaki shorts, docksiders, and a navy polo shirt, stood by the mosaic-tiled bar opening bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon. At the far end of the room and on the terrace Dominique’s staff set up the pre-theater buffet dinner. “Hey, sweetheart. You working here selling or helping out in the barrel room with the tasting?”

  “Probably the barrel room.” I said as he kissed me on the cheek. “What’s left to do?”

  “Get out the dump buckets and the bread baskets. Dominique left a couple of baguettes that need cutting up.”

  I got the small buckets we used for guests who wanted to pour out the remnants of a wine they either didn’t want to finish or didn’t care for and set them on the bar. The multicolored baskets made for us by an artisan in North Carolina were under the counter.

  “I heard you talked to Eli,” Joe said.

  I set one of the baguettes on a bread board and began slicing it. “I was going to hire a Stearman from the Flying Circus down in Bealeton to pull one of those signs behind it in case anyone missed the details of what we said, but I guess I don’t need to.”

  He grinned, showing the boyish dimples, but his eyes were grave. “You know how word gets around.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Seth Hannah. At the town council meeting this afternoon.” He set down the corkscrew and picked up a sponge, wiping an imaginary spill on the counter. “I thought you might appreciate a little head’s up, Lucie. Seth’s thinking about calling your loan. You’re into him for a lot of money. Over one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Leland put up the house as collateral.”

  The knife slipped. I missed the baguette, nicking the knuckle of my index finger instead. “Damnit!”

  A red stain spread across the white bread. “Give me that.” He threw the sponge in the sink and took the knife from me. “The napkins are under the bar. You’re getting blood all over the place.”

  I knotted a paper napkin around my finger and watched the blood seep through almost immediately. “I will pay him back. Completely. All I need is a little more time…he owes me that, at least. For Leland’s sake.”

  Joe looked at me the way you look at a child when you finally have to explain the truth about Santa Claus. “Naw, sweetheart, that’s not gonna work anymore. In his lifetime Leland cadged money from just about every member of the Romeos and never paid most of ’em back. I swear to God there were some folks so mad at him they wouldn’t spit if he was on fire after he stiffed them. Seth held out longer than most, kept giving him extensions. Now he wants his money. All of it. The bank’s money, I mean.”

  “You think we should sell the place, don’t you?” I said bitterly. “Just like Eli.”

  “I’m wondering what choice you have, under the circumstances.”

  “There are other things I can sell first. Like some of the furniture. I already sold a few things to Mac Macdonald.”

  “That’s like owning a car but selling the engine,” he said. “Though I suppose if you’re bound and determined, you could sell the Jefferson letter. It won’t fetch much because it’s torn where it’s been folded and the contents are pretty tame. You’d get something, though. I can help you find a buyer, if you want.”

  “What Jefferson letter?”

  He looked surprised. “The one Thomas Jefferson wrote to the Countess de Tessé. That relative of your mother’s. He was helping her acquire American plants for her house near Versailles. The letter asked whether she received a shipment he’d sent. Nothing to set the world on fire, but still. Didn’t you know about this?”

  “Nope. Not a word. What makes you so sure Leland didn’t sell the letter already?”

  “It’s in his study in one of those hollow books where you hide things. Crime and Punishment. I saw it the other day when I borrowed a couple of books,” he said. “Besides, Leland thought anything that belonged to Jefferson was sacred. No offense, but he would have sold one of his kids before he sold anything Jefferson owned.”

  “Family didn’t mean much to Leland.” I removed the napkin and examined my finger intently. “I guess no one knew that better than his children.” I looked up at him. “But, yes, I’d love some help finding a buyer. Maybe someone in that Blue Ridge Consortium.”

  “Uh.” His eyes crinkled and he looked puzzled. For the first time I noticed deep marionette lines on either side of his mouth that belied the boyish features. “Why do you mention them?”

  I shrugged and turned on the faucet under the bar, running my finger under cold water. “I found a letter from Nate Midas with Leland’s papers. He was asking for money. I don’t know why Leland got one of those solicitations, under the circumstances. But a ten-thousand-dollar donation? I guess you need real money to be part of that group. If they’re interested in preserving historic sites, maybe one of them would be interested in a historic letter.”

  He lined up corks from the bottles he’d opened like a kid playing with soldiers. “I was thinking more of contacting the folks at Monticello. Or Sotheby’s.” He swiped at all of the corks with the side of his fist dumping them into the palm of his other hand. “I’d better clean this up and see what Dominique needs. And you’d better get over to the barrel room.”

  “Sure.”

  He walked through the arched doorway that led to the wine library and the offices. I left for the barrel room in the dreamlike twilight. It was too early for the fireflies but the crickets were singing in full voice. Somewhere beyond the courtyard two bullfrogs called back and forth to each other.

  Had Joe clammed up when I mentioned the Blue Ridge Consortium or was I imagining it? If the group bought land to turn it into parkland—preserving the wild and historic places in the region—was it possible the person who approached Leland about selling was representing the consortium? Fitz said whoever it was had offered a lowball price and Leland refused to sell. Had the buyer been one of the people Leland stiffed for money?

  Maybe this was about revenge.

  During the past two years when I’d worked at the Perfume Museum in Grasse, I’d honed my sense of smell, learning to distinguish a number of essences without knowing beforehand what they were, a useful talent in wine making as well. Perfume has three notes—top, middle, and bass—which refer to their volatility, or the speed with which they diffuse into the air. When a bottle of perfume is opened, the first fleeting scents are the top or headnotes, which disappear almost instantly. Next are the middle notes, which are the heart of a perfume, until finally what lingers are the forceful bass notes. My life seemed as layered and complex as the most e
xotic scent right now.

  The bass note, or what stayed with me, was the need to hang on to the vineyard, whatever it took to do it. The middle notes, or the heart notes, were pretty clear, too. I had to find out what really happened to Leland—and Fitz. What eluded me were the top notes, the headnotes. There were too many of them and they were too ephemeral—the unknown person who wanted to buy the vineyard and whether Eli was involved in that, Fitz’s murder, Dominique’s money woes, and now the news that Quinn might have been involved in embezzlement and fraud before he came to us.

  What I needed to do, before I could understand the headnotes, was to stay with the heart. I needed to probe it and understand its essence, which somehow seemed to have its origin in Leland’s death.

  Chapter 15

  When I arrived in the barrel room, Quinn was already talking to a small group of people, including a heavyset woman wearing enough bracelets to rival the percussion section of a small orchestra and a broad-brimmed hat that threw everyone around her into shadow. She was visiting from England.

  “No, ma’am,” he was saying. “In the United States we name our wines by varietal, not region. It’s different than Europe. A wine in this country can be labeled with a particular varietal designation—like Cabernet Sauvignon or Pinot Noir, for example—as long as seventy-five percent of the wine is made from that grape.”

  “Give me a good Bordeaux any day,” she said. “I’m a bit of a purist.”

  “Actually,” Quinn said politely, “most of the great Bordeaux are blends of more than one kind of grape. It gives the wines more structure and complexity.”

  “You don’t say.”

  The barrel room, dramatically illuminated by electrified candles in wrought iron wall sconces and recessed can lights glittering like tiny stars, was becoming more crowded. Someone had placed the hurricane lamps we’d used at the outdoor dinner on the tables where Angela and I had arranged the wineglasses. The flickering light from the real candlelight made the huge room seem warmer and more intimate. I preferred it like this, moody and romantic, rather than the heavy industrial lighting we needed for working purposes.