by Ellen Crosby
“Uh, sure.” She walked very slowly and kept up a relentlessly encouraging monologue about our progress.
“Will you cut it out?” I said, finally. “We’re not climbing the Matterhorn.”
“Sorry,” she said. “Did I sound patronizing?”
“You sounded like Annie Sullivan and I’m Helen Keller. I can manage just fine.”
“In that case,” she said, “shake a leg.”
We sat on the edge of the bridge. “I can’t hear the creek,” I said. “It’s strange not to hear any water.”
“Been like that for most of the summer. I can’t remember the last time we had rain. You want to open the wine?”
Kit held the flashlight while I extracted the cork from the bottle and filled our glasses.
“Mud in your eye.” She set the flashlight between us so the light shone upward like a giant pillar candle. “Hey, this is premium stuff.”
“It ought to be. It’s ten-year-old Cab.”
“Are we celebrating something?”
“Friendship,” I said. “We’re celebrating friendship.”
We clinked glasses. “You want to talk about what’s bothering you?”
“Not right now.”
Fireflies winked and the cicadas sang as we drank in silence. Moths zoomed around the beam of white light. After a while Kit said, “I thought you ought to know. I’ve started seeing Bobby Noland.”
“Are you kidding? Since when?”
“Yesterday. We got together because he was going to talk to me about Fitz. Started out all business then next thing I know, we’re making out in the backseat of his cruiser. Those Crown Vics have no springs, I swear to God. I’ve got bruises in the weirdest places. It’s not what you’re thinking,” she added. “He was off-duty.”
“Did he tell you anything about Fitz before you got personal with him?”
She looked into her wineglass. “Apparently your cousin doesn’t have an alibi for the time of his death.”
“Dominique? She spent the night at Joe Dawson’s.”
“’Fraid not, Luce. She didn’t show up until late. Really late.” She drank her wine.
“She didn’t do it, Kit. Maybe she did want to take over the inn, but she didn’t kill Fitz to make it happen.”
“Then who did?” She leaned forward so the flashlight’s beam glanced off the angles and planes of her face, turning her eyes into hollow black pools like the empty holes of a mask.
I ran a finger down the stem of my wineglass and thought about what Eli had said, about where her loyalties really belonged.
“I thought you said we were celebrating friendship,” she said. “So are we or aren’t we?”
“Of course we are.”
“Then maybe you could start trusting me again.” She picked up the bottle and topped off our glasses. “Everybody needs a friend, Luce. You more than anybody right now.”
“You mean with my family imploding?” I closed my eyes and drank. “God, it’s hot, isn’t it? I feel like I’m suffocating it’s so humid. Nothing makes any sense since I came home.”
“So tell me about it. It’ll help.”
I swung my feet around so they were dangling over the creek-side of the bridge and stared into the murky darkness. “Eli thinks you’re going to splash some lurid story about us all over the front page of the Trib.”
“Eli’s an asshole,” she said, “whose emotional sensibilities seem to have atrophied since he married the Queen Bee. He’s become so materialistic he thinks the world is full of people just like him.”
I smiled. “Point taken.”
“Say hallelujah. Now tell me what’s bugging you,” she said gently.
I drank more wine while she watched me. “Fitz said before he died that someone tried to buy the vineyard and Leland wouldn’t sell,” I said finally. “He didn’t know who it was.”
“Ask Erica Kendall. She might have heard something.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Why?”
“Because Fitz thinks…thought…Leland’s death wasn’t an accident. He thought whoever was trying to get him to sell might have had something to do with it.”
“Go on.”
“He also said Eli stood to gain from Leland’s death since now there were no obstacles to selling.”
“Are you saying that Eli was involved in the death of his own father? And Fitz?” She whistled. “Jeez, Luce, you know I think Eli’s turned into something you’d scrape off the bottom of your shoe, but I just can’t see it. He’s a henpecked wimp ever since he married Brandi. Not a murderer.”
“I don’t think Eli killed Leland. I never did. I don’t think he killed Fitz, either. But with Leland out of the way, he had an easy way to solve his money problems.”
An owl hooted nearby and we both jumped. I grabbed the edge of the parapet as Kit’s fingers dug into my shoulder. “Watch it! You almost fell off!” Her voice was sharp. “Aw, damn. I spilled wine on my jeans.”
“Sorry. There’s a napkin in the basket. I wrapped the wineglasses in it.” I swung my legs back around and faced her again.
“Okay, so someone murders Leland because they know Eli is cash-strapped and he’ll jump at the chance to sell the vineyard.” She rooted in the basket for the napkin, then began dabbing at a spot on her jeans. “What’s so special about your land that someone would kill for it?”
“I don’t know. Other than the fact that it’s nearly five hundred acres.” I reached for the bottle and poured the last of the wine. “Have you ever heard of the Blue Ridge Consortium?”
“Sure. Bunch of superrich environmental do-gooders. What about them?” She crumpled the napkin and threw it back in the basket.
“Do you know who belongs to it?”
Kit shrugged. “Most of the people you’d expect. A lot of the horse-farm owners. Some of the Romeos. Except Austin Kendall, obviously.”
“Why ‘obviously’?”
“The consortium wants to keep the region unspoiled, just the way it is. No housing developments, no shopping malls, not even a bus shelter. Austin thinks the go-go growth and all the construction in the high-tech Dulles Airport corridor is the best thing that happened since Leven Powell founded Middleburg. So there’s a small difference of opinion.” She drank her wine. “Why are you asking about them?”
“Leland had a letter from Nate Midas among his papers. Asking for a ten-thousand-dollar donation. I was wondering if they were the ones who tried to buy the place or…” I stopped.
“Or what?”
“Or someone else did.” It sounded lame.
“I’m waiting.”
“Or maybe Quinn did.”
She chuckled. “You’re joking, right? No offense, but the guy dresses like he buys his clothes at a flea market. Where would he get money to buy the vineyard?”
I had the copy of the Mercury News in my satchel. She took it and leaned toward the beam of the flashlight.
When she finished she looked thoughtful. “It’s definitely Quinn in that photo, even with the different first name. So where’d he get the money from? You think Cantor paid him off to buy his silence? There really is money somewhere and maybe Cantor’s not as broke as he seems?”
“The other day Quinn told me he’d like to buy land here and have his own vineyard some day. I didn’t give it another thought until I saw this.” I took the newspaper from her and stared at Quinn grinning broadly like he didn’t have a care in the world. “Maybe he meant our vineyard. Maybe he’s the one who talked to Leland.”
“Have you thought about tracking down his ex-employer?”
“I called. The place must have closed down. And there’s no forwarding number.”
“A friend of mine works for the San Francisco Chronicle. He might know someone at the Merc. I’ll ask,” she said. “Wonder why he changed his name? ‘Paolo’ sounds more exotic than ‘Quinn,’ don’t you think?”
“His name could be Dom Perignon, for all I care. I’m getting rid of him as soon as harvest is over. I don�
�t know why Leland ever hired him. It was a mistake.”
“Well, it probably makes sense to wait until harvest is finished. No point shooting yourself in the foot.” She froze. “Oh God. I didn’t mean that.”
“I know what you meant. Forget it.” I finished my wine. “We ought to get going. You’re being eaten alive by mosquitoes.”
“And you’re not?”
“One of us wore bug spray,” I said. “And one of us wore perfume.”
She stood up and waved her empty glass back and forth like a semaphore. “That was fabulous wine. As for the perfume, I’ve got a date with Bobby. Wonder if he likes his women lumpy. I’m a mass of welts.”
“I guess you’ll find out. Where’s he taking you?” I leaned on my cane and pulled myself up.
“A romantic evening at the American Legion Hall in Philomont. Darts and a few beers with the guys. It’s a cop hangout.” She picked up the glasses and the empty bottle and put them in the basket. “You know Bobby. He never was a roses and poetry kind of guy.”
I held her arm again as we walked back to our cars.
“Be careful,” she said as I opened the door to the Volvo and got in. “Just, you know, keep an eye out. I’m worried about you.”
“I’ll be fine. I can take care of myself.” I started the Volvo, which sounded more anemic than usual, and backed it out of the gravel road. Kit turned in the opposite direction when we got to Mosby’s Highway. She tooted her horn and I watched the Jeep’s taillights disappear in my rearview mirror, which is how I saw the black SUV come out of nowhere and move up right behind me.
Whoever it was, he was practically crawling up my bumper. I sped up and so did he. The turn for Atoka Road was coming up and I signaled. He’d probably blow past me as I turned, maybe stick his middle finger out the window. My bad luck to be sharing the road with some jerk with a road rage problem. Suddenly he moved up so he was right beside me. He wasn’t going to let me make my turn. If I slowed down, so did he. No way could I outrace him in the Volvo. We roared past Atoka Road side by side. I glanced over to see if I recognized him but the windows were tinted and it was nighttime. I couldn’t see anything.
I floored the gas pedal, which must have caught him off-guard because, astonishingly, I pulled ahead of him. Seconds later I heard the angry revving of his engine. He moved in tight behind me again, rather than beside me. The SUV’s enormous grille filled my entire rearview mirror. The first jolt when he rammed me nearly caused me to lose control of the car. The second time he hit me I managed to cling to the steering wheel as he kept up his relentless pounding. The Volvo shuddered but held together and I thanked God for small favors—that I was in this car rather than the Mini I drove in France.
In the distance, a pair of headlights raked the road and another vehicle swung slowly onto the highway. At this speed, I would rear-end the slower-moving car in seconds. I swerved and one of the tires hit the soft shoulder. Though I knew better, I pumped the brakes. The car rolled and kept rolling. My head hit the steering wheel.
When the cartwheels stopped I was upside down, strapped in by my seat belt. Another set of brakes squealed, then headlights flashed outside my window. Two car doors slammed, then a man yelled, “Hey! Hey there!”
I was alone in a field late at night with whoever had tried to run me off the road. If he meant to kill me, there would be no one to stop him and no witnesses.
A flashlight beam skipped across the field. “Hey,” the voice said again, “you all right in there?” He shone the flashlight directly in my face, blinding me.
“My head hurts.” My voice sounded weak and far away. I closed my eyes. The light hurt.
“Why, it’s a woman, Hollis,” said a female voice. “I thought it was kids. She sounds kinda woozy.”
“Well, she damn near killed us,” Hollis said. “So she’s lucky if a bad headache is the only thing she’s got.” He said, presumably to me, “Don’t you know drag racing’s against the law around here? You and your friend musta been doing close to a hunnerd. We all coulda been killed. You’re mighty lucky to be alive, sweetheart.”
It was the driver of the car I nearly hit. My pursuer, whoever he was, was gone. Unless he was somewhere nearby in the darkness.
“Not me. Someone else. Someone was chasing me,” I mumbled.
“Hollis,” said the female voice, “she’s still got her seat belt on. Help her out of there. She ought to see a doctor. She sounds delirious.”
“I am serious,” I said. Or maybe I said “delirious.” My head felt like someone was jackhammering from the inside, trying to get out.
“I can’t get to you,” Hollis said. “Can you undo that seat belt yourself?”
“I think so.”
Luckily the car was so old everything worked manually. He reached in and rolled down my window. “Good thing you’re small,” he said. “Door’s jammed. You’ll have to come out through the window.” He put his arms around me. “I’ll pull you. On three.”
He counted and pulled. My bad leg got caught on the steering wheel and I cried out.
“Take it easy, Hollis.” The woman sounded anxious. “You’re hurting her.”
“Are you doing this or am I doing this?” Hollis said to the woman. To me he said, “Come on, we just about got you free.”
I got my foot loose and he pulled me out. Then he sat me on the ground and played the flashlight over me. The backwash of light made shimmering halos around his face and the face of the woman standing next to him. Both were white-haired. I knew them.
They knew me, too.
“Well, I’ll be,” the woman said. “You’re the Montgomery girl, aren’t you? The older one. Linda.”
“Lucie.” The jackhammers wouldn’t quit.
“That’s right,” she said. “Lucie. Thelma was just telling me about you. I’m Ellie Maddox. Maybe you remember me? I used to work the checkout at Red’s Hardware in The Plains. I knew your folks real good, they were in all the time. And this here’s my husband, Hollis. Are you all right, honey? Maybe we ought to take you to Loudoun General.”
I shook my head and was immediately sorry I did. My brain felt like it had come loose from its moorings. I put both hands on the ground to stop the dizziness. “No hospital. I want to go home.”
“Well, you ain’t going anywhere in that car.” Hollis shone the flashlight on the Volvo. “That’s Lee’s car, isn’t it? Hell, those Volvos are built like tanks. You’re lucky, young lady, that you weren’t in one of them convertibles the kids are driving nowadays. You do somersaults in a car with no roof over your head and we wouldn’t be here havin’ this conversation.”
“Hollis,” Ellie admonished. “Look at her. She doesn’t care about that stuff right now. The child looks like she’s about to keel over. Let’s get her home.”
“Fine,” he said, “but she’s gonna care tomorrow when she doesn’t have any vehicle.” To me he added, “If you want, I’ll call Knight’s in the morning and have your car towed for you.”
“Call who tonight?” Their halos were growing fuzzier. I could hardly make out the features on their faces anymore.
“Knight’s. The garage over to Aldie. I’ll call them in the morning!” He raised his voice like he was talking to someone who didn’t understand English.
“Oh,” I said faintly. “Good.”
“Used to be Knight & Rust Auto Body. You remember, don’t you?” he said. “I still call it that ’cept now it’s Gas-o-Rama or some fool name, but they still got a halfway decent mechanic. Not as good as old Jimmy Knight, but then nobody’s as good as Jimmy, God rest his soul. Not even Rusty was that good. There wasn’t nothing he couldn’t fix if your car was acting up. Did great body work, too. He coulda fixed this car so it would look newer than the day you bought it.”
“Hollis,” Ellie warned. “There you go, running your mouth again. She’s gonna faint or something. Let’s get her out of here.”
Ellie was still fussing about the hospital, but when Hollis fished my cane out o
f the Volvo, I managed to walk reasonably steadily to their car, leaning on his arm. They agreed, reluctantly, to take me home.
As soon as they drove away I locked the front door. The lock groaned when I turned the key, nearly frozen from lack of use. I slid the deadbolt into place with some effort, then went into Leland’s study and knelt by his gun locker. His old .22-caliber handgun was where he’d always kept it and so was the ammunition. I loaded the gun and—with excruciating slowness—climbed the stairs to my bedroom. No more sleeping on the veranda.
I lay in bed, exhausted and aching, the thrumming noise of the old fan blowing barely cooled air over me acting like white noise, blocking out all thoughts.
Except one.
Someone tried to kill me tonight out on Mosby’s Highway.
Chapter 19
It was still dark when my alarm went off. I turned on the light and saw the gun. It took a moment before I remembered why I’d put it there and still longer before I remembered that the reason the alarm had gone off so early was because today was harvest. I sat up, moving like an arthritic marionette. The first thing I did was unload the bullets, putting them and the gun in the drawer of my nightstand. My head throbbed from the effort.
I took a shower that turned my skin the color of cooked lobster. It helped the stiffness but I needed drugs. I had forgotten about the bottle of postaccident painkillers that was still in the medicine cabinet. Past its sell-by date, but they’d still be potent. My hand hovered between that bottle and the ibuprofen next to it.
It had been pure hell weaning myself from the pain-free bliss of those drugs. Right now it would be so easy to start again.
I picked up the ibuprofen and took two with a glass of water. Then I shook out a half dozen bullet-shaped capsules and shoved them in my jeans pocket. I flushed the pain pills down the toilet.
Surprisingly after two cups of coffee and a toasted baguette, the ibuprofen kicked in and I felt somewhat human. Eli’s bicycle was in the carriage house, but I wasn’t sure I could navigate the pedals with my bad foot and my aching joints. There was nothing else with wheels or a motor that was going to get me to the winery. The darkness was slowly fading and the air was cool and still. I decided to walk.
