The Bordeaux Betrayal wcm-3

by Ellen Crosby

  The color drained from my face.

  “Call Shane,” he said. “Get hold of him before he gets over here. I can handle the rest of these vats. Manolo will be here in a while, anyway.”

  But I couldn’t find Shane and he still wasn’t answering his cell phone.

  “I’ll call Amanda,” I said. “Maybe she can reach him.”

  “Tell her everything,” Quinn said. “She needs to know.”

  I got her just as she was getting ready to leave her house for a hospital board meeting. She didn’t speak at all while I told her about Freddie. When I finished she still said nothing.

  “Amanda? Are you there?”

  “Yes. Yes, I am.” She sounded distracted. “Sorry. Just checking something.”

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “Can you reach Shane?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll get hold of him. And I’ll do better than that,” she said. “I’ll be over there myself checking things out.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Count on it,” she said.

  I hung up and told Quinn what Amanda had said.

  “Your cousin called while you were on the phone,” he said. “She wants you to call her back. Something about lunch with her and your grandfather.”

  “I just talked to Pépé,” Dominique said when I reached her, “and woke him up. I thought you two might come by for lunch. Or at least he could have his morning coffee here. I couldn’t get an answer out of him that made sense.”

  “His big dinner with his friends from the Marshall Plan is this evening,” I said. “I think he wants to get his beauty sleep before he parties all night.”

  “Probably burning the midnight oil at both ends as usual,” she said. “Well, let him sleep. Why don’t you come?”

  “Sure,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing’s up. I haven’t seen you in a while.”

  When the English slipped, something was up.

  “I’ll be there,” I said.

  I left the vineyard shortly before noon. If Amanda or Shane were out riding somewhere on our land, I hadn’t seen a sign of either of them as I left the vineyard.

  Out of habit I glanced in my rearview mirror as I got ready to pull onto Atoka Road. Red paint covered both stone pillars marking the entrance to the vineyard.

  More blood.

  Chapter 19

  I shut off the engine and reached for my cane. The fox had frightened me. This made me mad. When I found out who did it, they would pay.

  The paint continued for about twenty feet along the left wall. It ended abruptly as though someone had come to the bottom of the can—or fled before getting caught in the act. It looked like the same red used for Freddie’s blood. I went over to the pillar and touched it. Dry. If it was the same paint, at least it was water-based and would wash off.

  The pillars had been here for more than a century. The garish smears meant to look like a wound on the weathered stone were as repulsive as a bully beating up a grandmother for the lousy couple of bucks in her purse. I leaned my cheek against one of the pillars and wondered who was that sick. Less and less it seemed like the Orlandos.

  I called Quinn. “Someone found a use for the paint left over from Freddie. Meet me at the front gate.”

  He showed up almost immediately. “I’m calling the sheriff,” he said when he saw the mess. “Good thing you kept that stuffed animal.”

  He pulled out his phone.

  “Wait,” I said. “Don’t call yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Maybe I ought to drop by and talk to the Orlandos first.”

  Quinn looked disgusted. “And do what? Check their garage for empty paint cans?” But at least he snapped his phone shut.

  “Whoever did this knows Claudia and Stuart are trying to stop the Goose Creek Hunt from riding through my farm. That’s not a large circle of people.”

  “And?”

  “I think the Orlandos are law-abiding citizens. If someone is trying to capitalize on their efforts to shut down foxhunting by making threats and defacing my property—and like you said, possibly even booby-trapping some of the jumps and fences—they’ll be as upset as we are.”

  He opened the phone again. “And they’ll say just what I’m saying. We should call the sheriff.”

  “As long as my family has lived here we’ve always been on good terms with our neighbors,” I said. “I don’t much care for Claudia and Stuart Orlando but we live next door to each other. Right now we’re not even speaking. At least this will give me a chance to try to remedy that.”

  “We still need to report this.”

  “We will. But you know as well as I do they’ll be the number-one suspects. I’d rather be the one to tell them to expect a visit from a deputy sheriff than have a cruiser show up in their driveway and blindside them. Then it really will be all-out war between us. Because they didn’t do this.”

  Quinn traced the outline of red on one of the pillars with his finger. “You have a point.”

  “There’s something else,” I said. “Whoever is responsible is going to clean it up. I don’t care if they have to use a toothbrush and dental floss. When they’re done, it’s going to look like nothing ever happened.”

  He went back to the winery and I called Dominique on my cell, letting her know I was running late. I put the top down on the Mini, hoping the cool breeze would clear my head. The sky was Williamsburg blue and the sunlight, flickering through the branches of the trees, made stripes on my windshield like gentle lightning. Here and there a few leaves were brilliant yellow like Christmas ornaments on a tree. One morning I knew I’d wake up and suddenly everything would be flame-colored and I’d wonder how I missed the transition.

  I got to the Goose Creek Inn just after twelve-thirty. The maître d’ spotted me through the lunchtime crowd, waving me over to his stand and kissing me on both cheeks. “She’s in the kitchen. Told me to let you know she won’t be long.”

  “Some crisis only she can handle?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Chérie, they’re all crises only she can handle.”

  “Doesn’t it drive you nuts?”

  “I am used to her. Maybe you forget I have been here since your godfather was cooking in the kitchen. Now I have the pains in my legs and varicose veins from so many years of standing. I am used to those, also.”

  I smiled. “I assume we’re at her table?”

  “She thought you might enjoy eating outside. Is that all right?”

  “Yes. Lovely.”

  “Your waiter will take you there. If you can wait un petit instant?”

  Dominique showed up just after I was seated. She kissed me absently and set an ashtray next to her place, pulling a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her black trousers.

  It seemed to be my day for being with people who looked like they’d spent the weekend being run over by a tractor-trailer rig.

  “I’m glad you came.” She lit up and took a deep drag, closing her eyes.

  My cousin hadn’t chosen to eat outdoors because of the glorious weather. She needed to smoke and it was off-limits in the restaurant.

  “My pleasure. What’s going on? No offense but you look rotten.”

  “I feel rotten. How about a glass of champagne?” She raised her hand and our waiter appeared at our table. “Deux coupes de champagne, s’il vous plaît.”

  After he left she said, “Joe and I have split up for good. He’s leaving.”

  Napoleon once said that in victory you deserve champagne but in defeat, you need it. My cousin needed it.

  “Leaving what?” I said.

  “Everything. The academy. Atoka.” Her eyes were anguished. “Me.”

  I reached for her hand as our champagne arrived. “I’m sorry.”

  She sucked on her cigarette like it was life-sustaining. “A couple of parents got wind that one of their daughters’ teachers was involved in a murder investigation. They didn’t th
ink someone like that ought to be on the staff at the academy.”

  “He got sacked?”

  Dominique nodded. “Two weeks’ notice. By the way, I ordered our lunch before you got here.”

  Her world could be falling apart but she still had to be Super-woman, taking care of everything and everyone. “Great,” I said. “And Joe’s not guilty of killing anybody.”

  “Doesn’t matter. He buttered his bread when he slept with that woman and now they’re making him lie in it.”

  “I guess so,” I said. “Though it seems pretty harsh.”

  She shrugged as the waiter set two plates of salmon tartare in front of us. I hoped she was going to put her cigarette down while she ate. Even outside, the smoke was annoying.

  “What’s he going to do?” I asked.

  “Move to D.C. You know how desperate they are for teachers in that school system. He’ll find a job right away, even in the middle of the school year.”

  “Why does he have to move there? Why can’t he stay here and commute?”

  She lit a cigarette off the end of the previous one. “He feels like he has crow all over his face if he stays in Atoka.”

  “You’re going to give yourself lung cancer.”

  She eyed me. “We come from good genes. Look at Pépé. He’s been smoking since the dinosaurs roamed the earth and he’s fine.”

  She had a point. “How are you doing?” I asked.

  “I’d like to strangle Joe for what he did. Otherwise, I’m fine.”

  “At least you’re not keeping your emotions pent up. That’s a good sign.”

  Our empty salmon plates vanished and a salad of bitter greens with herbed chèvre croutons arrived. Dominique asked for more bread.

  “I made some calls,” she said. “I found out about her.”

  “Valerie?” I looked up from my salad. “Why did you do that?”

  Another drag on the cigarette. “I wanted to know.” She glanced at me. “Don’t look at me that way. In my place you’d do the same thing.”

  I thought about my questions to Mick yesterday and, this morning, prodding Quinn for information in the barrel room. We also came from inquisitive genes.

  “UVA fired her and she was in debt. No permanent address after she came back from France. She lived with various friends in Charlottesville to avoid paying rent.” My cousin stabbed her salad aggressively with her fork. “Promised everyone who loaned her money she would pay them back after she finished writing the Jefferson book, but she never did.”

  I watched her eat. “That’s a lot to find out from a few phone calls. What’d you do? Hire a private investigator?”

  She tossed her head. “I didn’t hire anybody. You forget I have clients who have known me for years. Maybe I take care of a gentleman who wants a discreet dinner with a lady friend and maybe he’d like to show his appreciation that I provide a private dining room for him and his friend each time they show up and never say a word when he returns with his wife.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Payback. A lesser form of blackmail.”

  “What goes around comes around.” She smiled sweetly. “I wonder where Valerie thought she’d get the money.”

  “Not from book sales, that’s for sure. Maybe she was trying to blackmail Jack Greenfield, though Jack wasn’t the one who fooled around with her car.”

  “Who did?”

  “I don’t know. Nicole Martin is trying to get him to sell her the Washington wine for one of her clients,” I said. “Did you know she and Valerie were friends?”

  “Isn’t that interesting?” Dominique rolled her eyes as she sat back in her chair and crossed her legs. “Some friend. Now Valerie’s dead and Nicole gets that bottle.”

  “Nicole didn’t come to town until after Valerie died,” I said. “But it’s an odd coincidence.”

  “If it’s a coincidence. It seems like there’s still a missing piece to the puzzle,” my cousin said. “Somewhere in the middle of this is a smoking mirror. All you need to do is find it.”

  “Sure.”

  Unless I was trying to put together the wrong puzzle. I was beginning to wonder about that.

  Chapter 20

  Claudia and Stuart Orlando lived in a large stone house that had been built in the late nineteenth century from stone quarried on their own property. As I turned in their driveway I noticed they had replaced the white metal mailbox that had been there for years with something large enough to hold mail for an entire condo complex.

  Claudia answered the door when I rang the bell. Perfect makeup, impeccable clothes. In the middle of a conversation on a portable phone. She didn’t look overjoyed to see me, but at least she gestured for me to come in.

  She put her hand over the receiver and whispered in her raspy New York accent, “I’m just finishing up here. Why don’t you have a seat in the living room?”

  I followed the direction of her manicured ruby fingernail and nodded. She strolled into another room which looked like a study or her office.

  “Call Hong Kong,” she said into the phone. “Find out if they’ll go along with it.” The door to the room closed. Based on her tone of voice, Hong Kong needed to go along with it.

  The living room was modern, with a palette that ranged from parchment to cream. More Claudia than Stuart. The neutral tones reminded me of a beach. Several small artifacts, oriental and quite ancient, sat on a lighted étagère. The paintings were modern, also in restful neutral shades. A black lacquered coffee table and two black-shaded lamps on the end tables provided counterbalance to all the whiteness. On the sofa were Shantung silk pillows with oriental designs in black, white, and scarlet. Not my taste, but I liked the effect.

  Claudia entered the room while I was sitting on the cream-colored sofa, admiring her collection of bronzes. I noticed for the first time that she was dressed in black and white, like her room. An ivory and black medallion hung around her neck on a black velvet cord. Her perfume smelled of jasmine.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I’ve been trying to put this deal together for weeks.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Import-export. Almost exclusively Asia. The time difference is a killer. Sometimes I’m up all night and sleep all day.” She clasped her hands together as though she were praying and joined me on the sofa. “To what do I owe the pleasure? I have a feeling it’s not a social visit.”

  After the hostilities the other day at the winery, the wariness was justified, but at least she made an effort to be civil.

  “I wanted you to find this out from me,” I said. “There’s been some vandalism on my property. I haven’t called the sheriff yet, but I will probably report it later today.”

  Claudia’s hand went to her beautiful medallion. She knotted the cord around her fingers. “We left New York to get away from the crime, for God’s sake.”

  “Well, it’s—”

  She wasn’t listening. “Stuart promised me it’d be safe here. Now I suppose we’ll have to get an alarm system put in.” She looked around the room at her possessions as though they might vanish while we sat here. “At least in New York if you scream, someone will hear you. Here there’s…no one.”

  “Claudia,” I said. “Please let me explain.”

  She looked blank. “Explain what?”

  “What happened at my farm.”

  “Oh.”

  “On Saturday morning someone left a stuffed animal on my front doorstep. Freddie the Fox. They sell him around here. He was torn apart and there was red paint all over him like blood.”

  Her hand moved from her necklace to her throat. “Oh my God,” she said. “How horrible.”

  “Today we found more red paint on the pillars at the entrance to the vineyard. I think the same person or persons was responsible for both. Someone doesn’t want the Goose Creek Hunt riding on my property is the way I figure it. They’re trying to scare me. Or possibly threaten me.” I stopped and watched her face. It didn’t take long.

  “Have you come here to accu
se—?”

  “No,” I said. “Absolutely not. But whoever did this knows you are campaigning against foxhunting here. And I bet they know you asked me to close my farm.”

  She looked stunned.

  “Any ideas?” I asked.

  “My God,” she said again. “No, of course not.”

  “Once I call the sheriff,” I said, “someone will probably be by to talk to you about this. I’m sorry, but I don’t think I have much choice about whether or not to report it. My winemaker and I are afraid their next move might be tampering with the jumps and fences.”

  Her face turned the color of the bone-white fabric on a club chair opposite us. “Someone could get hurt.”

  “Yes. Or one of the animals.”

  Claudia moistened her lips with her tongue. “I’ll call Stuart. Right away. He’ll come home.”

  “Who else have you been talking about this to?” I asked. “I understand you’ve had some meetings.”

  She looked surprised that I knew. “We certainly don’t advocate violence. And I don’t think anyone involved with this movement would—” She fell silent.

  “I’m sorry,” I said again, “but it looks like someone did. I know foxhunting is an emotional issue for some folks. Like you and Stuart. But the people involved in hunting are some of the staunchest environmentalists and advocates for preserving open space. Why do you think it’s still so beautiful here? No shopping malls, no apartment complexes—no kitschy-themed amusement park. I’m sure it had something to do with the reason you moved to this region, didn’t it?”

  Claudia studied her manicure and pursed her lips. “We will not change our minds about the brutality of what you people do.” She stood up, signaling the end of our meeting. “But I appreciate you coming by to talk to me.”

  In the front hall I said, “I know it’s a lot quieter here than New York and very different. But it’s also a place where everyone helps everyone else out. We’re a close-knit community. If you need something, your neighbors are there for you. We take care of each other.”