The Riesling Retribution wcm-4

by Ellen Crosby

  “Give me that Scotch. Maybe two days of pretend war and shooting at people isn’t such a good thing for you to be doing right now.”

  “Anger management. Sounds terrific.” He leered at me and uncorked the bottle again. “Remember when we used to play Civil War here?”

  “How could I forget? I always had to be your Union prisoner and you’d stick me in the basement.”

  “Scared you, huh?”

  “I wasn’t scared.”

  “Yeah, you were. Especially the night we told you we saw Mosby’s ghost.”

  “I knew you were joking.”

  He drank some Scotch and pointed at the moon. “Who says we were? You know he comes out looking for Yankees when there’s a full moon.”

  “He comes out on moonless nights and I’m not falling for that again.”

  “If you say so. But I feel his presence, moon or no moon. Something’s out there.”

  “Cut it out, Eli.”

  “You’re spooked. I can tell.” He chuckled again. “Wonder what happened to all my Civil War stuff?”

  He lifted the bottle for another drink. This time I reached over and took it from him. “You’ve had enough. What Civil War stuff?”

  “All the stuff I found out here. Bullets and buttons. You know, stuff. I even found a Condeferate belt buckle.”

  “You don’t say.” He seemed oblivious that he’d mangled his syllables. “What’d you do with all of it?”

  “Put it in one of Leland’s old cigar boxes. It’s shumwhere.”

  “Maybe we can find it and have those things authenticated. Display them at the winery.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  He tried for the Scotch again, but I blocked him with my arm and moved the bottle out of his way.

  “Nice try, but it’s time to go home.”

  “I think I’ll just stay right here.”

  “And wait for Mosby?”

  His laugh sounded like a pig hunting truffles. “Maybe. He could be along any minute.”

  “I have a better idea. You come home with me.” I blew out the candles and put them back where he’d found them. “The moon’s out from behind the clouds. Let’s go while we can see our way. I don’t want to fall and break my leg.”

  “The drunk leading the lame or the other way around?” He hiccupped. “Sorry, babe. That was stupid. I didn’t mean it.”

  “Forget it.”

  It hurt, but he was too drunk and depressed to take him seriously right now.

  I helped him up and he leaned on me as we staggered to the staircase. It felt like I was dragging an anchor for the Queen Mary. By the time we made it back to our cars, I was sweating.

  “First one to get back to the house wins.” Eli fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his car keys.

  I held out my hand. “I’m going to win because you’re either walking or riding with me. I suggest the ride, so hand ’em over, sport.”

  He looked annoyed but at least he didn’t protest. Instead he shoved the keys in his pocket and let me help him into the passenger seat of the Mini.

  “I wonder who left those matches and candles there.” I started the engine and backed on to the main road.

  “Mosby.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “You ’lose and clock both gates every night?”

  “Close and lock? Of course. Quinn takes care of it himself.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe you’ve got people who sneak in shum other way.”

  Which is what I’d suggested to Bobby and he’d pooh-poohed it. Unless it was someone who was here on a regular basis and didn’t need to sneak in. Had Quinn used it for trysts with one of his girlfriends? Chance? Tyler?

  I drove back to the house in the quiet darkness, the silence broken only by the waning sound of the cicadas. We couldn’t possibly patrol all five hundred acres of this farm, nor keep someone out if he or she really wanted to gain access to the property.

  “I’m gonna call Brandi when we get back to the house,” Eli said all of a sudden. “Have a lil talk with her.”

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Eli.”

  “Why not? Tell the lil woman she’s makin’ a huge mishtake. She needs to know.”

  “Maybe you should sleep on it.”

  “Who you tellin’ what to do? I’m the man of my own housh.”

  Once when we had to deal with an extremely inebriated client who’d become hostile during a wine tasting, Tyler had recited something in Latin. I couldn’t remember the words, but I did remember the translation: To quarrel with a drunk is to wrong a man who is not even there.

  I hoped Eli wouldn’t call Brandi. But right now, I was talking to a man who wasn’t there. Which was a pity because after tonight’s discussion—all teasing about Mosby’s ghost aside—I wouldn’t have minded the sober comfort of a coherent conversation with my brother to shake off my worries.

  Instead I put him to bed and undressed in my own room as the tree branches made skeletal patterns against my windows in the shifting moonlight. Too much talk of ghosts and spirits and hauntings. Mosby, Beau Kinkaid, the restless spirits at Ball’s Bluff.

  I climbed into bed and lay there, rigid with the irrational fears I knew would seem foolish by morning. I closed my eyes and waited for sleep to come.

  Chapter 17

  We spent Wednesday getting the equipment ready so we could bring the Riesling in the next day before Edouard’s rains arrived. Quinn’s commands were barked orders rather than the usual banter that went on with the cellar rats in the barrel room and the field crew, which only served to further ratchet up tension.

  We weren’t the only vineyard in the region that decided to pick early, meaning there would be competition to get the experienced pickers. Last spring when we needed extra help for pruning, Chance hired a crew of day laborers from the migrant camp in Winchester. Unfortunately, none of them had ever held a pair of pruning shears before, much less worked in a vineyard. They either cut too much or too little and the result was a disaster.

  Around ten o’clock I went over to the barrel room to check on things, arriving just in time to hear Quinn telling Chance not to bring him another inexperienced crew or else.

  “You get over to the day laborer place early,” he was saying, “and you get me guys who know the difference between the sharp end of a pair of shears and the one with the holes for their fingers.”

  The two of them faced each other near the row of stainless-steel tanks, Quinn’s voice echoing in the large space, reverberating with anger. Off to one side, Javier, Benny, and Tyler looked on. Tyler’s eyes were huge behind his glasses and Benny kept folding and unfolding the bill of his baseball cap like a book. Javier saw me come in. He glanced over and shook his head, warning me to stay where I was. The others didn’t notice.

  “If you don’t like the crew I get for you, why don’t you take care of it yourself?” Chance replied.

  “Because it’s your goddamn job, that’s why.”

  “Then back off and let me do it.”

  “Who are you telling to back off, asshole?”

  It was over in seconds. Quinn lunged at Chance as Javier grabbed Quinn’s arms, speaking to him in rapid-fire Spanish. Chance looked like he was ready to start shoving Quinn, but Benny stepped in and pinned Chance’s hands behind his back. Chance tried to wrestle free.

  “Don’t, Chance,” Tyler said. “Don’t do it.”

  “Stop it, both of you! There will be no fighting here. Is that understood?” I walked toward them.

  All of them froze, and Quinn turned toward me first, lowering his arms to his sides. He still looked like he regretted not throwing a punch or two. Chance shrugged off Benny like unwanted clothing and folded his arms across his chest, a hostile expression on his face.

  “Everybody out of here except Quinn,” I said. “Chance, meet me in the villa in ten minutes. Benny and Javier, maybe you want to go for a smoke. Tyler…I don’t know. Take a break, okay?”

  They filed past me, ey
es downcast. The metal door to the barrel room clanked shut. Quinn looked elsewhere as they left, stoking my anger.

  “Are you out of your mind? What was that all about? If Benny and Javier hadn’t stepped in, you and Chance would have gone at each other like a couple of street fighters. And you started it.”

  He held up his hands. “Don’t talk to me about who started what. You know what I just found out? Either there are some cases of wine missing or our records are totally screwed up because the numbers don’t add up. And I haven’t got the goddamn time to deal with it now.”

  “Are you accusing Chance—?”

  “Him. Tyler. Somebody. I don’t know. Either way, Chance is a total screwup.” He ran a hand through his hair, more weary and at the end of his rope than I’d seen him before. “Dammit, Lucie. I want him out of here.”

  I pressed my lips together. I didn’t need this right now. A squabble between two macho guys with egos, Chance accusing Quinn of abuse; Quinn claiming Chance was incompetent. The timing was lousy, on top of all our other problems.

  “I don’t want to have this conversation right now,” I said. “We have the Riesling to get in tomorrow before the rain gets here. The reenactment’s this weekend. Harvest is biting us in the butt. Let’s get through the next few days without anyone spilling blood, okay? Back off with Chance and I’ll deal with him. I promise I’ll sit on him. You just steer clear of him.”

  Quinn shook his head at the folly of my words. “You’re going to be sorry if we don’t cut him loose today.”

  “I’m already plenty sorry about a lot of things, believe me,” I said. “But right now we need him.”

  He stared at me. “Yes, boss.”

  It was the first time he’d called me that. I ignored his mocking tone and left.

  Chance was in the kitchen drinking coffee when I got back to the villa. I poured myself a cup and gave him the same ultimatum about no fighting.

  He nodded. Like Quinn, he avoided looking at me.

  “One more thing,” I said. “Do you know anything about missing cases of wine or a problem with records that don’t tally?”

  His eyes hardened. “Is Quinn blaming me for that, too?”

  “I don’t need your sarcasm and you didn’t answer my question.”

  “It’s no.”

  “You and Quinn need to cool it. And we’ll get to the bottom of this other stuff after we get the Riesling in.”

  “Am I free to go?”

  I didn’t like his belligerent tone of voice.

  “Why don’t you take the lugs out to the fields and leave them at the end of the rows so they’re ready for tomorrow?”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “By the way,” I said, “for the time being, you report to me.”

  He shot me a look of scorn and left. After I drank my coffee, I went back to the barrel room, but it was like being in a morgue. A mood of gloom and tension had settled over the place like a miasma and no one was talking to anyone.

  I hated it.

  Frankie called just before noon and asked if I could sign some papers. I fled to the villa, glad to escape the funk. When I got there, she was on the phone.

  “It’s B.J.,” she said. “He’s on his way over with that other guy. Ray Vitale. They want to check out the site again. Something about finalizing the script for their battle. Can I just let them do their own thing or do you want to go with them?”

  “They can go on their own. Tell B.J. to call me if there’s anything else they need.”

  “Sure.”

  She showed up in my office a few minutes later.

  “I thought I’d run into Middleburg and pick up a sandwich at the deli and a piece of homemade pie from the Upper Crust. My treat for lunch. What can I bring you?”

  “A piece of rawhide to chew on.”

  She grinned. “How about turkey or ham?”

  “Sorry. Turkey on a croissant? But I’m paying. I think you bought last time.”

  Frankie walked over to the small closet in my office and took out her purse. “Forget it. You deserve some pampering after wading through all that testosterone over in the barrel room.”

  She pulled out her wallet and looked up, a frown creasing her forehead.

  “Maybe you’ll have to buy, after all. My credit card’s missing. Damn.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe you misplaced it.”

  “Nope. I’m a creature of habit. I always put it in the slot behind my license.”

  “Check your purse. Maybe it fell out.”

  She dumped the contents on the seat of a red-and-white flame-stitched wing chair my mother had recovered when this was her office.

  “You were right.” She sounded relieved. “Here it is. At the bottom of my purse. Wonder how that happened?”

  “Maybe you forgot to put it back the last time you used it. Or Tom used it and forgot to tell you?”

  She shook her head. “I doubt it. Tom has his own credit cards.”

  “Why don’t you call the bank and make sure everything’s okay? You’ll probably feel better.”

  “Maybe I’ll just drop by. It’s Blue Ridge Federal, so I pass it on the way to the bakery.”

  She returned forty-five minutes later with the sandwiches and two glazed white bags from the bakery.

  “I brought you a couple of cowpuddles from the Upper Crust. They just finished baking them. Place smelled great,” she said. “Sorry it took so long.”

  She didn’t look happy.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  She pulled up the wing chair and took her sandwich out of the wrapper. “I canceled my credit card. Someone did use it. Today. Can you believe it? Two thousand dollars’ worth of stuff at Neiman Marcus.”

  I set down my croissant. “It wasn’t Tom?”

  “Tom’s allergic to shopping. I buy all his stuff. And I don’t spend two grand at Neiman’s.”

  “Maybe it’s a mistake and got charged to the wrong account?”

  Frankie bit into her sandwich. When she finished chewing she said, “I’m calling them after lunch. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but Brandi and Eli were in your office by themselves yesterday. My purse was in your closet like it always is.”

  “Neiman’s is Brandi’s favorite store,” I said. “Why don’t you call them now?”

  She called while we ate. Her end of the conversation was a lot of “uh-huhs” and “yups.”

  “My husband must have ordered that,” she said, finally, “and forgot to tell me. I apologize. Umm, would you mind canceling the order, though? Thanks. Sure. I appreciate that. Sorry for the mix-up.”

  She disconnected and met my eyes.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “A couple of designer dresses and a jacket. They were supposed to be delivered to Forty-forty Hunting Horn Lane in Leesburg.”

  Eli and Brandi’s address.

  I felt ill. Brandi had told Eli to rob a bank if that’s what it took to get money. But there was a difference between being on the brink of homelessness or having nothing to eat and doing something stupid and reckless like stealing a credit card to buy designer clothing from an upscale department store.

  “I don’t even know how to begin to apologize,” I said. “And I don’t understand why she’d do something this dumb. I’ll get a keyed lock put on that closet so no one but us has access to it from now on.”

  Frankie was still watching me.

  “If you want to press charges,” I said, “go ahead. I’m not going to make this difficult or awkward for you.”

  “Lucie.” She picked at a piece of ham. “Brandi was never in your office on her own. Eli was. She joined him and then she left before he did. Even if she used the card, he would have had to know about it.” She let the rest of that thought hang in the air between us.

  “You’re saying Eli used it?” I asked. “Sent Brandi a gift?”

  “Maybe. Or at least knew she got the card and copied down the information.”

  “That doesn’t
sound like Eli. Desperate, yes. Dishonest, no.”

  “How else do you explain it?” Frankie asked.

  I put my sandwich down and folded the wrapper around it. I had lost my appetite.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m not going to press charges,” she said. “The credit card’s canceled so it can’t be used again. The stuff wasn’t shipped. Tom makes two thousand dollars in a couple of days, so it’s not about the money. But I am mad and I want an explanation and an apology. In return, I won’t report it to the sheriff.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “Do you want me to talk to Eli, or do you want to do it?”

  “You can do it.”

  I nodded, feeling heartsick. My father had been called a murderer. Now my brother was branded a thief.

  How much worse could it get?

  I confronted Eli that night when we were having drinks on the veranda before dinner.

  “What are you talking about?” he said. “You actually think I’d steal Frankie’s credit card and buy clothes for Brandi?”

  “Either you did it or she did it,” I said. “Neiman’s confirmed the shipping address was your house.”

  “It must have been Brandi because it wasn’t me.”

  “Frankie said you both were in my office yesterday. She keeps her purse in that closet because we figured it was safer than stashing it under the bar.”

  “I used the john,” he said. “Maybe she did it then.”

  “Brandi needs to apologize in return for Frankie not reporting this to the sheriff.”

  He snorted. “She’ll probably deny she did it.”

  “Then the sheriff can ask her about it.”

  “I’ll call her,” he said.

  He took a long drink from his glass and looked at me like he was about to eat his last meal before the execution. “I’m accusing my soon to be ex-wife of credit card theft. She’s gonna love that.”

  He went inside and made the call out of my earshot. Ten minutes later he returned. I noticed he had made himself another gin and tonic while he was in the house. Light on the ice.