Ellen Crosby - The Sauvignon Secret

“Don’t worry,” he said. “They won’t go far. I took the liberty of disabling her car when we got here—just in case.”

I threw Pépé the phone. “Here. You give them directions. I’m going after Hope.”

In the kitchen, my niece’s cries grew louder as she called my name. A weight rolled off my chest.

“She’s here. She’s still here. Jasmine took off by herself.”

“Go stay with her,” my grandfather said. “Don’t let her see this.”

I nodded and pushed open the kitchen door. The last thing I saw before I left the room was the tableau of my grandfather cradling Juliette’s head in his arms, an expression of unspeakable grief on his face, as her husband watched them both with the cold dispassion of a spectator. Charles must have felt my stare because he looked over at me one last time, with eyes as empty and vacant as dead planets.

I shut the door and went to comfort Hope.

The expression of terror and gratitude on Eli’s face when he picked up Hope at the Thiessmans’ house was the same look you see on every television report or newspaper photo when parents get a reprieve from nearly losing a child to someone they thought they could trust and shouldn’t have done. He looked wrecked, choking back sobs as we stood there with our arms twined around each other, crushing Hope between us. We were outside by the kitchen door, the exact spot where Dominique and I had chatted only a week earlier as she sneaked a smoke.

The grounds around the house were overflowing with cruisers, vans, EMTs, sheriff’s department officers, crime scene investigators, ambulances, search dogs, even a fire truck. My head ached. It would be hours before I could go home.

I’d already called Dominique and warned her she’d have to make do at the dinner without Jasmine or me.

“What about the flowers?” she asked.

“You’ll have to make do without them, too.”

“What’s going on? Someone who just got here said she saw ambulances and sheriff’s department cruisers with their lights and sirens on making a beehive for the Thiessmans’ house,” she said.

“I’ll explain everything when I can.”

“Lucie?”

“I promise. I gotta go.”

Bobby showed up right behind the first responders, letting Eli leave with Hope but sequestering me in the kitchen and putting Pépé in, of all places, the library with Juliette’s portrait, until he could take our statements. Jasmine had vanished on foot since her silver Honda was still parked next to the back door.

“We’re looking for her. We’ll find her eventually,” Bobby said. “And, uh, Juliette Thiessman …”

“Yes?”

“Bullet went straight to her heart. She didn’t have a prayer.”

“Does Pépé know?”

“Yup.”

By the time he finished with us, it was nearly ten o’clock.

He came into the kitchen. “You two are free to go,” he said. “I could confiscate that gun of your father’s since Luc was carrying concealed without a permit. A French hunting license. Nice try.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Ah, forget it.” He rubbed his tired eyes with both hands. “You and I are going to be talking again.”

“I understand.”

Bobby stopped rubbing and looked at me, fatigue and worry making canyonlike furrows that creased his forehead and deepening the marionette lines on his face.

“Jesus,” he said, “isn’t this a hell of a mess?”

Pépé stayed in town for Juliette’s funeral. The press had a field day with the story; it was sensational, all the necessary elements—a secret society, murder, lust, greed, corruption, sex, and steeped in decades of lies and deception—that made it perfect for the tabloids. The Fauquier County police came out in force to keep the scrum of reporters and photographers away from what had turned into a major national media event as Pépé and I joined the other mourners at the old Episcopal church near Upperville.

The only person not in attendance was Charles, who was still in the hospital and expected to recover. Ironically, I heard from Kit that he was on a suicide watch. She had picked up the story for the Trib and kept me up-to-date on everything that happened in the weeks to come—that the police in Half Moon Bay were reinvestigating the death of Mel Racine, and in Maryland, the case involving Maggie Hilliard’s accidental death was being reopened. The Loudoun County Sheriff’s Department had also been in touch with French authorities concerning Vivian Kalman.

The day after Juliette’s funeral, Kit interviewed Elinor Falcone and broke the story about Stephen, precipitating the national firestorm of moral outrage and shocked incredulity that Charles had predicted. She kept my name out of it and I was grateful.

Jasmine Nouri turned up in a motel in Charlottesville. Bobby told me the charges against her, which included being an accessory to attempted murder, would probably be reduced. She might even get away with a suspended sentence by cooperating with the police in putting together their case against Charles.

After the funeral, Mick Dunne cornered me and led me outside to the cloisters, where we stood as the rain poured down around us in the swirling gray mist. I told him then that it wasn’t going to work between us.

“Because of Quinn?” he asked. “You got back together in California, didn’t you?”

“No,” I said, “we didn’t. You were right, Mick. He’ll be back for harvest this year, but that’s it.”

He put a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Lucie.”

“It’s all right,” I said. “I’m over it.”

I drove Pépé to the airport on a gray rainy morning, the day after the funeral. The depressing weather matched our moods.

“Are you going to be okay?” I asked.

“Of course.”

“You mustn’t blame yourself for what happened,” I said. We had driven most of the route in silence. In another ten minutes we’d be at Dulles Airport yet again. “You didn’t believe what Charles said, did you?”

“I should have realized how depressed she was. Maybe I could have prevented her death.” He’d ignored the question.

“No. You couldn’t.” I was adamant. “Look, she thought she was going to be able to commit murder and escape a husband she loathed. When she got caught, she couldn’t face the consequences, so she took her own life. It has nothing to do with you.”

“I believe it does.” He sounded so melancholy that my heart ached for him.

“I’m sure Jasmine had no idea the powder keg she set off when she sent Charles those pictures and that it would result in the deaths of three people. By the time she met Juliette and discovered she had a willing accomplice who wanted Charles killed off—plus she’d found Theo, who was also eager to go along—all the wheels were in motion for their little conspiracy. No one could have stopped anything,” I said. “It played out the way it had to—including bringing you and me into it.”

The highway billboards listing which airlines were located at which concourse began flashing by. I put on my turn signal when I spotted Air France.

“I’ll come to Paris to visit you,” I said. “This year when harvest is over, after you get back from Morocco. Maybe around the end of October?”

“It’s about time. I’d like that.” He smiled and brushed my cheek with a finger. “Don’t park, chérie . Just drop me at the entrance near the Air France ticket counter. I have my boarding pass, so I can go straight to security after I check my bag.”

I didn’t argue with him, but I did wait after he exited the car until I could no longer see him and he’d disappeared in a maze of glass and steel. Though I hoped he’d turn around to wave goodbye, he never did.