Ellen Crosby - The Viognier Vendetta

“Carrying what?”

“A purse with a wallet, credit cards—her identification. She was also wearing a pretty flashy diamond-and-sapphire necklace and earrings. None of that stuff was in the rowboat. She didn’t jump overboard with a Coach purse.”

“Sweetie,” Kit said, “you do know it’s me you’re trying to con, don’t you? Your nose just grew two inches. Carrying what? Where were you, anyway? I want to hear it all.”

Gilles arrived with our dinners, wok-charred salmon for me, roast duck with plum sauce for Kit—new Asian dishes on the menu in tribute to cherry blossom season.

Kit didn’t pick up her fork. “I’m waiting,” she said. “I don’t care if my dinner grows stone-cold, even if it is your cousin’s fabulous duck. Give it up, Luce.”

Our eyes met across the table. Hers were troubled, and I knew what she was thinking. Where did my loyalties lie?

In twenty-five years of friendship, Kit had never let me down. Rebecca, on the other hand … well, let me count the ways.

“All right,” I said. “But you have to swear that you won’t say anything about this to anyone. Not even a hint, especially to your buddy. The one writing the story on Tommy Asher.”

She crossed her heart with her steak knife.

“The reason Rebecca went to Georgetown yesterday afternoon was to pick up something for her boss. One of Sir Thomas’s ancestors was a soldier who stole a silver wine cooler from the White House right before the British burned Washington during the War of 1812. Asher apparently had no clue it was in his attic or on some dusty shelf for the past two centuries, but once he discovered it and learned its provenance, he planned to return it to the president and first lady. On Monday.”

Kit’s mouth hung open. “You’re not making this up, are you? Because that’s an unbelievable story.”

“Which you can’t print.”

“I know, I know … but word will get out. You wait and see.”

“Yes, but I’m not going to be the source of the leak. I’m not even supposed to know about it. The only reason I do is that Rebecca wouldn’t let me go to Georgetown with her. Finally she showed me a photo of the thing on her phone and told me it was a hush-hush errand.”

Kit dunked a large piece of duck in plum sauce, popping it in her mouth.

“So you think this was a robbery?” she said, after a moment.

“Like I said, I don’t think she jumped overboard with a Coach purse. And an eighteenth-century wine cooler,” I said.

“You really can’t take it with you.” Kit grinned, then saw my face. “Sorry. I’m used to Bobby’s cop humor. I didn’t mean that. But why go to all the trouble of folding the clothes and leaving them in the boat?”

I shrugged. “For her killer to buy time to disappear? So he could confuse the police and let them think it was a suicide until they figured out differently?”

“Bobby wouldn’t be fooled for long. No cop would.” Kit’s voice was gentle. “I don’t think Rebecca’s alive, Luce, however it went down. I’m sorry.”

“She was a good swimmer. Maybe she got away.”

“The Potomac. April. You know better.”

I nodded and picked up my wine, staring into the glass. “I know.”

Gilles reappeared to pour more wine and ask if everything was all right. He left and we ate in silence.

“There’s still something weird about the timing,” Kit said, wiping up the sauce on her plate with the last piece of bread. “That hearing’s coming up this week.”

“Do you know anything about it?” I asked. “Some disgruntled out-of-work ex-analyst is going to try to poke Asher Investments and see if anything twitches. That’s like me trying to poke someone in a suit of armor with this dinner fork.”

“And just how would you happen to know all that? You’re a regular font of information tonight.”

“The cone of silence has not been raised.”

“Tough crowd,” she said. “Spill it.”

“My dinner partner last night at the gala worked for the law firm representing Asher Investments.”

“Dewey, Cheetham & Howe?” She chuckled at her little joke. “Sorry. Couldn’t help it. So what did he say?”

“The guy’s fishing with no worm on his line. He’s got nothing.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“I met him. I’d go with ‘maybe not,’” I said.

“Met who ?”

“Ian Philips. The star witness at the hearing. Dead drunk, looking like a couple of miles of bad road.”

“Are you going to make me drag this out of you? Met him where, for God’s sake?”

“At the Willard, after I got back from the gala. He was looking for Rebecca.”

Her eyes grew big.

“They used to work together,” I said.

“Holy cow.” Her mouth fell open. “This gets more interesting by the minute. Were they supposed to meet?”

“I don’t know. Ian said he’d heard from her. Apparently he tried to call her back a couple of times, but Rebecca never returned his calls. When I showed up at the hotel around eleven, he was trying to find out our room number. Thank God, the desk clerk refused to give it out. After that he tried to pick me up and wanted me to have a drink with him while we waited for Rebecca. Fortunately, a concierge came to my rescue.”

“And the next morning—this morning—Rebecca’s gone.” Kit propped her elbow on the table and rested her chin on her hand. “You think he could have gone off in search of her after he left you?”

“Anything’s possible, I suppose. But she’d been missing all afternoon and evening. Where would he look—other than the hotel—and where was she?”

“Well, sometime last night she was down on the Potomac River,” Kit said. “And she probably wasn’t alone.”

No, she probably wasn’t.

But who was she with? And why had she been there?

We spoke no more about Rebecca, Ian Philips, or Tommy Asher for the rest of the meal. Kit ordered a slice of the Inn’s legendary chocolate cheesecake for dessert—a sinfully decadent recipe concocted by my godfather—and a cappuccino. I had an espresso.

“You know, the next time we have dinner together, we ought to do it in D.C.,” Kit said. “Party a little, go clubbing or something. You could spend the night at my apartment.”

“Sure.” I nodded. “Maybe sometime.”

“I’m bowled over by your enthusiasm.” She waved her fork at me like a conductor at a symphony. “You are becoming a crashing bore, and if you don’t do something fun for a change, you’re going to forget how.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I scowled at her. “What do you call the concerts and dinners and parties we have at the vineyard almost every weekend?”

“Work. And tasting wine in the barrel room at midnight with Quinn is not a date, either.”

“That,” I said, “is a low blow.”

“I notice you didn’t deny it.” She swiped whipped cream off her cheesecake, closing her eyes as she ate. “This stuff is better than sex. Sure you don’t want a taste before I wolf the rest of it down?”

“No, thanks. You look like you’re having way too much fun. Go for it.”

She helped herself to another bite. “Maybe you need to forget Quinn, Luce. Maybe it’s time to move on.”

I stared at the grounds in the bottom of my espresso cup.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “None of my business.”

“You want some advice?” I looked up. “Don’t ever get personally involved with anyone you work with. It screws up everything.”

She pushed away her plate and sighed. The only thing she hadn’t done was lick it clean, though I knew she was tempted.

“I hate to see you so torn up over this,” she said.