Ellen Crosby - The Viognier Vendetta

“I’ll survive.” I signaled Gilles for the bill. Kit reached for it, but I got it first. “My turn. You driving back to D.C. tomorrow morning?”

“I don’t know. I’ll see how I feel.” All of a sudden she sounded defeated.

“What’s wrong? You finally started telecommuting?”

“Nope.” Her smile didn’t make it to her eyes. “Guess you weren’t following the news over the weekend or you would have heard. The Trib laid off twenty-six people—”

“Oh, God! Were you—?”

“Not this time.”

“It’s that bad?”

“It’s worse than that bad. When the axe falls, it’s inhuman. You get called to the boss’s office, told you’re fired, and by the time you get back to your desk, the moving boxes are there and you’ve got twenty minutes to clear out. Someone from security watches you the whole time so you don’t take your Rolodex or your computer files. Then they escort you out of the building. You’re on the street, unemployed, before you know what hit you.”

“How can they do that? It’s cruel!”

“I presume it’s getting easier since this is the third round of layoffs,” she said with heavy sarcasm as we both stood up. “The rest of us have to take two weeks of unpaid leave between now and the end of August. A furlough.”

“Good Lord. It’s already April.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

She slung her purse over her shoulder. “If you need help in the vineyard, I can recommend a bunch of people who might be available. Will work for wine. Will work for anything.”

It sounded like she was serious.

“Sure,” I said. “Just say the word. We can always use extra hands in the tasting room or out in the field.”

“I’ll pass that on,” she said. “Maybe Dominique is hiring, too. I’ll have to ask her. Wonder why she didn’t stop by tonight.”

“She’s probably still dealing with that kitchen drama,” I said.

But on our way out I spotted my cousin in the bar, her attention—and everyone else’s in the room—riveted on a flat-screen television that usually featured some sporting event with the volume set on mute. This time, though, someone had turned on the sound. Dominique saw us in the doorway and gestured for us to join her.

We made our way through the crowded room as I heard the familiar voice of the Channel 3 news weekend anchor announcing the search for Rebecca as the top story. Except for the occasional clink of glasses and the background buzz of conversation from the adjacent dining rooms, the bar was hushed as the picture changed from the newsroom to a live shot of a good-looking young male reporter in front of the dock at Fletcher’s. Bathed in the artificial brilliance of television lighting, he looked like he was on a movie set.

Kit muttered something about him that included the words “child” and “twerp” as Dominique leaned over from the bar stool she was sitting on and said in a low voice, “Isn’t that missing woman your friend from school?”

I nodded. Like Kit, Dominique hadn’t known where I’d been this weekend.

“It’s awful,” I said, and left it at that.

The picture cut to a provocative photograph of Rebecca in a low-cut turquoise evening dress, a teasing smile on her lips and promise in her eyes as she vamped for the photographer. Behind us someone gave a wolf whistle and a few people shushed him.

“Bet that’s not her driver’s license photo,” Kit said in my ear. “She looks stunning.”

There was footage from earlier in the day of the police boat on the Potomac as officers searched the riverbank and finally older films of Sir Thomas Asher, younger looking than when I saw him last night, presumably at his Manhattan office and then with his wife at the dedication of a pavilion bearing their name.

The camera cut back to the reporter. “Somewhere out there in the fast-moving waters of the Potomac River is the semiclothed body of a beautiful young woman whose life ought to have been ahead of her—and more questions than answers about Rebecca Natale.”

“Did you see that smirk?” Kit asked. “He didn’t have to say that. He’s just hyping this story—”

“I’m trying to listen.”

“Shhh!”

“Police have called off the search for this evening but plan to resume tomorrow at first light.” He paused as the camera focused on the deserted boathouse. “Though they are starkly aware that they are running out of time before their efforts go from ‘search and rescue’ to ‘search and recover.’ Keep it here for the latest, and now back to you in the studio.”

“Number one story and they gave it to that lightweight. He said diddly in that report,” Kit said. “All he’s got going for him is a permanent tan, hair gel, and a good orthodontist as a kid. I don’t know why Channel 3 hasn’t flushed him.”

“Because he’s cute,” Dominique said. “Maybe he isn’t the brightest cookie in the jar, but you just want to cuddle him.”

Though my cousin had moved to the States more than a decade ago to look after my kid sister when our mother died, American idioms continued to baffle her. Somehow, though, she always made perfect sense.

“Unless you’re a real journalist. Then you just want to stuff a sock in his mouth.” Kit still sounded grumpy.

Dominique slid off her bar stool. “I need to find somebody. Be back in a minute.”

He took her place before I realized he was there, placing his hands on my shoulders and leaning so close I could feel his breath on my neck.

“Fancy meeting you here, love. I haven’t seen you for ages. Come here often?”

If I closed my eyes, the familiar scent of his cologne would haunt me with images I would be better off forgetting. Once upon a time Mick Dunne’s aristocratic English charm, rakish good looks, and the passion with which he’d courted me had seduced me until I was dizzy with desire.

Not anymore.

I took a deep breath. “Only when I’m sure you won’t be around.”

Two years ago Mick floated out of my life into the arms of the daughter of an old family friend who happened to be an earl. Since then I’d become the sadder but wiser girl, avoiding him like he was contagious—though it hadn’t always been easy. He happened to be my next-door neighbor and he’d planted thirty acres of grapes along our common property line. We had shared business interests, though that, too, seemed to be waning.

It had taken Mick three years to realize he could have skipped the expense and backbreaking labor of establishing a vineyard when all he really wanted was his name on a bottle of wine. For that he only needed to buy the labels and the wine from someone else. His real passion was horses—raising them, racing them, playing polo, or foxhunting. His second was women, as I found out.

“Aw, come on, Lucie.” His mouth was against my ear. “Give a bloke a break. Haven’t you missed me?”

I wiggled away from him and removed his hands from my shoulders. “Like a bad habit I finally gave up.”

Next to me, Kit cleared her throat.

“You remember my friend Kit Eastman?” I asked.

Mick lifted Kit’s hand to his lips and kissed it. She turned scarlet.

“I never forget a beautiful woman. Lovely to see you again.” He nodded in my direction. “Do you have any influence with this hussy? Think you could put in a good word or two for me?”

“Here’s two words,” I said. “Forget it.”

I felt Kit’s elbow discreetly in my ribs. “I’m sure I could have a little chat with her,” she said. “See if she can fit you into her busy social whirl. Don’t give up hope.”

“We ought to be going,” I said. “I’m sure I’ve got laundry to do at home.”

Mick burst out laughing. “I’ve missed you, Lucie, I really have. We need to get together again. Dinner or a drink, what do you say? I’ll ring you.”