Ellen Crosby - The Viognier Vendetta

Harlan hadn’t linked Rebecca and me when he’d introduced me to Asher, but there were plenty of people in his entourage who knew I’d been her guest. Olivia Tarrant, for example. So far I hadn’t seen her this evening, but I had no doubt she was around somewhere. Had she or anyone else in the Asher inner circle figured out that Rebecca was the one who’d added my name to tonight’s list of invitees? Maybe no one had noticed since I was now here as Mick’s guest—and he was clearly a favored son.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I said, “I was just on my way to the ladies’ room.”

This time no one stopped me. I checked the phone message in the old-fashioned bathroom, which I had to myself. The exchange was one of the Trib ’s numbers. Not Kit’s, so probably David’s, meaning he was still at work on a Saturday night. I punched in the access code and listened.

“Hey, Lucie, David here. You’re probably swilling champagne from a glass slipper at the library but I wanted to tell you the ME hasn’t ID’d the body yet.” He sounded tired and I heard him slurp a drink. Probably something caffeinated. “It’s female but the decomp is pretty bad. What he did say is that it’s been there too long to be Rebecca. Also, we’re on for tomorrow at Dumbarton Oaks. Five o’clock, as soon as the place closes. Give me a call if you need to. I’ll be here late.”

There was a pause and I thought he was finished, but then he added in an ominous voice, “Asher ought to be passing the hat to get everyone to pick up the tab for his little soiree. He sure can’t afford it. Hope you brought your checkbook. Heh-heh-heh.”

I disconnected as Alison Jennings pushed open the bathroom door, a large glass of red wine in one hand. Her face, ghostlike against her black-and-ivory gown, was drawn and she looked like she was about to pass out. I shoved the phone in my purse.

“Lucie,” she said, “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.” Her voice was hazed with pain.

“What’s wrong?” I took her wine, afraid she’d drop the glass on the marble floor. “Ali, are you all right? You look like you ought to sit down.”

She clenched her teeth and put her fingers to her temples, but at least she let me guide her to a wooden chair in the bay of a large window. I set her wineglass on the counter.

“I’ve got the beginning of a migraine,” she said. “I hope I make it through dinner because I’ve got to give that talk.”

“Can I do anything?” I nearly dumped her wine in the sink so I could fill the glass with tap water until I saw the nonpotable sign. “Shall I try to find you a glass of water somewhere?”

“That’s okay. I’ve got something but I hate to take it. Makes me woozy. I never should have had that wine.”

“Shall I get Harlan? I haven’t seen him this evening but—”

“He’s somewhere,” she said. “I think he’s wandering around the exhibit.”

“I’m on my way upstairs to see it. Why don’t I find him and let him know you’re here?”

“It’s okay. I’ll be all right in a minute.” Ali closed her eyes. “Still having Harlan’s party on Tuesday, y’know. Did you forget? I’ve got no wine.”

Her Viognier.

“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry. I’ve been so distracted I forgot to tell Frankie, but it’s no excuse. I promise I’ll take care of it myself first thing tomorrow. You mind a Sunday delivery?”

“Nope.” Her eyes were still closed.

“Are you sure you’re going to be all right?”

She opened her eyes and looked at me. “Harlan says we’ll get through this. I wonder.”

I wondered what “this” she was talking about.

“Did you hear Sir Thomas’s speech?” I asked.

Her laugh sounded like glass shards. “Tommy can woo an audience like no one you’ve ever met, get you to believe he can walk on water. Amazing, isn’t he?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, Lucie, come on.” She waved a tired hand, dismissing me, Tommy Asher, everybody. “He’s hemorrhaging so badly it would take a miracle to salvage that sinking ship. Not that he isn’t expecting one. Neither he nor Harlan wants to admit it. I don’t know how much longer they can hold off their clients, refusing to allow them to make withdrawals from their accounts. The worst of it is—well, for me—that Tommy’s going to have to sell this whole damn collection. He can’t afford to donate it and I’ve already heard from a friend in the librarian’s office that they no longer plan to accept it anyway. It’ll be a temporary exhibit.”

“What does Harlan say?”

Her eyes were bright with tears. “He doesn’t want to talk about it. This isn’t his fault, y’know? Harlan’s a good man, Lucie.”

“Ali—”

“Please. If you could just give me a few minutes alone to pull myself together.”

She fled into one of the stalls, banging the door shut. I heard her hiccupy breaths and thought about waiting until she was ready to come out. But she wouldn’t, not as long as I was still in the room.

“I’ll find Harlan,” I said, but I didn’t think she heard me. The bathroom door creaked on its hinges as I left.

I took the elevator around the corner from the Giant Bible of Mainz to the second floor. The Asher Collection’s glossy brochure contained a map showing the chronological time line by which the exhibit was laid out in the four loggia galleries that overlooked the Great Hall. It began in the north corridor, which ran along the front of the building closest to the Capitol. The elevator let me out in the east corridor, which was three-quarters of the way through the collection, dedicated to the War of 1812 and the rebuilding of the Capitol and the Library of Congress after the fire. A glass étagère striped with red and gold paint depicting flames held the newspaper cartoon that had been on the cover of the brochure. More paintings, watercolors, lithographs, and newspapers showed the city of Washington ablaze on the night of August 24, 1814.

“Nobody but the English would do such a thing.”

I whirled around. My cousin Dominique, regal in a smoke-colored sequin-spattered chiffon gown that perfectly set off her auburn hair, stood on the stairs to the Visitors’ Gallery that overlooked the Main Reading Room. She moved and the sequins glittered like dark diamonds. Behind her was an enormous mosaic of Minerva, her spear in one hand and a long scroll in the other.

The animosity between the French and the British was legendary, dating back to Joan of Arc. Even though Dominique was now an American citizen, my cousin held up her end of the grudge on behalf of the French. She descended the last few stairs, swaying slightly. I wondered if she’d been drinking.

“Do you know why they burned Washington?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. The British were furious at the Americans for attacking their navy and burning the city of York in Canada. The plan was to destroy Washington, not capture it. That way they would humiliate the Americans.”

I took her arm and smelled her breath. She’d been drinking, all right.

“It was a vendetta,” she said. “Revenge on their former colonies. A blood feud that began with the Revolution. That’s les rosbifs for you.”

The Roastbeefs. The French nickname for the British. The British reciprocated with “Frogs.”

“I hope you didn’t use that term around Simon,” I said. “Since he’s English.”

“He’s not really English. His father was French and his mother was Dutch. He just happened to be raised in England while his mother was married to Tommy’s father.”

That laid to rest one mystery why she was seeing him—he wasn’t really British.

“How well do you know him?” I asked.

Dominique hesitated. “I need to tell you something. In private. There’s no one upstairs in the Visitors’ Gallery. We can talk there.”