Ellen Crosby: The Viognier Vendetta

She was starting to sound like an infomercial … or a cult member.

“Rebecca is part of the family, too?”

Olivia hesitated. “Of course she is. She, ah, … well, yes.”

Maybe only because Rebecca was Tommy Asher’s protégée. It didn’t sound like much love lost there. Perhaps Olivia was jealous.

Her phone rang and she turned away to answer it. I heard a series of “uh-huhs” as our driver pulled up in front of the redbrick Pension Building. Though it was a full city block long, the curbs were choked with limousines, taxis, and cars with official or diplomatic license plates. Police directed traffic as men with wires in their ears scanned the crowd.

Then Olivia said, sounding grim, “Sure, I’ll tell him.”

She disconnected.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Rebecca’s cab dropped her off in front of some restaurant in Georgetown after she retrieved Sir Thomas’s package,” she said. “Near the corner of Wisconsin Avenue and P Street, wherever that is. The cabbie said she stood there as though she were waiting for someone to pick her up.”

I thought about Rebecca and her trysts at school with Connor. Both of them had managed to keep their affair off the radar for more than a year until someone spotted her slipping into a motel room and recognized his car in the parking lot with its faculty-parking sticker.

“What time?” I asked.

“Around three.” She checked the clock on her phone. “That was four hours ago.”

“Perhaps she’s still with her friend.”

Olivia’s eyes flashed as she flounced out of the car. “Then she’s got a hell of a lot of explaining to do. A few of us are ready to kill her.”

She sounded like she meant it literally. I wondered who else at Thomas Asher Investments was on the list of people who did not like Rebecca … and where she was and with whom on a cold, dark evening when she was supposed to be at her boss’s star-studded gala. The sleek black dress hanging in the closet in the Willard, her invitation to me to be her guest—Rebecca meant to be here.

If she wasn’t, it was because something or someone had detained her. And I didn’t think it was willingly, either.

The staid exterior of the Pension Building gave no clue that inside the Great Hall, with its massive Corinthian columns and double-tiered arcaded galleries lining the football-stadium-sized atrium, would be so spectacular. The galleries, columns, and an enormous terra-cotta fountain in the center of the hall were stage-lit a soft yellow. Pinpoint spotlights in jewel reds, yellows, or blues shone on hundreds of tables set for dinner with matching colored linens. The rest of the huge room was bathed in a burnished bronze light.

An enormous screen hung behind a raised stage that had been erected between two columns. Currently the screen was dark and the stage empty, though it looked like the band had set up for later. If they wanted to host the opening ceremony for the Olympics or maybe the coronation of the Holy Roman Emperor after we were finished, it would have been no problem.

“I must find Sir Thomas.” Olivia shrugged out of her evening coat. “Get yourself a drink and mingle. There are seating charts on easels next to each of the bars, and staff will help you find your table. You’re sitting at Rebecca’s table with some of the other analysts from the firm. I checked.”

“Thanks,” I said as an attendant in a tuxedo took my coat. “I guess I’ll see you later.”

But she had already disappeared into the crowd, which seemed to swallow her up. I looked around hoping to catch someone’s eye, maybe find a companion to talk to. In my business, I meet strangers all the time and it’s my job to put them at ease, show them a good time. But Washington is a different kettle of fish. Here people are more interested in who they’re seen with than whether they’re enjoying themselves. When I worked for an environmental nonprofit the summer before my accident, I’d finally realized that the reason no one ever looked you in the eye when talking to you at a Washington cocktail party was that they were really looking over your shoulder in case someone more interesting or important came into view.

Why had I come? Rebecca wasn’t here. Would Olivia notice if I left before dinner?

“Lucie?”

I turned around. Former senator Harlan Jennings, boyishly handsome in a tuxedo, stood there grinning at me, a roguish glint in his eyes that conveyed both gravitas and let’s raise hell.

“I thought it was you.” He leaned forward and took my arm, brushing my cheek with his lips so I caught the scent of his musky aftershave mingled with the trace of another woman’s perfume. “You look absolutely beautiful in that dress. Not that cute roly-poly little girl I remember from visiting your parents’ winery when it first opened. You’re gorgeous, darlin’.”

My heart gave a small leap. The days of the schoolgirl crush were over, but Harlan’s Irish charm and the promise of mischief in those bright blue eyes still seduced me. Vanity made me wish he’d forgotten my roly-poly era, but he was right that I’d changed. He, on the other hand, had not. The crow’s-feet and laugh lines had deepened, but otherwise he was magically unscathed by the years. Dark haired and handsome in a rugged, Kennedyesque way.

“Thank you,” I said. “Glad you recognized me without the puppy fat. And just when I thought I didn’t know a soul here.”

Harlan burst out laughing. “Stick with me. Let’s get a drink and I’ll introduce you to a few people. You shouldn’t be on your own tonight.”

He held out his arm and I took it. “I’d like that. And speaking of the vineyard, why don’t you stop by with Alison? Come over some evening to watch the sunset on the terrace over a bottle of wine.”

We walked toward one of the many bars that lined the room along the arcades.

“That sounds wonderful.” He sounded wistful. “Lately I’ve seen more sunrises than sunsets I’m so busy with work. How’s life treating you now that you’ve taken over the winery?”

“Pretty well,” I said. “We just won the Governor’s Cup for one of our brand-new wines. Viognier.”

He whistled. “The Governor’s Cup? I’m impressed. Top wine award in Virginia. Good for you. But what is VEE-ohn-YAY, anyway? Never heard of it.”

“You will. It’s French; been around for ages, though it’s new to the U.S. Wait and see. It’s going to be big in Virginia.”

“Guess that means I’ll have to try it.”

“Well, you could start with mine. Modesty should prevent me from telling you it’s an absolutely fabulous vintage, but it really is.”

He laughed. “I have an irresistible urge to tousle your hair like I used to when you were little.”

“Please don’t. The result will scare us both.”

He grinned some more. “I’ll think of something else, then. So tell me about your prize wine. Ali likes her Chard and we’re like old dogs when we find something we enjoy drinking. You think I’ll like it?”

“I think so. It’s a challenging grape to grow—one of the most expensive because it doesn’t produce a huge crop. They say the name translates to ‘road to hell,’ but my winemaker says that’s because of what he goes through to make it.”

Harlan’s smile was rueful. “Sounds like my last election campaign.”

“Your opponent was a moron. Cameron Vaughn? I still can’t figure out how he won.”

“He got more votes.”

My turn to smile. But it had been a stunning upset. Everyone had expected Harlan to win reelection, but Vaughn hammered away at Harlan’s absence during a critical vote affecting Virginia, claiming he’d been on a pleasure trip to Europe. The mud stuck and his campaign never regained momentum.