Ellen Crosby - The Viognier Vendetta

“I saw Vaughn on television the other day,” I said. “He’s still a moron and he’s in love with himself.”

“How novel for Washington. Let me buy you a drink, pretty lady. Can I interest you in a glass of champagne? That scrum around the bars is too deep to wade into.”

Harlan hailed a passing waiter holding a silver tray filled with champagne flutes. He handed one to me and took one for himself.

As we touched glasses he said, “Drink up. It’s Krug.”

I raised an eyebrow and sipped champagne. The price for a bottle of Krug began at around $150 and kept climbing.

“I hear Alison has been advising the Ashers on the collection they’re donating to the Library of Congress,” I said. “It sounds fabulous.”

He nodded. “She loved putting that together. Tommy and Mandy gave her a blank check and she went to town. Mind you, Tommy knew what he wanted. He’s always been a history nut, and the wars where the Americans and the Brits fought each other fascinate him. He jokes that the reason he became an American citizen was that he can’t stand to lose at anything. Now he can say he’s on the winning side of both the Revolutionary War and the War of 1812.”

I smiled. “You seem to know Sir Thomas quite well.”

Harlan gulped some champagne. “If only you know how ironic that was—Sir Thomas. When Tommy and I met we were a couple of hell-raising teenagers in London. His father was a driver at the embassy when Dad was Ambassador to the Court of Saint James’s. Tommy took me on my first pub crawl when I was fifteen. He was eighteen and had just bought his first news kiosk.” He swung out his arm with the champagne glass to encompass the Great Hall. “And now look where he is. Amazing the way life turns out sometimes, isn’t it?”

“I think it’s amazing you’re still together after all these years.”

“Yeah, business associates now. Blood brothers, still thick as thieves.”

Harlan reached for another flute as a waiter passed by and raised an eyebrow indicating my glass. I shook my head as he said, “So what brings you here?”

“I came as the guest of someone who works for Asher Investments.”

“Really? Who?”

I hesitated, wondering if he was aware that she was missing. “Rebecca Natale.”

Harlan looked startled. “You know Rebecca?”

“We were friends in college. She said she was coming to D.C. for the weekend and invited me to this gala.”

He nodded, but he still seemed taken aback. “She is one smart lady. Going places if she sticks with Tommy.” He looked around. “So how come you’re not with her?”

“She, ah, got delayed.”

“Harlan, a word please?” Tommy Asher stood at Harlan’s elbow, placing a hand on his shoulder. His eyes fell on me. “Sorry, my love. I need to borrow him.”

Sir Thomas dressed and looked like the man he’d become—British peer, world-class adventurer who enjoyed the good life, and brilliant financier with an unerring knack for making money—though after what Harlan had just revealed about him I could see traces of the scrappy street kid who got the ambassador’s son drunk and juggled odd jobs to save money to buy his own news kiosk. Though the rough edges had been polished smooth, they were still there if I looked hard enough, in his deeply tanned pockmarked face, the jagged scar above his lip, and his dark, intense eyes. For all his wealth, fame, and privilege, I’d bet money Tommy Asher’s past still rose up before him like a wraith, making sure he never forgot where he came from.

“Of course you can borrow Harlan,” I said now.

“Tommy,” Harlan said. “Let me introduce you. An old friend of the family, Lucie Montgomery. Lucie, Sir Thomas Asher.”

“How do you do, my dear? I hope you’re enjoying yourself. My apologies for stealing him. Harlan, something’s come up. A small problem.”

The apology was perfunctory and he’d taken no more notice of me than if I’d been one of the waitresses serving drinks. He excused himself again before I could say nice to meet you, too, leading Harlan to join two men in dark suits and a stunning, statuesque raven-haired woman I recognized from the society pages as Miranda Asher. The daughter of a Greek shipping tycoon, she came from a family of four beautiful and talented sisters, three of whom married into European aristocracy. The stories in the press were that Miranda’s father forbade his youngest daughter to marry a working-class commoner, disowning her when she eloped with Tommy. After he built his financial empire and received his knighthood, Sir Thomas brought his wife’s sisters’ husbands into the business—excluding his father-in-law, who still thought Tommy was trailer trash, even if he now had money.

I finished my champagne and watched the earnest conversation among the little group. They were talking about Rebecca, I was sure of it. I caught the shocked expression on Harlan’s face as one of the dark-suited men spoke, gesturing broadly with his hands. Then Harlan put his arm around Miranda and clapped Tommy on the back and the meeting broke up. I wondered where Alison Jennings was—unless she was involved in the search for Rebecca and, presumably, the missing Madison wine cooler.

“Ladies and gentlemen, good evening and welcome.”

A male voice over the public address system repeated the greeting until the crowd quieted down. The screen behind the stage now showed a beguiling larger-than-life-sized photograph of the Ashers, heads thrown back in delighted laughter as they knelt beside the wheelchair of a young girl who was also laughing. As I watched, the words “A Tribute to Tommy and Mandy: A Lifetime of Service” appeared, superimposed on the photo.

We were asked to take our seats for dinner, where we’d find our programs for the rest of the evening. The tribute—speeches followed by a short film—would begin as dessert was being served. Dancing to live music afterward.

I found my table near the stage and within viewing distance of the head table where Harlan sat with the Ashers. I spotted Alison Jennings, sultry in a mint green satin gown that looked perfect against her alabaster skin and flame-colored hair, as she slipped into a chair next to her husband and whispered in his ear. He replied, kissing her hand, and she shook her head. By the looks of things, Rebecca still hadn’t turned up.

“May I?” A short, solidly built man with thinning hair pointed to the chair to my right as he mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. “That is, unless you were saving this seat for someone?”

“I … no. Please, help yourself.”

He tugged on the collar of his shirt. “Hate these monkey suits,” he said. “Feels like I’m wearing a straitjacket.”

He sat down as the rest of our table arrived together—five men and two women, all in their twenties or thirties. One of the men cradled an open bottle of Krug. Their glazed eyes, giddy laughter, and risqué barbs made it clear it wasn’t the first one they’d drunk this evening. They took their seats, leaving the chair on the other side of me empty. We introduced ourselves. Everyone but my dinner partner, a lawyer named Ben Goldberg, worked in the New York office of Thomas Asher Investments. I gave my name and decided not to mention that I owned a vineyard.

“Who’s missing?” one of the women asked.

“Rebecca.” The man who’d brought the Krug spoke up. “What do you bet she’s personally delivering the goods to some client?”

Everyone snickered. I picked up my water glass and drank, avoiding looking at any of them. Did he mean what I thought he did? Did Rebecca still have a predilection for off-the-radar trysts? In the background a band slid into a samba and the rest of their conversation was lost in a wash of music.

Maybe the list of people who didn’t like Rebecca was longer than I thought.