Ellen Crosby - The Viognier Vendetta

Ben Goldberg glanced at me. “You work with them?”

“No. I’m a friend of someone who does.”

“The missing Rebecca?” he asked.

I nodded. “How’d you guess? Do you know her?”

A waiter set down bowls of soup.

“I don’t. But you don’t seem like you belong with those guys, either. That was a crass comment.” He stirred his soup with a spoon. “What’s in this?”

“Didn’t you get a menu card? It’s potato, leek, and sorrel soup,” I said.

“Oh.” He set down his spoon and picked up the breadbasket. “Roll?”

“No, thanks. Oh, come on, try the soup. It’s delicious,” I said. “So tell me how you ended up here.”

“My firm represents Asher Investments here in D.C.”

“That must keep you busy.”

“Right now that would be an understatement.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m surprised your friend Rebecca didn’t clue you in. Some two-bit prick managed to light a fire under the junior senator from Virginia, who happens to chair the Senate Banking Subcommittee on Security, Insurance, and Investments.” He spread thick butter on his roll.

“Cameron Vaughn?”

“Yeah. Him. Vaughn took this jerk seriously enough that he’s planning to hold a hearing to look into the business practices of Thomas Asher Investments next week.”

“What about their business practices?”

Ben snorted. “He seems to think Sir Thomas might be inflating his numbers on how well his portfolios are doing. Claims there’s no way Asher can produce the consistent profits he does without some kind of hanky-panky going on inside the mother ship.”

I said, shocked, “Is that true?”

“It’s my job to prove it isn’t.” He’d answered the question like a lawyer.

“Who’s the guy making the accusations?”

“Ian Philips. A pissed-off ex–investment analyst,” Ben said. “He got fired from the last place he worked and now he’s got an axe to grind with Asher for some reason. Personally, I think he’s jealous of Sir Thomas’s success and mad the firm is so tight-lipped about its clients and where it invests. I still can’t believe Vaughn took him seriously. It’s been in all the newspapers and on the Internet, but so far it’s just a back-burner story.”

“What are you going to do?” I asked, as he refilled my champagne glass. I was starting to feel light-headed.

“Swat a fly.” Ben finished his glass and stood up. He seemed a little tipsy himself. “I think I’ll go look for another bottle. Let’s live it up.”

Ben drank more of the rest of his meal than he ate and what littler conversation passed between us as we were served course after course was mostly small talk. Just as waiters placed our dessert plated in front of us, someone took the stage and announced that it was time for the tribute to Tommy and Mandy Asher to begin.

The film homage had been put together by a Hollywood friend who had won an Emmy. Slick, with soaring music and heartrending montages, it seemed packaged to bring a tear to the eye of everyone in the room. Dozens of photos of the Ashers over the years, separately and together, handing a check to a hospital administrator surrounded by young cancer patients, working in a soup kitchen, hugging kids in a Malawi orphanage, and holding shovels at the groundbreaking ceremony of a school in Haiti flashed on the screen. Then came the images of Sir Thomas at the tiller of his yacht, on safari in Africa, at the summit of Everest. Others showed Lady Asher with her glamorous sisters at what looked like an enviably happy family reunion. The finale was a scrolling list of more hospital wings, university buildings, endowed scholarships, and numerous other charities bearing their name—ending with a preview of the exhibit at the Library of Congress. By then, all the guests were on their feet, yelling and applauding, as Sir Thomas and Lady Asher made their way to the stage. His speech was brief, acknowledging the outpouring of adulation in the room and clearly reveling in it. On the jumbo screen, the two of them bowed to more thunderous applause, their smiles radiant as their hands fluttered over their hearts and Miranda Asher blew kisses.

“I’m out of here,” Ben said, as the band appeared on the stage. “I need my beauty sleep.”

“Me, too,” I said. “I think I’ll go back to the Willard and wait for Rebecca.”

“Too bad she never made it tonight. Share a cab?” he asked. “The Willard’s on my way.”

“Thanks. That would be great.”

But when the taxi pulled up in front of the hotel, Ben draped an arm around my shoulder. “I could come up to your room,” he said, nuzzling my neck. “Maybe we could order another bottle of champagne, get to know each other better?”

“I think we’ve both had enough to drink tonight.” I moved his hand away from where it dangled near the neckline of my dress. “Besides, I’m sure Rebecca will show up in our suite at any moment. Good night, Ben. Thanks for the cab ride.”

He withdrew his arm and fumbled in his pocket, pulling a card out of his wallet. “Call me and we’ll have dinner. Maybe I’ll come out and visit your vineyard.”

I moved away so his kiss landed near my ear instead of on my lips. A hotel doorman opened the cab door and helped me out.

“Everything all right, miss?” he asked.

“Just fine. Thank you.”

The clock above the front desk read eleven thirty as I walked into the quiet lobby and headed for the bank of elevators.

“Natale. N-A-T-A-L-E. Rebecca Natale. I know she’s staying here. I’ve been trying to reach her all afternoon. If you’d just give me her room number—”

He was tall and lanky and had his back to me, addressing the male clerk on duty in the too-loud voice of the slightly inebriated. I didn’t recognize him, but maybe he, too, had just returned from the Ashers’ gala and was loaded on Krug—though he wasn’t wearing a tuxedo.

I changed my route to the elevators so I passed by the front desk as I heard the clerk say, “I’m sorry, but that information is confidential. Unless Ms. Natale gave you her room number or asked us to share it with you, I can’t help you.”

“Ha, so she is staying here,” he said. “I knew it.”

The clerk looked irritated as he realized he’d just fallen for the oldest con in the book. “May I call you a cab, sir?”

“You can call me whatever you want,” he said. “In the meantime, I think I’ll have a drink in your nice bar and wait for my good friend Rebecca. She’s probably still at her fancy party.”

He swung around and saw me. Tousled reddish-blond hair, fair skin, freckles that made him look prep school boyish, and a charming smile. He wore his oxford shirt untucked, and his pin-striped suit was rumpled. A tie hung out of the suit jacket pocket and a Burberry scarf was knotted carelessly around his neck. Midthirties, maybe a little older.

“Hello, beautiful.” He smiled, swaying slightly as he indicated the clerk. “Look, I’m done here with Mr. Helpful. He’s all yours. Maybe he won’t tell you anything, either.”

“You’re looking for Rebecca?” I asked.

He straightened up and seemed to sober up as well. “You know where she is?”

“May I ask why you’re trying to find her?”

“You may ask.” He seemed to mock me. “As I just told this good man, we’re friends. Used to work together. She told me she’d be in town for that over-the-top tribute to her narcissist boss. I’ve been leaving messages on her phone for the past week, but she never returned my calls. I thought we were going to get together.” He looked me over. “Wait. Don’t tell me you work for Asher, too?”

“No.”

“My turn to ask,” he said. “How do you know Rebecca?”