Ellen Crosby - The Riesling Retribution

“Do you know who it is?” I asked.

“Someone with money.”

“He won’t have money for long after she gets hold of him,” I said.

His laugh was short and crude sounding as he drank more Scotch.

“You can stay at the house as long as you need to, you know,” I told him.

He set the bottle down and rubbed his face with his hands. “I appreciate that, Luce, but I’ve got to find someplace to live. I can’t keep mooching off you. Taking your charity.”

“It’s not charity. You’re family. You also don’t have to make any decisions right now.”

Especially when he was so drunk his breath was flammable.

“I’m going to lose Hope,” he said.

I knew he meant his daughter, but the desperation in his voice jangled my nerves like he meant something more.

“You’re her father. You’re not going to lose her.”

“How did Leland and Mom stick it out? He had affairs but he always came back to her.”

“They loved each other. I talked to Thelma this afternoon. She told me something.”

He slugged some more Scotch and handed me the bottle. “What?”

I drank, too. “She says Leland wasn’t the one pursuing Annabel Chastain. It was the other way around.”

Eli’s eyes narrowed as he tried to focus on my words. He was already starting to slur his. “So whadda’s that mean?”

“It means Annabel lied.”

“Any way to prove it?”

“Thelma said Mom told her Annabel wrote letters to Leland. Annabel hung on to Leland’s and that was the proof she showed Bobby. But you know Leland. He’d never keep someone else’s love letters as a memento.”

“So we have nada.”

“That’s the way it looks.” The sky had paled to a silvery gray. “When it’s dark out here we’re not going to be able to see a thing.”

“Relax.” He leaned over me and pulled away a brick that I thought was solid in the mortar. “Look what I found.”

A couple of fat, partially burned pillar candles and a box of matches.

“Who put those there?” I asked.

“No idea. Not me. Back in the day Brandi and I used it to keep, uh, other things there.”

“What other things?”

He eyed me. “You weren’t the only one who used the Ruins as a hideout for sex.”

“Oh. Those other things.”

The matches were still good. He lit the candles and set them between us, a soft pool of flickering light in the darkness. Overhead a pale nearly full moon became visible between banks of clouds.

“Looks like we’re going to see a ring around the moon when it gets darker,” I said. “Means rain’s coming.”

“Mom always used to say that.”

“I hope the reenactment isn’t a washout if that hurricane hangs around through the weekend.”

“I talked to Zeke Lee. He said they’ll be there come hell or high water. Literally. Said it’d take a monsoon for them to cancel.”

“You going to join them?”

“I dunno.” He cradled the Scotch like a baby. “Zeke says one of those weekends beats a visit to a shrink. You go back in time so none of your problems happened yet.” He gave a drunken chuckle. “Says it’s better than free therapy. Anything free looks pretty good from the bottle of the hole I’m in. I mean, bottom.”

“Give me that Scotch. Maybe two days of pretend war and shooting at people isn’t such a good thing for you to be doing right now.”

“Anger management. Sounds terrific.” He leered at me and uncorked the bottle again. “Remember when we used to play Civil War here?”

“How could I forget? I always had to be your Union prisoner and you’d stick me in the basement.”

“Scared you, huh?”

“I wasn’t scared.”

“Yeah, you were. Especially the night we told you we saw Mosby’s ghost.”

“I knew you were joking.”

He drank some Scotch and pointed at the moon. “Who says we were? You know he comes out looking for Yankees when there’s a full moon.”

“He comes out on moonless nights and I’m not falling for that again.”

“If you say so. But I feel his presence, moon or no moon. Something’s out there.”

“Cut it out, Eli.”

“You’re spooked. I can tell.” He chuckled again. “Wonder what happened to all my Civil War stuff?”

He lifted the bottle for another drink. This time I reached over and took it from him. “You’ve had enough. What Civil War stuff?”

“All the stuff I found out here. Bullets and buttons. You know, stuff. I even found a Condeferate belt buckle.”

“You don’t say.” He seemed oblivious that he’d mangled his syllables. “What’d you do with all of it?”

“Put it in one of Leland’s old cigar boxes. It’s shumwhere.”

“Maybe we can find it and have those things authenticated. Display them at the winery.”

“Yeah, sure.”

He tried for the Scotch again, but I blocked him with my arm and moved the bottle out of his way.

“Nice try, but it’s time to go home.”

“I think I’ll just stay right here.”

“And wait for Mosby?”

His laugh sounded like a pig hunting truffles. “Maybe. He could be along any minute.”

“I have a better idea. You come home with me.” I blew out the candles and put them back where he’d found them. “The moon’s out from behind the clouds. Let’s go while we can see our way. I don’t want to fall and break my leg.”

“The drunk leading the lame or the other way around?” He hiccupped. “Sorry, babe. That was stupid. I didn’t mean it.”

“Forget it.”

It hurt, but he was too drunk and depressed to take him seriously right now.

I helped him up and he leaned on me as we staggered to the staircase. It felt like I was dragging an anchor for the Queen Mary. By the time we made it back to our cars, I was sweating.

“First one to get back to the house wins.” Eli fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his car keys.

I held out my hand. “I’m going to win because you’re either walking or riding with me. I suggest the ride, so hand ’em over, sport.”

He looked annoyed but at least he didn’t protest. Instead he shoved the keys in his pocket and let me help him into the passenger seat of the Mini.

“I wonder who left those matches and candles there.” I started the engine and backed on to the main road.

“Mosby.”

“I’m serious.”

“You ’lose and clock both gates every night?”

“Close and lock? Of course. Quinn takes care of it himself.”

He shrugged. “Maybe you’ve got people who sneak in shum other way.”

Which is what I’d suggested to Bobby and he’d pooh-poohed it. Unless it was someone who was here on a regular basis and didn’t need to sneak in. Had Quinn used it for trysts with one of his girlfriends? Chance? Tyler?

I drove back to the house in the quiet darkness, the silence broken only by the waning sound of the cicadas. We couldn’t possibly patrol all five hundred acres of this farm, nor keep someone out if he or she really wanted to gain access to the property.

“I’m gonna call Brandi when we get back to the house,” Eli said all of a sudden. “Have a lil talk with her.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Eli.”

“Why not? Tell the lil woman she’s makin’ a huge mishtake. She needs to know.”

“Maybe you should sleep on it.”

“Who you tellin’ what to do? I’m the man of my own housh.”

Once when we had to deal with an extremely inebriated client who’d become hostile during a wine tasting, Tyler had recited something in Latin. I couldn’t remember the words, but I did remember the translation: To quarrel with a drunk is to wrong a man who is not even there.

I hoped Eli wouldn’t call Brandi. But right now, I was talking to a man who wasn’t there. Which was a pity because after tonight’s discussion—all teasing about Mosby’s ghost aside—I wouldn’t have minded the sober comfort of a coherent conversation with my brother to shake off my worries.