Ellen Crosby - The Riesling Retribution

Instead I put him to bed and undressed in my own room as the tree branches made skeletal patterns against my windows in the shifting moonlight. Too much talk of ghosts and spirits and hauntings. Mosby, Beau Kinkaid, the restless spirits at Ball’s Bluff.

I climbed into bed and lay there, rigid with the irrational fears I knew would seem foolish by morning. I closed my eyes and waited for sleep to come.

We spent Wednesday getting the equipment ready so we could bring the Riesling in the next day before Edouard’s rains arrived. Quinn’s commands were barked orders rather than the usual banter that went on with the cellar rats in the barrel room and the field crew, which only served to further ratchet up tension.

We weren’t the only vineyard in the region that decided to pick early, meaning there would be competition to get the experienced pickers. Last spring when we needed extra help for pruning, Chance hired a crew of day laborers from the migrant camp in Winchester. Unfortunately, none of them had ever held a pair of pruning shears before, much less worked in a vineyard. They either cut too much or too little and the result was a disaster.

Around ten o’clock I went over to the barrel room to check on things, arriving just in time to hear Quinn telling Chance not to bring him another inexperienced crew or else.

“You get over to the day laborer place early,” he was saying, “and you get me guys who know the difference between the sharp end of a pair of shears and the one with the holes for their fingers.”

The two of them faced each other near the row of stainless-steel tanks, Quinn’s voice echoing in the large space, reverberating with anger. Off to one side, Javier, Benny, and Tyler looked on. Tyler’s eyes were huge behind his glasses and Benny kept folding and unfolding the bill of his baseball cap like a book. Javier saw me come in. He glanced over and shook his head, warning me to stay where I was. The others didn’t notice.

“If you don’t like the crew I get for you, why don’t you take care of it yourself?” Chance replied.

“Because it’s your goddamn job, that’s why.”

“Then back off and let me do it.”

“Who are you telling to back off, asshole?”

It was over in seconds. Quinn lunged at Chance as Javier grabbed Quinn’s arms, speaking to him in rapid-fire Spanish. Chance looked like he was ready to start shoving Quinn, but Benny stepped in and pinned Chance’s hands behind his back. Chance tried to wrestle free.

“Don’t, Chance,” Tyler said. “Don’t do it.”

“Stop it, both of you! There will be no fighting here. Is that understood?” I walked toward them.

All of them froze, and Quinn turned toward me first, lowering his arms to his sides. He still looked like he regretted not throwing a punch or two. Chance shrugged off Benny like unwanted clothing and folded his arms across his chest, a hostile expression on his face.

“Everybody out of here except Quinn,” I said. “Chance, meet me in the villa in ten minutes. Benny and Javier, maybe you want to go for a smoke. Tyler…I don’t know. Take a break, okay?”

They filed past me, eyes downcast. The metal door to the barrel room clanked shut. Quinn looked elsewhere as they left, stoking my anger.

“Are you out of your mind? What was that all about? If Benny and Javier hadn’t stepped in, you and Chance would have gone at each other like a couple of street fighters. And you started it.”

He held up his hands. “Don’t talk to me about who started what. You know what I just found out? Either there are some cases of wine missing or our records are totally screwed up because the numbers don’t add up. And I haven’t got the goddamn time to deal with it now.”

“Are you accusing Chance—?”

“Him. Tyler. Somebody. I don’t know. Either way, Chance is a total screwup.” He ran a hand through his hair, more weary and at the end of his rope than I’d seen him before. “Dammit, Lucie. I want him out of here.”

I pressed my lips together. I didn’t need this right now. A squabble between two macho guys with egos, Chance accusing Quinn of abuse; Quinn claiming Chance was incompetent. The timing was lousy, on top of all our other problems.

“I don’t want to have this conversation right now,” I said. “We have the Riesling to get in tomorrow before the rain gets here. The reenactment’s this weekend. Harvest is biting us in the butt. Let’s get through the next few days without anyone spilling blood, okay? Back off with Chance and I’ll deal with him. I promise I’ll sit on him. You just steer clear of him.”

Quinn shook his head at the folly of my words. “You’re going to be sorry if we don’t cut him loose today.”

“I’m already plenty sorry about a lot of things, believe me,” I said. “But right now we need him.”

He stared at me. “Yes, boss.”

It was the first time he’d called me that. I ignored his mocking tone and left.

Chance was in the kitchen drinking coffee when I got back to the villa. I poured myself a cup and gave him the same ultimatum about no fighting.

He nodded. Like Quinn, he avoided looking at me.

“One more thing,” I said. “Do you know anything about missing cases of wine or a problem with records that don’t tally?”

His eyes hardened. “Is Quinn blaming me for that, too?”

“I don’t need your sarcasm and you didn’t answer my question.”

“It’s no.”

“You and Quinn need to cool it. And we’ll get to the bottom of this other stuff after we get the Riesling in.”

“Am I free to go?”

I didn’t like his belligerent tone of voice.

“Why don’t you take the lugs out to the fields and leave them at the end of the rows so they’re ready for tomorrow?”

“Whatever you say.”

“By the way,” I said, “for the time being, you report to me.”

He shot me a look of scorn and left. After I drank my coffee, I went back to the barrel room, but it was like being in a morgue. A mood of gloom and tension had settled over the place like a miasma and no one was talking to anyone.

I hated it.

Frankie called just before noon and asked if I could sign some papers. I fled to the villa, glad to escape the funk. When I got there, she was on the phone.

“It’s B.J.,” she said. “He’s on his way over with that other guy. Ray Vitale. They want to check out the site again. Something about finalizing the script for their battle. Can I just let them do their own thing or do you want to go with them?”

“They can go on their own. Tell B.J. to call me if there’s anything else they need.”

“Sure.”

She showed up in my office a few minutes later.

“I thought I’d run into Middleburg and pick up a sandwich at the deli and a piece of homemade pie from the Upper Crust. My treat for lunch. What can I bring you?”

“A piece of rawhide to chew on.”

She grinned. “How about turkey or ham?”

“Sorry. Turkey on a croissant? But I’m paying. I think you bought last time.”

Frankie walked over to the small closet in my office and took out her purse. “Forget it. You deserve some pampering after wading through all that testosterone over in the barrel room.”

She pulled out her wallet and looked up, a frown creasing her forehead.

“Maybe you’ll have to buy, after all. My credit card’s missing. Damn.”

“Are you sure? Maybe you misplaced it.”

“Nope. I’m a creature of habit. I always put it in the slot behind my license.”

“Check your purse. Maybe it fell out.”

She dumped the contents on the seat of a red-and-white flame-stitched wing chair my mother had recovered when this was her office.