Ellen Crosby - The Riesling Retribution

“If I believed him he’d still be working here,” I said. “It’s not true, is it?”

“Do you even need to ask?”

“Quinn, don’t make this difficult for me. Yes or no?”

He shook his finger at me. “I have never, never threatened anyone.”

“What would you call that little smackdown, then?”

He shook his head. “Aw, come on. Okay, so I slugged Chance. He had it coming. But you know me. You really think I’d physically abuse the men? Or threaten to turn someone over to DHS? They’d be deported so fast it would make your head spin. Tell me you never took that jerk seriously.”

I threw the grapes in the destemmer and avoided his eyes.

“You did believe him.” His voice was hard. “Jesus, Lucie. Look, if you want my resignation, too, you can have it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I just needed to ask, is all.”

“Why didn’t you tell me as soon as he made that accusation? Why did you wait?”

“Because I was afraid you’d do what you did today, that’s why. Between Bobby telling me my father is guilty of murder and everything with Eli, I didn’t need more heartache. Back off, please, okay?”

He was angry, but that was too damn bad. Some of this was his fault, too.

I picked up more grapes. “Let’s get back to work.”

“Sure, boss,” he said. “Whatever you say.”

We barely spoke to each other for the rest of the night. Around midnight, Savannah showed up. Quinn told her he’d walked into the press when she asked about his eye. She looked like she knew she’d been asked to swallow a whopper but didn’t bring up the subject again, at least in my presence.

Someone turned on loud rock music and Quinn brought out a couple of cold six-packs. While he and Savannah were busy filling one of the tanks with juice, I asked Benny if we could talk.

“Sure,” he said. “Want a beer?”

“No, thanks.”

He pulled a bottle out of the cooler for himself and opened it with his knife. We walked into one of the cool, dark bays and stood next to a row of barrels of Pinot Noir. The tangy odor of fermenting wine filled my head.

“Chance told me those guys he hired as pickers today came from the camp in Winchester,” I said.

“They aren’t from Winchester,” he said.

“How do you know?”

“I heard one of them talking. I think they’re from Herndon.”

“What’s in Herndon?”

“A lot of places where ten guys live in two-bedroom apartments. The guys who came today just got here from Salvador.” He pronounced the name of the country in his rich accent.

“Meaning what?” I asked.

He shrugged and took a pull on his beer. “They’ll do anything. Work más barato than guys who’ve been here awhile. Cheaper.”

“I paid the wages of an experienced crew,” I said. “The same as we always do.”

There was no way, try as we might, that we could find enough workers with green cards who were willing to pick grapes or work in the fields. As a result, we kept a lot of cash on hand because that’s how we paid the crews. I didn’t always feel good about hiring illegals, but don’t-ask-don’t-tell was the way it was. And we paid a fair wage—always.

Benny gave me a shrewd look and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Chance paid the guys. You paid Chance.”

A small shock went through me. And the memory of that fierce kiss. “He pocketed some of the money that was supposed to go to the men?”

“People are greedy. I’ve seen worse. Ilegales? Especially new guys. They got no rights. What are they gonna do?” he said.

“That’s despicable.”

“¿Cómo?”

“Awful. Disgusting.”

“ Sí . In Spanish we say something about his mother.” He smiled and showed two silver teeth.

“Is there any way you can locate one or two of these men and find out if Chance underpaid them?” I asked. “And let me know?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said. “I could even make Chance sorry about what he did.”

“Let’s take it one step at a time.”

More vigilante violence over labor problems was the last thing I needed.

By the time we finished getting the juice out of the press and into tanks it was three in the morning. Quinn said he planned to sleep in the barrel room to keep an eye on things and Savannah showed no sign of being ready to leave.

Tyler had downed a couple of beers during the evening and I worried about him driving home, even though his parents’ bed-and-breakfast was just up the road.

“I’ll drive you,” I said. “I didn’t drink.”

“What’ll I tell my folks if I don’t show up with the car?”

“That you behaved like a responsible adult who turned the keys over to someone else.”

It was a five-minute drive to the Fox & Hound on a deserted road. Tyler yawned and moved restlessly in his seat.

“This is hard work,” he said. “And these are killer hours.”

“Surely you stayed up this late in college?”

“That was for fun stuff.”

“Looks like your folks have a full house,” I said, pulling into his driveway.

“A lot of people coming for the reenactment.”

The sweep of my headlights caught a vanity license plate on a burgundy Mercedes. “CHASTAIN.”

“I suppose this is a stupid question, but are Annabel and Sumner Chastain staying here?”

“They showed up a few days ago. Mom says they’re sticking around awhile longer because Mr. Chastain wants to look at a horse he might buy.”

“Have you met them?”

“Sure. They’ve had breakfast in the dining room a couple of times when they’re not having it in their cottage.”

“Which cottage is that?”

“Devon.” He eyed me. “You going to talk to them or something?”

“Uh, well, maybe. I didn’t realize they were still in town,” I said. “Nor that they were staying here.”

“It seemed like a good idea not to mention it to you.” He sounded wary as he opened the car door. “Thanks for the ride. Can I come in late tomorrow?”

“Of course. Get some sleep.”

Tyler got out and I waited so he could see his way to the front door in the wash of my headlights. He swayed a little as he walked and I was glad I’d driven him.

On my way home I thought about calling on the Chastains.

In fact, as soon as possible.

I slept for a few hours and finally got up around eight. My eyes felt like I’d rubbed sandpaper in them. Quinn and I had agreed to finish pressing the last of the Riesling later this morning after yesterday’s marathon session. Working around heavy equipment—the forklift, the destemmer, the press—when we were all exhausted was hazardous. I didn’t want any more accidents.

I called the Fox & Hound as I stood in front of kitchen windows drinking my morning coffee. The cloud-covered sky gave everything a closed-in melancholy look that suggested a long spell of inclement weather to come. At least it wasn’t raining.

Jordy Jordan, Tyler’s father, answered the phone. He didn’t sound happy when I asked whether the Chastains were in their cottage and if I could speak to them.

He came back on the line a minute later, his voice dry as autumn leaves. “I’ll put you through.”

Sumner Chastain took my call. “Ms. Montgomery. This is a surprise.”

He spoke with the self-assurance of someone who held all the cards and knew it. Though he could have asked Jordy to tell me to get lost, I thought it was interesting he agreed to talk to me. Maybe it wasn’t such a surprise that I called, after all. Perhaps he’d been expecting it.

“I was wondering if I might come by to speak with your wife, Mr. Chastain.”

A pause, then, “I don’t see any purpose in that. Or any value.”