Ellen Crosby - The Riesling Retribution

“I’m sure you know the Loudoun County Sheriff’s Office now considers the murder investigation closed,” I said, “largely based on evidence your wife provided to Detective Noland that apparently proved my father murdered Beau Kinkaid. There would be great purpose and value to my family and me if Mrs. Chastain could explain what happened all those years ago. She’s the only person who can answer our questions.”

“There’s no ‘apparently’ about your father’s guilt, Ms. Montgomery. And my wife has already answered—”

“Put yourself in my place,” I said. “You’d want to understand what happened, too. You’d want some closure…some peace, wouldn’t you?”

There was a long silence and I wondered if I hadn’t been on a speakerphone all along, so that Annabel had heard everything I’d said.

“One moment, please.” Sumner sounded brusque. When he spoke again, I realized I’d been right. He’d turned off the speaker and now it was just the two of us on the line.

“My wife says she will see you,” he said. “It would not be my decision, but I respect her wishes. Let me warn you before you get here. I will not tolerate any accusations or threats against her. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Like many of the buildings in Middleburg and Atoka, the Fox & Hound had been built in the early 1800s. Over the years it had gone through numerous changes, including joining the separate kitchen to the main house and adding double-tiered verandas that overlooked Grace Jordan’s lush English gardens, until it evolved into the graceful, rambling estate it was today. The grounds possessed many outbuildings, some of which had been enlarged and converted into guesthouses, which were now the more sought-after lodgings.

Sumner Chastain answered the door to Devon Cottage when I knocked. Taller than I expected, I guessed him to be around six foot two. He wore an open-necked dress shirt, well-cut slacks, and a double-breasted navy blazer, radiating authority and the craggy bonhomie of a good fellow who belonged to all the right clubs and sat on boards of numerous charitable foundations and civic organizations. His eyes lingered on my cane as he looked me over and it seemed to surprise him.

He turned away and called to the bedroom. “Annabel, she’s here.”

It bothered me that he didn’t use my name. I wondered if it was deliberate or if I genuinely didn’t register with him as someone of any consequence. After this conversation, we’d have no further reason to speak with each other.

Annabel Chastain—or Annie Kinkaid, as my father knew her—seemed tense and nervous when she walked into the elegant sitting room, which Grace had furnished with fine English antiques and oil paintings of pastoral settings, mixed in with hunting scenes. Like her husband’s attire, Annabel’s clothes spoke of understated wealth and good taste. Cream-colored slacks, matching open-toed heels, bottle-green silk tunic, and the same oversized choker pearls I remembered from the Internet photograph.

She examined me with undisguised curiosity and also appeared startled by the cane as her eyes darted between it and my face. I knew then she’d never met my mother. If she had, it would be like seeing my mother’s ghost nearly thirty years later. But there was no flicker of recognition when she looked into my eyes.

“A car accident,” I said.

She colored faintly. “I apologize for staring. You’re just so young…” Her voice trailed off.

“Are you all right, darling?” Sumner asked.

“Yes, of course. Won’t you sit down, Ms. Montgomery?” she asked.

“No, thank you. I won’t take much of your time.”

“As you wish.” Annabel walked over to a carved button-back chair and sat on the edge as though she were poised for flight.

“Would you like your tea, Annabel?” Sumner asked. “I can bring it from the other room.”

“No, thanks, darling. I’m finished.” She fluttered a hand.

He came over and stood behind her chair, resting his arms on the rosewood frame as he leaned forward, a tender gesture that made it seem like he was physically shielding his wife. Annabel reached up and stroked the sleeve of his blazer, fidgeting with one of the buttons on his cuff.

“Forgive me for being blunt,” I said, “but I understand you and my father were having an affair at the time your ex, rather, Beau Kinkaid, was killed. I wondered how it started.”

It didn’t appear to be the question she was expecting. Or maybe she was expecting denials or accusations first.

Annabel’s eyes grew wide and she briefly tilted her head in Sumner’s direction, as though he had an answer for her. For a moment, I thought he was going to be the one to do the talking.

“Beau and…your father…met each other through a mutual friend,” Annabel said finally, her voice breathy and her words rushed. “Some business deal. Sorry, but I don’t remember the details. There were so many with Beau, always something. Your father came down to Richmond for a meeting. On his own.”

She stroked her husband’s sleeve again. “Leland, Beau, and I went out to dinner. Beau’s club. A private place with a top-floor restaurant that had a splendid view of the James River.”

“That’s how you met?”

Annabel shrugged. “Things happen. It was obvious he was attracted to me and I won’t deny I was attracted to him. I’ll spare you the details, but the next time he came to Richmond, Beau was out of town.”

“How long did your relationship go on?”

The litany of questions seemed to pain her. I wouldn’t be able to ask many more.

“Six, maybe seven months. Then Beau found out. There was a horrible scene. He threatened to kill your father. Left our house in an awful state and took a gun so I knew that’s exactly what he intended to do. I managed to call Leland and warn him.” She looked down and stared at her perfect manicure, but her hands were trembling. “For all these years it’s haunted me that I might have signed Beau’s death warrant, telling your father Beau was on his way.”

“Darling, we’ve been over this. You mustn’t blame yourself.” Sumner put his hands on his wife’s shoulders and massaged them gently. “You’ve been through too much.”

“Or perhaps you saved Leland’s life,” I said.

My comment seemed to surprise her. “Perhaps.”

“Did you know my mother was pregnant with me that summer?” I asked. “My cousin remembered Beau visiting my father the day she went into labor with me.”

Sumner’s eyes darkened, but Annabel nodded and said in that breathy voice, “Yes. I did know.”

“Why didn’t you report him missing?” I asked. “Didn’t you speak to my father when Beau didn’t return home? I don’t understand how you could not have known what happened. Or not cared to find out.”

She sat up straight like I’d yanked a puppeteer’s string. “You have no right to judge me.”

“I’m not judging you. But I don’t understand how you know for sure that Leland killed Beau unless my father told you so himself.”

“I believe Detective Noland has been over all that with you.” Sumner’s voice held a warning that I’d crossed a line and his tolerance was wearing thin. “There’s nothing further to discuss here.”

I asked, anyway.

“Please, Mrs. Chastain. What happened between you and Leland after Beau died?”

Sumner looked like he was ready to come around from behind the chair. I ignored him and focused on Annabel.

“Please,” I said to her again. To him I added, “My last question. I promise.”

“I didn’t want to know what happened.” Her voice was still tight with anger. “I was glad Beau didn’t come back. You can’t possibly understand how it was.”