Ellen Crosby: The Riesling Retribution

He came straight over to me, worry lines making small canyons in his forehead, his eyes dark as obsidian.

“There’s not a traffic light working from Haymarket to Atoka. Flooding, roads closed. It’s a mess. The tornado completely missed Delaplane.” He stopped and assessed me. “Nobody told me you were out in this. I thought you were at the house or something. My God, you look like you just crawled out of a cave.”

“Thanks. It was a bridge.”

“Are you out of your mind? Outside in a tornado away from any kind of real shelter? What in the hell were you doing, anyway?”

“I went out to see the reenactment site. The Gator died on me. And I don’t need a lecture, okay?”

His eyes automatically went to Chance, who was tightening a trellis wire while Benny propped up the wooden post. Chance seemed to know Quinn was watching him because he raised his head and they stared at each other.

Quinn swung back to me. “Died? We just had it completely overhauled in the spring. Dammit, it shouldn’t have died.”

I’d lost count of how many nails were in the coffin Quinn was building for Chance, but right now I didn’t want to deal with it. I rubbed my forehead as a dull ache began to pulse between my eyes.

“We’ll find out what happened,” I said. “Tyler’s going to tow it back to the barn with the pickup.”

“Okay, but I’m going over it myself. Jesus, Lucie. You could have been killed out there because of someone’s carelessness.”

“Or maybe something just wore out.”

“Come on. I’ll drive you home. You should take it easy.” He saw the hesitant look on my face. “Don’t tell me you want to stick around here?”

“There’s something else.”

“You mean, besides the tornado?”

“Because of the tornado. It unearthed a grave near the stone bridge at the edge of the reenactment field,” I said. “I found a skull.”

He looked stunned. “What’s a grave doing in the middle of nowhere?”

“I don’t know. But Bruja found another bone a few feet away. Chance and I guessed it was human, too. We thought it might be part of an arm or a leg.”

His hand went to his cross and he fingered it. “The dog was chewing on a human bone?”

I nodded.

“That means whoever it is, the remains are scattered around.”

“Maybe.” I hesitated. “There’s another possibility.”

“What?” he asked.

“Maybe there’s more than one grave.”

Quinn turned right on Sycamore Lane after we passed through the south vineyard. It was the longer way to my house.

“I want to look at the Pinot and the Chardonnay in the north fields,” he said. “Let’s see how much cleanup we’ve got over there. That wind did a lot of damage.”

Though the tornado had not passed through here, it had taken its toll in downed leaves, limbs, and small branches. The private gravel road that wound through the vineyard in a lazy ellipse was littered with debris. Wherever I looked, fresh green leaves carpeted the ground.

“Have you checked on your house yet?” I asked as we passed the private cul-de-sac where his cottage and the now-empty farm manager’s house sat on the edge of the woods.

“Nope.”

He swerved to avoid a large limb and stopped the Mule with a lurch that made me grab the dashboard. I was about to ask what he was doing when I saw that he’d leaned forward so his elbows rested on the steering wheel and his fingertips covered his mouth. He was staring at the old sycamore—or what was left of it—with an expression of shocked disbelief.

The tree that had given the road its name had stood here as long as my family owned this farm. Something—wind or, more likely, lightning—had cleaved it down the middle. The right side had fallen across the road, creating an impenetrable barrier that seemed to reach the sky. What remained upright, a jagged spear of new-looking wood, made me think of a wound so deep it exposed bone.

My eyes filled and I looked away so Quinn wouldn’t see the tears. Losing that tree was like a death in the family.

“I’m sorry, Lucie,” he said.

“I wish it had been any tree but this one. I even wish it had been my house. That could be rebuilt.”

“I know.”

It was pointless, but I asked anyway. “Do you think an arborist can save it?”

He started the Mule and shifted into reverse. “I wish I did, but honestly I think it’s too far gone.”

I nodded and wiped my eyes with the back of my grimy hand.

“We’ll still try,” he said.

“Must have been an incredible lightning strike to bring it down like this.”

“I’ll get some of the guys over here with chain saws to clear the road. Let’s hope nothing else came down between here and your house.”

“Can you let me know when they do that?” I asked. “I can’t bear to watch. I need to be sure I’m somewhere else.”

“Of course.” His voice was gentle. “I promise, I’ll take care of it. We’ll do our best to save it.”

We drove through more storm-wrought debris but encountered nothing as devastating as the sycamore. I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath until he pulled into the circular driveway to my home. Built more than two hundred years ago by my ancestor, Hamish Montgomery, and named in honor of the 77th Highlanders, his regiment that had fought in the French and Indian War, Highland House was a graceful blend of Federal and Georgian architecture made of stone quarried from our land. Hamish had carved the Montgomery clan motto— “Garde bien” —in the lintel over the door like a talisman. “Watch well. Take good care.” Except for more small branches scattered on the lower-pitched roofs of the two wings, the house looked exactly as it had when I left this morning.

I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer of thanks.

“At least it spared the buildings,” Quinn said, pulling up at the front door.

“I know.” I let out a long breath. “We’re lucky. It could have been so much worse.”

“Wonder how long we’ll be without power,” he said.

“A couple of days, I imagine.”

“How are you going to manage a shower with no water?” he asked.

“The water tank will be full, so at least I can get cleaned up even if it’s tepid water.”

“I think I’ll just go—what’s your French expression?—au naturel until we get power restored.”

“You mean miss the weekly bath on Saturday night?”

He grinned. “Listen, princess, I bathe and shave every day. I change my underwear.”

“I’m not touching that.” I climbed out of the Mule, glad to be back to our usual exchange of banter. “And I’d better get ready before the sheriff’s people get here.”

“Any idea who that body is?” he asked. “Maybe it’s some black sheep relative who didn’t make it inside the family burial ground.”

“I thought of that. But there’s no coffin and it looks like he was just dumped there in a shallow grave.”

“What makes you so sure it’s a he? Maybe it’s a she.”

I shuddered. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

“Guess so,” he said.

Inside, the house was still and airless. Already I could feel the weight of the outdoor heat filtering into the two-story foyer as it reclaimed the dry air-conditioned coolness. Upstairs, my bedroom would probably soon be unbearable. At least I could sleep in the hammock on the veranda, as I’d done when the air-conditioning system died two years ago. I found camping lanterns, candles, and flashlights in the front hall closet and put them next to Leland’s favorite bust of Thomas Jefferson in the foyer alcove. Then I climbed Hamish’s grand spiral staircase, watching dust motes swirl around the Waterford chandelier in the dying daylight.