Ellen Crosby - The Riesling Retribution

“Don’t expect to see me there today,” he said. “I’m not leaving the barrel room.”

Yesterday’s chilliness hadn’t thawed, but he also sounded ominous.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been adding the yeast to the Riesling and racking it into new tanks, but I can’t get fermentation to start.”

That was bad. Without fermentation, we had tanks of grape juice. No wine. Nothing.

“How many strains of yeast have you added so far?” I asked.

We had agreed to experiment with three different types of yeast now that it was clear there would be no ice wine. Each one would bring out different esters—the flavors people perceived in the wine—and a different bouquet. Blending them after they fermented would result in a more complex, interesting wine. Or so we hoped. If fermentation didn’t start, something was wrong.

“Two.”

I could tell he was worried.

“Temperature okay?”

The juice, or must, had just spent a couple of days chilling in the refrigerator truck. Maybe it was still too cold. Until the wine warmed up to a certain temperature, which depended on the strain of yeast, nothing would happen.

But Quinn would know all that. It was Winemaking 101.

“I’m going to check again.”

“Do you think someone could have dumped the yeast into the tank all at once?”

I racked my brain for all the reasons I could remember why fermentation might not start. Adding the yeast too abruptly was another one. It was like throwing a naked person outside in an arctic snowstorm. The result would be such a bad shock the yeast would die.

He didn’t sound happy. “If Chance or Tyler had been here I would have said it was a definite possibility. But I’ve got Benny and Javier. They know what they’re doing.”

“Keep me posted,” I said.

“When I get a handle on it, you’ll be the second to know.”

I was glad, at least, he hadn’t said “If.”

I returned to the battlefield just before two o’clock after Gina called with an SOS that she was swamped at our booth and needed help. A line of cars clogged Atoka Road waiting to get through the south gate, which we had turned into the temporary main entrance for the reenactment. B.J. had arranged for a Scout troop to help manage parking and the sheriff’s department had a cruiser sitting at the gate. I didn’t recognize the officer leaning against his car eating what looked like a pork barbecue sandwich, but he waved me past the backup once I explained who I was.

Since my last visit, the place had taken on a carnival-like atmosphere. The VFW had set up a canteen-style trailer between the parking lot and the camps, where they sold hot food next to a homemade lemonade and limeade stand run by the Friends of the Loudoun Museum. The business association gave out bottles of water.

It was a sedate, well-mannered crowd that seemed to consist mostly of families with children. Some were dressed in period clothing, but they moved easily and unself-consciously around the booths as though there were nothing special about their attire. Many congregated at the sutlers’ tents—merchants who traveled from one reenactment to another selling Civil War goods.

I walked down the alley of large circus-sized tents, peering into open tent flaps at displays of uniforms, tents, cooking utensils, candles, quills, and other old-fashioned items heaped on wooden tables. A lace parasol draped over a tent stay fluttered in the breeze next to a hand-painted sign that read “Virginia Sutlery: Fine Purveyor of All Things Period.” Inside, a table lined with oversized mason jars of bright-colored penny candy caught my eye. Gina had a sweet tooth and she’d been working nonstop. I filled a bag with lemon drops, rock candy, and jelly beans, and was getting out money to pay for it when I heard a familiar female voice. Annabel Chastain.

“Oh, look. They’ve got licorice sticks,” she said, as I turned and saw her standing in the doorway with Sumner.

“That’s nice.” He sounded bored.

What brought them here? I’d thought Sumner had said they were leaving Atoka. Annabel caught sight of me and said something in her husband’s ear.

“Look, dear, here’s Lucie.” Her smile seemed strained.

“I didn’t realize you were coming to the reenactment,” I said.

“I’ll be outside, Annie,” Sumner said, without greeting me. “Come find me when you’re done shopping.”

“We were visiting your next-door neighbor,” Annabel said. “We saw all the cars as we were driving back to the Fox & Hound. I thought it might be fun to stop by. I didn’t realize it was going to be such a big event.”

Neither of my immediate neighbors was at home. The Orlandos were in Hong Kong on business. Mick Dunne, my ex-lover, was home in England visiting his ailing mother.

“Visiting my neighbor?” I said.

“Mick Dunne. Sumner is looking at one of his jumpers,” she said. “We’re considering purchasing it.”

I’d forgotten that Tyler had mentioned something about the Chastains looking at a horse.

“Mick’s in London,” I said.

“No, he and Selena returned from Cannes about a week ago.”

“Really?” Selena? His sister? Did he have a sister?

“Such a beautiful young woman. They make quite a good-looking couple. Seem so happy together.” Annabel’s eyes narrowed and she gave me a shrewd look. “Oh, dear. Have I said something inappropriate? I didn’t realize you and Mick had a history—”

How had she guessed about us?

“We have a business relationship.” I cut her off. “He’s starting a vineyard and we’ve been helping him out. I’d better pay for this. Excuse me.”

I turned to the cashier. “How much do I—?”

Behind me Annabel gasped as though she’d been stabbed by a sharp pain and cried out.

“You all right, ma’am?” the cashier asked.

“Mrs. Chastain,” I said. “Annabel. What is it? A heart attack? I’ll get your husband.”

“No, no—” She clutched her chest with both hands and her eyes were wide with shock. “Don’t.”

“She ought to sit down,” the cashier said.

“Can you get her to that chair over there while I find her husband?” I asked. “He’s probably right outside.”

But as I looked through the tent flap at the passersby, the only person I recognized was Eli, who was talking to someone dressed in a Confederate officer’s uniform. Sumner had vanished into the crowd.

“Eli! Can you come in here for a minute?” I called to him.

Behind me, Annabel moaned. “No, please. I don’t need help. Thank you all the same. Not him.”

“What’s going on?” Eli showed up at my elbow.

“This is Annabel Chastain,” I said. “She’s not well.”

“Let’s get her to that chair over there.”

The cashier transferred Annabel to his stronger arms.

“It’s okay, ma’am,” he said. “You’re going to be fine.”

Eli guided her to the wooden chair as the cashier shooed away curious spectators. Annabel still looked pale and she hadn’t taken her eyes off Eli.

“You’re Leland’s son, aren’t you?” Her voice was soft.

Eli nodded. “Is there somebody—”

“No, no. Just give me a minute.”

As I watched her stare at Eli, I knew now what she’d said a moment ago when she’d cried out. My father’s name. She’d seen Eli before I had. He was a double for Leland, just like I resembled my mother.

Not him. The worshipful way Annabel Chastain looked at my brother said it all. Now I knew for sure that Annabel did not spurn my father after Beau’s death. It had been the other way around. Leland had rejected her and she had never gotten over it.

Which meant that at least part of her story had been a lie.