Ellen Crosby - The Riesling Retribution

I pulled my phone out of the pocket of my jeans. The battery was nearly empty. I called Quinn, who answered on the first ring.

“I’ve been trying to reach you,” he said. “I drove over there but some deputy told me it’s restricted access.”

“My phone’s about to die,” I said. “And they’re still questioning reenactors.”

“Frankie and Gina are back here. The winery was a madhouse. Everybody wanted a drink. Eli’s there, too.”

“Tell them they can go home.”

“Sure. Call me when they cut you loose,” he said. “I’ll be in the barrel room.”

“Everything all right there?”

“You don’t want to know,” he said as my phone went dead.

Kit looked up from her paper. “Hey, that’s Grace and Jordy Jordan next to the Widow’s tent. They must be looking for Tyler.”

She waved as they caught site of us. Grace’s snow-white hair, usually pulled into a neat chignon, hung wild and disordered around her shoulders. She looked like she’d been crying. Jordy’s face was ashen.

“Do you know where they’re holding Tyler?” Grace asked. “I hope they haven’t taken him away yet.”

“Where who’s holding him? Taken him where?” I asked.

“Is he in trouble?” Kit asked.

“B.J. called us. They found live ammunition in Tyler’s cartridge box.” Jordy put his arm around Grace as she slumped against him. He sounded incredulous. “B.J. says Tyler claims someone else must have put it there by accident. There’s no way he would deliberately—”

Grace interrupted. “He couldn’t see well with those Civil War glasses he had on. I don’t know why he didn’t wear his own.”

“They think Tyler shot Ray Vitale?” I asked. “That’s crazy. He wouldn’t—”

Jordy nodded, his face bleak. Tyler was their eldest child. Their only son.

“The safety check doesn’t include the cartridge boxes,” he said. “He’s just a kid, even if he is over eighteen. He probably got all excited and reached for the wrong bullet in the heat of the battle.”

“Then it’s an accident,” I said. “They can’t hold him responsible—”

“He’s responsible for bringing live ammunition to an event like this.” Jordy’s shoulders sagged. “We already called Sam Constantine. Tyler’s going to need a lawyer.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked.

Grace nodded and started to cry again.

“Pray,” she said.

It was midnight when Kit and I finally left the campgrounds and returned to our cars in the deserted parking area. Our shoes sank into the tire-rutted mud.

“You going home?” I asked.

“Only to change clothes. Then back to work. I need to write this up. It’s too late for tomorrow’s paper, but it’ll be on the website. Sorry, kiddo. It’s big news.”

I kept my voice light. “Well, I wouldn’t want the Washington Tribune to run out of things to write about and go out of business. I do what I can to keep your circulation up.”

“We appreciate it.” Her smile was rueful. “Be my maid of honor?”

“If I make it through this, sure I will.”

She blew me a kiss and got into her Jeep. I followed her down Atoka Road. As I signaled to turn into the main gate to the winery, she pulled alongside me and tooted her horn.

“I’ll phone you,” she called through her open window. “Drink. Goose Creek Bridge. Soon.”

Then she waved and sped into the darkness.

The lights still blazed in the villa as I drove by. Frankie’s car was parked next to Eli’s Jaguar, the only two cars in the lot. What were they doing here together so late? I drove home, got a drink, and called the winery.

Frankie answered.

“I saw your car,” I said. “And Eli’s. Everything all right?”

“The news at eleven said Ray Vitale is in critical but stable condition,” she said.

“The sheriff’s department thinks they’ve got a suspect,” I replied.

“Who?”

“I hope you’re sitting down. It’s Tyler. They found live ammunition in his cartridge box.”

I expected her stunned silence. Finally she stammered, “Tyler? Oh, my God, Lucie. Tyler would never shoot anyone. There must be a mistake.”

“Grace and Jordy hired Sam Constantine.”

More silence on her end. Then she said, “I guess it’s serious.”

“Seems so. I’d better call Quinn and tell him. Have you talked to him lately?”

“He packed it in an hour ago. He’s getting a few hours’ sleep in the barrel room. More problems with the Riesling.”

“Maybe I should go over there.”

“You get some sleep, too,” she said. “He’s got Benny and Javier with him. They’ll get a handle on it. You can deal with it in the morning. Don’t give Quinn any more bad news tonight.”

I hung up and slowly climbed the spiral staircase to my bedroom. Had Tyler really shot Ray Vitale by accident? I knew enough about guns to know there was a difference between shooting blanks and live ammunition. In the confusion and roar of noise on the battlefield, though, maybe no one had been able to hear the live shot that felled Vitale. But wouldn’t the shooter have known what he did?

I undressed and took a long, hot shower that left my skin bright pink.

Was Tyler lying because he was scared and didn’t want to get blamed for this, or was he just too inexperienced and caught up in the moment to realize what he’d done?

The third possibility was that he was telling the truth.

Which meant there was another shooter out there—someone who’d gotten away with it—and Tyler had been set up to take the fall for something he didn’t do.

Sunday’s rainstorm cleared the air so that when I woke on Monday all traces of Edouard had vanished and we were back to crystalline sunshine and sharp shadows. The sky was a limitless hard-lacquered shade of blue. Plants, trees, and my lawn—after the deluge of rain—had turned the vivid artificial green of Astroturf. The mountains, finally visible after being masked by days of low-hanging clouds, were the dusky color of Scottish heather.

Kit called while I was in the kitchen drinking coffee.

“The story’s on the Trib ’s website,” she said. “I wanted to tell you myself.”

“Thanks. You all right? You sound beat.”

“I am beat,” she said. “I got about two hours’ sleep.”

“Go home and go to bed.”

“I wish I could, but I’ve got a problem. Someone’s been using my credit card. I just found out. I’m driving over to Blue Ridge Federal to talk to Seth.”

I set my mug on the table and rested my forehead on my hand. First Frankie, now Kit.

“Since when?”

“The past two days. They bought stuff online, dammit. That card never left my purse, I swear. Maybe someone swiped it at some restaurant. I eat out every damn meal these days. You never know, do you?”

My thoughts raced.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

“Bobby wants me to talk to the detective in charge of financial crimes. Plus I canceled the card, of course. What a pain.”

I closed my eyes. Eli? Brandi? Would either one of them be so stupid as to copy down credit card numbers and rack up charges on accounts of people we knew?

“I need to talk to you,” I said.

“About what?”

“Can we do it in person?”

“How about the end of the day? I’ll come by for a drink.”

“Sure. Fine.”

“What’s wrong, Luce?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But maybe I’ll have an answer when I see you. Say, six?”

“Six o’clock. I’ll be there.”

My next phone call was from Frankie.

“You need to get over here,” she said. “Annabel Chastain’s here and she’s loaded for bear. She’s looking for you. I’m going to do my best to keep her calmed down so she doesn’t drive over to your house, but you need to come here now. She’s either on drugs or she’s been drinking or both. But she’s hysterical.”