Ellen Crosby: The Bordeaux Betrayal

I drove up the oak-lined private road past a fountain surrounded by a garden of fall mums arranged in burgundy and gold stripes for the school colors. In the spring the gardeners made floral designs based around the initials “MA.” If anything died or wilted to spoil the perfection, it was replaced instantly. I left the Mini in the lot near the main building, parking a few cars away from Joe’s red Toyota Camry, recognizable for the “Virginia: First in Wine” bumper sticker I’d given him.

The school’s reception area, with its dark paneled walls, velvet sofas, worn oriental rugs, stone fireplace, and oil paintings of headmistresses and significant donors, looked like the lobby of an elegant English hotel. The woman behind the front desk wore a smart black suit and a single strand of pearls.

“May I help you?” She removed her horn-rimmed glasses and looked me over.

My shawl had slipped off one shoulder. Her eyes flickered from my face to my shoulder and I followed her gaze. She was staring at a raw, red bruise the size of a fist.

I hiked the shawl back into place and said, “I’m here to see Joe Dawson.”

“Dr. Dawson is teaching at the moment.” Judging by her voice, I hadn’t made a good first impression.

“It’s an emergency or I wouldn’t be here.”

She raised one eyebrow. “If this is a domestic matter—”

Great. She thought my boyfriend beat me up.

“There’s been an accident involving someone he knows,” I said. “Someone else. Not me. Please, it’s important.”

“Oh.” She put her glasses back on and now she really looked me over. “I assumed it was about you. Please have a seat. I’ll find him right away. Whom shall I say is calling?”

I told her and she picked up the phone.

Five minutes later I heard footsteps on the marble staircase around the corner from the front desk and Joe bounded into view. As I stood up from the sofa, my shawl slipped again. Joe’s eyes, like the receptionist’s, went straight to my shoulder.

“My God, Lucie! What happened? I’ve been trying to call you all day.” He moved quickly across the lobby and reached for my hands. At a school this posh, the staff was expected to look smart and dress appropriately. Joe had missed a spot shaving this morning, his tie had a stain on it, and there was eraser dust on the sleeve of his navy blazer. His eyes had dark circles under them. Hopefully the board of visitors wasn’t in town for a meeting.

“Can we talk some place private?” I asked.

“Sure, sure.” He turned to the receptionist. “Janice, anybody using the conference room?”

Janice looked like she wished we could stay right where we were as she was dying to know herself. “Uh, no. It’s free. Go right ahead.”

There were more paintings of dead headmistresses in the cool, airless room. All wore slight smiles of amused superiority and had eyes that seemed to follow wherever I moved. Joe flipped on the lights and pulled a mahogany chair with a burgundy leather seat away from the conference table.

“Sit down, cupcake.”

He was smiling but his eyes were grave. At least he’d used his favorite nickname for me. I sat gingerly and leaned the metal cane the hospital had given me after my car accident against the table.

Joe took the chair next to me and crossed his legs. His socks were mismatched, too—blue and brown.

“What happened to you? Can I get you something? Water?” he asked. “Where’s Valerie?”

“Nothing, thanks.” I shook my head and took one of his hands in both of mine. “I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, but Valerie was in a car accident this morning. That’s why you didn’t hear from her.”

Joe’s baby-faced good looks and dimpled smile still got him carded when he tried to buy liquor even though he was in his mid-thirties. His face sagged and suddenly he looked a lot older. “She’s in the hospital?”

“No,” I said. “Her car went off the road at that hairpin turn between the Fox and Hound and my vineyard. One of the wheels came off somehow and she went into Goose Creek. She didn’t survive the accident. I thought I should tell you in person.”

He’d been nodding as I talked and he kept on nodding when I finished like he was still processing what I was saying and hadn’t gotten to the part about Valerie being dead.

“I’m sorry,” I said again.

He quit nodding and the light went out of his eyes. “Is that how you got these bruises?”

“I pulled her out of her car. It was filling up with water. She was dead when I got there. No one could have saved her.”

“I see.” He removed his hand from mine and touched the edge of my shawl, rubbing his fingers over and over the fringed edge until I thought the dye would come off on his hand. “You’re pretty banged up. And you’re sitting funny. What did you do to yourself?”

“I fell when I was getting her out of the car. It’s nothing serious.”

He leaned over and his arms went around me. “How could a wheel come off her car?” His voice was thick with grief. “How could she be dead?”

“The sheriff’s trying to find out.” I didn’t tell him they also were looking into whether I had anything to do with her accident. “They’re going to reconstruct the crash.”

He buried his face in my hair. “I should have driven her here this morning. It never would have happened. She’d be fine.”

“Don’t.”

He dropped his arms and stood, staring at a portrait of a dark-haired headmistress dressed for foxhunting in breeches, boots, a white shirt and stock, and the red riding jacket worn by someone accorded the honor of Master of Foxhounds. I wondered if he was trying not to cry.

“She wasn’t just an old friend from school like you told me, was she?” I said. “I saw you together last night. You were in love with her. At least, that’s what it looked like.”

He shifted his eyes from the painting to me. His face hardened and I knew I’d crossed a line into territory where he felt I didn’t belong. “I cared about her. What of it?”

“What about Dominique?” I said. “Your fiancée?”

He looked as though I’d just slapped him. “Jesus, Lucie. What do you take me for? I guess she didn’t tell you. Probably too busy to mention it. We’re not engaged anymore. Or at least, it’s on hold. We both needed a little space.”

“I didn’t know that.” Though he certainly hadn’t wasted any time filling his share of that little space.

He jammed his hands in his pockets. “I’d better get back to the kids. And I appreciate you coming here to tell me about Valerie.”

He walked me to the main entrance and we both stepped out into the warmth of the balmy afternoon.

“Beautiful day, huh?” His voice was ironic. “Guess we ought to savor them when we can. Because you never know—”

“No,” I said. “You don’t.”

“I’ll call you some time, cupcake.”

The carved wooden door with its fancy iron scrollwork closed with a loud clunk behind him. There was no spring in his step this time as there had been when he had come down the stairs to meet me.

I wanted to feel sorry for him but I couldn’t. There was something odd about the rushed intensity of his relationship with Valerie. Something odd about her accident, too.

I drove home and wondered what she wanted to tell me about the Washington wine Jack Greenfield donated and why she’d been so sure I didn’t know about its provenance. Before the auction took place at the end of the month I needed to find out—even if it was nothing more than a wild goose chase.

Quinn was in the lab just off the barrel room when I showed up at quarter past three. I’d changed into a baggy sweatshirt and loose pair of pants. He looked me over like yard sale merchandise the sellers ought to be paying you to take. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”