Ellen Crosby - The Chardonnay Charade

“Go on back to work, then,” I said to my cousin. “We won’t keep you. I’ll call your assistant in a day or two to go over the plans for Memorial Day.”

“What number assistant is this?” Kit asked when we were alone. “Eight?”

“Four. Dominique swears she’ll let this one handle the catering business, but for now she’s got her on a short leash.”

“The only leashes she owns are short. Speaking of which, is she ever going to marry Joe?”

Joe Dawson taught history at a private girls’ high school in Middleburg and occasionally helped out at the vineyard. He’d been going out with Dominique for years.

“Who knows? They’re engaged, but I think the wedding’s on hold for a while. She’s too busy to plan anything at the moment.”

“You know, it ought to be against the law to make that cheesecake. The diet starts tomorrow. I mean it.”

Kit had gained at least twenty-five pounds during the two years I’d been in France. Every day the diet started tomorrow.

I smiled as her mobile phone, which was lying on the table next to her bread plate, started to vibrate. She picked it up and stared at the display. “Well, will you look at that? Quinn Santori. I bet it’s for you.”

Kit opened the phone and said, “She’s right here. Hang on.”

I stood up, reaching for my cane. “I’ll take this outside. Excuse me.”

He was none too happy at waiting on me. When I said hello, he snapped, “I’ve been chasing you all over two counties. I finally called Faith Eastman and got this number. Where are you?”

“You had to track me down through Kit’s mother? I’m at the Goose Creek Inn. What’s up?”

“Unfortunately, nothing is up. I just checked the sensors in those low-lying fields. The temperature’s dropped pretty fast in the past hour. Harry Dye’s going to turn on his turbines again tonight. I can’t get hold of Chris Coronado, so it’s just you, me, Hector, and anyone else we can round up to try to deal with this. You need to get back here right now.”

“What are you talking about?” I said, stunned. “It’s going below freezing again ?”

“Yup. Another killing frost. And this time we’re not ready.”

Kit looked like I’d stabbed her through the heart when I told her I had to leave immediately. She was only slightly mollified when our waiter boxed our meals to go and included an extra-large piece of cheesecake for her. I gave him an outrageous tip and we left.

“No more criticizing me for eating in my car,” she said as we got into the Jeep and I pulled the Styrofoam containers out of a large paper bag. “You’re doing it, too.”

“Dammit. The weather forecast said the temperature would stay above freezing tonight.” I drove a plastic fork too aggressively through a piece of roasted eggplant and heard the plastic snap. “Why did I do that? All I’ve got left is a spoon.”

“Take my fork. I’m using my fingers. Don’t tell me you believe what those people say. That cute guy on Channel Two is no meteor-ologist, you know. They just hired him to boost ratings because he’s such a hunk. He used to be on a soap opera. I think he played a brain surgeon.” She fiddled with the latch of her Styrofoam box. “I can’t open this. Can you please hand me a piece of chicken? I’m famished.”

“We never had a chance to talk about you and Bobby.” I opened the box and passed her the chicken. “Do you have any napkins? I think our waiter forgot them.”

“What’s to say? He’s tied up most evenings and weekends coaching a kids’ soccer team with the Special Olympics. Look in the glove compartment. Or on the floor.”

“I didn’t know he was involved with the Special Olympics. So what happened to the two of you? You were pretty tight.”

“We’re just in different places right now. Kind of like you and Quinn.”

“Me and Quinn! What’s that supposed to mean? Quinn works for me. I thought you and Bobby might be getting married.” I handed her a napkin. “Of course, Quinn would like it if I worked for him. Drives me nuts.”

“Are the two of you going to be out together again all night?”

“Will you knock it off? It’s not a date. And, yes, unfortunately, we are.”

“Why ‘unfortunately’?”

“Because…” I hesitated. “I could kill him for not locking up that methyl bromide. It’s completely jeopardized our future. But I can’t blame him, either. He was working flat-out, dealing with the freeze and the new fields. In the end, if we lose our license the matter of fault will be moot. We’ll still have to close our doors.”

“You can’t—”

“It’s not just about getting in trouble with the EPA, either.” I cut her off. “Someone used that stuff to kill Georgia. I feel like I’m partly to blame.”

“Don’t go there, Luce.” This time Kit was firm. “Whoever killed her would have found something else. It wasn’t random. You said so yourself. As for the EPA, you might get off with a fine and a slap on the wrist. Maybe they won’t pull your license.”

“I’ll find out, won’t I?”

Kit dropped a picked-clean chicken bone into her box. “What are you going to do without a helicopter?”

“Use the smudge pots. We haven’t put them out for years.”

“Those little stovepipe things that give off toxic black smoke?”

“I definitely won’t make it on anybody’s do-good environmental list, will I? Come on, you know I can’t afford to lose five acres of grapes. It’s a lot of money. I don’t have any choice.”

She signaled for the turn at the main gate of the winery. Her headlights caught the blue and white sign that said “Sycamore Lane. Private Byway.”

“I know, I know.” She turned at the fork in the road by the two-hundred-year-old sycamore tree that gave the road its name. “But someday we’re all going to be sorry when Alaska is a tropical beach resort because of global warming.” She pulled into my driveway. “Let’s try dinner again. Maybe we’ll make it all the way to dessert next time.”

After she left, I changed into warm clothes and drove over to the vineyard. The night air was cold and sharp and the cloudless sky was star-spattered. The wind had died down—which was, once again, our problem. With no airflow moving through the vineyard when the temperature went below thirty-two, the dew would freeze the grapes. And no cloud cover meant nothing stopped the heat in the soil from radiating up into that limitless sky.

Quinn and Hector were already in the barrel room when I arrived. Hector smiled at me, but the harshness of the artificial lighting made it look like he was in pain. Normally he wore his years lightly, but tonight his shoulders seemed stooped and his step was more of a shuffle. Had we not needed him so desperately, I would have sent him home and back to bed.

“Who else have we got?” I asked Quinn.

“Manolo, of course. But I can’t find Randy anywhere. He’s not answering his mobile. We could really use him.”

“I bet that boy took off and went fishing,” Hector said. “He’s done it before. Besides, the brookies are biting.”

“The what?” Quinn asked.

“Brook trout,” Hector said. “Virginia’s state fish.”

“You people know what your state fish is?”

“Sure. Been here since the Ice Age,” I said. “Why?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Look, César and Jesús ought to be back pretty soon with that last load of tires from the garage. They’ve got Hector’s pickup and a dump truck César borrowed from a buddy of his. Hector, Manolo, and I will take the El over to Randy’s barn. He said something a while ago about a bunch of old tractor tires being dumped there.”