Ellen Crosby - The Chardonnay Charade

“Yeah, but they’re a lot lower-maintenance than she is,” Kit murmured after we excused ourselves and went to our table. “I hear she drops a bundle every month at Lord & Taylor and Nordstrom’s and he never says a word, just pays the bill.”

Georgia’s flashy Mercedes Roadster was the only car in the drive when I pulled in to Ashby. Ross opened the front door when I rang the bell, looking haggard but composed.

“What have you brought?” He smiled tiredly as he kissed me. “Here, give me those. You wearing perfume? Smells kind of musky.”

“It’s probably ‘eau de burned tire,’” I said. “We had another hard freeze last night in the vineyard. And this is dinner. Siri says you’ve been eating Chinese food for two days. Time for a change.”

I followed him into the pristine kitchen and put the perishable items in the refrigerator. There was plenty of room. Nothing else in there except a bottle of Oregon Chardonnay, four beers, and some moldy cheese.

“You went to too much trouble,” he protested.

“I went to Safeway. It isn’t much, really. I got strawberries for dessert and asparagus to go with the steaks since they’re both in season. Are you growing your own penicillin in here?”

He smiled that tired smile again. “Georgia and I didn’t eat at home much lately. She was always out campaigning and I…” He trailed off and looked at his hands. “I still can’t believe it.”

“I have an idea,” I said briskly. “Why don’t I fix us a cup of tea?”

“I have a better idea. Why don’t I fix us a drink? Come on. Stuff’s in the library.”

The “stuff” looked like he’d gone to the state-run ABC store and bought one of everything. “What would you like?” he asked.

“If it’s not too much trouble, a glass of that Chardonnay that was in the fridge. I’ll get it.”

“I’ll get it,” he said. “You’re limping more than usual. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about a brace for that foot. Sit down and make yourself comfortable. And prop your foot up.”

“I’m not limping,” I said. “And I don’t need a brace. Thanks, but I manage just fine.”

He shook his head. “When you make up your mind about something, there’s no changing it, you know? I’ll get your wine.”

Georgia had decorated the library, which doubled as Ross’s office, completely in black and white, including a faux zebra rug on the floor. The lone exception was the mahogany desk, which had a silver-framed cover-model photo of Georgia on one corner and an intriguing modern sculpture of a caduceus on the other. The rest of the desk was piled with medical journals, file folders, brochures from pharmaceutical companies, a stack of publicity announcements for the fund-raiser, and half a dozen dusty-looking books whose titles all related to the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. In the middle of the desk blotter was a plastic-encased piece of paper. Another Civil War document?

I walked around and sat in his desk chair. The plastic sleeve contained a letter, written in pencil, but with the characteristic flourishes and swirls that belonged to a bygone era. One short paragraph on thick cream-colored paper, dated April 14, 1865.

Dear Judah,

I do not know when this will reach you, but I have only today learned from Surratt’s emissary that Harney was captured before his mission could be carried out. I have no reason to believe that our friend J. Wilkes Booth will not persevere in the manner of Ulrich Dahlgren.

J. Davis

Ross walked into the library with the opened bottle of Chardonnay while I was still at his desk.

“I-I’m sorry,” I stammered, and stood up. “I couldn’t help reading it. Is this really a letter from Jefferson Davis?”

He looked exasperated, but he didn’t seem too surprised that I’d snooped. “Yes, it is. Now go sit on the sofa and put that foot up. Here’s your wine.”

He handed me the glass, then started fixing himself a martini at the bar. I had a feeling it wasn’t the first one today. Normally Ross wasn’t much of a drinker, but he’d been through a lot. Maybe if I got him talking about the letter it would get his mind off Georgia for a while.

“Do you think ‘Judah’ is Judah Benjamin?” I asked. “Jeff Davis’s Secretary of War? I know Dahlgren was the Yankee who tried to blow up Richmond. I forget who Harney was except I think he was on our side.”

Ross’s mouth twitched. His ancestors hadn’t been on our side.

“Even after all these years I’m still impressed by how well Virginians know their history,” he said. “You’re mostly right, but by the time Judah Benjamin received that note, he was no longer the Confederate Secretary of War.” Ross emphasized the word “Confederate” ever so slightly. “He was Secretary of State. And Thomas Harney was a Confederate explosives agent sent to Washington to bomb the White House.”

“Not until after the Yankees tried to destroy Richmond,” I said, “now that you mention it.”

He picked up the cocktail shaker that he’d filled with vodka and a splash of vermouth, a wry expression on his face. “Supposedly Harney was following direct orders from Davis and Benjamin. By then Richmond had fallen, Davis had fled to Mexico, and Lee had already surrendered to Grant at Appomattox. The war was officially over.” He paused to shake his concoction. “Unfortunately for Harney, he was caught before he got near the White House. John Wilkes Booth heard about it and that’s supposedly what tipped him over the edge and made him decide to kill Lincoln himself.”

“What about Dahlgren? Where does he fit in? He was already dead.”

“Exactly. Killed while trying to stage that attack on Richmond.” Ross strained his martini into a glass, then dropped an olive into it. “But he had papers on him when they found his body. Orders to kill Davis and his entire cabinet, then burn the city. The Confederates knew Lincoln was so desperate to end the war he’d try anything. So they figured these were direct orders from Old Abe himself.”

“I’ve heard that story,” I said. “That Lincoln had something to do with a plot to assassinate Jefferson Davis.”

Ross sat down next to me and clinked his glass against mine. “Until now nobody’s ever been sure Davis didn’t want an eye for an eye. There’s always been speculation that he might have been involved in Lincoln’s assassination. This letter proves that he was. Especially if he got the news from Mary Surratt.”

It was a major historical coup. If it were genuine.

“No way,” I said. “Jeff Davis would never be involved in something like that. He wasn’t that kind of man.”

“Lucie,” Ross said firmly, “he was.”

I got up and went over to his desk, staring at the penciled note written on fine, thick paper. It looked old, all right. But it couldn’t be authentic. Could it?

“I thought they had ink in those days.”

“Of course they did. But Davis liked pencil.”

“Look,” I said. “Mary Surratt was hanged for her role in Lincoln’s assassination. She had every reason in the world to confess that there was a plot. But she didn’t. Neither did anyone else who was hanged along with her. Same goes for John Wilkes Booth, who could have made a deathbed confession after those Union soldiers shot him at Garrett’s farm.”

Ross fished the olive out of his glass. “None of that negates the fact that the letter proves Davis knew about the plot. At the very least.”

“Have you told any of the Romeos about it? You’re really going to stir up a hornet’s nest, you know? Especially since a lot of them are Sons of Confederate Veterans or historical reenactors.”

“Not yet,” he said. “Except for Siri and me, you’re the only other person who’s seen it. I’m sorry you’re so upset. But this is quite a historical find, you know.”