Ellen Crosby - The Chardonnay Charade

I knew. “Where did you get it?”

“An estate sale in Manassas. Behind a framed photograph of Mosby. I bought the photo and when I got home, I took out the picture to clean the glass. There it was. That’s why the paper looks so pristine. It obviously hasn’t been exposed to light for years.”

“Ross,” I said, “are you absolutely positive that it’s the real thing? Jeff Davis was a good man who was just trying to do right by the South. Heck, when they came to his house to tell him that he’d been elected president of the Confederacy, he was pruning bushes in his rose garden. He didn’t want the job, but he did it for the South.”

He said brusquely, “I know you don’t want Davis’s image tarnished, but there’s always been speculation about this. Just no concrete proof, one way or the other. Now there is. I’ll get it authenticated by a third party, of course. But I know I’m right.”

Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to get him talking about this. I tried to shift the conversation to safer ground. “What are you going to do with it?”

“I haven’t decided.” He still sounded annoyed. “Like you said, it’s bound to stir up a lot of controversy and right now…” He lifted his martini glass and drained what was left. “I’ve got to start planning Georgia’s funeral.”

I went back to the sofa and sat next to him, laying my hand on his arm. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have upset you more than you already are. I know you know what you’re talking about.” My voice grew unsteady. “Ross, I am so…so terribly sorry about what happened. I feel like it’s partially my fault that Georgia’s dead because we left that methyl bromide out where her killer could get to it.”

For a long moment he played with the stem of his glass, twirling it between his fingers. “Thank you for saying that,” he said, finally. “But I don’t blame you for anything. You shouldn’t blame yourself, either.”

“I want to know who did it,” I said. “I want to know what happened.”

“We all want to know.”

“Do you have any ideas?”

“A lot of people aren’t sorry Georgia’s dead,” he said. “I’m under no illusion about that. She was a controversial and complicated woman. But as a matter of fact, I may know who killed her. I think he wrote her a letter. It arrived about an hour ago.”

I watched him, stunned, as he walked over to a large bay window overlooking the swimming pool and the impeccably manicured gardens beyond. The underwater light in the pool had been turned on. Against the dusky blues of the twilit garden and the darker-hued sky, the brilliant turquoise water shimmered like a tropical jewel.

“What do you mean, the killer wrote her a letter?” I asked.

“Sometimes it’s the stupidest things.” He looked at me musingly. “I loved Georgia very much. As different as we were, I adored her.”

“I know.” I knew better than to rush him. Ross took his time with his stories.

He gestured to the Jefferson Davis letter. “Sometimes I get too caught up in my work. If I’m not at the clinic, I’m chasing down papers at an estate sale or on the phone with a historian or an auction house…you know how I can be.” He smiled ruefully. “I think Georgia got the idea to run for state senator because she wanted a project, a crusade…something to do since I wasn’t around that much. At first I was all for it. But then it turned out that we really never saw each other. And I think she was…” He paused, searching for words. “I think she was seeing someone else. It may not have been the first time, either.”

I held the bowl of my wineglass with both hands. It would be good to have a drink to get through what was turning into an auto-da-fé. As though he read my thoughts, he walked over to the bar and picked up the Chardonnay bottle and held it up.

“Yes, please.” I lifted my glass. “Do you know who it was?”

He poured my wine and strained what was left in the cocktail shaker into his own glass. “I do now,” he said. “The delivery boy from the dry cleaner’s just dropped her clothes off. There was a plastic bag attached to one of the hangars because they’d found some personal effects in one of her pockets. Including this.”

He pulled a small folded paper out of his pocket and passed it to me.

Darling—I’m sorry about what happened and I know your mad. You know I didn’t mean it and I would never do anything to hurt you. Meet me Saturday night at our special place after the party. I can explain everything.

No signature. I turned it over. Nothing written on the back.

“Do you know who wrote it?”

“My guess is Randy Hunter.” He looked deep into his martini glass as if he’d found the answer there. Then he raised his eyes and said steadily, “I, ah, had a pretty good idea that they were having an affair. All of a sudden we were getting groceries from that new store in Middleburg. All the time. I think Randy delivered them. And stuck around for his tip.”

“Oh.”

I thought of the box of condoms at the barn. If the police had told Ross about them, he wasn’t saying—and I didn’t want to bring that up.

He added, “At least it gives somebody besides me a motive for killing her.”

“You?” I said, startled. “What are you talking about? You were at the hospital delivering twins. That’s a rock-solid alibi.”

“Unfortunately not.” He returned to the sofa and sipped his martini. “My patient wouldn’t go to the hospital, so I went to her boyfriend’s place. Marta Juarez and Emilio Mendez. Illegal and scared, the pair of them. Especially after Marta’s teenage son got involved in a gang fight a few days ago. The cops showed up, but the kid managed to get away, so he didn’t get picked up. Marta was afraid they might be looking for the boy, so after I delivered the twins, they bolted. I have no idea where they went.”

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

“Find them,” he said. “I have to or I’m in trouble.” He cocked his head. “I hear a car. That’s Siri…and Mick. Excuse me. I’d better get the door.”

I heard Siri’s musical voice, caroling, “Here he is!” followed by a deep, well-bred British voice saying Ross’s name, then a murmured exchange. A few minutes later, the three of them walked into the study.

“I’d like you to meet someone, Mick,” Ross was saying. “Lucie’s one of my patients, but she’s also a good friend. Lucie, meet Michael Dunne.”

I’d met Ross’s friends before. Most of them were just like he was—low-key, reserved, a bit scholarly. Not Michael Dunne, who walked into the library like he owned the place—occupants included. His frank stare was unnerving. I stared back. Well dressed, sophisticated, urbane. And he knew it.

I am always leery of spending much time in the company of men like that. You feel like a third wheel because you’re dealing with the life-sized ego that goes everywhere with Mr. Wonderful. Still, there was something arresting about those startling green eyes and the way they held mine.

“It’s Mick,” he was saying. “I’ve heard so much about you, Lucie. Nice to finally meet you.” He took my hand in both of his.

I’d never heard anything about him. I pulled my eyes and my hand away and glanced inquiringly at Ross. He wore the stricken expression of a deer in the headlights. Great, just great. What, exactly, had he told Casanova here?

“Nice to meet you, too,” I said neutrally to Mick.

“How about a drink, everyone? Mick? Siri? Lucie, there’s still some more wine left.” Ross didn’t fool anybody with the fake heartiness, but at least it worked as a subject-changer.

“Lovely,” Mick was saying. “Great idea.”