Ellen Crosby - The Chardonnay Charade

“And ran into Randy.”

It was hard to say if Harry looked more disgusted or upset. “Last Friday at Seely’s Garden Center. She and Amy dropped by to pick up some plants to go around the koi pond. Gaby saw Randy talking to Jennifer Seely and started crying. Got all hysterical. She, uh, said a few things she shouldn’t have, but what just killed her was that Randy acted like he didn’t know who she was.”

“Did she tell him about the baby?”

He folded his lips together and shook his head. “She told him a lot of things, but that wasn’t one of them. Just couldn’t bring herself to let him know they had a daughter out there somewhere when Randy didn’t even recognize her.”

“Where is Gaby now?”

Harry pulled his car keys out of his pocket and began rubbing the key chain like a talisman. “The sheriff asked her to stay in town for a few more days since neither she nor I have an alibi for the night Georgia was killed.”

Startled, I said, “I thought Austin and Seth brought you home.”

“Austin and Seth took me to my office to sleep it off,” he said. “I spent the rest of the night on my sofa in that old carriage house I use. I didn’t want Gaby seeing me like that. So I was alone.”

“Why doesn’t Gaby have an alibi? Wasn’t Amy with her?”

“Amy filled in at the hospital that night for a nurse who helped her out a few times. Kind of a last-minute thing. She left at eleven and didn’t get back until the next morning. So Gaby was by herself most of the night, too.” He shrugged. “Who knew?”

“Do you think she had anything to do with Georgia—”

He cut me off. “No. I do not. Or with Randy going missing, either.”

I looked down at his key ring. “Semper Fi.” The Marine Corps motto. Always faithful.

I had only asked about Georgia. Harry was the one who brought up Randy.

Up until now, I’d been thinking Randy killed Georgia, then took off. What Harry just said put things in a whole new light.

What if this wasn’t about Georgia?

What if it was really about Randy?

Dominique stood at the maître d’s stand, her head bent over paperwork, as I opened the front door to the Inn. She looked up and smiled, then the smile faded.

“What’s wrong, chérie ?” she asked. “You look upset.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” I lied. “I just met Harry Dye in the parking lot. He apologized for what he said to Georgia the other night at the fund-raiser. It was awkward, that’s all.”

I skipped mentioning his altercation with Randy. So far, I didn’t think it was common knowledge.

“I heard about that scene with Georgia,” Dominique said. “I guess Harry bit off more of his foot than he could chew.”

“Something like that.”

“Are you hungry? I’ve made une salade niçoise for us.”

The place was empty, since lunch was over and dinner wouldn’t be served for a few more hours. Though I couldn’t see the bar from where I sat, I heard voices coming from that direction.

“Who’s here?” I asked.

“The Romeos. Who else?” Dominique led me to a corner table in the main dining room. She placed a folder on the table as we sat down. “They’re meeting about some letter Ross Greenwood found. Something to do with the man who killed Abraham Lincoln. Aaron Burr.”

“You mean John Wilkes Booth.”

“That’s the one. Weren’t they friends?” A waitress brought our salads and two iced teas almost immediately. “No, wait. Now I remember. They fought a duel.”

“Booth and Burr? Not with each other they didn’t. You’re mixing up your American wars. What kind of meeting?”

“The kind involving pitchforks, tar, and feathers.” Joe Dawson, Dominique’s sometime-fiancé, said as he walked into the dining room. He hooked a thumb in the direction of the bar and said to my cousin, “You ought to think about removing the knives from the tables in that room. Those boys mean business.”

Tall, dark-haired, and rangy, Joe had the kind of wholesome good looks that made him the perennial heartthrob among the sixteen-year-old girls he taught. He smiled, flashing boyish dimples. One more asset that charmed the socks off his adoring fan club.

“They’re that upset over Ross’s letter?” I asked.

“Hell, yeah. As far as they’re concerned, he just committed treason. Of course they’re that upset.” He came over to our table and kissed Dominique’s hair. “Can I join you or am I interrupting something?”

“A discussion of the vineyard menus for Memorial Day weekend,” Dominique said. “Have a seat.”

He picked up a fork and stabbed an olive off her plate, then sat down. She looked at me and rolled her eyes.

“Shall I ask the waitress to bring you a salad, Joe?”

He set the fork down and grinned at her. “No, thanks. I’m not hungry.”

Dominique opened her folder and passed me several sheets of paper. “I thought we should do simple, traditional summer menus. So a barbecue Sunday evening and on Monday, an old-fashioned picnic before the fireworks.”

I looked over the pages. “These are pretty elaborate.”

“A form of avoidance,” Joe said, reading over my shoulder. “Keeps her from worrying about her citizenship test.”

“Please,” she said gloomily, “I’m like a tiger at the end of my chair, studying for that test.”

“I shouldn’t tease you, sweetheart. You’re going to do just fine,” Joe told her. “If I can go back to school after ten years and get my doctorate, you can pass a civics test.”

“Joe’s right. You just need to brush up on a few things,” I added.

“I hope so.” She still sounded tragic.

Joe picked up his fork again and speared a piece of tuna. “I know so.”

“What are the Romeos saying about Ross’s letter?” I asked.

“That it’s as authentic as a three-dollar bill,” he said, through a mouthful of tuna. “It’s odd, though. Ross knows his stuff and he’s found some amazing documents in the past. I’m surprised he’d stake his reputation on something as contentious as this letter.”

“Why?” Dominique asked.

“Because Lincoln’s assassination will always be one of the great American mysteries.” He skewered an anchovy. “Just like JFK. Did John Wilkes Booth act alone or did someone hire him to kill Lincoln? And if Booth was hired, then who was he working for? Jeff Davis and Judah Benjamin? Edward Stanton, Lincoln’s Secretary of War? Hell, one theory says the Catholics did it because Mary Surratt was a Catholic.”

“That sounds pretty fringy,” I said.

“Um-hum.” He chewed a tomato. “Including the notion that it might not even have been John Wilkes Booth who was shot at Garrett’s farm.”

Dominique shoved her plate in front of Joe and rolled her eyes at me again. “Then who was it?” she asked.

“A look-alike named James William Boyd. Booth survived his wounds and fled to Japan. So they say.”

“Oh, come on,” I said. “That’s ridiculous.”

“I happen to agree with you. But there are people who believe it’s true.” He looked around hopefully. “Any bread around here to mop up that vinaigrette?”

“I’ll get some. You’re impossible, you know that?” Dominique stood up and headed for the kitchen.

He grinned. “That’s why I love her so much and she loves me.”

“Marry her and make an honest woman out of her.”

“I keep trying to get her to set a date, but she’s always got a reason why the time’s not right.”

Dominique returned with a basket of rolls. “Time for what?”

“Nothing,” he said.

“So the Romeos are mad at Ross because he might have found a fake letter?” Dominique took a petit pain and passed the basket.