Ellen Crosby - The Chardonnay Charade

“Don’t disturb him,” I whispered. “Let him sleep. Please tell him I stopped by when he wakes up, though.”

“These are beautiful, Lucie.” She set the book down so she could take the flowers with both hands. “Thank you so much.”

She looked tired, though she seemed less tense than the night Hector had been brought to the emergency room. I watched as she took an empty vase next to the small sink in his room and filled it with water. She set it on a window ledge and began arranging the flowers.

“You’re welcome,” I said, as her hands worked their magic. “Before I forget, I wanted to tell you how lovely the courtyard looks. Thank you for planting all those flowers and for the roses from your garden. I don’t know when you found the time.”

“I was glad to do it. Kept my mind off worrying. Besides, I’ve done it every year since your mother asked me. I can’t quit now.” She finished with the vase, turning it so the arrangement pleased her, and regarded me. “What roses?”

“The vase of red roses you left in the villa,” I said. “It was very thoughtful.”

She looked surprised. “They weren’t from my garden. Though I wish they had been. They came in the shipment from Seely’s.”

“Really? That’s funny,” I said. “Although maybe Noah sent them to say thanks for our business. He’s done that before, though usually it’s a plant. By the way, he sends his best and says he’ll try to come by later.”

“He’s a good man. Hector will like that.” She picked up her book again. “Thank you for coming. And for what you did for Bonita. We are grateful.”

I blushed. “What about you? Is there anything you need?”

Sera’s eyes grew misty and she held Hemingway against her chest like a shield. “Everything I need,” she said softly but deliberately, “is here in this room.”

I kissed her cheek, my own eyes brimming with tears. “I know that. But call me. In case there’s something else.”

I stopped in a bathroom on the way out and splashed cold water on my face, wiping my eyes. Then I drove the few blocks to Kit’s office, parking outside the small gray clapboard building with “Washington Tribune, Loudoun Bureau” stenciled in elegant gold script on the plate-glass front door. Kit’s office manager looked up from her crossword puzzle when I walked in.

“She’s expecting you,” she said. “Go on back.”

I found her staring out the window. “Knock-knock.”

“Hiya,” she said. “Let’s get out of here. I’m starved.”

We walked half a block to Tuscarora Mill, a nineteenth-century grain mill that had been converted to a restaurant. The bar was full and the restaurant buzzed pleasantly with the noise of the Leesburg lunch crowd. If the Romeos weren’t at the Inn, they ate at Tuskie’s. Kit’s table was in the main dining room, which still had the original broad timbers, belts, pulleys, and scales from the days when it had been a working mill.

The hostess seated us and our waitress took drink orders. Kit wanted a glass of Pinot Noir. I asked for unsweetened iced tea.

“What, no wine?” Kit said.

“I’ve been sampling Chardonnays for the last few days. I need a break.”

“On the subject of drinking”—Kit folded her hands and leaned toward me, lowering her voice—“there’s something you ought to know. It’s about Mia.”

This wasn’t going to be good. “What about Mia?”

“Sorry, Luce, it’s going to be in the Trib police blotter tomorrow. She got charged with public drunkenness. Not a criminal offense, just a misdemeanor. She has to pay a fine. This time. I asked Bobby about it. He said she was with a bunch of kids who’ve taken to drinking—of all places—in that old field where they used to have temperance picnics during Prohibition.”

“I’ll kill her,” I said. “I told her to knock it off. She had a monster hangover the other morning when I found her in the kitchen. And it wasn’t the first time, either.”

The waitress returned with our drinks and we ordered, a chef’s salad for me and the meatloaf for Kit.

“I know we weren’t saints,” Kit said after she left, “snitching bottles from your wine cellar and drinking them down at Goose Creek Bridge, but jeez. Bobby said they were drunk off their asses. He said Abby Lang gave the patrol officer who caught them a lot of lip and the do-you-know-who-my-father-is routine. Bobby said his officer told Abby her old man could be the next face they were putting on Mount Rushmore, but if it happened again he wouldn’t cut them any slack. They’d be spending the night in the drunk tank.”

I clamped my lips together and shook my head, visualizing the scene she’d described. “Ever since my mother died, Mia’s been out of control. It’s almost like she has a death wish sometimes, you know?”

“Or she’s wearing the superhero suit so she’s invincible. Lot of that going around with those kids. Did you know they drag-race late at night on Route Fifteen? All the way from Leesburg to Gilbert’s Corner. Sometimes when I’m coming home from work really late, I’ll see a lot of parked cars in one of the lay-bys. Someone’s gonna get killed.”

“God, Kit, what am I going to do?”

She shrugged. “Talk to her.”

“She won’t listen.”

“What about Eli? She listens to him and Miss Apple Blossom, doesn’t she?” My sister-in-law had once been the queen of the Winchester apple festival. She’d also been the woman who stole Eli away from Kit. It still rankled.

Our food arrived. Kit doused her meatloaf with salt, then ketchup. She bit into a piece. “I love their meatloaf.”

“Why didn’t you taste it before you put salt on it?”

“Because it needed salt.” She picked up the saltshaker again. “So, get Eli to shoulder some responsibility for a change and talk to her. Unless he’s too busy arranging his tie collection by color. Or maybe he does it by designer.”

“Miaow.”

Kit smiled, unrepentant. “I’m allowed. He’s turned into such a wimp ever since he married the Queen Bee.”

“No comment. I’ll talk to him, although he’s at the beach right now. Hilton Head.” I pushed a tomato around on my plate.

“What did he do? Rob a bank? How can he afford Hilton Head on the salary he makes?”

“I guess with his share of the money from selling my mom’s diamond necklace. Plus I bought out his interest in the vineyard.”

“When he gets back, tell him you need him to pull his weight and help out with your sister.” Kit poured gravy on her mashed potatoes. “Especially since she’s not hanging around the best crowd. Abby Lang is trouble.”

“I know. I wonder if her father knows what she’s up to.”

“He’s got his mind on other things, if you ask me. Like the vice presidential nomination. Pass the rolls, please?”

I passed them. “He left the fund-raiser with Georgia. That was the last time I saw her alive.”

“Hugo Lang is the Mr. Clean of the U.S. Senate. Hell, of the entire Congress,” Kit said. “I can’t think of a single reason he’d have for killing Georgia, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“Do you think they might have been romantically involved? Not that I do, but it would explain things. Like why he endorsed her.”

“No, I don’t.” She was definite. “Come on, Luce. He still wears his wedding ring. There’s something kind of heartbreaking about a man who does that when his wife’s been dead that long. He could have gotten married again loads of times.”

“I know.” I watched her slab butter on a roll. “Okay, next subject. What did you want to say about Randy? Bobby tell you something?”

“Just that they’re looking for him,” she said. “I was hoping you might have some news.”