Ellen Crosby - The Chardonnay Charade

“Really? That’s good.”

“I knew you’d be happy.” Quinn got in his share of jabs about my Scottish thriftiness. Or, as he called it, penny-pinching.

Thanks to me, though, the vineyard was now once again running in the black. I ignored the crack, as usual. “I hear the helicopter. Let’s go.”

Chris had told us he’d only be flying fifteen to twenty feet above the vines, so if we valued our heads, we needed to stay well away when the helicopter hovered over the fields. Under normal circumstances the higher the altitude, the colder the air. Sometimes, though, the opposite situation—known as an inversion—occurred and the cold air sat next to the ground with a layer of warm air above it. That’s what we had tonight and why we needed Chris. The helicopter could push the warm air down so it was next to the vines where we needed it to keep the fruit from freezing.

For the next few hours, as the cold seeped into my fingertips and toes, Quinn and I grimly hopscotched across the fields, calling to Chris, who trained the helicopter’s large searchlight on us, tracking us like a couple of fugitives on the run, as we led him to the places where beeping sensors indicated the temperature had again slipped into the danger zone. Once every hour Chris set the helicopter down to reorient himself. Twice he and his partner refueled.

“Why can’t you use your instruments?” I asked during one of the breaks.

“Because we’re flying too low. It has to be all visual,” he said. “The problem is I can’t see anything, and in the dark your worst nightmare is losing the horizon line. Then you don’t know whether you’re right side up or upside down. That’s why I need to get back on land every so often to get my bearings again.”

“My God, how scary,” I said. “How much longer do you think you need to stay up there?”

“Another hour. Until dawn. Then the sun will take over and warm things up.”

True to his word, Chris set the chopper down for the last time just after six a.m. I handed him a check, which he stuck in the pocket of his leather jacket without looking at it. “Call me if you need me again,” he said.

“I think this was a onetime deal,” I said. “According to the National Weather Service.”

“I hope so, for your sake. Sometimes I think those guys use a dartboard to make their forecasts.”

Quinn hitched a ride back to the vineyard parking lot with Chris’s partner, who needed to retrieve a backpack he’d left at Quinn’s place. The two of them took the pickup with the now-empty fuel trailer rattling behind them as it bumped down the dirt road. Then the helicopter lifted off and Chris waved, heading east.

The sunless sky, milk-white a while ago, had turned ash-colored. I collected the flashlights, leaving the sensors so we could continue to monitor the temperature. When I was done, I took the south service road in order to get a look at the new fields. In the distance Randy’s neon-orange “Danger—Keep Out” signs looked almost gay—bright splashes of color against the plastic tarps, which shone like dull mirrors.

I did not see the parked car, which was partially screened by a grove of bushes, until I was only a few yards from it. Actually what I spotted was the vanity license plate—“IXMN”—through a break in the foliage. “I examine.” Ross Greenwood’s license plate. Then I saw his black Ford Explorer.

What was he doing here? Cold as it was, I started to sweat.

I reached for my cane and got out of the Mini. The body was on the driver’s side, on the ground. I nearly tripped over it, since I’d been peering through the frost-covered windows instead of watching my feet. Still wearing the mint-green jersey evening gown and mink jacket from last night’s fund-raiser, Georgia Greenwood lay facedown in a pool of frozen vomit congealed near an outstretched arm.

Whatever had made her sick like that, it was clear she was beyond medical help.

She was dead.

A single bar on the battery display of my mobile phone after a long day—and night—of use meant I didn’t have much juice left. It survived the call to 911 and then another brief call to Quinn. His comment was, fortunately, succinct and to the point.

“Shit,” he said. “Where are you? Don’t move. I’m coming.”

The hardest call came next. I dialed Ross’s home number. Their answering machine picked up—his voice, not Georgia’s—and I disconnected. You didn’t leave a message about something like this. I managed to get a call through to his mobile phone. He answered immediately.

“Lucie!” He sounded tired, but I could tell I hadn’t woken him up. “What are you doing calling at this hour? Is everything okay?”

“Ross, I’m so sorry. I’m at the vineyard. I just found the Explorer when I was driving down the south service road. Did you and Georgia switch cars last night? I mean…she’s lying beside it…I’m so sorry.” I swallowed. “Ross, I think she had a seizure or something. She’s dead.”

For a moment I thought the phone had finally died, because of his silence. Then he said in a soft, stunned voice, “Oh, God. You found Georgia?” After that, more silence.

“Ross? Are you there? My phone battery is going. Look, I called 911 and they’re on their way.” The phone beeped in my ear. “Where are you?”

“Heading home,” he said. “I’ve been out all night. One of my patients had twins. I’ll be right there. Give me five minutes…”

Another beep and the display went black. I flung the phone on the passenger seat as Quinn’s metallic green El Camino came down the road from the opposite direction. He pulled up next to me and got out.

“You all right?” he asked. “Where is she?”

“Over there.” I pointed. “Next to the door by the driver’s side.”

“You’re sure she’s dead and not passed out?”

“She looked pretty dead to me.” My voice shook.

“Stay here.” When he came back, his face was somber. “I didn’t touch her, but she’s dead, all right. Looks like she puked her guts up. God, does Ross know yet?”

“He’s on his way. I got him on his mobile. On his way home after delivering twins all night.” In the distance, the sound of more tires on gravel. “I bet that’s him.”

A moment later Georgia’s burgundy Mercedes Roadster came into view. Ross, behind the wheel, looked grim.

“Where are the cops?” Quinn asked quietly. “I thought you told me you called 911 right before you called me.”

“I did. They should be here any minute.”

Ross got out of the Roadster and ran to the Explorer.

“He shouldn’t be alone with her,” I said. “I’m going to him.”

I’d gotten to within ten feet of where Ross knelt over his wife when I felt Quinn’s restraining hand on my shoulder. “Leave him, Lucie.” He kept his voice low.

As Quinn spoke, Ross gently turned Georgia over and took her in his arms.

“Oh, my God!” I cried softly. “What happened to her face? All those blisters and burn marks. How did they get there?”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” Quinn sounded shaken. “Exposure to methyl bromide can do that.”

I stared at him, not wanting to believe what he’d just said. “You don’t think she got too near the fields?” His eyes connected with mine and then I got it. “Oh, my God. Someone did this deliberately?”

“Unless she crawled under one of the tarps—which I seriously doubt—then, yeah, it was deliberate. Christ, who would do that?”

I swallowed. “We better get Ross away from her.”

“It’s a gas. There’s nothing left. We should tell him, though.” Quinn sounded tense.

In the distance, sirens wailed. “The sheriff’s here,” I said.