Ellen Crosby - The Chardonnay Charade

It was a folksy down-home kind of event, completely low-tech, with no computerized timers or cars following the runners along the course. Austin Kendall, wearing pink and lime plaid Bermuda shorts, a “Run Through the Vineyard” T-shirt, and a straw boater with small American flags tucked into it, genially yelled, “On your mark, get set, go!” and that started everyone off. Seth Hannah from the bank and Clayton Avery, who owned the Tribune, joined him at the finish line. It would be their collective decision as to who broke the tape and got first, second, and third place.

I didn’t see Jennifer Seely until after the race was over. She had competed in the 10k, turning in one of the better times among the women. I watched a Girl Scout hand her a bottle of water. Jen unscrewed the top and dumped the bottle so water sluiced over her hair and face, soaking her thin T-shirt, which clung to well-muscled contours. She looked tired but exhilarated. I watched with some envy. That used to be me.

She caught me staring. “Hello, Lucie.”

I walked over and leaned on my cane. “Congratulations. Great time you turned in.”

“Thanks.” She chugged the rest of her water.

“You sticking around for the picnic?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Randy’s sister is in town. She’s packing his things. I said I’d help.”

“You really were close, weren’t you?”

She flushed lightly. “I’m just trying to help. His family is devastated. No one can believe he killed himself. Not to mention all that crap about Georgia.”

“You know the police found bedding and condoms at our barn, don’t you?” I asked.

“I heard.” She picked at the label on the water bottle.

“You’ve been there with him, Jen. You were more than just friends.”

She stopped fiddling with the label and looked up. “What if I was? No one knows, Lucie. I’d like it to stay that way. Especially now that he’s dead.”

“Were you there the night Georgia died?”

“No. Of course not.” Her eyes flashed. “I gotta go. See you around.”

She sprinted past me and I watched her, long-legged with gazelle-like grace, as she ran down Sycamore Lane toward the parking lot.

She was lying. Too bad I couldn’t prove it.

Manolo called that evening on his way to pick up Emilio.

“They might be late,” he said. “But everyone’s coming. Kids, too.”

“Good.” I patted the pocket of my jeans where I had stuffed a roll of twenties. “This won’t work unless they all show up.”

The lit tip of Quinn’s cigar glowed orange in the soft darkness as I pulled into the parking lot just before ten. He sat on the stone wall by the stairs to the villa, smoking quietly.

“Manolo called,” I said as I joined him. “Everyone’s coming, but they’re running behind.”

“At least they’re showing up.”

“Moon’s pretty tonight,” I said. “Looks like a harvest moon.”

“Nope. It’s a blue moon,” he said. “The second full moon this month. They’re pretty rare.”

“That’s why they say ‘once in a blue moon’?”

“Yep.” The cigar glowed again and I heard him expel a breath. “I thought you were going to come out and look at the stars with me at the summerhouse.”

I said with a small shock, “I almost did the other night. I was nearly there when I realized you were with Bonita. So I left.”

He sounded surprised. “You were? We never heard you.”

Fortunately in the darkness he couldn’t see my face burn with embarrassment. I never should have brought it up. “The two of you were sort of busy.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he drawled. “Wait a minute. Don’t tell me you think—”

I cut him off. “Listen. Someone’s coming.”

Bobby’s tan unmarked Crown Vic pulled into the parking lot and he climbed out, leaving the engine running and the headlights on. Because he was backlit by the strong white glare, all I could see was a dark silhouette, including the bulge on his hip where he carried his gun.

“Evenin’, folks,” he said. “Where’s the happy family?”

“Running a little late,” Quinn said. “But they’re on their way.”

Bobby pulled a pack of bubblegum out of his pocket and held it out. “Gum?”

I said, “No, thanks,” as Quinn shook his head.

“How come you had to bring your gun?” I asked. “You’ll scare them.”

Bobby and Quinn exchanged glances.

“Uh, look, Lucie,” Bobby said, “in my job the only time I’m not carrying is in the shower. I didn’t do this just for Emilio and Marta.”

“Oh.”

He stuck a piece of gum in his mouth and joined Quinn and me on the wall. Behind us a chorus of bullfrogs sang loudly, the sound of the beginning of summer.

Another set of headlights cut a swath through the darkness.

“They’re here,” Bobby said. “Let’s do this.”

Emilio Mendez and Marta Juarez got out of the backseat of Manolo’s Toyota Camry. Each of them carried a small bundle. Manolo followed them. Emilio had plenty of yesterday’s swagger in him, but Marta, who looked like a child herself, seemed frightened. Her dark eyes were enormous as she clutched her baby and surveyed the three of us.

I stood up and went to her. “I’m Lucie, Marta. Can I see your baby?” I smiled, hoping showing off the child might help her relax.

Emilio said something low and hoarse in Spanish and Marta lowered the bundle from her shoulder, cradling the baby so I could see.

“A boy or a girl?” I asked.

“Angelina,” she murmured.

Emilio showed off the other twin. “My son,” he said. “Emilio.”

For the first time since I’d met him, he smiled.

“They’re beautiful,” I said. “You must be very proud.”

Behind me, Bobby cleared his throat. “Maybe I could ask them a couple of questions, Lucie, if that’s okay with you?”

I turned. “Sure. Sorry.”

He pulled out his notebook, positioning himself inside the wedge of light made by his headlights so he could see what he was writing. I held out my arms for baby Emilio and his father obliged. The child smelled sweet as I bent to kiss him. His eyes were closed.

“Okay,” Bobby said. “I’d like to ask you both what happened last Saturday night, May twenty-first, and Sunday morning, May twenty-second.”

It was pretty straightforward. Emilio did almost all the talking, occasionally in Spanish but often in English.

Marta went into labor early Saturday night. Emilio called Ross around ten-thirty p.m.

“You called his answering service?” Bobby asked.

Emilio glanced at Quinn. “¿Mande?”

Quinn interpreted, then Emilio said, “No. I call Dr. Ross. He give his mobile number to Marta.”

“What time did he get to your house?”

“Eleven-thirty, about.”

“Then what?”

Emilio shrugged. Angelina started to fuss and Marta turned away from us to quiet her. I could hear her crooning softly to her daughter. In my arms, Emilio still slept placidly.

“Then the babies come. First Emilio, then Angelina.”

“What time?”

“Four o’clock.” He waggled his fingers. “Around. For Emilio. Then maybe half hour and Angelina.”

“So they were born Sunday morning,” Bobby said.

“Sí.”

“What time did Dr. Greenwood leave?”

“ A las seis. Six.”

“You’re sure?” Bobby asked.

“I got Ross on his mobile around six-thirty,” I said, looking down at the sleeping child. “He told me he was on his way home after delivering the twins.”

“Thanks for that info, Lucie.” Bobby glared at me. “I’ll just finish with Emilio here, okay?”