Ellen Crosby - The Chardonnay Charade

She chewed her lip. “I don’t see the point in bringing any of this up. It’s over, done with…nothing would change if the sheriff knew I was there. I didn’t see anything. Just…well, heard things. Do I need to draw you a picture? I didn’t kill anyone. I was mad and hurt and jealous. That makes me human, not a murderer.”

I scratched a line over and over in the dirt parking lot with the tip of my cane.

“Look”—she pointed to the Inn—“my dad just won the primary. He’s a good man and he’s going to do good things in Richmond. If my name gets dragged through the mud now, some of it’s going to stick to him. He deserves better than that.”

I was silent.

“I need to get inside. Good night, Lucie.”

She left and I was alone again in the parking lot with a lot of churning thoughts. Jen had gotten into the barn without anyone knowing about it—except me.

Another guilty secret, and once again, I was an accomplice.

Mac had the book of Virginia wildflower prints on his desk when I stopped by the antique store the next morning. He beamed as I walked through the front door.

“Well, well, well. Glad you came right down here, sugar,” he said. “I’m so happy to see you.”

Sure he was. Me and my wallet. “Thanks, Mac.”

“Sit right down and have a look. Aren’t those colored plates just gorgeous? They’re all hand done, and this is a limited edition, of course. Only two hundred and fifty copies printed. This one’s number sixty-three.”

I sat. This book was going to set me back plenty. But as I leafed through the pages and examined the hand-colored plates of wild bergamot, witch hazel, azalea, bloodroot, and spicebush on the thick cream-colored paper, I knew he was right that it was a real gem. I closed the book and cradled it in my lap.

“How much?”

“I’m going to make a big sacrifice here. Practically give it to you.”

Of course. He always said that.

He rocked back and forth on his heels. “Six hundred dollars.”

“Six hundred? Lord, Mac, that’s a fortune!”

He looked hurt. “Now, Lucie, I could remove those fifteen prints and sell each one of them for a hundred dollars, easy. I know you want this book and I want you to have it. That’s why I’m making you such a wonderful offer.”

He wasn’t going to budge on the price. And he had a point about selling the prints individually for more money. Even if Quinn and I decided not to use them as wine labels, I still wanted the book. Assuming Quinn still worked at the vineyard in three years—or even in three months. Maybe someone else would be making the decision about those labels with me.

I set my credit card on his desk. “I’ll take it.”

Mac gave me a big bad toothy smile and a roguish wink. “I knew you’d come ’round. You’re not going to regret it.”

As it turned out, neither of us had any idea just how much I would regret it. Owning that book changed everything.

I left the book of prints at the house. Better than leaving it at the villa where Quinn might see it. We’d only argue again. Right now I didn’t want to risk any more arguments. We’d had too many already.

On Thursday I met with a cute blonde from the corporate events department of a large Tysons Corner company. We sat on the terrace of the villa and discussed the fact that her boss was looking for a venue for their international sales meeting.

“Gee whiz,” she said wistfully as she stood up and reached for her leather-bound folder, “I’d love to work at a place like this.”

I nearly opened my mouth to say we could use some help with public relations and marketing when she added, “Just hang out all day and plan parties and drink nice wine. You must have so much fun. I bet it beats having a real job, huh?”

I smiled brightly. “You have no idea.”

She grinned. “Yeah. Wow. I’ll be in touch. I just love this place.”

After she left I called Quinn’s mobile. He said he’d be in the barrel room racking over the Cabernet Sauvignon. Bonita had asked for the afternoon off to drive Hector and Sera to a cardiologist appointment in Leesburg. Quinn’s phone went to voice mail. He’d probably set it down in the lab and was out of earshot in one of the alcoves. I decided to go over and talk to him.

Both Quinn and Mick Dunne were standing by the stone wall at the far end of the courtyard as I walked through the archway, heading toward the barrel room. Quinn gestured expansively with his hands as he talked. Mick’s head was bowed as he listened intently, hands in his pockets. I moved into the shadows of the loggia where they wouldn’t see me.

By the looks of things, they were having the will-you-or-won’t-you talk. My car keys were in my pocket. I couldn’t watch any more.

I drove to the cemetery, the place I always headed to when I needed to get away, ever since I was a kid. Here, at least, I could count on a loyal group of relatives to hear me out, whatever my problem.

The Memorial Day roses Eli, Mia, and I had left at the graves ten days ago had withered in the heat. I touched the petals of the one by Leland’s headstone and they dropped off, leaving a naked stem. I tried to arrange them as they’d been, but what was done was done. In the distance, clouds drifted to make dappled patterns of light and shadow on the peaceful Blue Ridge. Off to the right I could see a narrow green tree line, the boundary that separated Mick’s farm from ours. I left the fractured flower and went to my mother’s grave, leaning on her headstone for support as I sat down.

If, as the old Indian legend went, the stars in the sky were openings in the floor of heaven where loved ones could shine down to let us know they were happy, then was there some tangible reverse way we could let them know about us here down on earth, if we needed them and we weren’t happy?

I did not want Quinn to leave, plain and simple. But what I did want was impossible—the kind of relationship my mother and Jacques shared. A partnership where we made decisions together. Jacques was old-school European and his gallantry and politesse in the way he treated not only my mother, but our clients, had made him enormously popular and well-liked. Quinn, with his loud Hawaiian shirts, big cigars, and in-your-face attitude, was the polar opposite; a man Kit once said would benefit from a few sessions in charm school. He wanted to run the show, treated me like I knew little or nothing about the business, acted brashly and abrasively—and so we clashed on almost every issue. But, as they say, the heart wants what the heart wants, however illogical or irrational.

And mine wanted him to stay.

That night a heavy blanket of clouds rolled in and no stars shone down from the sky. No telling if my mother was happy or not. But if she wasn’t, that made two of us.

On my way to work Friday morning I found my mobile phone on the demilune table next to the charger. Only one bar on the battery. I unplugged the charger and brought it and the phone with me so I could recharge it in my office.

Quinn was already at the villa when I drove up. He showed up in my office with two cups of coffee.

“Morning.” He handed one to me and his eyes strayed to the red light on my desk. “Forgot to charge our phone again, did we?”

“Thank you,” I said, indicating the coffee. “I think it’s the battery. It doesn’t hold a charge very long anymore.”

He raised his eyebrows and blew on his coffee. “What would you do if somebody needed to get in touch with you and it was life or death?”

“We didn’t always have mobile phones,” I said. “My mother and Jacques managed fine without them.”

“You and I are not your mother and Jacques,” he said.