Ellen Crosby - The Chardonnay Charade

If it had been anyone else but Bobby, I might have been intimidated. “Of course you have permission. But be careful around the vines, okay? It’s easy to knock the grapes off and that’s our harvest.”

Bobby tapped the pen against his notebook and looked annoyed. “You got a homicide here. Not to mention a serious EPA violation on your hands. From what I hear, that menthol bromite is supposed to be under lock and key.”

“Methyl bromide.” I said. “I know. It’s a long story.”

“Well, you’ll get to tell it to someone from the EPA soon enough. And speaking of stories, is it true you were here all night with a helicopter flying overhead that had a searchlight on it? And nobody saw anything? Not even that chopper?”

“He was paying attention to a couple of blocks of vines, flying about fifteen feet off the ground. It was all he could do to see them. Quinn and I wore protective headgear because of the noise. We wouldn’t have heard a bomb go off,” I said.

In the past hour the mist had rolled in, softening the hard edges of the scene unfolding around us. The earlier cacophony of sirens, walkie-talkies, and shouting voices overlaid with the droning engines of emergency vehicles grew muted as though filtered through gauze.

“You had a party last night, too,” he said. “Georgia Greenwood came.”

“Along with almost everyone else in Atoka,” I said. “We hosted the fund-raiser for the free clinic.”

“When’s the last time you saw Georgia? Alive.”

“When the party ended around eleven.”

“What was she doing? Was she with anyone?”

I nodded. “Just saying good night to everyone. Then she left with Hugo Lang.”

Bobby rolled his eyes. “He was the last person you saw with her before she got popped? Aw, jeez. A U.S. senator. Just what I need. Where was Ross?”

Popped. I winced. “He got called away early. One of his patients went into labor. He was out all night delivering twins.”

Bobby wrote in the notebook. “What time did he leave?”

I tried to remember. Last time I’d seen him he’d been talking to Siri Randstad, the clinic’s executive director.

“I think it might have been when the band finished their last set. So around ten-thirty.”

“I need a guest list,” Bobby said. “Everyone who was there. Also waiters, waitresses. And anyone you got working at the vineyard.”

“The guest list is in my office at the winery. Quinn has the information on our workers and the day laborers. Dominique can tell you about the catering staff.”

“Anybody else I missed? You have any music or entertainment?”

“Randy Hunter’s band played all night.”

Bobby looked up from his notes. “You kiddin’ me? No offense, but what’s a redneck band doing playing for that kind of fancy-dress crowd?”

“Georgia set it up,” I said. “Randy did it for free because it was good exposure, plus it was for charity.”

“She did, did she? All right. Anything else I should know?” When I hesitated, he added, “Make my job easy, Lucie. If you don’t tell me, I’ll find out anyway.” He tapped his pen on the notebook.

“Harry Dye got drunk and gave Georgia a piece of his mind.”

“Talk to me.”

“She and Hugo Lang went up onstage during one of the band’s breaks so she could announce that he was endorsing her for state senate.”

“Harry went with them?”

“No, of course not. Actually…” I stopped.

He was right on top of me. “Yeah? What?”

“Harry’d just finished having it out with Randy. Then Georgia started to talk and Harry started in heckling her. Something about, ‘Gals like you ought to stay home where you belong instead of trying to mind everybody else’s business.’”

“You mean he had words with Georgia and Randy? Jeez. What’d he say to Randy?”

“I didn’t hear.”

“All right. Go on about Georgia.”

“It was over pretty quickly. The place went completely quiet, then Georgia told him he’d obviously had one too many drinks and that he wasn’t a good advertisement for his own vineyard,” I said. “Polite, but you could tell she was ready to rip his insides out and tie them in a knot. Luckily, a couple of the Romeos hauled Harry out of there right away. I think they took him home.”

The Romeos were a group of retired businessmen whose name stood for “Retired Old Men Eating Out.” Patrons of a grateful network of local restaurants and cafés, they played poker, solved the world’s problems, and, along with Thelma Johnson, who owned the general store, were the richly vibrant source of local information otherwise known as gossip. In Atoka the six degrees of separation rapidly compressed to two.

“Which Romeos?” Bobby asked.

“Austin Kendall and Seth Hannah.”

He noted that, then said, “You got any idea what Georgia would be doing on your service road in the middle of the night?”

“No. It’s not open to the public unless it’s apple-picking season. The only people who used it yesterday were the caterers and the people who brought in the tents. The guests came by the main road and parked in the winery parking lot. Then they walked to the Ruins.”

“Everybody leave the way they came?”

“I’m not sure, since I took off around midnight. But usually once the guests leave, the staff takes Sycamore Lane. The service road’s full of potholes. If you don’t know where they are—especially in the dark—it’s hard on your alignment.”

He shut the notebook. “I’d appreciate having that guest list. My officer will drive you over to the winery.”

“Okay if I take my car?” I asked. “It’s over by where Georgia…The hazmat guys don’t need to decontaminate it, do they?”

Bobby eyed me. “I’ll ask. Stay here.”

He returned about fifteen minutes later. “You can take your car. They don’t need to do any decon,” he said. “By the way, who uses that old hay barn you got over by the creek?”

“We let Randy’s band practice there,” I said.

“Practice what?”

“Music. What else would they be practicing?”

Bobby eyed me skeptically. “One of my men just radioed from your barn. He found an open package of condoms in the loft. Some quilts and a sleeping bag, too. You know anything about that?”

I blushed and said, surprised, “No, I did not.”

“Any idea what women Randy and his band might have brought there?”

“No.” I’m a terrible liar. My face always turns red. Bobby’d been watching it do that since I was eight.

“Lucie?” He waited.

“Just a rumor about Randy. He, uh, might have brought Georgia.”

Now it was his turn to look surprised. “Are you kidding me? Randy and Georgia, huh?” He shook his head wonderingly. “You see him leave the party last night?”

“When it was over and the band packed up. About eleven-thirty.”

“Was he with anyone?”

“Nope. Alone. The rest of the band left earlier.” I leaned on my cane. My throbbing left foot felt like hundreds of pins and needles were stabbing it. “Anything else, or can I go now?”

“As a matter of fact, there is something else,” he said. “I got good news and bad news for you. The good news is that considering the location of the crime scene, we’re not going to make you temporarily close your winery while we do our investigation.”

“I appreciate that. And the bad news?”

“The EPA might not be feeling so generous by the time they get through with you. Those boys could slap a big ole fine on you and take your bonded license away for leaving that menthol stuff out by those new fields.” He looked at me severely. “In other words, they could shut you down for good.”