Ellen Crosby - The Chardonnay Charade

The uneasiness that had been haunting me all evening had bloomed to real fear. And anger. Mac wouldn’t have lied to me about the condition of the book. He was an eccentric businessman, but he was an honest one. I flipped through the pages one more time. I’d seen that distinctive thick cream paper somewhere else.

The letter Jefferson Davis wrote to Judah Benjamin.

If Ross had cut out the pages before returning the book to Mac, then to whom had he given them so that person had been able to forge the letter? Had he done it himself? The forgery had obviously been good enough to fool some expert analyst who believed it was genuine. Meaning the forger had to be a real master at what he did.

I left the book in the library and got a bottle of one of our best Chardonnays from the wine cellar. This time I went to the summer-house.

Ross told me once that in medical school he’d been taught to diagnose disease and illness by their own version of Occam’s razor—that usually there is a common, logical, and easily understandable diagnosis for a patient’s symptoms. When you hear hoof beats, first think horses, not zebras. Assume the easiest and most obvious explanation.

But as I sat there watching the stars for the second time in two nights, wishing Quinn were here with his telescope to distract me, I couldn’t help myself. There were exceptions to every theory. And God help me, this time I did not think horses.

I thought zebras.

I finally fell asleep in one of the Adirondack chairs. When I woke at daylight it felt as though I had a crushing weight on my chest and then I remembered all of it. Mia’s accident and everything that lay ahead for her. And Ross.

By now I was positive that the Jefferson Davis letter had been written on a page excised from my book. The paper would be the right age, for one thing. But did Ross forge the letter himself, or did he obtain the paper for someone else?

Either way, why had he done it? He didn’t need the money. Was it for the thrill of trying to get away with something this audacious?

I finished most of a pot of coffee after a shower and breakfast as I watched the layered Blue Ridge change from gray to heathery blue as the sun rose in the sky. Quinn would wonder where I was. Finally I called him.

“Sorry, I overslept,” I lied. “And something’s come up. I’ll be in after lunch.”

“Are you sick?” he said.

“No.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Aw, jeez. You’re a horrible liar, you know that? Is it something about Mia?”

“No, I need to talk to someone, that’s all.”

“Lucie,” he warned. “Don’t con me.”

“I’ll call you later. Word of honor.” Then I hung up.

First I had to see Mac. Right before I left, I woke my sister.

“I’ve got some errands to do. Middleburg and Leesburg. I’ll be back later,” I said. “You know the drill.”

She sat up sleepily and scratched her head. “Yeah, no booze for breakfast.”

“Very funny.”

“You still trying to figure out who cut the pages out of that book?”

I had tucked it under my arm. “Not anymore. See you later.”

I got to Macdonald’s Antiques just after ten. I found Mac straightening a painting of someone’s ancestor that hung next to an antique barometer. His eyes fell on the book.

“What have we got here? Don’t tell me you’re not happy with that gorgeous book?” His smile was strained. “I don’t understand why something as beautiful as that keeps coming back here like a boomerang.”

“I’m not returning it, Mac,” I said, and watched him relax. “I’m just wondering if the reason Ross returned it was because of the pages that had been cut out of it.”

“Oh, so he told you he had it on trial?” Mac said. “And, sugar, no pages were cut out of it. I checked it over myself. That book is in absolutely pristine condition.” He held out his hand. “May I?”

I clutched it to my heart. “No, that’s okay. I’m going to take it apart anyway, for the wine labels. Thanks so much. Sorry to bother you. I’ve got to go.” I was babbling, but I didn’t want to hand the book over, now that he’d confirmed my suspicions.

“Something wrong, Lucie?” He straightened a lace doily on a small oak table. “I know you’ve had a lot on your mind lately.”

“Yes,” I said, “it’s been rough. Thanks, Mac. See you later.”

Then I drove to Leesburg.

If Ross was the forger, then this wasn’t the only document he’d faked. What about his collection of Civil War papers? Were they all phony, or just some of them? Lord, he’d sold dozens of items he’d turned up over the past few years, earning himself a respected reputation among historians. Had he duped everyone?

And if he could fake Jefferson Davis’s signature well enough to fool the experts, then how hard would it have been to fake someone else’s handwriting, who was less well known?

Randy.

What about that note that supposedly came back with Georgia’s dry cleaning? And the suicide note? Dear God.

I went to the clinic. They didn’t have visiting hours until the afternoon. Hopefully no one would be there except Ross, and maybe Siri. What was I going to do or say when I saw him? Accuse him of forgery…and murder? Two deaths? I’d helped him get off, hadn’t I? He had relied on my loyalty, my faith in him, my devotion—and I’d delivered.

I parked by the side entrance next to the black Explorer. The only other car in the lot. He was alone.

I tried the door, though I knew it would be locked. Then I banged on it until finally he opened it. He seemed surprised to see me.

Bobby told me once that the hardest thing about being a cop was seeing the look of betrayal flash in the eyes of a criminal when you slap handcuffs on them because they really believed you meant it when you said, “If you put down that gun nothing’s going to happen.”

“They give you this big, dumb look,” he’d said. “Like cows. And they say, ‘You promised.’”

I held up the book of prints. Ross’s eyes met mine—which I know were filled with fury—and that look of betrayal came into his.

“You want to tell me about this?” I asked.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“I’m sure you are,” I said. “Where’s the letter Jefferson Davis wrote to Judah Benjamin, Ross? Can I see it again?”

“I don’t have it anymore,” he said. “I dropped it off at the auction house yesterday.”

“Well, I guess there’s hope that one of their experts will figure out it’s a forgery before they sell it,” I said. “If I can do it, it can’t be too hard. Though I wonder how you fooled whoever vetted it for you.”

His eyes grew dark and hard then, and I knew. “Oh,” I said. “Your expert gets a share of what you sell it for, is that it?”

Ross took my arm. “Let’s go to my office, shall we?”

I shook my arm free. “Don’t touch me. I can walk fine by myself.”

“No,” he said, still my doctor. “You can’t. You need a brace for that leg and you’re in denial about it.” He shoved me into his office and closed the door. I heard the sound of a deadbolt. “I need you to be reasonable, Lucie. The money is going for the clinic.”

He walked around to his desk and indicated that I should sit down in one of the two chairs facing him, just like we were going to have a little chat about my blood pressure. He sat. I did not.

He straightened up some papers and, though I’m not good at reading upside down, I know a prescription pad when I see one. It looked like he’d been busy writing prescriptions, too. I felt sick. Where did it stop?

My voice shook. “You forged those notes from Randy, didn’t you?”