Ellen Crosby - The Chardonnay Charade

I had known Katherine Eastman since we played together in the sandbox. Avoiding her—then, as now—was like trying to avoid gravity.

I rubbed my eyes. “Why would I be avoiding you? And I’m not ducking calls. At least, not yet.”

“I’m writing one of the stories about Georgia. You found her.”

Kit, a reporter with the Washington Tribune, had been an ascending star on the national desk, destined for the White House beat, until her mother had a stroke. The doctor didn’t pull any punches about how much care Faith Eastman would need. The next day Kit put in for a transfer to the rural Loudoun Bureau, the journalistic equivalent of asking to be moved from the express lane to the parking lot. If she minded the free-fall consequences to her career, she never complained or said she regretted her decision to be there for her mother.

“ One of the stories? How many are you guys writing?”

“It’s big news. Jerry Roper covered the crime scene. I’m supposed to write the feature—you know, the human-interest story,” she said. “How’d you happen to find her out there? Jerry said she was completely disfigured.”

“We’d been out all night with the grapes because of the freeze and I was driving home. Did Jerry see her? God, she looked awful. Her face was covered with open sores and blisters like she’d been burned.” I could hear the tap of Kit’s computer keys. “Are you writing this down?”

“Of course. What else? Any idea who was with her last night?”

“The whole town was with her last night. Your boyfriend asked for our guest list, along with everyone who was working there.” Kit and Bobby Noland had been seeing each other for the last nine months. Any day now I wondered if I’d get the invite to be a bridesmaid. “You get any information out of Bobby?”

“You know he can’t talk. You, on the other hand, can. How about dinner? I’ll pick you up. We can go to the Inn.”

She’d been brusque when she mentioned Bobby. If there was trouble in paradise, it was news to me. “What’s up with you love-birds? Did I say something?”

“Nothing’s up.” Terse, again.

Which meant there was. “Why don’t we eat here? There’s not much in the fridge, but you’re welcome to what I’ve got. Besides, don’t you have to get home to your mom?”

“My aunt is in town for a visit, so she’s looking after her. She thinks my social life is stagnating, so I’m supposed to go out every night while she’s here.”

“That’s a nice offer.”

“Yeah, but I can’t get in before midnight or she’s disappointed. I’m too beat at the end of the day to take myself out to a movie or hit a bar. Some nights I just work later.”

“I’m sure that wasn’t what she had in mind. And why are you going out by yourself? Did you and Bobby break up and you didn’t tell me?”

“Have dinner with me,” she pleaded. “We can talk then.”

“Come here and I’ll cook.”

“No offense, but I want more than the rabbit food you usually have on hand. Let’s go to the Inn.”

“I’m really grimy. I need a shower.”

“So take one. I’ll book us a table. Pick you up in forty-five minutes.”

I got out of bed and retrieved my clothes off the floor. My mobile phone fell out of my jeans pocket, landing on the bed. Dead as a doornail.

I plugged it in to the charger next to the answering machine downstairs as I was on my way out the door. Then I called Ross. A woman answered.

“Greenwood residence.”

“Siri?” I should have figured she’d be there looking after him. She was devoted to Ross, in awe of the way he’d been turning the clinic around ever since she’d persuaded him to take the job as chief physician. “It’s Lucie.”

“Hi, honey.” She sounded weary, but relieved. “The press has been calling nonstop, hounding him. Ross is absolutely shattered. He’s asleep, so I’m manning the fort.”

“What can I do?”

“Nothing, nothing. Thanks for asking. The best thing now is to leave him alone and give him some time to deal with what’s happened. He might be better tomorrow, but tonight he’s…well, it’s pretty bad. I’ll let you know when he’s ready to see friends.”

“Sure. I’d appreciate it.” I said goodbye and hung up.

Siri had lost her husband to lung cancer three years ago. It had been only a few weeks from the time Karl Randstad was diagnosed, after complaining of chest pains when he returned from his daily three-mile run, until he passed away. He hadn’t touched a cigarette a day in his life. No one could believe it.

Karl and I had been patients at Catoctin General Hospital at the same time, though he was in the oncology wing and I was, by then, in a general ward. Siri made a point of stopping by to see me each day for a few minutes when she wasn’t keeping vigil at Karl’s bedside. We didn’t know each other well, but I was Ross’s patient and she had just opened the clinic and was in the process of persuading Ross to come work for her.

I suppose I will always remember when Karl died, for the irony of it. He was scheduled to begin chemo the next day. That afternoon Siri stopped by to see me as usual, and for the first time since they found out about the cancer she’d sounded upbeat and hopeful.

I couldn’t make it to his funeral, but Ross told me later there wasn’t a dry eye in the church. I lost touch with Siri when I moved to France, but when I came home to Atoka, I’d been stunned the first time I saw her. Her once-glossy shoulder-length dark brown hair was prematurely streaked with gray and the worry lines around her eyes and her mouth belonged on someone much older.

Kit’s khaki-colored Jeep pulled into the driveway just as I finished dialing Quinn. His phone went to voice mail.

“If you’re getting this message, I’m not available. You know what to do. Here comes the beep, so do it.”

“Hi. Me. I’m going out to dinner with Kit,” I said. “My cell phone’s dead, so leave a message at the house if you need me. Otherwise I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Kit pulled a map book and some papers off the dashboard and crumpled a large empty chip bag as I opened the door to the Jeep, tossing it all in the backseat.

“Climb in.” She picked up a cloth satchel from the passenger seat and flung it over her shoulder. “I’ve made room.”

The floor was littered with copies of the Trib, a battered tissue box, a water bottle, and a greasy bag in a Styrofoam tray that held the remains of a meal. Not today’s.

“Where am I going to put my feet? You don’t have to keep this stuff in perpetuity, you know. That’s why they make garbage cans.” I moved the tray with the tip of my cane and sat down. “I just stepped on something squishy.”

“So that’s where the bubble-wrap mailer went.” She sounded cheerful. “Hand it to me, will you? My mom bought something from one of those home shopping channels and I’m sending it back.”

I slid an envelope out from under a file folder and gave it to her. “What’d she buy? Must have been tiny, to fit in here.”

“A lace teddy. Cost a fortune.”

“Good for her. Why can’t she keep it? Too expensive?”

“Too small. She thought she ordered a size twenty, but a size two showed up.”

“Oh, brother. Hey, do me a favor? Go through the parking lot at the winery and take the south service road. I want to see what the police and the hazmat guys did to the place. We had every cruiser, fire truck, and emergency vehicle in two counties here this morning.”

“You don’t have to ask me twice. I’m dying to see it.” She glanced at me. “You know I didn’t mean that.”

When we got there, she stopped the Jeep and we got out of the car. The ground where Georgia’s body had lain was still waterlogged. Ross hadn’t been kidding about the decontamination process.