Ellen Crosby - The Chardonnay Charade

Kit read my mind. “I heard they had to turn the fire hoses on Georgia to wash that pesticide off her.”

I nodded and touched my fingers to my lips.

“You okay, Luce?” Kit squeezed my shoulder. “You look like you’re going to lose your cookies.”

“I’ll be all right.”

“What kind of sicko would do something like this?”

“Someone who knew about the methyl bromide being left out in the field. Or saw it when we were setting up for the fund-raiser.”

“Well, it had to be premeditated. Man, I heard about that stuff not being locked up. That is such bad news.”

“I know.” I shivered. “Okay, I’ve seen enough. Let’s get out of here while there’s still daylight left. It’s getting cold again, too.”

Kit drove too fast as usual, one hand on the wheel and the other gesticulating as she talked. By tacit agreement, we avoided discussing Georgia’s murder, my EPA woes, or her relationship with Bobby. Instead she asked about Chris Coronado’s helicopter and last night’s freeze and I answered halfheartedly. I needed food. And a drink.

The Goose Creek Inn sat on a quiet country lane about ten minutes from the center of Middleburg. For anyone who didn’t know exactly where it was—meaning the nonlocals—it seemed to materialize suddenly out of the woods around a sharp bend in the road. A pretty half-timbered ivy-covered building whose silhouette was now outlined by tiny white lights, it glowed softly in the gathering twilight as if plucked out of a fairy tale. Kit pulled into the parking lot as waiters illuminated electric candles in the arched picture windows. We found a space at the far end of the nearly full lot. When we got out of the Jeep, the cathedral-like canopy of trees overhead hushed all sound except for rushing water where Goose Creek tumbled through a boulder-filled ravine nearby.

“Too bad it’s too cold to eat outside. It’s nice sitting on the terrace so you can hear the creek,” Kit said.

“At least it won’t be as cold as last night,” I said. “The temperature’s supposed to stay above freezing, thank God.”

A wreath of dried flowers and rushes hung on the fire-engine-red front door. I pushed against the latch and it swung open. My late godfather, Fitzhugh Pico, had opened the Inn many years ago and it had won every dining award in the metropolitan Washington, D.C., region. My cousin Dominique, Fitz’s former business partner, now owned the place and wisely changed nothing when she took over, so guests still felt like they were dropping by for dinner at the home of good friends.

The large foyer was full of dark-suited men and pretty women. Fitz had consulted my French mother on the Inn’s décor and as a result, the place resembled a comfortable auberge with its whitewashed walls, quarry-tiled floor, and eclectic collection of gaily hued oil paintings and vintage posters advertising French alcohol, cigarettes, and travel. At night the staff wore tuxedos, so the three men who hovered near the maître d’s stand debating the seating plan reminded me of a small flock of well-groomed penguins.

“Lucie.” The head maître d’ bussed me on both cheeks. “ Ma pauvre. Dominique told me what happened. I’m so glad you came to see us. We’ll take care of you.” He nodded to Kit. “ Bonsoir, Katherine. Always a pleasure having you here. Your table is nearly ready. Would you like to wait in the bar un petit instant while we finish setting it?”

A buzz of conversation above the clatter of dishes and the clinking of silverware seemed vaguely comforting. I could see through the warren of interconnected rooms that all the tables appeared to be taken.

I said, “No, thanks” as Kit said, “Yes.”

Kit’s eyes narrowed. “Why not? You could use a drink, if you ask me.”

“I could, but I just saw a couple of the Romeos in the bar. You know they’re going to hit me up for every detail about what happened. I don’t think I can handle it right now.”

The maître d’ swiftly picked up two menus. “I have a table available right now. In the main dining room, not where you usually sit, and not terribly private. Will that be satisfactory? Otherwise…”

Kit nodded as I said, “Perfect.”

“I’ll let your cousin know where you’re sitting. Enjoy your dinner.”

Kit got her earlier wish—almost—as our table was next to a window overlooking Goose Creek. A necklace of Japanese lanterns strung along its banks shone serenely in the darkness. I could no longer see the water except in places where it glinted, shiny and black as coal in the lantern light, nor hear it above the din of voices.

Our waiter took drink orders, but it was my cousin who showed up with two glasses. Not what we’d asked for.

“Kir Royal. On the house.” Dominique set the flutes of raspberry-colored champagne in front of us. “How are you, ma puce ?” She brushed a spiky strand of auburn hair out of her eyes and leaned down to kiss each of us on both cheeks.

Before Dominique became the full-time owner of the Inn, she ran a catering company that she’d nurtured from a startup when she moved here from France to look after Mia when my mother died. Before long she was putting in Washington-type sixty-and seventy-hour weeks and business was booming. Everyone figured she’d get an assistant once she added the Inn to an overfull plate, but by then she’d been named Loudoun County’s businesswoman of the year and you don’t stomp on superwoman’s cape, to loosely paraphrase the song.

A few months later she came down with pneumonia brought on by exhaustion and finally decided maybe she could use a little help. She went through three assistants in three months and had just hired her fourth. Fortunately, my cousin hadn’t been around at the time or she probably would have micromanaged God into taking only five days instead of seven to get the ball rolling creation-wise.

“I’m all right,” I said. “Thanks for the Kir.”

“I heard about Georgia from Sam Constantine,” she said. “ Mon Dieu, how awful!”

“How did Sam know?” I asked.

“He was with Ross at the sheriff’s office.”

Sam was one of the Romeos, even though he was still a year or two away from retirement.

“Ross needed a lawyer?” I had been reaching for my champagne glass and nearly knocked it over. Dominique rescued it before it tipped. “Sorry,” I apologized. “Ross is home now. I just spoke to Siri Randstad. She’s answering his phone and trying to keep the press at bay.” I glanced at Kit, who made a face. “I didn’t mean you. Anyway, Siri didn’t mention that Ross had been charged with anything.”

“He wasn’t,” my cousin said. “Sam was just there making sure nothing happened to Ross’s Second Amendment rights.”

Dominique was finally getting her U.S. citizenship and was hoping to be sworn in just before Flag Day, after she took a test in civics and American history.

“The Second Amendment,” Kit said, fishing a raspberry out of her champagne flute with her finger, “is the right to bear arms.”

“ Merde. One of the other ones, then.”

“Ross has the best alibi in the world,” I said. “He delivered twins last night. Got the call before the fund-raiser ended. When I reached him this morning to tell him about Georgia, he was just driving home.”

“The police always check out whoever is closest to the victim first,” Kit said. “You know that.”

“I’d better get back to the kitchen.” Dominique glanced over her shoulder. “They probably need me there. By the way, the pastry chef made Fitz’s Double Chocolate Died-and-Gone-to-Heaven Cheese-cake.” She glanced at Kit. “In case you’re interested.”

Kit rolled her eyes. “I couldn’t. Okay, I shouldn’t.”