Ellen Crosby - The Merlot Murders

“Sure. I can tell it’s tearing you apart.”

He had changed from his monogrammed dress shirt and tie into a monogrammed peach-colored polo shirt. There was a time when he refused to wear clothing that had someone’s name printed or sewn on it, even his own. And I’d never seen him wear anything peach.

“Knock it off. Don’t act so damned sanctimonious, okay? You haven’t got a monopoly on grief, Lucie. This isn’t only happening to you.”

“I never said it was,” I said. “But you can at least spend a few seconds mourning him before you start talking about money.”

I smacked my cane against the ground as I walked over to Jesús and sat down. We’d scrapped like a normal brother and sister when we were kids. But this was something more. Eli was driven in a way I didn’t remember—his concern about money, the designer wardrobe, the palace he was building. How much debt was he in, anyway?

I fanned myself with my hand and unstuck my dress, which clung to me like I’d showered in it. It got this hot in the south of France, but it was a dry heat, cooled and tempered by the mistral and scented with the powerful fragrances of lavender, thyme, and rosemary. Here the air was so thick I could practically see it and the smell was the dank chemical odor of soil and plants and grass decomposing.

An ambulance showed up, along with a fire truck and two other official-looking cars. Though they didn’t use their sirens, their red and blue strobe lights pulsed in the nighttime blackness, adding to the surreal feeling that was slowly taking hold of me.

Eli caught up with one of the fireman who walked quickly toward the courtyard to the barrel room. He wore a dirty yellow jacket with orange reflective stripes, overalls, boots, and a helmet. On the back of the jacket, large luminescent letters spelled out “Gleason.” He stopped and shoved the helmet off his forehead, listening to what my brother told him. He shook his head and moved on.

Eli saw me watching and strode over. “This is absurd. We’re not allowed in our own place.”

“Let them do their work, Eli.”

He glared at me but said nothing.

It was a while before Bobby finished. Jesús had wandered over to the stone wall by the parking lot, leaning against it and chain-smoking. Doc Harmon left on a veterinary emergency. “Maybe I can save a life somewhere else,” he said. “There’s nothing I can do here.”

Eli and I sat on the villa steps, not speaking. We got up when Bobby finally walked through the courtyard archway carrying a small notebook. He kept clicking his ballpoint pen like he was counting something.

“Well, Santini says there wasn’t any oxygen in that tank. It was pure carbon dioxide. He says Fitz would have suffocated instantly.”

I shuddered.

“Santori,” Eli said. “And he’s right. Jacques was strict as hell about not letting anybody work around the tanks without a buddy when they were cleaning them. Climbing into a purged stainless-steel tank is like climbing into a shark tank. There have been accidents just like this out in California.” He shrugged. “Making wine has its occupational hazards.”

Bobby blew a bubble and popped it. “Jesus, Eli. Are you trying to pass this off as an accident? You think Fitz took a wrong detour and ended up in your tank of wine?”

Eli reddened. “Of course not. But when he showed up at Leland’s wake last night he was stinking drunk. He told Lucie he needed to stop here to pick up some wine. I don’t know…maybe he got disoriented or something.”

Bobby opened his notebook and clicked the pen once more. He started writing. “He said he was coming here, did he?”

“To pick up some special cases of wine for a wedding,” I said.

“Santini says there’s a bunch of money missing from your safe,” Bobby flipped back through a few pages. “More’n four thousand bucks. You got some migrant workers here who just show up for harvest. Not the same guys every year. Not the same guys every day, for that matter.” He looked at us. “And someone cut the lock to the barrel room door. You’ll need to replace it.”

“Robbery?” I asked. “You think he surprised someone trying to rob us?”

“Dunno,” he said. “We’re talking to all your crew. It’s taking a while, though, because nobody speaks English. Hector just showed up. He and Santini are doing the translating for us.” He blew another bubble. “So when was the last time you all saw Fitz?”

“Shortly before the wake ended,” I said. “He left when Thelma started singing.”

“Wise move.” Bobby chewed thoughtfully. “So what time was that, about?”

“Nine-thirty?” I guessed.

“Closer to nine-forty,” Eli said.

Bobby looked up from the notes he’d been writing and frowned. Then his face lightened. “Oh right. You’ve got that nuclear watch. Must come in handy sometimes. So nine-forty, then.” He did some calculating. “That’d put him here about nine-fifty, nine-fifty-five. Kind of late at night to be working, isn’t it?”

“Restaurants and vineyards don’t work eight-hour day shifts, Bobby. Just like you guys,” Eli said.

“That so?” Bobby squinted at us. “So where were the both of you last night?”

Eli looked incredulous. “At Leland’s wake, of course.”

“I meant afterwards. When did you leave and what did you do?”

There was something different in his voice that changed him from the kid who had a regular seat in detention hall to a cop who had the authority to pry into the details of our lives. He looked at both of us and, when his eyes met mine, they were opaque and unreadable. A cop’s eyes.

Eli looked annoyed. “Oh, come on, Bobby. Brandi and I went home. To bed.”

“You’re saying you didn’t spend any time here? This place or the big house?”

“Only to drop Lucie off,” Eli said. “Brandi was exhausted. We went straight home after that. To Leesburg.”

“Did you drive by the winery?”

“Nope.”

“What about you, Lucie?”

“I went to bed after Eli took me home. I had just gotten off a plane from France yesterday afternoon. I was really beat, Bobby.”

“Who else was there? Mia? Dominique?”

“Mia stayed with Greg Knight and Dominique slept over at Joe’s,” Eli said.

“I’ll check that out, too.” He didn’t look up from his notebook, but the bubble he blew this time was lopsided and deflated instantly.

“Yo, Bobby!” Another uniformed officer stood in the courtyard archway. “We need you.”

“Coming.” The three of us walked toward him. “You two stay put,” Bobby said. “I don’t suppose I have to tell you that this place is now a crime scene. No one goes in there until we take the yellow tape down. Understood?”

“Your guys shouldn’t leave the door open like that. The place is climate-controlled.” Eli sounded irritated. “You know, harvest starts next week, Bobby. You can’t shut us down.”

“Actually, Eli, I’m afraid we can.” Bobby was short. “And the place is gonna stay shut down while we go over everything for evidence. So if anybody gets any cute ideas about sneaking back in and contaminating the site before I give the all clear, you’ll be hearing about it from hell to breakfast. Understand?”

He left for the barrel room without waiting for an answer, his heavy-soled shoes crunching on the gravel.

“Damnit,” Eli said. He picked up a handful of stones and pitched them, one by one, at nothing in particular.

“Why did you have to be so hard on him? Maybe we could have worked something out, if only you hadn’t treated him like he was Barney Fife, straight out of Mayberry.”

Eli’s eyes were cool. “I’m starting to wonder whose side you’re on, Luce.”