Ellen Crosby - The Merlot Murders

I heard the car coming before it pulled into the floodlit parking lot. A blonde woman driving a khaki-colored Jeep with the top down parked next to Eli’s Jag.

“Oh God,” Eli said. “What’s she doing here?”

Katherine Eastman opened the door to the Jeep and climbed out, a large leather purse slung over one shoulder. She was dressed in a black mini-skirt and clingy red tank top that had either shrunk in the dryer or she was kidding herself. She must have gained twenty-five pounds since the last time I’d seen her.

“I came as soon as I heard,” she said. She was wearing lipstick to match the fire-engine-red tank top, eye makeup that looked like it had been applied by a road marking gang, and her hair, which had once been a flatteringly warm shade of auburn, was Marilyn Monroe blonde. “Is it really true?”

“You shouldn’t have bothered,” Eli said. “We could do without the press.”

“I’m surprised to see you here, Eli. I didn’t realize your leash extended this far.” She hugged me. “Hey, kiddo. It’s good to see you again. I’m so sorry about your dad.”

Kit and I had been friends since we used to play in the sandbox together and she’d been my brother’s girlfriend until Brandi showed up. The split between Kit and Eli had been volcanic. Kit told me later that she finally understood the truth in the saying about the fine line that existed between love and hate, that it was absolutely possible to go from loving someone so much you would die for him to hating him so much you could kill him. Two years later it looked like the bitterness between them had hardened to mutual contempt.

“Where have you been?” I asked. “I tried to reach you.”

“At my mom’s. The home helper was sick. You know we can’t leave her alone anymore. She sends her apologies about missing the funeral and the wake. She’s having a tough time at the moment.”

“Tell her I’ll be by to visit, when she’s up for it.”

“She’d like that.” She glanced over Eli’s shoulder. “So what happened? Do they know anything yet?”

“About what?” Eli said. “What are you talking about?”

“When the police scanner’s not working,” Kit said, “we get our information from jungle drums.”

She was a reporter with the Washington Tribune, an ascending star who’d been working in D.C. on the national desk until her mother had a stroke. From one day to the next she asked to be assigned to the regional bureau in Leesburg to be closer to home.

A lot of people thought it was a demotion, criticizing her for what they said was a self-inflicted wound that was going to stall out her career. Kit told them to go to hell.

“One of our guys found Fitz inside one of the stainless-steel tanks. It had been purged,” I said.

“Oh my God.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a reporter’s notebook. “Put that away,” Eli said. “This is a private matter.”

“Like hell it is, Eli. Fitz was a nationally prominent chef.”

“You’re doing a story?” I asked.

“Yeah. For the National desk. Metro’s pretty ticked off because they wanted it, but, hey, like I said, Fitz was well known. And, um, cause of death is, well…”

“Get out of here, Kit,” Eli said. “You’re trespassing.”

Kit walked over to him and fingered the collar of his polo shirt. “Peach, hunh? New color for you. Kind of feminine, but it suits you.”

The sound of the barrel room’s large hangar door opening behind us cut off Eli’s reply. Two paramedics wheeled out a stretcher with a body bag strapped to it. Bobby walked behind them, looking grim. No one spoke as they crossed the courtyard and loaded Fitz into the waiting ambulance.

I pulled out Eli’s handkerchief yet again. Kit put her arm around me and the coil of her reporter’s notebook dug into my shoulder.

Bobby walked over to us after the ambulance moved slowly off in the darkness. “Hey, Kit,” he said. “You here on business or as a friend of the family?”

“Both.”

“Public affairs will have a statement. Probably tomorrow morning.”

“I need something tonight, Bobby.”

He chewed his gum for a moment, like a cow ruminating. “Sorry. No can do.”

She closed her notebook. “Off the record? Come on. Fitz was a friend.”

He chewed some more, then said, “Your word?”

Kit nodded.

“I wouldn’t tell her anything,” Eli said stiffly.

Bobby stared at him, then flipped open his own notebook. “Looks like Fitz might have surprised someone in the middle of a robbery. One of the workers didn’t show up today. A couple of the men say he left the camp they have near Winchester and no one’s seen him since last night. Santini said he had the payroll money in a safe in that lab he’s got next to the barrel room since today is payday. Picked it up from the bank yesterday because he didn’t want to mess with it on the day of Leland’s funeral. A couple of the guys from the crew were there when he locked it up, including the guy who’s missing. Name of Zeus.” He looked up.

“So how did Fitz end up in the tank?” I asked.

“I’m getting to that part,” he said. “Don’t rush me.”

“Sorry.”

“We think someone might have forced him into the tank,” he said. “The guys are checking for prints and going over everything. One of your hammers is missing from that pegboard you got with all your tools. Neat idea to draw an outline of everything so you know where stuff belongs.” He sounded approving. “Could be it’ll turn up somewhere and someone just forgot to put it back, but we found evidence of blunt trauma to the head. The hammer could have been used as a weapon, but that’s just speculating.”

“Oh my God,” I said.

“Enough of a blow to kill him?” Kit asked. “Do you think he was dead before someone put him in the tank?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. The ME will let us know when they do the autopsy.”

“Who would want to do that?” I asked. “Why Fitz?”

“Sounds pretty random to me,” Eli said. “Wrong place, wrong time.”

“I’m going to Winchester.” Bobby closed his notebook and stuck his pen behind one ear. “I’ll see you folks later.”

“I’m taking off, too,” Kit hugged me again. “I’ll call you tomorrow. We need to talk. Lunch, maybe?”

After they left, Eli said, “That woman is a parasite.”

“You didn’t always think so.”

“I saw the light.” He folded his arms across his chest. “You know, I don’t understand you anymore. If she writes some lurid tabloid story, it’s going to affect you, too.”

“How can you expect this not to come out in the press?”

“Yeah, I suppose we could get ahead of the curve and advertise it ourselves. How about this? ‘We’ll knock you dead at Montgomery Estate Vineyard. Try our full-bodied Merlot.’”

“That’s disgusting!”

“No fooling. That’s why I’m trying to tell you that the last thing we need now is more bad press. Do you know what it’s going to do to the value of this place now? It’s going to tank. We’ll probably have to pay somebody to buy it.”

“We’re not selling, Eli.”

He looked scornful. “Says who?”

“I do.”

“We outvote you, babe. Mia and me. We’re selling.”

“Family discussion?”

We both jumped. Quinn Santori stood there holding an unlit cigar that he caressed with his fingers. He looked at me the way men in bars stare at women who walk in alone.

“A little chat,” Eli said. “We were just finishing. What can I do for you, Quinn?”

He pulled a pack of matches out of a pocket of his camouflage trousers, bent his head, and concentrated on lighting the cigar. After a few puffs he said, “Well, we’re shut down, it’s harvest, and you got yourself a group of pickers nervous as bunch of barnyard turkeys at Thanksgiving because one of ’em is apparently a prime suspect in a murder. What do you people want to do?”