Ellen Crosby - The Merlot Murders

“It might not be for long,” I said.

He looked at me. “Ma’am?”

“I said, we might not be shut down for long. I’m sure we can work something out with Bobby to speed up the investigation so we’ll be back in business in a few days.”

He stroked his chin with the thumb of the hand that held the cigar. “You think so, do you?”

I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not. “Yes.”

He puffed on the cigar. “Well then, I’ll need to set up some place temporarily in the meantime. I figure the big house would be the best bet. I’d like to move over there as soon as possible.”

“You can move in tomorrow morning,” I said. “We can talk about how we’re going to handle things then.”

“Pardon?” he said. He flicked an ash off his cigar and looked at me like I’d just sprouted another head. “We?” He glanced over at Eli and cleared his throat. “Eli?”

Eli cleared his throat, as well. “Uh, Lucie. Why don’t we let Quinn take care of business the way he wants? We don’t know what in the hell we’re doing here.”

“What are you talking about? Of course we do. We’ve helped with harvest since we were old enough to walk,” I said. “It’s our vineyard.”

“Look, babe,” he said, “I’m an architect. I’ve got a day job that pays the rent and feeds the wife and kid-to-be. I can’t work here. Mia doesn’t want to work here. As for you…” He stopped. If he was going to say something about me being handicapped, he changed his mind. “You’ve been selling perfume the last two years.”

I glanced over at Quinn. He looked relieved, and even a little amused.

“I didn’t sell perfume,” I said. “I worked as a tour guide at the International Perfume Museum in Grasse.”

“Okay, so you talked about perfume,” Eli said.

“I’ve spent plenty of time helping out with harvest. I worked with Jacques that last summer before…” I didn’t finish.

Eli put his arm around me and it felt like a vise. “You’ll have to excuse her. She’s a bit jet-lagged,” he said to Quinn. “I think we’d better finish this conversation back at the house, hadn’t we, Lucie, and let Quinn get on with whatever he needs to do?”

If Eli and I were going to have it out, then I didn’t want Quinn as a spectator, either. I removed his arm from my shoulder, keenly aware that he had just done a first-rate job of sandbagging me in front of our winemaker.

“There’s nothing more to discuss,” I said. “See you tomorrow, Quinn.”

Quinn’s eyes went back and forth between Eli and me. They were hard and black like coal. His voice was hard, too. “You’d better get this worked out, folks. When Leland hired me he promised me free rein to run the place. No one standing over my shoulder and telling me what to do. If you’re going to move the goalposts, or if you don’t even know where the goalposts are anymore, I want to know it.”

“Jacques never had carte blanche to run the vineyard,” I said. And he never talked back like this smart-mouthed guy, either. “He and my mother always worked closely together.”

“What someone else did is no concern of mine,” he said. “You know, this vineyard could have its best harvest ever this year. The drought’s been great for the crop and your vines are coming into their peak producing years. Seems to me you’ve got enough on your plate with no access to your equipment and your wine cellar. If you’re going to start fighting among yourselves, then you can also find a new winemaker.”

He flicked another ash off his cigar and strode past us to a beat-up Toyota in the parking lot. He couldn’t get the engine to catch right away but when it did, he did a rubber-burning three-point turn and zoomed off into the night.

“Well, well.” Eli glared at me accusingly. “You certainly turned the old killer charm on him, Luce. I think he just quit.”

“He didn’t quit,” I said. “He threatened to. He’s got a hell of a nerve, blackmailing us like that. What made Leland hire him, anyway? He’ll never replace Jacques. He’s a troglodyte by comparison.”

One of the reasons people bought so much wine from us in the past was because Jacques, with his gracious European politesse and elegant manner, could charm anybody into anything. If Quinn was always this abrasive, we wouldn’t be able to sell water to someone who’d just come through the desert.

“He came cheap,” Eli said. “Leland wasn’t offering what you’d call a competitive salary and he was the only taker. He’s supposedly a decent enologist and a viticulturist, even if he has a few rough edges. The crew likes him. I’m going back to the house. You coming or not?”

I nodded and we walked in silence over to the Jag.

At least Leland had hired someone who was good at both enology and viticulture. Enology is the science of wine making. Viticulture is the science of grape growing. Larger vineyards have enologists, also known as vintners, who are there only to make and blend the wine. They also have viticulturists who are out in the field with the vines, tending them, testing them, and deciding the optimum time for harvest. But at a small vineyard like ours, the two jobs are generally handled by one person.

“Where did he come from before we got him?” I asked as we got in the car.

“California. Some vineyard in Napa.”

“Why did he leave?”

“What is this? Twenty questions? I don’t know. He said he wanted to move on. I don’t think Leland really looked into it much. He was desperate for someone at the time.”

“That’s obvious. Mom would never have hired him.”

“What difference does it make anymore? The sooner we unload this place, the better. It’s been one catastrophe after another lately. I can’t take much more of this.”

We spent the rest of the short drive down the gravel road in silence. Last night Fitz said that he and I were two votes countering Eli and Mia. Now it was two against one. I glanced fleetingly at my brother’s profile and looked away.

He could not… would not…have gone to see Fitz in the barrel room after leaving the wake. He could not be capable of cold-blooded murder.

Or could he? And Leland. Him, too?

We pulled into the semicircular drive in front of the house. A few cars were parked near the old carriage house, which we used as the garage.

I cleared my throat. “Looks like almost everyone’s gone.”

Eli looked at me curiously. “You gonna faint or something? Your voice sounds weird.”

“I’m fine.”

We walked into the house. One of the waitresses who had been collecting dishes in the parlor said Dominique had gone over to the inn to see about dinner.

“I’m going to check on Brandi,” Eli said, heading for the stairs. “It’s warm in here. I hope no one turned the air off.”

“Who is going to tell Dominique about Fitz?” I asked Eli after he came back, reporting that Brandi was still asleep. “And I checked. The air-conditioning is still on.”

“I’ll tell her.”

“I’ll come with you.” We were standing in the large circular foyer. I was holding more plates, still heaped with chicken bones, remnants of dinner rolls, and daubs of color that had once been salads or vegetables.

“You stay here. If Brandi needs anything, you’ll have to take care of her. You can do that, right?”

“Eli.” I set the plates down by the bust of Jefferson, wiped my hands together, and faced him. “I limp because of an injury to my left foot . See these?” I waved my hands. “They work just fine, like they always did. Brain still works, too. Unless Brandi wants me to kick a field goal, I’m probably going to be able to handle anything she might throw my way. Okay?”