Ellen Crosby: The Merlot Murders

For the first time his voice seemed to falter. “Hector. He was out with his dogs.”

Hector, our farm manager, had been with my family for decades. Next to Jacques, our winemaker, he was the second most important person in the vineyard. He took care of the crew, the equipment, and just about anything else that needed doing.

“Oh God. Poor Hector.”

I suppose I should have said, “Poor Leland,” but it wasn’t the first thing that came to mind. There is a French proverb that goes, “In water one sees one’s own face, but in wine one beholds the heart of another.” I stared into my wineglass and did not behold Leland’s heart. To be honest, he hadn’t often shown that he had one.

“He’d been out there for hours. Christ, I never saw so much blood…” Eli spoke in that tight emotionless voice again, but this time I heard a fine crazing in the veneer. “Then Bobby Noland showed up.”

“Bobby came?”

“Yeah, he just got a promotion. He’s not doing patrols anymore. I think it’s crime scene investigations or something.”

I’d known Bobby Noland since I was in the second grade and he was in fourth. By the time we got to high school, the principal at Blue Ridge High pegged Bobby as the type who’d be getting into trouble with the law when he grew up. He never figured Bobby for being the law. Frankly it surprised a lot of his friends when he stuck around home and joined the Loudoun County Sheriff’s Department.

Eli cleared his throat. “Look, I can buy your ticket for you if you want.”

“My ticket?”

“Come on, Lucie, don’t tell me you don’t plan to come home for this, either.”

The “either” referred to his wedding. I hate being baited. He knew as well as I did that I couldn’t fake an excuse this time. Not for Leland’s funeral. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I’ll be there. I’ll get my own ticket.”

“Suit yourself.”

It was hard to tell if I’d hurt his feelings or he was genuinely relieved that I wasn’t putting up an argument. “I suppose we ought to start making arrangements,” I said.

“They’re made.”

“Oh?”

“Well, sure. We’re not really having a funeral, anyway. A wake tomorrow night and a graveside prayer service on Thursday. You know what a waste of time Leland thought going to church was. No point making him go now.”

“I guess not.” I swallowed the rest of the wine. “So you and Mia planned the funeral, did you?”

There was a short pause before he said, “Actually Leland planned it himself. He told Mason what he wanted one night when they were driving home from one of the Romeos’ weekly poker games. As for Mia, your sister isn’t taking this any better than she took Mom’s death. She won’t talk about it.”

Mason Jones was our lawyer and the Romeos were Leland’s drinking and poker buddies. The name stood for “Retired Old Men Eating Out.” They had regular tables at most of the local restaurants and cafés and their faithful patronage kept more than one place financially solvent.

“Poor kid,” I said. “Do you think she’ll be up to going to this funeral? I don’t think I could take a repeat of what happened when Mom died.”

“I haven’t exactly asked her. She’s been spending a lot of time with a new friend so I don’t see her much.”

“Oh?” When he didn’t elaborate, I added, “Were you joking about Leland planning his funeral after a poker game?”

“If it was anybody else you know I would be, but we’re talking about Leland.” Eli paused, then said with some bitterness, “Figures, his kids being the last to know what he wanted. You can imagine how I felt, hearing it from Mason.”

“I hope he didn’t want anything too weird.”

“Nope. We got off easy. It’s all pretty normal except for the bagpipes. His Scottish blood must have been surging.”

Or maybe it was the post-poker Scotch. “Bagpipes, hunh?”

“‘Amazing Grace’ as the opening hymn and ‘Taps’ at sunset—since he was a veteran—as his coffin is lowered into the ground,” he said. “Sunset’s at seven forty-two on Thursday, by the way.”

Eli would know a detail like that. He owned one of those radio-controlled atomic watches that’s never wrong. I could hear him riffling pages. Probably his Filofax, which he usually wore chained to his wrist. He didn’t trust electronic organizers.

“Why does it have to be Thursday?” I said. “I’ll never get there in time for the wake. As it is, I’ll barely make it for the burial.”

“Give me a break, Luce. Of course you will. With the time difference, you’ll arrive practically before you leave France. Sleep on the plane and drink a gallon or two of water. You won’t even be jet-lagged.”

“Why can’t you delay it? Something’s going on that you’re not telling me. I know you.”

“Don’t be an ass.” He sounded annoyed.

“I’m not an ass. Don’t be crude. You didn’t answer my question. Why can’t you postpone the service another day or two?” I repeated.

“Because it’s all arranged. That’s why.”

“What would be so hard about unarranging a wake and a prayer service?” I persisted. “Where are you going to get someone to play the bagpipes on such short notice, anyway?”

“I don’t see the need to unarrange anything. I’ve got everything under control.”

The floor was becoming quite littered with all the gauntlets he was throwing down. “Fine. Don’t tell me,” I said. “As soon as I get back I’ll find out from someone else.”

“You will not .” It’s hard to understate the overbearing and righteous sense of entitlement my brother genuinely felt because he happened to be born first.

I had just spent two years without him bossing me around. I didn’t plan on getting used to it again.

“Give me one good reason why not,” I snapped. “And I’ll do what I want.”

There was shocked silence, probably while he dealt with the new phenomenon of my defiance, then he said angrily, “All right, you want to know? You couldn’t let it wait until you got home, could you? It’s your goddamn godfather. Satisfied?”

“What are you talking about? Fitz ?”

“You heard me.”

Besides being my godfather, Fitzhugh Pico was my parents’ best friend and the owner and chef at the Goose Creek Inn, a local restaurant known for its romantic setting, eclectic menu, and discreet waiters. It was the perfect place to propose marriage—or end one, keeping a sly tryst under the radar. Soon after my parents planted our first vines, Fitz and my mother collaborated to produce two private label wines for the inn. Not only was he nearly family, he was part of the family business.

“I don’t understand…” I began, but Eli cut me off, still furious.

“He’s telling anyone who’ll listen that Leland’s death wasn’t an accident. No one can get him to shut up, either.”

“Why would he do that? What do you mean, not an accident?”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Use your head. Work it out for yourself, Luce.”

I sat silently, picking at a strand of loose bulrush on the edge of my seat and thought. Until now I hadn’t noticed the whistling sound of the wind as it came through the still-open kitchen door. A pair of moths zoomed frenetically around the overhead ceiling light. One of them smacked into the glass shade and dropped to the floor.

“Oh my God,” I said slowly. “Suicide. Leland killed himself and you don’t want anyone to know.” My voice rose. “You should have told me from the beginning, Eli! Why did you tell me it was an accident?”

“Because it was .” Eli yelled. “And you’re wrong. He didn’t kill himself. But I’ve got goddamn Fitz telling everyone and his goddamn grandmother that Leland was goddamn murdered ! Okay? Now do you understand?”