Ellen Crosby - The Merlot Murders

“You did what ? By whose authority…?”

“Mine. I’m going out on the veranda. I’m sleeping in the hammock tonight.”

“Erica will be here first thing in the morning.”

“Call her off, Eli.”

“I’m getting a glass of wine and we’re going to settle this. You drinking something or not?” When I nodded he said, “Then go on out and I’ll bring it. I assume you didn’t sell the sideboard?” He sounded mildly sarcastic.

“Don’t be an idiot. I loved that clock as much as you did. It broke my heart to sell it. I couldn’t bear to even be around when Randy came and took everything away.”

He had started toward the dining room, but stopped and turned back to me. “What ‘everything’? What else is gone?”

“The Duncan Phyfe rolltop desk, the two Hepplewhite chairs, and the Federal mirror upstairs.”

“Oh, God. Tell me you didn’t. And I bet you probably gave them away. Brandi will be beside herself.”

He left himself open to the obvious retort about this being none of Brandi’s business, but all I said was, “I didn’t give them away. I’ll be outside.”

He brought a bottle of Sancerre, two glasses, and a bucket of ice. “Don’t sell anything else before we unload the place,” he said, opening the wine. “It’ll look too bare.”

He handed me a glass and I took a long, deep drink. “I already told you, Eli. We’re not selling.”

He nearly spat out his wine. “Don’t be an ass. We have to sell.”

“No, we don’t. I’ve got two votes. No.”

“Goddamnit, Lucie! There’s no money! We have no choice! Don’t you get it?” He banged his glass down on a small mosaic table so hard that the stem broke in his hand. He grabbed the balloon part of the glass, which was still half full of wine, with his other hand and managed to keep it from spilling on the wooden floor.

“We have to bail out while we can. And you’re not going to stop me, either. I’m not letting you ruin things for Mia and me,” he shouted. “Aw, damnit, I’m dripping blood all over the place. Get me something for this, will you? The first-aid kit is in the kitchen. These trousers are 100 percent linen. Hugo Boss, so they weren’t cheap, either. If I get any blood on them, they’re ruined.”

“God forbid.” I leaned on my cane and pulled myself up. My ankle throbbed but I’d be damned if I’d say anything to him. I went inside, letting the screen door slam behind me. “And I know where the first-aid kit is.”

He was leaning against one of the white portico columns, staring in the direction of the Blue Ridge when I returned with the first-aid kit. I could just make out the low dark silhouette of the mountains faintly illuminated by the light of a crescent moon.

“If you need the money so badly, why don’t you sell the house in France?” I said.

He turned around. “I’ll give you the house in France.” He sounded tired. “Brandi doesn’t want it. It’s too…old. Just tell me you agree with me about selling the vineyard.”

“Mom’s heart is in that vineyard. And the land’s been ours for centuries. I’m not giving it up.” My voice rose.

“Look, babe, your last name isn’t Mondavi or Gallo. What do you know about running a vineyard?”

“Plenty,” I said. “More than you think. I worked with Jacques. I paid attention. I listened to him.”

“You were a kid! It was a game !” he yelled. “Look, there’s no point discussing this any further with you in your present state of mind. Tomorrow you’ll see reason.”

I moved over to the hammock and flopped into it. “I’m going to sleep. Good night, Eli.” I closed my eyes and turned away from him. “I’m not changing my mind, so I mean it about calling off Erica.”

I heard footsteps and the screen door opening. “We’ll see about that. Good night, Lucie.” The screen door banged shut.

A minute later I heard the engine of the Jag, then the sound of a motor being revved as he roared out of the driveway. I lay in the hammock and rocked back and forth with my good foot.

The noise, sounding like it came from somewhere near the greenhouse where my mother’s rose garden had been, seemed amplified in the night stillness. I stopped rocking and lay rigid and motionless, waiting for the sound of footfalls coming closer. A cat yowled and another answered in the distance. I bolted up from the hammock and turned on the floodlights that shone out over the yard. In the unnaturally green grass, a ginger-and-white cat threaded its way through the brush and disappeared.

The bottle of Sancerre was still in the ice bucket where Eli left it. The ice had melted and the wine was warm. I poured what was left into my glass and drank it anyway. Then I sat down on the wicker love seat. The portable clock radio on the end table read ten past three.

I reached over and turned it on. Not too surprisingly, it was tuned to WLEE.

Greg was talking. I’d never heard him on the radio before. There was something different about his voice, which, in the night stillness, was as mellow and caressing as velvet. He was consoling some woman whose boyfriend had left her. They talked for a long time, their conversation floating over me and melting into the night.

I must have dozed off. All of a sudden he was saying, “You want to hear ‘I Get Along Without You Very Well’ by Billie Holiday? Sure thing, angel. For those of you who’ve just tuned in, this is Greg Knight on WLEE in Leesburg and you’re listening to Knight Moves. I’ll be with you till dawn.”

The last thing I remember was Billie, all honey and gravel, crooning about her man and Greg’s voice wrapping itself around me like smoke and seeping into my mind.

I slept.

I woke, crumpled over on the wicker love seat. My empty wineglass was in my lap and the radio was still on, though now it was broadcasting the farm report. Quinn Santori was standing over me holding two mugs of coffee.

“You follow the farm report, do you?” He handed me one of the mugs.

“I’ve been known to.” I set the wineglass on the coffee table. I was still in my dress from the night before.

“Rough night?” He stared at the wineglass.

An excessively cheery voice sang that we were listening to WLEE, “the number-one station for you and me.” I turned it off. “I must have dozed off before I could get upstairs to change. Thanks for the coffee.”

He sipped from his own mug and gestured generally at my hair and clothes. “No problem. I like a woman who doesn’t care what she looks like when she wakes up in the morning. The natural look suits you.”

He walked back into the house, letting the screen door bang shut.

I sat on the love seat and nursed my coffee. He’d been wearing the now-familiar combat fatigues, dirt-stained and wrinkled, yet another Hawaiian shirt—this one with dozens of monkeys eating bananas—and the customary clanking collection of heavy metal around his neck and wrists. His eyes were bloodshot and he hadn’t shaved. Who was he to give fashion advice?

I set down the coffee mug and tried to pat down my hair, which was probably sticking up so I looked like Tintin. Finally I gave up and went inside. Quinn was pacing the floor, an ear attached once again to a mobile phone. I walked past the dining room and he motioned to me. He put a hand over the mouthpiece. “I need to talk to you.”

“Fine, but I’d like to shower and change first.”

“Make it fast, then.”

I banged my cane on the floor more sharply than usual as I climbed the stairs.

I showered and changed into jeans and a yellow T-shirt, twisting my damp hair into a knot to keep it off my neck since it was going to be another scorcher. By the time I came back downstairs, I was sweating.