Ellen Crosby - The Merlot Murders

Quinn was watching me watching her. “You two know each other?”

Angela nodded. “We went to high school together.”

“Really?” He was still looking at me. “That’s great because Angie’s agreed to help out for harvest this year when she’s not at her other job. We’re going to need all the help we can get.”

“Oh,” I said. “Wow.”

“I’ve got to take care of something over at the villa. You guys can handle this.”

“Sure,” Angela said, sounding perky.

He laid a hand on her back and looked into her eyes. “Thanks, baby. I’ll be back.”

After he left, Angela studied her manicure. I walked over to a long table covered with a white tablecloth. Hector’s man had neatly stacked the boxes of glasses next to the table, but hadn’t set any of them out.

“Well,” Angela said, “long time no see, hunh, Lucie?”

“I’ve been away.”

“I know. France.”

“Maybe we could get started with the glasses?”

“You got a problem with me being here or something?”

“No.” I set a box on the table. “I have a lot on my mind, that’s all. Thanks for helping.”

Her eyes, which were expertly made up with smoky blue eye-shadow and blue eyeliner, narrowed. Before she’d looked innocent. Suddenly she looked tough. “I’m only doing this for Quinn.”

“How did you meet him?” I asked, pulling glasses out of the box.

“He showed up at Mom’s Place one night.” She sounded tough, too. “We’ve been seeing each other for a few months.”

“Weren’t you and Billy King…I mean, I thought you…”

“Eloped? Yeah, we did. I got tired of being his punching bag when he came home drunk.” She placed glasses on the table with aggressive precision. “When Raven—that’s my kid—was born, I threw him out. Then I needed a job so Vinnie hired me. It beats working checkout at Safeway for eight bucks an hour getting varicose veins.”

“Vinnie?”

“Carbone. From high school, remember? He owns the place.”

I did. A nerdy, overweight guy with acne and greasy hair. “The guy who set fire to the chemistry lab with his model rocket fuel?”

“I forgot about that. Good ole Vin.”

“So what’s it like working there?”

She tossed her head and her ponytail swung jauntily. “Come around and see for yourself.”

I shoved an empty box under the table harder than I needed to. It bounced against a table leg and hit my shin. “I think we’re about done.”

She continued as though I hadn’t said anything. “You’d be surprised who you’d run into, you know?” She gestured at my cane. “Including the asshole who did this to you.”

“Pardon?”

“You heard me.” She picked up a wineglass and ran a thumb along the stem. “He comes by a lot before he goes to work. He’s got a thing for Sienna. He’s always trying to pay her for a private dance.”

“Who’s Sienna?”

“A friend of your sister’s.” She leaned over to get her purse. I could see a generous amount of cleavage down the front of her dress. “The guy’s bad news. Mia ought to stay away from him. He’s just using her like he uses everyone else. See you around, Lucie.”

As she passed by, I smelled her perfume. I didn’t recognize it though I did detect something floral mingled with the earthier scents of incense and musk. It was as provocative as everything else about her. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what attracted Quinn.

After she was gone I straightened a row of glasses that didn’t need straightening, then reached for my cane. Men paid to see Angela Stetson dance with no clothes on. Why did that bother me? I was halfway back to the villa when I finally admitted to myself that I knew perfectly well why.

For the rest of my life, I would try to hide my body—at least, my bad leg—because I was ashamed and embarrassed to let anyone see it.

I was jealous.

Joe Dawson, dressed in khaki shorts, docksiders, and a navy polo shirt, stood by the mosaic-tiled bar opening bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon. At the far end of the room and on the terrace Dominique’s staff set up the pre-theater buffet dinner. “Hey, sweetheart. You working here selling or helping out in the barrel room with the tasting?”

“Probably the barrel room.” I said as he kissed me on the cheek. “What’s left to do?”

“Get out the dump buckets and the bread baskets. Dominique left a couple of baguettes that need cutting up.”

I got the small buckets we used for guests who wanted to pour out the remnants of a wine they either didn’t want to finish or didn’t care for and set them on the bar. The multicolored baskets made for us by an artisan in North Carolina were under the counter.

“I heard you talked to Eli,” Joe said.

I set one of the baguettes on a bread board and began slicing it. “I was going to hire a Stearman from the Flying Circus down in Bealeton to pull one of those signs behind it in case anyone missed the details of what we said, but I guess I don’t need to.”

He grinned, showing the boyish dimples, but his eyes were grave. “You know how word gets around.”

“Who told you?”

“Seth Hannah. At the town council meeting this afternoon.” He set down the corkscrew and picked up a sponge, wiping an imaginary spill on the counter. “I thought you might appreciate a little head’s up, Lucie. Seth’s thinking about calling your loan. You’re into him for a lot of money. Over one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Leland put up the house as collateral.”

The knife slipped. I missed the baguette, nicking the knuckle of my index finger instead. “Damnit!”

A red stain spread across the white bread. “Give me that.” He threw the sponge in the sink and took the knife from me. “The napkins are under the bar. You’re getting blood all over the place.”

I knotted a paper napkin around my finger and watched the blood seep through almost immediately. “I will pay him back. Completely. All I need is a little more time…he owes me that, at least. For Leland’s sake.”

Joe looked at me the way you look at a child when you finally have to explain the truth about Santa Claus. “Naw, sweetheart, that’s not gonna work anymore. In his lifetime Leland cadged money from just about every member of the Romeos and never paid most of ’em back. I swear to God there were some folks so mad at him they wouldn’t spit if he was on fire after he stiffed them. Seth held out longer than most, kept giving him extensions. Now he wants his money. All of it. The bank’s money, I mean.”

“You think we should sell the place, don’t you?” I said bitterly. “Just like Eli.”

“I’m wondering what choice you have, under the circumstances.”

“There are other things I can sell first. Like some of the furniture. I already sold a few things to Mac Macdonald.”

“That’s like owning a car but selling the engine,” he said. “Though I suppose if you’re bound and determined, you could sell the Jefferson letter. It won’t fetch much because it’s torn where it’s been folded and the contents are pretty tame. You’d get something, though. I can help you find a buyer, if you want.”

“What Jefferson letter?”

He looked surprised. “The one Thomas Jefferson wrote to the Countess de Tessé. That relative of your mother’s. He was helping her acquire American plants for her house near Versailles. The letter asked whether she received a shipment he’d sent. Nothing to set the world on fire, but still. Didn’t you know about this?”

“Nope. Not a word. What makes you so sure Leland didn’t sell the letter already?”

“It’s in his study in one of those hollow books where you hide things. Crime and Punishment. I saw it the other day when I borrowed a couple of books,” he said. “Besides, Leland thought anything that belonged to Jefferson was sacred. No offense, but he would have sold one of his kids before he sold anything Jefferson owned.”