Ellen Crosby - The Merlot Murders

I didn’t hear the gate open and close, but I felt a presence in front of me that suddenly blocked the light against my eyelids. I opened them, shielding my eyes.

“Can I join you?” Greg sat down next to me.

“You just did.”

“I was on my way over to the Ruins,” he said. “I’m emceeing that jazz concert you’re having tomorrow night. I thought I’d check out the sound system.” He broke off a few stems of wild chicory from a clump next to us and handed me the pale blue flowers. “Peace offering? You’re mad about the other night, aren’t you?”

Wild chicory only opens briefly, in the morning. I loved the flowers, but it was a hit and run affair since they were gone almost as soon as they bloomed. Just like him.

“Those flowers belong to my Great-Great-Great-

Uncle Hugh. Family lore has it that they were his favorite because they were exactly the color of his wife’s eyes.”

He set the flowers down near where he’d picked them and leaned against the gravestone. Our arms were touching. I shifted so they weren’t. “I’m sorry if I upset you the other night. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Nothing came over you. It never does.”

“Look, Lucie, I know this is awkward because of Mia. I swear to God, she reminded me so much of you.”

Not if he’d seen that drawing, she wouldn’t. Still, he was a cad playing us off against each other. “How could you do this to her? And me? What do you want, anyway?”

He flushed underneath his sun-god tan. “I know what I did after you got hurt was unforgivable. But give me another chance. I promise it will be different this time.”

After I got hurt. That was one way of putting it. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Come on, honey. Your sister’s the one who came on to me. What was I supposed to do? I mean, look at her. She’s gorgeous.”

He’d said those exact words to me once before. The night of the accident, when he was driving too fast in the rain down Atoka Road. We’d been talking—no, arguing—about Brandi when he took that last corner and lost control of the car.

“Yeah,” I said, bitterly. “She is. Don’t worry, I remember how it goes. You can’t help yourself.”

“What are you talking about?” His pupils were two pinpricks in eyes the color of cold sapphires.

“Who’s Sienna? Is she the new one?”

“What?” He looked stunned, then he laughed. “Oh my God. You think…it’s not what you’re thinking, Lucie.” He seemed to relax visibly. “You must be talking about Rusty’s daughter. Her name is Sara Rust. She’s the daughter of my old man’s business partner at the garage.” He picked up a stone that was lying on the ground near the headstone. He tossed it in the air and caught it. “How’d you hear about the ‘Sienna’ name-thing?”

Greg’s father, Jimmy Knight, and John “Rusty” Rust had owned Knight & Rust Auto Body in Aldie. After Jimmy died of lung cancer Rusty sold the business to an auto repair chain, then retired. Greg almost never talked about his family. I always thought it was because he was vaguely ashamed that his father came home at night with dirt under his fingernails and grease on his clothes.

“From Angela Stetson. She works with her at Vinnie Carbone’s club,” I said.

“I never understood how a guy who looked like a ferret in high school ended up getting himself a gig like that. The guy used to be a twerp. No girl would date him unless they got paid to.”

“The story I heard is that you’re at the twerp’s place all the time.”

“Look,” he said. “Sara is like a kid sister to me. She got herself in a bit of a jam so I gave her some money.” He didn’t look at me while he spoke, just kept concentrating on tossing and catching that rock.

“I don’t…” I said, then stopped. The girlish—almost childish—voice on the answering machine. “Hi, it’s Sara! I’m not here. Leave a message and have an awesome day. Here’s the beep.”

It had to be the same girl. Sara Rust—Sienna—was the one whose phone number I’d found in Leland’s folder. Though why he would be interested in a young girl who was an exotic dancer at Mom’s Place was a mystery. The obvious reasons didn’t add up. He didn’t like them that young.

“You don’t what?” Greg asked.

“I don’t believe anything you say anymore. I want you to leave.”

“Say you forgive me.”

“No.”

“Say it.” He reached over and pulled me to him, just like the other night. “You know you want to,” he murmured, pulling the clip out of my hair and easing me down so I was lying on my back. He pulled away the straps of my tank top and my bra as his mouth came down on mine then traveled down to the space between my breasts.

He shifted and moved on top of me, sliding his hand down to the top button of my jeans. I put my hand on his and pushed it away.

“No,” I said. “I can’t do this.”

He sounded drowsily surprised. “Come on, Lucie. Just like old times.” He grabbed my hand and pinned it behind my head. “You know you want to.”

“Get off me,” I said. He pulled back so he was straddling me now, sitting on his haunches. He caught my other hand and held them together. I wriggled against him and he tightened his grip. “What are you doing?”

“Having fun.”

“Get off me, Greg. I mean it. You’re hurting me.”

Unexpectedly he let go of my hands and stood up. “Have it your way.”

I sat up and fixed my bra and tank top without looking at him. Then I found my hair clip and twisted my hair back into a knot. He stood there, watching. I half-expected him to extend a hand and help me up but he did nothing. I leaned on my cane and pulled myself up so I was facing him.

“Don’t ever do that again,” I said. “It was a mistake.”

“It was no mistake.” He pulled me roughly to him and kissed me, a hard fierce kiss that was brutal, not tender. “We’ll finish this another time.”

He walked down the hill to the steal-me red Mustang convertible Mia had driven the other night. He’d left the top down on a perfect summer day. I watched as he angrily sped off, never turning his head to glance my way as his car churned up a cloud of boiling dust.

I put the back of my hand to my mouth. My lips felt bruised, but at least they weren’t bloody. We’d done that before.

There was something different about this time. The passion I remembered from our marathon sessions at the Ruins two years ago was gone. Instead it seemed efficient and almost mechanical, like he was taking care of business.

Before I left I apologized to Hugh for cavorting on his tombstone. Then I said good-bye to Leland and my mother.

Why did all the secrets, all my unanswered questions, keep bringing me back to this cemetery? I stared at Hugh’s grave for a long time.

The answer, I was sure, lay somehow with him.

I heard piano music through the open windows as I pulled up in front of the house. Grieg’s Piano Concerto in A Minor. That would be Eli playing my great-grandmother’s concert grand Bösendorfer in the sunroom. If he was playing Grieg, he was upset.

Though I tried to close the front door quietly the music stopped at once and he appeared in the parlor doorway, dressed in pressed white shorts and a cerise-colored Lacoste shirt, carrying his Filofax. “I’ve been waiting for you.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve been here for thirty-nine minutes.”

“I was out.”

“We need to talk.” He crossed the foyer and stood in front of me. “I’m sure, now that you’ve had time to think, you’ll agree it’s a good idea…what’s that stuff on your arm?” He ran a finger from my left shoulder down to somewhere near my elbow. “It’s dirt .”