Ellen Crosby - The Merlot Murders

“So?”

“Where were you that you’re covered with dirt?” He walked over to the demilune table and set down the Filofax, pulling a snow-white handkerchief out of the pocket of his shorts. Carefully he wiped his hand.

“I am not covered with dirt. I was at the cemetery and I sat down for a while.”

“What were you doing at the cemetery?”

“Thinking.” I twisted my arm so I could see what he was talking about and rubbed at the brown smudge. “What were you saying?”

“For the last time, I’m giving you the house in France. A gift. But the quid pro quo is that we have to sell the vineyard and this place.”

“Eli, we’ve already discussed this. No.”

“I went to see Seth Hannah.” He folded his arms and glared at me. “Seth Hannah.”

I knew where this conversation was going so I just nodded.

“We’re behind on our loan payments,” he said. “Leland’s loan payments. Seth told me he let you off the hook for this month because he thought he was going to get the whole caboodle repaid when we sold. Now he’s upset because you told him we were selling and we’re not.”

“I never said we were selling.”

“You mean you told him we weren’t?”

“I really didn’t say one way or the other,” I replied. “I guess he assumed we were.”

“Damnit, Lucie, he thinks you lied to him!” he shouted. “He’s talking about calling the loan. He wants the money we owe him. He wants it now!”

“Who said he isn’t going to get his money? We’ll repay him.”

“Oh, sure. Maybe we could rob a bank or something. Some other bank besides his, that is. You are out of your mind.” The phone rang and he strode across the room and grabbed the receiver. “Hello? Yeah, sure. She’s right here.” He held it out to me like it was contaminated. “It’s for you.”

“Who is it?” He rolled his eyes and said nothing. I took the phone. “Hello?”

“What’s up with Mr. Congeniality?” Kit said. “I think I just got frostbite.”

“Fine, thank you,” I said. “How did those tests go with your mother?”

“Can’t talk while he’s there? Figures. How about meeting me later at the Goose Creek Bridge? Nine o’clock. You can fill me in.”

“Sounds good.”

“I’ve got a bottle of something new I can bring. Have you ever tried Mexican wine?”

“Uh, no. Why don’t you let me take care of that?”

“Sure. I’ll save it for another time, then. See you.” She hung up.

“Take care of what?” Eli asked. “If you were talking about her mother, then I’m Frank Lloyd Wright. You’re seeing her, aren’t you?” He rocked back and forth on his heels.

“She’s a friend.”

“She’s a reporter . Do you think she has to spend even a nanosecond figuring out whether her job or your friendship comes first? For the chance to get a story on the front page of the Washington Tribune that woman would do anything. All that crap she hands out about being honest in her reporting. You know what this is about. It’s personal . She’s trying to get back at me because I broke up with her and she’s using you to do it.”

“Who gives you advice inside that head of yours besides the Easter Bunny and Tinkerbell? You think she still carries a torch for you? Get over it, Eli.”

He shook his head. “You are so naïve. And you are meeting her again. Aren’t you?”

“So what?”

“Let me guess.” He smirked. “An alumni reunion of the Goose Creek Bridge Chapter of Juvenile Boozers Anonymous. See? I knew it!”

“We were not boozers. And how did you know about that?”

“Kit told me when we were, ah, seeing each other. I don’t know how you pulled it off.”

“We didn’t pull it off completely. Dominique told me once that Jacques knew. She said he watered the wine before I took it.”

He laughed, but there wasn’t any mirth in it. “Good old Jacques. Not much got by him. At least it didn’t if it involved me.”

“What does that mean?”

“I caught hell for everything. But you—jeez—you could have tap-danced on top of the fermenting barrels and he would have thought it was cute.”

“I hung around while he worked. Unlike you.” I paused, then said, “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

“Is it about money?”

“No. Something else. Do you remember Mom’s gardening journals?”

“Vaguely. Why?”

“Fitz told me before he died that Mom kept diaries. Personal diaries. I said he was mistaken until I looked through her gardening journals. She didn’t just keep lists about her plants and the gardens. She wrote about us, too. And some other things.”

He bent and brushed imaginary lint off his shorts. When he straightened up his eyes were bland. “You mean her gardening journals were also her diaries?”

I nodded.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Fitz wanted to burn them. He wouldn’t say why and he got mad when I asked him. I think it was to protect her. There was something between him and Mom, wasn’t there?”

A muscle twitched in his jaw and he looked beyond me, his mouth compressed into a tight line. “Yeah,” he said finally. “There was.”

“You know that for a fact?”

“I got up for a glass of water one night as he was sneaking out of her bedroom. He never saw me.”

“You never told me.”

“What in the hell was I gonna say?”

“The journal from the year Mia was born is missing. All the others are in the bookcase in Mom’s study.”

“Are you sure it’s missing?” He sounded calm, but he folded his arms and began drumming his fingers on his forearms like he was playing Grieg again. “Maybe she didn’t keep a diary for a while.”

“Maybe. But I doubt it.”

He stopped playing and steepled his fingers. It looked like he was praying. “Let’s not borrow trouble, shall we? We’ve got enough problems without wondering about things we…”

“I know. I know.”

He glanced at his watch. “Good Lord. I’m six minutes late to give Brandi her vitamins. I’ve got to go.”

“Can’t she take them herself?”

“She likes me to give them to her,” he said, picking up the Filofax as he fished in his pocket and pulled out his keys. “Look, I want you to destroy those damn diaries just like Fitz said. Have a bonfire or something. And we still haven’t finished our conversation about this mess you’ve created by refusing to sell. I don’t want to play hardball, Lucie, but there are ways of forcing you to do it.”

“Like what?” Someone tried to force Leland to sell and he was dead.

“I’m talking to Mason,” he said. “Getting some legal advice.”

“You’re going to sue me?”

“I don’t know. I just said I’m looking into it. And while we’re on the subject of family relations, I’m really worried about Brandi and the baby. She’s not sleeping well or eating right. It’s not good for the baby’s health.” He paused and added, “Her problems started just after you came back.”

“Meaning what? My being home is the reason Brandi isn’t eating or sleeping? Are you serious?”

He looked pained. “Lucie, I’ve already told you how much this baby means to us. Brandi knows you don’t like her and it bothers her. She shouldn’t be upset. If you take the place in Grasse it works out well for everyone, you included. See what I’m saying?”

Love may be blind but in my brother’s case it was deaf, dumb, and arrogant. I leaned on my cane. “I’m sorry she’s not feeling well. During a pregnancy hormonal changes can make someone very emotional and that’s normal. If she’s not eating or sleeping, maybe you ought to take her to her obstetrician for a checkup.”