The Chardonnay Charade (20 page)

We drank the champagne tangled in each other’s arms, then made love again. I got the wedding-ring quilt off my bed and brought it outside. We finally fell asleep and when I opened my eyes as the first streaks of daylight appeared in the sky, he was watching me.

“Morning,” I said. “Have you been awake long?”

He reached down and picked up his wristwatch off the wood floor. “Morning, love. No, not long. Since it started getting light.”

“How did you sleep?”

“I think I’m going to feel like a contortionist when I stand up, but no regrets. You were wonderful.” He kissed me. “I hate to say this, but I’ve got to go. I have a meeting in Washington in a few hours, so I’d better head back to the hotel for a shower and a change of clothes.”

“Want breakfast?” I sat up and held the quilt over my breasts.

He moved to the edge of the hammock and carefully stood up so I didn’t go sailing off the other side. “I wish I could.”

“How about dessert?”

He turned and looked at me. “That,” he said, “is another matter altogether.”

Afterward, I walked him to the front door, still wrapped in the quilt like it was a sari. “I’ll give you a ring,” he said, running a finger down my bare arm.

I shivered, then he kissed me again and left.

I showered, changed, and cleaned up from last night’s dinner. Though it was early, I drove to the winery. I’d been at my desk for about half an hour when I heard Quinn arrive. Normally whoever got here first stopped by the other’s office. Maybe he didn’t think I was in.

I picked up my coffee mug and went next door. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.” Whatever he was searching for on his desk, it apparently required all of his attention, because he didn’t look up.

“Everything okay?”

“Yep.”

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” I said. “Truce?”

He looked up and said coldly, “No apology needed. I picked up my telescope last night. I won’t be bothering you when you’re out on the veranda again.”

Last night. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask what time he’d been there, but I couldn’t. My mouth went completely dry and my throat got a lump in it.

Finally I stammered, “I-it wasn’t about the telescope…”

“I said I won’t be invading your privacy again.” He was curt.

He’d been there when Mick and I were out on the veranda. He knew. I nodded. “I understand.”

“By the way,” he added, “I ran into your sister last night. She’d been drinking again.”

“Where? When?”

“At the No-Name. That bar on the Snickersville Turnpike. Obviously they weren’t checking for ID. ’Course, those guys wouldn’t.”

“The shack on the way to Philomont? The biker bar? What was she doing there?”

“Drinking and playing pool.”

“Oh, God. What time did you see her?” I asked.

His eyes narrowed and he stared hard at me. “Late,” he said. “I walked in around one a.m. and it was last call. She was there with the Lang girl and a couple of guys who were trying too hard to make sure everyone knew they were stinkin’ rich but they could go slummin’ for a night with the white trash, if you know what I mean.”

I leaned against the doorjamb and closed my eyes. “I get the picture,” I said. “Thank you for telling me.”

“That kid is heading down the road to perdition,” he said. “She’s going to do herself some real harm. And maybe take somebody down with her.”

“I know,” I said quietly. “I don’t know how to stop her.”

“Well, you better figure out something,” he said. “Because if you don’t, there’s going to be hell to pay. It’s only a matter of time.”

When he left a short while later to join the crew in the fields, the tension between us was still as taut as an overwound clock. Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I told one of the girls who’d just arrived for work that she could reach me on my mobile if something came up.

I had an errand in Leesburg.

Eli’s office was down the street from the old courthouse on West Market Street. I found a parking space around the corner on Church and walked past the pretty white-columned brick building as the bell in the tower serenely chimed ten o’clock. Out front, a statue of a Confederate soldier, dedicated to the thousands of Rebel soldiers who died fighting for a cause they believed in, stood guard. Elsewhere on the grounds the old stocks and whipping posts memorialized past methods of law enforcement. The way I felt about my sister just now, maybe they knew a thing or two about discipline in those days.

Eli’s dark-haired young receptionist was on the telephone as I walked in. She nodded at me and pointed to the stairs, giving me thumbs up to indicate that my brother was in.

He had his back to me, sitting on a high stool hunched over a set of drawings spread across his drafting table. The room was neat as a pin, except for the empty soda cans on top of the filing cabinet—although not surprisingly they were aligned in a perfectly straight row. A scale model of a shopping center occupied another table. Photographs of Brandi and Hope were crowded on top of a credenza, above which hung a corkboard covered with drawings and photos of buildings in various stages of completion. His Filofax, which he practically chained to his wrist, sat on his desk open to today’s date. Judging by the amount of writing on the page, he had a full schedule.

“Hey,” I said finally. “Sorry to bother you.”

He jumped and swung around. “Luce! I didn’t know you were there. What are you doing? What’s wrong?” “Why does something have to be wrong for me to drop by?” I asked.

“Nice try,” he said. “When your face goes all red like that and you don’t blink for a long time, I know it’s bad. What’s up?”

“Mia,” I said. “Quinn saw her at the No-Name last night. That biker bar on the Snickersville Turnpike.”

“Oh, jeez. That dump. What was she doing there?”

“What do you think? Drinking. And playing pool. She came in absolutely falling-down drunk the other night. I had to put her to bed.”

“It’s her age. We were like that, too. I remember when you and Kit used to steal bottles of wine from under Jacques’ nose and drink them over at Goose Creek Bridge.”

“Kit and I didn’t get drunk.”

“Sure you didn’t.”

“You’re not helping. She’s underage.”

“You can count the days until she’s not.”

“She has a problem, Eli. Binge drinking. God knows what she gets up to when she’s at school in that sorority house.”

“We can’t babysit her. Look, I’ll talk to her, okay?”

“Good. She won’t listen to me.”

He rolled his eyes. “Because you’re always on her case.”

“What am I supposed to do when she comes home throwing up and I have to take care of her?” I banged my cane on the floor. “Tell her it’s okay?”

“Of course not. But why don’t you try reasoning with her for a change?”

“I
did
reason with her. Now it’s your turn. We have to get her to knock this off. Otherwise she’s going to end up an alcoholic. She’s already got a head start.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll call her.”

“It needs to be face-to-face, Eli. Why don’t you invite her to spend the weekend? You’ve got, what, ten bedrooms in that palace?”

“Only eight.” He sounded miffed. “And ixnay on the weekend thing. Brandi’s been getting migraines. She needs to have things kind of quiet.”

“How about dinner? Could you have her over to dinner one night?”

He considered the suggestion. “Sure. But not this week. I’m completely slammed with work. Next week sometime.”

“When?”

“I dunno. How about Friday?”

“You can’t do it before then?”

“Look, most nights I barely make it home for dinner myself. At least Friday I know I’ll be there. That’s the best I can do.”

“Okay. Next Friday. You’ll call her, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll call her.” Eli reached over and picked up his bulky Filofax, scribbling something on the page. “Jeez. I gotta write everything down these days or I’ll forget. Just so damn much stuff going on. I can’t keep track anymore.”

“Thanks for doing this,” I said. “Call me afterwards and let me know how it went, okay?”

He picked up the Filofax again. “Damn. I’d better write that down, too.”

Half a block from his office I stopped at a store called Leesburg Little Ones and bought a shopping basket’s worth of coloring books, picture books, boxes of crayons, and cases of colored pencils.

“Are you a teacher?” The woman at the cash register smiled as I handed her my credit card.

“No.”

“Run a day-care center?”

“Nope,” I said. “They’re for a friend.”

The Patowmack Free Clinic opened for business in half an hour, but already every rocking chair on the front porch was occupied. Children and adults sat on the railing or on the porch floor, and a line, mostly of elderly people and mothers with babies, snaked from the front door down the stairs and around the border gardens into the parking lot.

I threaded my way through the mostly Spanish-speaking crowd and went around the side to the staff entrance. A volunteer let me in.

Ross and Siri kept a large basket of donated children’s books near the waiting room. Every child who came to the clinic—either as a patient or accompanying a parent—went home with either a book or a coloring book. While the mothers and fathers might not speak English, the children did. When I’d been here the other day, the basket had looked like it could do with replenishing.

“Lucie!” Siri came out of the kitchen carrying a small box. “What are you doing here?”

I held up my shopping bags. “Books, coloring books, crayons, colored pencils. Shall I put them in the donation basket?”

“How thoughtful of you! No, I’ll take them. Let me just set this down.” She placed her box on a table next to the kitchen door. The pink flip-flop still hung on it. “Thanks, honey. I appreciate it.”

I glanced in the box she’d just put down as I handed over the shopping bags. “More donated medicine?”

She nodded. “We take what we can get. Thanks for stopping by. I’ll get these out right away. They’ll be gone in no time.”

“Where’s Ross? Is he in?”

“Uh-huh. With a patient in his office.”

“I thought you didn’t open until eleven.”

“This is sort of an exception.” Siri sounded flustered, then she shrugged. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter if you know. Marta’s here with the twins. She’s keeping a low profile because of her older boy, but Ross wanted to look at the babies and make sure they’re okay.”

“I only saw them for a few minutes the other night. In the dark,” I said. “Okay if I stick around to see them again?”

“I don’t think that would be such a good idea.” The request seemed to fluster her even more. “Anyway, Marta just got here, so I think they’ll be awhile.”

I took the hint. “Tell Ross I stopped by, then, will you?”

“Of course,” she said. “And thanks again.”

In retrospect it was a good thing I left when I did. Because otherwise I would have missed seeing the car that sped out of the rear parking lot, tires squealing as it took the corner a little too fast onto North King Street. A black substantial something-or-other—I’m hopeless at identifying make and model—but I’m keen-eyed enough to recognize a license plate.

U.S. Senate tags.

They disappeared in a blur.

It was not a good omen that a white car with Washington, D.C., government vehicle license plates on it was already waiting in the winery parking lot when I showed up for work the next morning. Our appointment with the Environmental Protection Agency inspector wasn’t scheduled for another hour.

I got out of my car as he climbed out of his. He carried a clipboard. In his early fifties, a slight build, bad haircut, brown plaid polyester suit.

I smiled, though my heart sank, and held out my hand. “Good morning. You must be from the EPA. We weren’t expecting you until nine. I’m Lucie Montgomery. I own the vineyard.”

He shook my hand and pulled a card out of his vest pocket. “John Belcher, EPA.”

I took the card. He was all business. And he didn’t smile back.

I indicated the villa. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee or tea before we go out into the fields, Mr. Belcher?”

Calling him John didn’t seem like a good idea.

“No, thanks, Mrs. Montgomery. I’ve got a thermos and some bottled water in my car. And I’ve already been out in your fields, thanks.”

He caught me off guard and I could tell that had been his intention all along. Already I was on the defensive. There was probably no way we could justify to his satisfaction how the methyl bromide had been left out instead of being locked in the chemical shed. The corner we were painted into just got smaller.

“So you’re finished?” I kept my voice steady. “And it’s ‘Ms.’”

“Oh, no,” he said, “I haven’t begun. But I always like to get out and see what I’m dealing with before we get into the paperwork. You’ve got the records for me to look over?”

“Of course. Please come inside and I’ll get them for you.”

“That’ll be fine.” He gestured for me to lead the way.

John Belcher refused coffee a second time but, to my surprise, decided to sit at one of the tables on the terrace. I expected him to say that he wanted to review the documents together, but he shooed me off and told me he’d find me when he was done.

“I assume you’ll be around?” He smiled without showing any teeth.

My life depended on what he was going to find in those papers. We both knew I wasn’t going anywhere.

“I’ll be in my office,” I said pleasantly. Calling Quinn the second I got there and telling him we got the inspector from hell on our case.

“That’ll be fine,” Belcher said again. Another pinched smile.

I bit my tongue and left. Dammit. He had all the body language of someone who’d already made up his mind. Showing up today was part of the process, so he did it because he had to. But his judgment had been formed strictly based on rules and regulations, not people and circumstances. Black and white.

I closed my office door, though there was no way he could hear me, and punched in Quinn’s mobile number on my phone.

“What’s up?” he said.

“He’s here.”

Silence. Then he said, “Aw, crap. The EPA guy? He came early?”

“He’s already been out in the fields. Now he’s sitting on the terrace, reviewing the paperwork.”

“What’s he like?”

“What little bit of bureaucratic power he has means life or death to us and he knows it. I think he’s trying to see how badly he can make me squirm.”

“Crap,” he said again. “I’ll be right there.”

It was at least another ninety minutes before John Belcher was ready to talk.

“Woodshed time,” Quinn muttered, as we both stepped out on the terrace.

I introduced Quinn to Belcher and we sat down across the table. Quinn patted his breast pocket where he usually kept a cigar and I nudged him surreptitiously. We were in enough trouble without adding secondhand smoke to our woes. So instead he began pulling on the gold chain he wore on his left wrist.

Belcher looked up from his clipboard and straightened out the sheaf of papers he’d been studying, aligning the edges perfectly.

“Well,” he said, “let’s talk.”

What he meant was that he would talk and we would listen. Like Quinn had warned, it was the whole megillah.

He began by stating somewhat unctuously that he was sure we were aware that methyl bromide had recently been phased out under the Clean Air Act because of its deleterious impact on the ozone. However, exemptions continued to be granted for certain quarantine and emergency uses. We were one of them.

I did not glance over at Quinn, but I did thank God for small favors.

Then Belcher rattled off with well-practiced fluency the names and numbers of the forms we and Lambert Chemical had been required to fill out. “I’ve concluded that your restricted materials, recommendation, and fieldwork order appear to be correct. I’ve also gone over your buffer zone calculations, which were more than adequate.”

I gave a silent prayer of thanks. So far, so good. Maybe I’d misjudged him.

“I know. We were careful about that,” Quinn said firmly.

I nudged him again with my good foot. Belcher didn’t seem like the kind of guy who tolerated interruptions when he was in the midst of handing down the stone tablets. I was right.

Belcher regarded Quinn with renewed annoyance and my heart sank. “Then why were you not careful about locking the canisters in a secure area? The UW regs are clear. Your negligence contributed to the commission of a homicide.” He enunciated each word, then sat back and folded his arms.

“We are very aware of that, Mr. Belcher,” I assured him. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what ‘UW regs’ are.”

“Universal Waste regulations.”

“There were also extenuating circumstances that night.” Quinn was not prepared to be so conciliatory.

“If everyone broke the law when it was convenient, Mr. Santara, we’d have anarchy.”

This time I kicked him under the table. “Please go on,” I said to Belcher. “You were talking about our buffer zone calculations when we got sidetracked, I believe.”

“Only in that you are extremely fortunate the homicide occurred in an area that did not impact Goose Creek. Had any methyl bromide seeped into the creek water, I can assure you we would have already revoked your bonded license.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

Quinn folded his arms across his chest. He was at least twice Belcher’s size. “What’s next?”

Belcher picked up his clipboard and stood. “You’ll hear back from me in approximately ten business days.”

Judging by that tone of voice, we weren’t going to like what we heard, either.

“Can you please give us any indication—” I began.

“Ten days,” he repeated. “I said you’ll know in ten days. And I can show myself out.”

“You antagonized him,” I said to Quinn when he was gone. “He’s really going to throw the book at us now.”

“He was going to do it anyway,” Quinn retorted. “You said so yourself. His mind was made up before he even got here. Did you see the way he looked around the place? I have no time for petty bureaucrats who abuse their power. That guy was mean. He liked sticking it to us.”

“What we did was wrong,” I said. “And he’s fully justified in holding us accountable. But unlike you, I think honey works better than vinegar. Goading him was not smart.”

“Whose side are you on, Lucie?” He sounded incredulous. “Look, I got work to do. I’m going back out in the fields and try to forget about that asshole. I’ll talk to you later.”

But he didn’t come back for lunch, like he often did. Bonita, however, did show up. I found her in the kitchen microwaving a container of Ramen noodles.

“Were you just out with Quinn?” I asked.

“Nope. I was in the barrel room.” She gave me an odd look. “Hey, Lucie, is he leaving?”

“Leaving what?”

“The vineyard. I, like, overheard him talking to Mick the other day. Quinn told Mick he was going to think about some offer. Then I saw the box of Cohibas sitting on Quinn’s desk and, um, well, I was in there and I happened to see Mick’s business card, too. Man, a whole box. Just one of those things costs a fortune.”

“Cigars?” I asked.

She nodded. “They’re, like, one of the most expensive Cuban cigars in the world. Illegal, too. But you can get ’em if you have connections.”

“I see.” I picked up the coffeepot and poured myself a cup. “I’d better get back to work. Thanks, Bonita.”

“Hey,” she said. “You didn’t answer my question about him leaving. And that coffee’s, like, stone cold. The coffeemaker shut off hours ago. Don’t you want to heat it up?”

I dumped it in the sink. “Quinn’s not leaving,” I said. “And I didn’t really want coffee anyway.”

It occurred to me later that if Belcher revoked our license Quinn wouldn’t have to look far to get another job. He could afford to piss the EPA off.

I couldn’t.

Kit called that evening and cajoled me into getting together after she got off work. “I’m lousy company,” I said.

“Then you need cheering up,” she said. “I’ll bring dinner.”

She arrived with a couple of white bags. “Two double burgers with cheese and extra fries.”

“Fast food? We’re eating fast food?”

“Listen, Julia Child, it’s
dinner.
How about a bottle of wine to wash it down?”

“I’ll see if I can find something to do it justice,” I said.

“Great,” she said. “Why don’t we go down to your pond and take the rowboat out? We haven’t done that for ages. The sunset ought to be pretty tonight.”

My balance was not what it used to be before the accident, so Kit had to help me climb into the boat. She handed me a basket with the wine, a corkscrew, plastic cups, and our dinner, then got in herself. The boat rocked crazily and I hung on to the basket with one hand and the side of the boat with the other.

“Guess we weighed a little less when we did this as kids, huh?” Kit sat down and faced me. “Or at least I did. You haven’t gained an ounce since you were sixteen.”

“Maybe not, but plenty of other things have changed.”

She picked up the oars. “How about we go out in the middle and just drift around?”

The burgers were now lukewarm, but I’d skipped lunch after that session with Belcher and the talk with Bonita, so now I ate ravenously. Kit watched me with amusement.

“I haven’t seen you this hungry for ages. You brought good wine, by the way.”

“It’s a Chardonnay from a new vineyard down near Charlottesville. I wanted to try it.” I uncorked the bottle and poured more wine into plastic cups. “We ought to keep this chilled. Hand me that plastic grocery bag, will you?”

I put the bottle in the bag and tied the handles in a knot, which I looped over one of the oars. Then I lowered it partway into the water. “That ought to do it.”

“Great. So how was your day?”

“Lousy. The guy from the EPA showed up.”

Kit looked sympathetic. “It didn’t go well?”

“He was the kind of person who’d normally blend in with the wallpaper and he knows it, too. So now he’s got absolute power over our fate and he means to make the most of it,” I said. “I have a feeling he’d made up his mind to throw the book at us before he even set foot on the property. Quinn thinks so, too.”

“Jeez. You mean he’s going to shut you down?”

I trailed my hand in the water and watched the ripples I made fan out and recede. “We’ll know in ten days.”

“Maybe you’ll only get a fine. Can you hold my cup? It’s not very deep here and we’ll scrape the bottom of the boat.” She gave me her cup and removed the bag with our wine from the oar. Then she grabbed the other oar and rowed us into deeper water while I poured more wine.

“I like this time of day,” I said as she reached again for her cup. “The lighting’s nice.”

We drank in silence.

“What else, Lucie?” Kit said after a while. “Something else is bothering you.”

“I think Quinn might be leaving,” I blurted out.

Her eyebrows went up. “He told you?”

“No, Bonita did. She thinks she overheard Mick Dunne offering him a job. I got the impression it was for more than just the consulting work Quinn’s been doing for him. You know Mick bought the Studebaker place? He wants to start a vineyard.”

She whistled. “Boy, he sure didn’t waste any time, did he? Mick, I mean. He is one smooth operator. I bet he gets whatever he wants. It’s got to be that accent. You can say anything in British and it sounds good. Even if he were robbing a bank, he’d probably sound incredibly polite. I think it’s sexy as hell.”

“Well, thank you for that honest but shallow opinion,” I said as she grinned. “But I doubt Mick’s accent was the deciding factor for Quinn. More likely it was the money.”

Kit nodded. “Dunne Pharmaceuticals? Yeah, money wouldn’t be a problem after what he got when he sold that company.”

“If this is your idea of cheering me up…”

Kit looked penitent. “Sorry, Luce. Sometimes you ought to tell me to just shut up.” She reached for the bottle and topped off our cups.

“It’s all right. I’m just feeling sorry for myself.”

She tapped her cup against mine. “You think Quinn really might leave on account of money?”