The Chardonnay Charade (17 page)

“She’s a bit jumpy,” Mick explained to Chris. “Never been in a helicopter before.”

“It’ll help get your bearings in the air,” Chris said, “if we follow the roads.”

“You’re going to look at a map
and
fly a helicopter at the same time? How can you pay attention to where we’re going?”

He smiled and competently patted his head and rubbed his stomach. “I can multitask,” he said. “Don’t worry, Lucie. If I can fly night-blind in the dark over your vines, flying today with unlimited visibility is a piece of cake.”

The men pushed the helicopter outside and moved it to the take-off area. Chris climbed in first, then he and Mick helped me inside.

“Breathe,” Mick murmured in my ear. “I haven’t heard you breathe since we sat down.”

Chris passed us headsets and went through his checklist. Then he switched on the engine and asked for takeoff clearance as the blades began to rotate over my head. I closed my eyes and the helicopter lifted off the ground.

It was noisier than I expected and the only way to communicate was through the headsets.

“You can look now, love.” Mick’s voice sounded so close it could have come from inside my head. “And if you can unclench your fingers from my wrist for just a second, I’ll get the maps.”

The view was nothing like what I expected. Chris said we were flying at an altitude of about twelve hundred feet, but it was—at least to me—surprisingly easy to see what was going on below us on the ground.

“Okay, that’s Route Fifteen down there.” Chris glanced over his shoulder at us and pointed to the road. “The way you would have come. We’ll turn left at Gilbert’s Corner and head west on Mosby’s Highway.”

“We really are following the road map, aren’t we?” I said.

He nodded as Mick squeezed my hand. “This is where you come in. You’ve lived here almost all your life. I want to see this place through your eyes.” His voice was a caress in my ear. “You know where we are. Show it to me.”

And so for the next hour we crisscrossed the land George Washington had once surveyed, following the silver thread of Goose Creek as it meandered through Fauquier and Loudoun Counties. We flew mostly over the region known as the Mosby Heritage Area, the stretch of Route 50 that began in Aldie and ended in the pretty village of Paris on the edge of the eastern side of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The highway acted like a needle on a compass to orient me and gradually my jitters subsided and I grew more confident in pointing out farms and landmarks, explaining their history as we moved steadily west toward the peaceful-looking mountains that dominated our view. Here the land was almost all rolling hills, pastures, and farmland, the boundaries outlined by split-rail fences and divided like a giant checkerboard by stacked-stone walls.

We flew over the old Goose Creek Bridge and I showed Mick where, in June 1863, the forces of Colonel J. E. B. Stuart tried unsuccessfully to hold off the Union cavalry that was pushing toward the Shenandoah Valley. Ten days later the two armies met at Gettysburg.

“You all right?” Mick asked at one point. “You seem calmer. At least you’re not digging into my hand and drawing blood anymore.”

“Oh, God, was I really?” I asked. “I’m so sorry. You know, we’ve seen everything but your land. Now it’s your turn with the map.”

“That won’t be necessary. You know where to go, Chris,” Mick said. “Let’s fly over Lucie’s place first.”

Chris banked the helicopter and we crossed Mosby’s Highway again. I could see our shadow on the ground as we swooped, graceful as a bird, over the bucolic scene below.

We flew over my toy-sized house, the vineyard, and all the buildings and barns. I saw the grove where I’d found Georgia, and from the air, the distance to the barn where Randy’s band had practiced seemed like a hop, skip, and a jump.

“So there it is,” Mick was saying.

“There what is?”

“Were you woolgathering?” He put an arm around my shoulders and pulled me close. “Look over there. My land. That’s our common property line. Yours and mine.”

“What are you talking about?” I was stunned. “Did you buy the Studebaker place? That’s a stud farm. There’s not a vine anywhere on that property. It’s completely set up for horses.”

“I know. But someday there’ll be vines,” he said. “The owners and I agreed on a price last night. I’m signing the documents early next week.”

“Are you serious? How can you do that so fast?”

He looked pleased with himself. “It’s the only way I do things. I like results. Besides, it’s a cash deal. It speeded things along.”

“Folks, I hate to interrupt, but I just want to let you know it’s time to head back,” Chris said. “We’ve been out for about seventy-five minutes.”

“Fine,” Mick agreed. “We’ve had our tour. Cheers, Chris.”

“Oh, my God, are we running out of fuel?” I sat up and craned my neck to get a view of Chris’s gauges. “Is that why we have to go back?”

Chris said, “No,” as Mick said, “Of course not.”

“You wouldn’t lie to me?”

“We’re safe as houses,” Mick assured me. “There are FAA standards about how little fuel you can have left before you’re required to land. Relax, love. We could fly to Richmond with what we’ve got left.”

We touched down, surprisingly gently, about ten minutes later. I refused to get out of the helicopter until the blades stopped turning. Then Mick lifted me into his arms and set me down before retrieving my cane.

After he paid Chris, we drove to the main gate.

“I suppose you could convert those stables into a tasting room,” I said as it closed behind us

“The horses would hate it.”

“You’re planning on raising horses
and
running a vineyard?”

“Not single-handedly. But yes. I guess I didn’t get around to telling you that I used to play polo. At university in the U.K., then more recently in Florida.”

“So what, exactly, did you do for this pharmaceutical company in Florida?” I asked.

“Ever heard of Dunne Pharmaceuticals?”

“Oh, my God. Yes, of course. That’s
you
?”

“Was me. I sold to Merck.”

“Why?”

“I got bored.” He put his foot on the accelerator and we sped past a pickup truck. “I wanted to do something different.”

“Like own a vineyard?”

“Precisely.”

We finished the drive back to Atoka in silence with only our GPS friend interrupting occasionally to tell him to turn right or left. When we got to my house, he turned off the engine and came around to open my door.

“That was an extravagant way to see your new property,” I said. “Why did you do it?”

“I wanted you to see it that way. I did it for you.” He kissed me as I knew he would. No peck on the cheek this time. “I still owe you dinner,” he murmured. “What are you doing tonight?”

I said breathlessly, “Working. A jazz concert and a wine tasting.”

“Tomorrow?”

His persistence was making me dizzy. “Can I let you know? We’ll be busy all day. I’m not sure when I’ll be through.”

After he left I went inside and thought about that kiss. Was he trying to start something? And why me? Somehow I didn’t think I fit the prototype of the other women he’d been with. I figured him falling for the tall, leggy knockouts who spent their days caring for themselves so they glittered at night for the men who owned them. Rich, exotic, privileged—just like he was. Not someone who got her hands dirty—literally. And whose only experience with pampering was a physical therapist’s muscular massages as she rubbed my deformed foot in hopes of discovering even one nerve that wasn’t dead.

The phone rang while I was still in the foyer. Siri, sounding distraught.

“Lucie.” Her voice shook. “They’ve arrested Ross. He’s been charged with Georgia’s murder. He just left the clinic in handcuffs.”

I calmed Siri and told her to call Sam Constantine. He’d know what to do. He’d straighten out a horrible mistake. After I hung up with her, I called Manolo.

“Did you have any luck tracking down Emilio and Marta?” I asked. “Please say yes.”

“I got an address last night from someone.” He didn’t sound happy about it. “I don’t know if it’s still good.”

“It’s better than nothing.”

But when he told me, I didn’t recognize the Leesburg address.

“The new place. You know, the toilet bowl?” he asked.

“Pardon?”

“That’s what the kids call it,” he explained. “The arch over the entrance to the main building’s shaped like a toilet bowl. I think it was supposed to be a horseshoe, but that’s not what anybody calls it now. When you see it you’ll know what I mean.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I owe you.”

“For this,” he said, “you do. You don’t want to know what I had to do to get it.”

My next call was Quinn. Granted, we weren’t on the best of terms at the moment. But I trusted him and I knew he wouldn’t let me down. Besides, this was for Ross. I’d already gone on my knees to Manolo. I was getting used to the view.

“I might need an interpreter,” I told him. “Please, please say you’ll come.”

“Yeah, I’ll come.” He sounded just like Manolo, that same hard, flat voice. “I don’t want you wandering around there by yourself. Even in daylight.”

“You know this place?”

“Everybody knows the toilet bowl,” he said ominously. “You can buy anything you want there. Women, drugs. Tough crowd.”

“I’ll pick you up in ten minutes,” I told him.

“You will not. I’m not getting in that windup toy today. I feel like a sissy riding in it, and besides, someone will probably pick it up and carry it off while we’re talking to them,” he said. “I’ll be by to get you. We’re taking the El.”

On the drive over to Leesburg he asked me about my helicopter ride.

“How did you know about that?”

“Mick stopped by after dropping you off. Wanted to talk some more about siting his vines. Sounds like you two had quite a time. I thought you were scared of heights.” He seemed to be concentrating intently on the road, even though we had it to ourselves.

“You know I am,” I said. “He told me he wanted me to see his new property. Didn’t bother mentioning I’d be looking down at it from twelve hundred feet until we got to the airport. There was no getting out of it then.”

“Pretty expensive date. He likes you.” He was driving the El with one palm on the steering wheel, his arm extended ramrod-straight, the other arm out the window, fingers tapping out a rhythm on the car door.

“Don’t be ridiculous. It wasn’t a date. We’re going to be sharing a common property line. It’s good he likes me. We’re neighbors now.”

He glanced at me with a face like granite, hard and maybe a little cold. “We’re almost there.”

Manolo was right. The minute I saw the main building with its oddly shaped pea-green arch, I knew why it was called what it was called.

Emilio and Marta’s condo was a walk-up on the third floor of one of the many rabbit-warren complexes built around a series of large interconnected parking lots whose visual focal points were overfull dumpsters. Music, televisions, arguments, children crying. Any language but English. We heard it all as we climbed the stairs. Except in front of the door to Marta and Emilio’s place, where there was silence. Quinn leaned forward to listen, then knocked on the door.

No answer.

“Say we’re friends of Ross’s,” I whispered. “Maybe they’ll open up. If they’re there.”

“¡Emilio, Marta! Somos amigos del doctor Greenwood. Él nos ha enviado. Por favor, abre la puerta.”

“Ross did what?” I asked quietly.

“Sent us,” he hissed. “I said we were Ross’s friends and that he sent us. And to open up.”

A moment later the door cracked open slightly and a man stared out. In his late thirties, probably. Jet-black bedhead hair, a handlebar mustache, compact and lithely built. He wore the kind of sleeveless scooped-neck undershirt Leland used to refer to as a wife-beater and a pair of faded jeans.

“Emilio?” I asked. “We’re friends of Ross Greenwood’s. Can we talk to you and Marta, please?”

“No están,”
he said.

“¿Quién?”
Quinn asked.

“Marta y los niños.”

“He says—” Quinn began.

“That Marta and the kids aren’t here,” I said. “That much I got. Can we come in and talk to him, at least?”

Quinn translated. Emilio shook his head and my heart sank. Then Quinn said something low and rapid that I didn’t catch. Whatever it was, it worked, and Emilio opened the door wide enough to let us inside.

The apartment looked more like a place to camp than a home. A daybed with a faded purple blanket thrown over it, a floor lamp with a torn shade, a Formica table, and two mismatched chairs were the only pieces of furniture. No sign of children anywhere. Nothing. The sink and the kitchen counter were stacked with dirty dishes. They’d been there awhile. Maybe he was living here alone.

Emilio reached for a crushed pack of Marlboros and kicked an overflowing ashtray that was on the floor so it was next to him. He sat on the daybed and lit up. No invitation to Quinn or me to sit, so I stood, leaning on my cane. Quinn spun one of the chairs, facing it backward, and parked himself like he’d mounted a horse.

“Where are Marta and the children?” I asked.

Emilio looked at me warily.
“No están aquí,”
he repeated.

“They’re somewhere,” I insisted.

“Lucie.” Quinn spoke warningly. “Let it go.”

“We need both of them to say Ross was with them the night Georgia was killed,” I said.

Emilio’s eyes darted from Quinn to me. I had a feeling he understood us better than he let on.

“¿Mande?”
he asked Quinn, who dutifully interpreted.

Emilio said something rapid-fire.

“He said, okay, fine, Ross was with them that night. All night.”

“They’ve got to tell the police. It’s not enough to tell us.”

For the first time he spoke English. “No police.”

“Please, Emilio,” I said. “Ross—Dr. Greenwood—said to tell you that if you do this he will take care of your family. But he can’t help you if he’s in jail. He said to tell you he gives his
palabra de honor.
”

Emilio blew out a stream of smoke. “He said ‘
palabra de honor
?’”

“Yes.”

“How much?” he asked in English.

I glanced at Quinn, who regarded me placidly.

“How much what?” I said.

Emilio made the universal gesture for money.

“Aw, Emilio…” I began.

“Es muy caro vivir aquí,”
he said.

“He’s not gonna talk otherwise, Lucie,” Quinn said. “He says the cost of living here’s killing him. How much you got on you?”

I opened my purse and pulled out my wallet. “Fifty-five dollars.”

“Give it to him.”

I handed over the money to Emilio, who pocketed it, then said, “I want more.”

“Here’s mine,” Quinn said. “An even hundred.”

I looked at Emilio and tried to keep the contempt out of my eyes. “We’ll set up a meeting at the vineyard,” I said. “Tomorrow. You and Marta must come with the babies. I promise there will be only one police officer. A detective. Tell him what you told us. Then you can leave.”

“I work. After ten.” Emilio exhaled more smoke and bent down to crush his cigarette in the ashtray. “Outside. Not inside. No buildings.”

“What about the parking lot?” Quinn said. “Do you have a car, Emilio?”

“No.” He lit another cigarette.

“Maybe Manolo can pick them up.” I waved away the fug of smoke. My eyes burned.

Quinn negotiated with Emilio in Spanish, then said, “Okay. We’re set. Manolo will get him at nine-thirty and bring him to us.”

“Marta and the babies, too,” I insisted.

Emilio shrugged. “Cost you more I bring them.”

“How much more?”

“Five hundred bucks.”

I exchanged glances with Quinn, who remained mute. My crusade. My money.

“Okay,” I said evenly. “Five hundred. Only if everyone’s there.”

Emilio looked me up and down.
“Señorita,”
he said. “I know what to do.”

He stood up and stubbed out the barely smoked cigarette in a plate that had dark smears and bits of dried food on it. Then he walked over the door and opened it.

“Hasta mañana.”

When we were back in the El, I said angrily to Quinn, “What a humanitarian! Ross took care of his family for
free.
He can’t stand up and do the right thing for someone who helped him when he needed it? They’re not even in the country legally, for God’s sake. Maybe he ought to go back where he came from.”

Quinn jerked the car in reverse so abruptly I had to put my hand on the dashboard to steady myself as he roared out of the parking lot. When we were back on the main road he said, “I’m surprised you could get the words out of your mouth around that silver spoon, sweetheart. Say we did send Emilio and his family back to the mud hut they call home in Salvador. Then who’s gonna clean all the toilets in the restaurants around here? Mow all the rich people’s lawns? Wash dishes all night, then jump on the back of the garbage truck first thing in the morning in the pouring rain or freezing cold? You wanna do that?”

We were back on Route 15 now, headed to Gilbert’s Corner. I didn’t want to look at his speedometer, but we were going well past the limit.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. But that was extortion.”

“Do you blame him?” Quinn was still mad. “Beats making minimum wage with no benefits, don’t you think? Maybe he’ll splurge and take the family to McDonald’s for a Happy Meal now that he’s so rich.”

“Okay,” I said. “Okay. I said I’m sorry. But we still had to buy Ross’s life from him. I would rather have given him a job than hand over cash like that. We could at least pay him a living wage.”

Quinn kept staring straight ahead, palm on the steering wheel once again as we hammered down the road. “Doesn’t work that way,” he said. “We’d have a mutiny on our hands with the rest of the crew who waited their turn and got green cards so they’re legit. You know that as well as I do.”

“There’s something else,” I said.

“What?”

“I don’t think the speed limit’s eighty.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw, but at least he let up on the accelerator. When we got back to the vineyard I said as I got out of the car, “Bobby is coming to the concert tonight with Kit. I’m going to ask him to come early so we can talk to him then and set up the meeting for tomorrow. Okay?”

“Fine.” He headed toward the steps to the winery, taking them two at a time.

“Hey!” I called.

He stopped and turned around. “What?”

“Are you still mad at me? I’m sorry about what I said. I mean it.”

He threw his hands up in the air. “I don’t know what I am anymore,” he said. “Especially where it involves you. Go call Bobby. I got stuff to do in the barrel room.”

I called Kit instead.

“Sure, we can come early,” she said. “Why, what’s up?”

“I need to talk to Bobby and it’s better if I do it face-to-face.”

“Uh-oh. Luce, it better not be about Ross. Bobby’s been up to his ass in alligators ever since they arrested him at the clinic. Apparently the sheriff department’s been getting calls—a lot of ’em on 911—saying Ross didn’t do it and the police are a bunch of pigs. Bobby’s had about all he can take.”

“Please do this favor for me,” I said. “Please? You won’t be sorry.”

“Somehow I think I already am,” she said. “The things I do for you. See you at six.”

At five-thirty I fixed a tray with four wineglasses, four plates, a basket of crackers, and Dominique’s tapenade in the villa’s small kitchen. Quinn found me uncorking a bottle of wine at the bar.

“Bobby is gonna smell a setup a mile away.” He picked up the bottle and whistled. “Where’d you get a bottle of Angelus? I’ve never seen that. An eighty-dollar bottle of wine ought to buy you plenty of help.”

“Leland’s wine cellar,” I said. “And it’s not a setup. All of us can have drinks on the terrace. It’ll be easier to talk that way.”

“He’s gonna hate this.”

Bobby and Kit arrived at six sharp. I smiled and Bobby’s eyes grew wary as his eyes slid from Kit to me.

“Told you,” Quinn said under his breath.

“Hi,” said Kit brightly. “Here we are.”

“How about a drink? We can sit on the terrace,” I said. “Hey, Bobby. Thanks for coming.”

Quinn poured a small amount of wine into his glass, then filled the others before finally topping off his own. I passed the crackers and tapenade.