The Chardonnay Charade (18 page)

“What is this stuff?” Bobby asked.

“Tapenade,” I said.

Kit spread some liberally on a cracker and took a bite. “Kind of a fancy olive dip,” she said, licking a finger. “Try it. It’s good.”

We clinked glasses and drank, then Bobby said, “What gives, Lucie? You want to talk about Ross Greenwood, don’t you?”

I set my wineglass down. “What if we can prove Ross couldn’t have killed Georgia?”

“Then you would know more than the Loudoun County Sheriff’s Department does.”

He spoke with such complete conviction that it rattled me. “What if we get Emilio and Marta to talk to you? And they say Ross was at their place all night delivering their twins?” I folded my hands in my lap and squeezed them tightly together like I was praying. And waited.

“Lucie,” Bobby said carefully, “we think we have a strong case or we wouldn’t have arrested him.”

“You could be wrong! How could he have killed her if he was with them?”

“Bring them to the station,” he said, “and we’ll talk.”

“They won’t go to the station,” Quinn said. “They’re scared they’ll be deported.”

“That won’t happen.”

“Marta’s son was involved in a gang fight recently. He managed to slope off before he got picked up,” Quinn said.

“I know,” Bobby said. “Kid’s only fourteen. Marta oughta pay more attention to what he’s up to or she’ll be visiting him in juvie before his next birthday.”

“What about meeting her and Emilio here at the vineyard?” I asked.

“Set it up and call me.”

“It is set up. Ten o’clock tomorrow night. Here in the parking lot.”

Bobby’s eyes held mine and his mouth twitched. “What a surprise.”

“Will you come?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll come. And now I got something to ask you.”

I sat up straight. “Yes?”

“I’ve had the day from hell. Your wine’s real good, but I’d give anything for a cold beer. You got anything like that around here?”

Our luck with the glorious weather—clear, sharp sunshine, azure sky, tufts of cottonball cumulus clouds—continued on Sunday, the day of our first annual “Memorial Day Weekend Run Through the Vineyard.” It had been my idea to raise money for the soup kitchen near Bluemont where we often donated leftover food from our events. As soon as we announced it, Blue Ridge Federal, the
Washington Tribune,
and Kendall Properties offered to sponsor the race, paying for advertising, special T-shirts, and other promotional expenses.

About three hundred people signed up to run. The course started in front of the winery and, for the more serious runners, consisted of a ten-kilometer circuit through the south vineyard along the service road, then down Atoka Road to our main entrance and up Sycamore Lane. For the less intrepid, it was four and a half laps around Sycamore Lane, which was exactly five kilometers. There also was a 2k fun walk-run for anyone who just wanted to stretch their legs.

Quinn had thought we could pace off the course using the odometer in the El.

“Absolutely not,” I had said. “We’ll get Marty Gamble to come over with a measuring wheel and walk off an accurately measured course. He runs with the Downtown Athletic Club.”

“The place that used to give the Heisman Trophy? No fooling?” Quinn rubbed his chin with his thumb.

“No, no. This is a group of guys over in Leesburg. They meet at the Dunkin’ Donuts.”

“What’s the difference between the odometer and that wheel thing?” Quinn asked.

“If you’re a runner,” I explained, “you’re always trying for a personal best. If we’re sloppy and it’s really an almost-but-not-quite-ten-k, then just imagine what happens when some guy is high-fiving his buddy and whooping and hollering after he crosses the finish line because he’s sure he just shaved ten or twenty seconds off his best time. You want to be the one to tell him it’s fifty meters short?”

“Okay,” he’d said. “I get your point.”

So I was surprised when Quinn met me at the villa first thing in the morning wearing running shorts and a T-shirt. There is no time when I am more aware of the limitations of my disability than when it comes to sports. In high school, Kit and I had run cross-country and I’d been pretty competitive, but those days were gone forever. When I was in the hospital, my physical therapist had been an adorable ninety-nine-pound sprite who looked like she’d blow away in a stiff breeze. I found out soon enough that she’d trained with the Marines and their elite “tip of the spear” lead-the-pack aggressiveness had rubbed off on her but good. She ended every one of our sessions with a sweet smile and the promise that she would be back the next day to, as she said, “kick your butt from hell to breakfast.”

Besides Ross, she was the best thing that happened to me, accident-wise. Part of kicking my butt meant she never let me feel sorry for myself and, hard-ass that she was, she wasted no pity on me, either. “Listen to me, Lucie,” she’d said during one of our sessions, “your disability is a part of who you are now, but it isn’t all of who you are. It doesn’t define you. Don’t make it that way.”

I hadn’t. But days like this were still hard.

“I didn’t know you were going to run,” I said now to Quinn. “You never mentioned it.”

He looked embarrassed. “Bonita talked me into it.”

“Good for you. You doing the ten-k or the five-k?”

“My pride wants to do the ten-k like a hot dog, but my knees are telling me to do the five-k.” He grinned, still self-conscious.

I laughed. “Listen to your knees.”

Then he turned serious. “Manolo called. He’s gonna pick up Emilio tonight after he gets off work. He should be here by ten.”

“What about Marta and the babies? I got the money.”

“He didn’t say one way or the other,” Quinn said.

“I’m not sure Bobby will buy this without the children there,” I said.

“Then you’d better pray to whoever you pray to that they come.”

Almost all of our events at the vineyard—except for apple picking—are geared to adults since they revolve around wine, but the daytime charity race brought families with children. Some of the parents ran with their kids and a few pushed baby strollers as they walked and chatted during the laps around Sycamore Lane. Besides the local Girl Scout troop handing out bottled water along the way, we gave flavored Popsicles to the kids and before long every child had a brightly colored tongue.

Sera surprised us by showing up with Hector, who had just gotten out of the hospital the day before. “I didn’t want him to come,” she murmured. “But you know him. He insisted.”

Hector patted her hand. “This woman worries too much.”

But his face was pale and the heartiness seemed forced. I kissed him on the forehead. “Let me know if you need anything.”

He waved me away with his hand. “I’m fine, Lucita. You wait and see. Next year I’ll be running with all these people.”

“Sure you will,
my vida
,” Sera said affectionately, mussing his hair. “You’ll bring home the blue ribbon, won’t you?”

I smiled and left to join the race officials.

It was a folksy down-home kind of event, completely low-tech, with no computerized timers or cars following the runners along the course. Austin Kendall, wearing pink and lime plaid Bermuda shorts, a “Run Through the Vineyard” T-shirt, and a straw boater with small American flags tucked into it, genially yelled, “On your mark, get set, go!” and that started everyone off. Seth Hannah from the bank and Clayton Avery, who owned the
Tribune,
joined him at the finish line. It would be their collective decision as to who broke the tape and got first, second, and third place.

I didn’t see Jennifer Seely until after the race was over. She had competed in the 10k, turning in one of the better times among the women. I watched a Girl Scout hand her a bottle of water. Jen unscrewed the top and dumped the bottle so water sluiced over her hair and face, soaking her thin T-shirt, which clung to well-muscled contours. She looked tired but exhilarated. I watched with some envy. That used to be me.

She caught me staring. “Hello, Lucie.”

I walked over and leaned on my cane. “Congratulations. Great time you turned in.”

“Thanks.” She chugged the rest of her water.

“You sticking around for the picnic?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Randy’s sister is in town. She’s packing his things. I said I’d help.”

“You really were close, weren’t you?”

She flushed lightly. “I’m just trying to help. His family is devastated. No one can believe he killed himself. Not to mention all that crap about Georgia.”

“You know the police found bedding and condoms at our barn, don’t you?” I asked.

“I heard.” She picked at the label on the water bottle.

“You’ve been there with him, Jen. You were more than just friends.”

She stopped fiddling with the label and looked up. “What if I was? No one knows, Lucie. I’d like it to stay that way. Especially now that he’s dead.”

“Were you there the night Georgia died?”

“No. Of course not.” Her eyes flashed. “I gotta go. See you around.”

She sprinted past me and I watched her, long-legged with gazelle-like grace, as she ran down Sycamore Lane toward the parking lot.

She was lying. Too bad I couldn’t prove it.

Manolo called that evening on his way to pick up Emilio.

“They might be late,” he said. “But everyone’s coming. Kids, too.”

“Good.” I patted the pocket of my jeans where I had stuffed a roll of twenties. “This won’t work unless they all show up.”

The lit tip of Quinn’s cigar glowed orange in the soft darkness as I pulled into the parking lot just before ten. He sat on the stone wall by the stairs to the villa, smoking quietly.

“Manolo called,” I said as I joined him. “Everyone’s coming, but they’re running behind.”

“At least they’re showing up.”

“Moon’s pretty tonight,” I said. “Looks like a harvest moon.”

“Nope. It’s a blue moon,” he said. “The second full moon this month. They’re pretty rare.”

“That’s why they say ‘once in a blue moon’?”

“Yep.” The cigar glowed again and I heard him expel a breath. “I thought you were going to come out and look at the stars with me at the summerhouse.”

I said with a small shock, “I almost did the other night. I was nearly there when I realized you were with Bonita. So I left.”

He sounded surprised. “You were? We never heard you.”

Fortunately in the darkness he couldn’t see my face burn with embarrassment. I never should have brought it up. “The two of you were sort of busy.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he drawled. “Wait a minute. Don’t tell me you think—”

I cut him off. “Listen. Someone’s coming.”

Bobby’s tan unmarked Crown Vic pulled into the parking lot and he climbed out, leaving the engine running and the headlights on. Because he was backlit by the strong white glare, all I could see was a dark silhouette, including the bulge on his hip where he carried his gun.

“Evenin’, folks,” he said. “Where’s the happy family?”

“Running a little late,” Quinn said. “But they’re on their way.”

Bobby pulled a pack of bubblegum out of his pocket and held it out. “Gum?”

I said, “No, thanks,” as Quinn shook his head.

“How come you had to bring your gun?” I asked. “You’ll scare them.”

Bobby and Quinn exchanged glances.

“Uh, look, Lucie,” Bobby said, “in my job the only time I’m not carrying is in the shower. I didn’t do this just for Emilio and Marta.”

“Oh.”

He stuck a piece of gum in his mouth and joined Quinn and me on the wall. Behind us a chorus of bullfrogs sang loudly, the sound of the beginning of summer.

Another set of headlights cut a swath through the darkness.

“They’re here,” Bobby said. “Let’s do this.”

Emilio Mendez and Marta Juarez got out of the backseat of Manolo’s Toyota Camry. Each of them carried a small bundle. Manolo followed them. Emilio had plenty of yesterday’s swagger in him, but Marta, who looked like a child herself, seemed frightened. Her dark eyes were enormous as she clutched her baby and surveyed the three of us.

I stood up and went to her. “I’m Lucie, Marta. Can I see your baby?” I smiled, hoping showing off the child might help her relax.

Emilio said something low and hoarse in Spanish and Marta lowered the bundle from her shoulder, cradling the baby so I could see.

“A boy or a girl?” I asked.

“Angelina,” she murmured.

Emilio showed off the other twin. “My son,” he said. “Emilio.”

For the first time since I’d met him, he smiled.

“They’re beautiful,” I said. “You must be very proud.”

Behind me, Bobby cleared his throat. “Maybe I could ask them a couple of questions, Lucie, if that’s okay with you?”

I turned. “Sure. Sorry.”

He pulled out his notebook, positioning himself inside the wedge of light made by his headlights so he could see what he was writing. I held out my arms for baby Emilio and his father obliged. The child smelled sweet as I bent to kiss him. His eyes were closed.

“Okay,” Bobby said. “I’d like to ask you both what happened last Saturday night, May twenty-first, and Sunday morning, May twenty-second.”

It was pretty straightforward. Emilio did almost all the talking, occasionally in Spanish but often in English.

Marta went into labor early Saturday night. Emilio called Ross around ten-thirty p.m.

“You called his answering service?” Bobby asked.

Emilio glanced at Quinn.
“¿Mande?”

Quinn interpreted, then Emilio said, “No. I call Dr. Ross. He give his mobile number to Marta.”

“What time did he get to your house?”

“Eleven-thirty, about.”

“Then what?”

Emilio shrugged. Angelina started to fuss and Marta turned away from us to quiet her. I could hear her crooning softly to her daughter. In my arms, Emilio still slept placidly.

“Then the babies come. First Emilio, then Angelina.”

“What time?”

“Four o’clock.” He waggled his fingers. “Around. For Emilio. Then maybe half hour and Angelina.”

“So they were born Sunday morning,” Bobby said.

“Sí.”

“What time did Dr. Greenwood leave?”

“
A las seis.
Six.”

“You’re sure?” Bobby asked.

“I got Ross on his mobile around six-thirty,” I said, looking down at the sleeping child. “He told me he was on his way home after delivering the twins.”

“Thanks for that info, Lucie.” Bobby glared at me. “I’ll just finish with Emilio here, okay?”

“Don’t interrupt him,” Quinn said in my ear. “Or you’ll blow it.”

“Did Dr. Greenwood leave your apartment anytime between eleven-thirty and six a.m.?” Bobby asked Emilio.

“No.”

“Marta, you agree?”

She looked up when he said her name, her eyes flitting to Emilio, who interpreted. In the darkness I heard her say softly,
“Sí.”

Bobby pulled an overstuffed wallet out of his back pocket and extracted a battered-looking business card. “Call me if you remember something you forgot to tell me. I can get an interpreter for you, easy.”

Emilio took the card. “Can we go?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll help you get the children into the car,” I said.

I slipped Emilio the money when I gave him back his son. He took it without a word.

“They’re beautiful, Marta,” I said, pressing her hand with mine. “Two little Geminis. The twins.”

She looked puzzled and glanced at Emilio who said, “
Dice que son gemelos
.” He smiled at me. “My son is bull. Very strong. My daughter, too.”

“I think she looks very sweet.” I smiled back. “Thank you for coming.”

“So now Ross has an alibi,” I said, as Manolo backed out of the parking lot. “He couldn’t have murdered Georgia, since he was delivering those children.”

Bobby’s eyes narrowed. “I dunno. Something’s bothering me still.”

“What?”

“The murder weapon would be nice. Whatever was used to whack her on the head and knock her out.” He blew a bubble and popped it. “We never found it. You would have figured Randy would have it.”

“What are you gonna do now, Bobby?” Quinn asked.

“At the moment we’re holding Ross without bail. But he has a preliminary hearing Tuesday morning to determine if there’s probable cause and to set the bond,” he said. “Under the circumstances, I’d bet it’s going to be low enough that he can make bail and we’ll kick him loose.”

“That’s great news,” I said. “Why do you have to wait until Tuesday?”

“Tomorrow’s Memorial Day. If the magistrate happens to come by the jail, maybe we can move things up. But no guarantees. Anyway, I still think something’s off here.”

“If you’ve got hard evidence that he didn’t do it,” I said, “then what more do you want?”

Bobby blew another bubble. “The truth,” he said.

The weather changed on Memorial Day, and not for the better. I had a fitful night’s sleep filled with interruptions. Siri had called around midnight to tell me that Sam Constantine was going to try to talk to the magistrate and call in a favor so he could get Ross’s hearing moved up to Monday. Even if there was probable cause to accuse him, it had now been weakened by Emilio’s statement—and, besides, Ross had such strong ties to the community. She sounded elated, unaware she’d woken me up. Then at three-thirty, I had heard footsteps on the spiral staircase and the sound of Mia’s bedroom door closing.

When I finally got up at five-thirty, her door was tightly shut. She’d probably sleep until noon. I went downstairs to fix breakfast and switched on the radio in the kitchen. The forecast called for possible pop-up thunderstorms late in the day, continuing into the evening. We could always move the picnic to the villa if it rained, but you couldn’t move fireworks indoors.

I ate on the veranda. The air had thickened and a film of haze settled in, blunting sharp edges so the view looked like a slightly out-of-focus photograph. The outline of the Blue Ridge softened and bled into the skyline. Inside the house, the phone rang. I got to it just before the answering machine kicked in.

“How come you didn’t answer your mobile?” Quinn demanded.

“Because it’s probably in my car. I don’t suppose you have any idea for Plan B if it’s pouring rain when we’re supposed to have our fireworks tonight?”

“Not really. Maybe we’ll catch a break and we can have ’em between storms or something.”

“The truck from Boom Town Fireworks ought to be down by the pond setting up,” I said. “I’ll go talk to Hamp and let you know what he says.”

“Call me on your mobile,” he said, “because I’m heading over to the new fields to see how the planting is coming.” He paused and added, “Unless you forgot to charge your phone again.”

“Well, I might have. But it doesn’t take long to charge.”

“I knew it,” he said, and hung up.

I got the phone and connected it to the charger, then drove the Mini down to the pond, parking next to Hampton Weaver’s white van. The owner of Boom Town Fireworks spent his days working as a carpenter, building houses. He spent his nights blowing things up.

Hamp was on his knees working over what looked like a large rectangular wooden frame. If I ever got into a barroom brawl, I wanted him on my side. Not because he packed a mean punch, but at six-foot-five, three hundred pounds, and a skin mural of tattoos, all he had to do was show up and he’d intimidate the hell out of everyone else.

“Hey, Hamp,” I called. “How’s it going?”

“Goin’ good, Lucie. Goin’ good.”

“What are you doing?”

“Putting shells into these tubes,” he said. “They go into this here frame and that’s your fireworks. Some of them, at least.”

“What are we going to do if it rains?” I asked. “They’re talking about intermittent thundershowers.”

He grunted. “Yeah, I heard. If it’s just rain, we can still shoot. I got plastic to cover everything until tonight. But not thunderstorms. You got to worry about the wind in a thunderstorm. It’s a safety hazard.”

“So you still plan to go ahead?”

“Sure. We might have to be a little flexible about timing. Ain’t necessarily a given we have to start at nine sharp. I got three shooters showing up for you. They’ll fire some manually and the rest electronically. If we’re pretty sure of twenty, maybe thirty minutes where we don’t get any rain, it should be okay.” He picked up a roll of masking tape and handed it to me. “Tear me off a six-inch piece of that so I can connect these fuses, will ya, sweetheart?”

I handed him the tape and he stuck one end between his teeth while he twisted two fuses together. “I can put the rest of this stuff in my truck unless you got someplace around here I could use for a few hours.” He wound tape around them. “I’m headin’ over to The Plains after this to finish setting up another show.”

We did have someplace. Randy’s barn.

“I guess you could use the old hay barn,” I said. “You know the one I mean? South vineyard. Over by the big orchard. You can get there through the visitor parking lot if you take the service road.”

“I can find it. That’d probably work good.” He pulled a red bandanna out of the back pocket of his baggy jeans and wiped his forehead.

“I’ll go on over and make sure everything’s cleared out. We used to let Randy use it. I haven’t been there since before everything happened.”

“Damned shame about that,” he said. “What a waste.”

I nodded. “If you need me for anything, I’ll be in my office after that.”

He promised to call with a weather update around five o’clock. When I left him, he had more tape hanging out of his mouth, twisting fuses together.

The barn looked like it had been well and thoroughly searched. Overturned folding chairs and music stands were piled in a corner and the stall doors were flung wide open. I leaned my cane against one of the stalls and set about stacking the chairs and righting the stands. Someone in the band should come get these things. After what happened here, it no longer seemed like a place to make music.