The Chardonnay Charade (24 page)

“You don’t remember anything,” I said. “So what makes you so sure you didn’t? You already have a history of drinking and driving. You pushed your luck that you didn’t get caught before. This time you did and you killed someone.” I was so angry with her, but so scared for her, too.

“No,” she insisted. “That’s not true! Okay, I drank. But I
never
drove, not even after one drink. I’m not stupid. I always went with a DD.”

“You actually thought about a designated driver? What about that ticket?”

“Of course I did. And the ticket was for public drunkenness. Just a fine. Not DUI.”

“Did any of the kids you were hanging out with drink and drive?”

She made a face like she’d just eaten something nasty. “A few.”

“Who?”

“Brad. Abby’s boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. And a couple of the others. I don’t know them too well.”

“I don’t know why Abby didn’t take your keys away from you,” I said. “‘Friends don’t let friends drive drunk.’”

Mia swallowed. “She’s no friend anymore. Not after what she told Mr. Constantine. She was already loaded when I got there, crying about Brad. She found out he slept with someone else. I thought she was gonna kill him. It’s not true that I’m the one who insisted on making those drinks. Anyway, I had a horrible headache when I got there. She gave me something for it and I lay down for a while. When I woke up she handed me a drink.”

“What’d she give you for your headache?” I asked.

She shrugged. “I dunno. I thought it was aspirin. Whatever it was, it worked.”

“Well, the way this is going down it’s your word against hers. Sam said she claimed you took off before she could stop you. Her father said Abby was home when he got in around midnight. In bed. He knew she had been drinking, but she’s not underage. Sam wasn’t sure Hugo wasn’t going to get fined or worse for allowing a minor to consume alcohol on the premises, considering what you did after you left there. The fact that he wasn’t home doesn’t get him off the hook, but it’s probably a mitigating factor.”

She buried her head in her hands. Her voice was muffled. “God, I just don’t know. It didn’t happen like that, I swear.”

“Then how did you end up at the scene of an accident?” I demanded. So far I’d been trying to keep my voice even, but what she said was physically impossible. I ticked things off on my fingers. “You were banged up. You were driving that car. No one else was there except you and the other two kids. What other explanation is there?”

She looked up, her pretty young face ravaged and grief-stricken. “I swear on Mom’s grave, Lucie. I think I got set up. But I don’t know how.”

“Stay here,” I said, “while I’m at the villa. And stay out of trouble. The strongest thing you can drink is coffee. Got that?”

“What should I do?” she wailed. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“I don’t know,” I said, exasperated. “Watch a movie. Watch TV. Read a book. Do your laundry. But do not leave this house under any circumstances.”

She nodded, looking completely broken. I swallowed the lump in my throat and left for the villa. I should have hugged her and told her it would be okay. But it wasn’t okay and she’d been playing with fire. She had taken a life. The newspaper photographs were the high school photos for all three of them. The boy had been a good-looking kid, though the bow tie of his tuxedo was slightly askew and his smile had a bit of the devil in it. But his eyes were intelligent and hopeful and now there would be one lucky wait-listed person who would take his place at Princeton. At least his girlfriend was reported to be in stable condition, thank God.

Almost everyone who wasn’t actually working the Sunday lunch shift at the Inn showed up for the buffet. As expected, it was a subdued afternoon. I was in the kitchen removing the plastic wrap from another tray of hors d’oeuvres when Quinn showed up, sunburned from the beach and sporting a new Hawaiian shirt. He looked good.

He leaned against the doorway. “You’ve had the weekend from hell, haven’t you?”

“Not as bad as the weekend the family of the boy Mia killed is having.”

He walked over to me. “Why didn’t you call me?”

I said unsteadily, “It’s a family matter. And you were…away.”

“I would have come back immediately if I’d known.”

I hadn’t cried the whole weekend, for the dead boy, for the grief my sister had caused their family, for the absolute tragedy of the situation. “It has nothing to do with the vineyard. You don’t need to be involved.” The tears streamed down my face and I looked around for a napkin, anything, to wipe them away.

He pulled me to him and stroked my hair. “I’m sorry what I said about Mia before. I had no right to do that. It was out of line.”

“It’s okay,” I said into his shirt. “Don’t worry about it.”

He kicked the kitchen door shut with the heel of his boot and let me cry it out in choked hushed sobs while he held me. “What if they can hear me out there?” I said, finally. “Everyone will wonder. And I should take this tray out to the terrace.”

“Shhh,” he whispered. “No one wonders anything. I’ll take it out in a few minutes. Calm down and take a deep breath. That’s a good girl.” He handed me a cocktail napkin that said “Congratulations” on it in flowery script. “You going to be all right?”

I wiped my eyes. “I don’t want you to go.”

“I’ll be right back.” He picked up the tray.

“That’s not what I meant.”

He’d been about to open the door, but he stopped and set the tray back down. “What did you mean?”

I twisted the small napkin into a knot. “I don’t want you to leave the vineyard. I want you to stay.”

He looked at me for what seemed like an eternity and I could see the futility in his eyes that meant my plea was too little too late and the die was already cast. But all he said was, “I’ll be back.”

When he finally returned with two more empty trays, I was leaning against the counter with wet napkins pressed against my eyes like compresses. “How do I look?” I took away the napkins and blinked. “Can you tell anything?”

“You look fine,” he said. “Come on. Let’s get back out there.”

The party broke up not long after that. Dominique left for the Inn with Joe. Her staff stayed behind to clean up.

“We’ve got things under control here,” Quinn said to me. “Why don’t you take off?”

“You sure?”

He nodded. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Babysitting my sister.”

“Call me if you need anything,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said. “How did it go in Virginia Beach?”

He smiled ruefully. “Okay, I guess. Bonita ran into some friends she knew from around here. She wanted to stay and party with them, so she’s still there. I came back alone. She’s catching a ride back later tonight with some guy she used to date.”

“Oh.” I studied him. “Everything all right with you two?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“No reason. Thanks for the reprieve on cleaning up. I owe you.”

“No, you don’t. See you tomorrow.” He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. “With everything that happened, I’ve been holding off telling you. But you need to know. We heard from Belcher.”

The EPA verdict. “How bad?”

“A fine. We got off easy, considering. They’re going to throw the book at Lambert Chemical, though.” He handed me the paper. “I’m glad it’s over with. This thing with your sister. Georgia. Randy. Maybe now we can start moving on.”

“Yes,” I said, “now all I can think about is whether Mia is going to jail or not.”

He looked at me sadly. “Aw, honey. You poor kid. Go home and get some rest.”

I drove back to the house, completely confused. Was he leaving or wasn’t he? He never said, one way or the other.

I found Mia stretched out on the glider, drinking something straw-colored and thumbing through the book of prints I’d bought from Mac.

“What is that?” I hadn’t meant to sound sharp, but it looked like Chardonnay.

“Apple juice. I swear. Want to try?” She held up the glass.

“No, it’s okay. Sorry I snapped at you. But be careful you don’t slosh anything on that book while you’re lying there. It cost six hundred dollars. I think some of those prints will make nice labels for the new wines. If they get wet they’ll be ruined.”

She sat up and swung her long tanned legs around so her feet were on the floor. “Six hundred?” She looked stunned. “You paid six hundred dollars for a damaged book?”

My turn to be surprised. “Damaged how?”

“It’s got missing pages.”

I sat down next to her and the glider rocked back and forth. “Show me.”

She opened the book to the flyleaf. “Here. Looks like maybe one page was cut out.” Then she flipped to the back. “And here. Two pages. See those tiny edges? If you’re going to cannibalize it, I guess it doesn’t matter. Where’d you get it?”

“From Mac Macdonald. Someone bought it, then returned it. Mac knew I was looking for wildflower prints.”

Mia sipped her apple juice. “Probably whoever returned it found the cut pages after they bought it.”

Or maybe that person was responsible for the damage. “Wonder what was on those pages,” I said.

“Nothing. They were probably the blank pages at the beginning and end of a book. I bet there was an inscription or some notes on them and somebody decided to remove them.”

I glanced at my watch. “I’m going to call Mac and ask him about that.”

I got through to the antique store a minute after five p.m. and the phone immediately went to the answering machine. I hung up without leaving a message.

Mia was hungry for the first time all day and I’d been too distracted to remember to bring anything back from Dominique’s reception. I fixed her bacon and eggs in the kitchen while she sat at the old pine table and read the comics, like she used to do as a kid.

“Boy,” she said gloomily, “my horoscope’s dead right. ‘Sitting on hold is frustrating.’ Too bad I couldn’t have Mom’s. Taurus always has good ones. ‘Out of your efforts springs something magical.’”

“What’s mine?”

“Cancer. The crab.” She looked up and grinned. “‘Push yourself to do the very thing you don’t want to do.’ Ring any bells?”

“Too many,” I said. “Put that away.”

She went to bed after dinner. I cleaned up and threw the newspaper in the recycling bin. But not before I read the rest of my horoscope. “A great deal is accomplished alone and in silence.”

I got the book of prints and went to the library, which had been Leland’s office until the fire destroyed most of it. His extensive collection of books on Thomas Jefferson had literally gone up in smoke and none of the furniture had been salvageable. My mother had once gone tartan-mad in decorating the room—heavy doses of red and green plaid on a heathery purple background, the colors of our modern tartan. It had always seemed a bit eye-popping and agitated to me and I didn’t spend much time there.

After the fire I knew I wanted the original floor-to-ceiling bookshelves rebuilt and then, in honor of my clan—my family, my history—I again used the Montgomery colors, though this time opting for our ancient tartan in the calmer shades of sage green and Wedgwood blue. I sat in a tartan-covered wing chair by the fireplace and turned on the three-way reading lamp to its full wattage. Not that I needed it.

The uneasiness that had been haunting me all evening had bloomed to real fear. And anger. Mac wouldn’t have lied to me about the condition of the book. He was an eccentric businessman, but he was an honest one. I flipped through the pages one more time. I’d seen that distinctive thick cream paper somewhere else.

The letter Jefferson Davis wrote to Judah Benjamin.

If Ross had cut out the pages before returning the book to Mac, then to whom had he given them so that person had been able to forge the letter? Had he done it himself? The forgery had obviously been good enough to fool some expert analyst who believed it was genuine. Meaning the forger had to be a real master at what he did.

I left the book in the library and got a bottle of one of our best Chardonnays from the wine cellar. This time I went to the summer-house.

Ross told me once that in medical school he’d been taught to diagnose disease and illness by their own version of Occam’s razor—that usually there is a common, logical, and easily understandable diagnosis for a patient’s symptoms. When you hear hoof beats, first think horses, not zebras. Assume the easiest and most obvious explanation.

But as I sat there watching the stars for the second time in two nights, wishing Quinn were here with his telescope to distract me, I couldn’t help myself. There were exceptions to every theory. And God help me, this time I did not think horses.

I thought zebras.

I finally fell asleep in one of the Adirondack chairs. When I woke at daylight it felt as though I had a crushing weight on my chest and then I remembered all of it. Mia’s accident and everything that lay ahead for her. And Ross.

By now I was positive that the Jefferson Davis letter had been written on a page excised from my book. The paper would be the right age, for one thing. But did Ross forge the letter himself, or did he obtain the paper for someone else?

Either way, why had he done it? He didn’t need the money. Was it for the thrill of trying to get away with something this audacious?

I finished most of a pot of coffee after a shower and breakfast as I watched the layered Blue Ridge change from gray to heathery blue as the sun rose in the sky. Quinn would wonder where I was. Finally I called him.

“Sorry, I overslept,” I lied. “And something’s come up. I’ll be in after lunch.”

“Are you sick?” he said.

“No.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Aw, jeez. You’re a horrible liar, you know that? Is it something about Mia?”

“No, I need to talk to someone, that’s all.”

“Lucie,” he warned. “Don’t con me.”

“I’ll call you later. Word of honor.” Then I hung up.

First I had to see Mac. Right before I left, I woke my sister.

“I’ve got some errands to do. Middleburg and Leesburg. I’ll be back later,” I said. “You know the drill.”

She sat up sleepily and scratched her head. “Yeah, no booze for breakfast.”

“Very funny.”

“You still trying to figure out who cut the pages out of that book?”

I had tucked it under my arm. “Not anymore. See you later.”

I got to Macdonald’s Antiques just after ten. I found Mac straightening a painting of someone’s ancestor that hung next to an antique barometer. His eyes fell on the book.

“What have we got here? Don’t tell me you’re not happy with that gorgeous book?” His smile was strained. “I don’t understand why something as beautiful as that keeps coming back here like a boomerang.”

“I’m not returning it, Mac,” I said, and watched him relax. “I’m just wondering if the reason Ross returned it was because of the pages that had been cut out of it.”

“Oh, so he told you he had it on trial?” Mac said. “And, sugar, no pages were cut out of it. I checked it over myself. That book is in absolutely pristine condition.” He held out his hand. “May I?”

I clutched it to my heart. “No, that’s okay. I’m going to take it apart anyway, for the wine labels. Thanks so much. Sorry to bother you. I’ve got to go.” I was babbling, but I didn’t want to hand the book over, now that he’d confirmed my suspicions.

“Something wrong, Lucie?” He straightened a lace doily on a small oak table. “I know you’ve had a lot on your mind lately.”

“Yes,” I said, “it’s been rough. Thanks, Mac. See you later.”

Then I drove to Leesburg.

If Ross was the forger, then this wasn’t the only document he’d faked. What about his collection of Civil War papers? Were they all phony, or just some of them? Lord, he’d sold dozens of items he’d turned up over the past few years, earning himself a respected reputation among historians. Had he duped everyone?

And if he could fake Jefferson Davis’s signature well enough to fool the experts, then how hard would it have been to fake someone else’s handwriting, who was less well known?

Randy.

What about that note that supposedly came back with Georgia’s dry cleaning? And the suicide note? Dear God.

I went to the clinic. They didn’t have visiting hours until the afternoon. Hopefully no one would be there except Ross, and maybe Siri. What was I going to do or say when I saw him? Accuse him of forgery…and murder? Two deaths? I’d helped him get off, hadn’t I? He had relied on my loyalty, my faith in him, my devotion—and I’d delivered.

I parked by the side entrance next to the black Explorer. The only other car in the lot. He was alone.

I tried the door, though I knew it would be locked. Then I banged on it until finally he opened it. He seemed surprised to see me.

Bobby told me once that the hardest thing about being a cop was seeing the look of betrayal flash in the eyes of a criminal when you slap handcuffs on them because they really believed you meant it when you said, “If you put down that gun nothing’s going to happen.”

“They give you this big, dumb look,” he’d said. “Like cows. And they say, ‘You promised.’”

I held up the book of prints. Ross’s eyes met mine—which I know were filled with fury—and that look of betrayal came into his.

“You want to tell me about this?” I asked.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“I’m sure you are,” I said. “Where’s the letter Jefferson Davis wrote to Judah Benjamin, Ross? Can I see it again?”

“I don’t have it anymore,” he said. “I dropped it off at the auction house yesterday.”

“Well, I guess there’s hope that one of their experts will figure out it’s a forgery before they sell it,” I said. “If I can do it, it can’t be too hard. Though I wonder how you fooled whoever vetted it for you.”

His eyes grew dark and hard then, and I knew. “Oh,” I said. “Your expert gets a share of what you sell it for, is that it?”

Ross took my arm. “Let’s go to my office, shall we?”

I shook my arm free. “Don’t touch me. I can walk fine by myself.”

“No,” he said, still my doctor. “You can’t. You need a brace for that leg and you’re in denial about it.” He shoved me into his office and closed the door. I heard the sound of a deadbolt. “I need you to be reasonable, Lucie. The money is going for the clinic.”

He walked around to his desk and indicated that I should sit down in one of the two chairs facing him, just like we were going to have a little chat about my blood pressure. He sat. I did not.

He straightened up some papers and, though I’m not good at reading upside down, I know a prescription pad when I see one. It looked like he’d been busy writing prescriptions, too. I felt sick. Where did it stop?

My voice shook. “You forged those notes from Randy, didn’t you?”

“He wrote that note that came back with her dry cleaning,” he said calmly. “But I knew he was screwing Georgia before I saw it.”

“So you killed her.”

“You can’t prove that.”

God, I was right. “You killed her because she was having an affair?” I was incredulous. “Wouldn’t a divorce have been less messy? You won’t go to jail for that.”

“I won’t go to jail for anything,” he said in that same even voice. “I had no choice. She knew too much.”

Now I was confused. “About what? The historical forgeries?”

If his eyes hadn’t strayed to the prescription pad before meeting mine, it would have taken me longer to work it out.

“All those pills,” I said. “They’re not all from dead people, are they?”

“Lucie.” He stood up and put his hands on his desk, leaning toward me. “Don’t screw up something you don’t understand. I am trying to
help
these people. And I will do whatever it takes to circumvent the system. The people who come to this clinic are the poorest of the poor. They have nothing! Do you understand that?”

“So you forge prescriptions for drugs? Someone still has to pay for them,” I said. “Don’t they?”

He cleared his throat. “They are paid for by the generosity of other patients, who can afford them.”

“In return for what?”

He folded his arms across his chest. “Certain controlled medications are just that—controlled. I can help someone who’s suffering unnecessarily get around those limitations. It’s about helping, Lucie. It’s always been about helping.”

“Hugo Lang is one of your suppliers?”

That caught him off guard. “No.”

“You’re lying, Ross. He’s on some kind of medication, isn’t he? And he doesn’t want anyone to know about it. He never did get over his wife’s death. What is it? Antidepressants?”

“None of your damn business.”

“So Georgia found out about the fake prescriptions? What was she going to do, turn you in? Though that doesn’t sound like Georgia. No offense, but she didn’t have much of a conscience.”

“She was a lying, scheming little bitch,” he said, and this time the calm façade cracked, and I saw contempt and hatred. “She was going to blackmail everyone. I couldn’t let it happen.”

“That’s why Hugo endorsed her, isn’t it? Because she knew about the drugs.”

“The man is grieving, Lucie. After all these years. Georgia had no right to do what she did.”

“So you killed her and then you killed Randy. And you got Emilio and Marta to lie for you. Those babies weren’t born that night, were they? Emilio called his son a little bull. Angelina, too. At first I thought he was talking about how strong they were, but he was referring to their zodiac sign. Taurus. I just read my horoscope last night and that’s when I saw the dates. They couldn’t have been born May twenty-first because they’d be Geminis. The twins.”

“Aren’t you clever?” he said sarcastically, but I could tell he was unnerved by how I was piecing things together.

“Did you kill them both the same night?” I persisted. “Why did Randy have to die, too?”

“I didn’t kill anybody. You helped prove my innocence, remember? You’re in it with me.” His eyes glittered like a madman’s. I’d once trusted him with my life.

“Not anymore,” I shouted. “Don’t you dare say that! Now I know why you got so quickly to the place where Georgia was killed, but the sheriff and fire trucks got lost. Because you knew where to go.”

He said nothing, just kept staring at me.

I held the book up. “One of the missing pages in this book is the paper you wrote that letter on,” I said. “If I show this to the sheriff and he starts investigating, how short a straight line does he need to draw to connect two dots?”

“You won’t do that, Lucie,” he said coolly, “because I have something you want more than anything else in the world.”

I wanted to scream at him that there was nothing he could possibly have that I wanted, after what he had just taken from me. Trust. Loyalty. Devotion.

He waited.

“What is it?”

“Your sister’s life.”

I shook my head. “I don’t believe you.”

He smiled and laid down a winning hand of cards. “She didn’t kill that boy.”

My voice shook. “How do you know?”

“That is what it will cost you to not turn me in to the police. And believe me,” he added, “I
know
what I’m talking about.”

I felt sick. “I can’t.”

“Then she’ll go to jail,” he said. “Guaranteed. Her BAC will be well over the legal limit when that tox test comes back. She’s going to hang for this. Unless you save her.”

“How do you know I won’t agree to your terms, then turn you in anyway?”

“Because I know you, Lucie. And because I’m going to set this up so that if you ever do renege on your promise, you’ll feel the pain.”

“If you know something,” I said desperately, “then the police will find it out, too.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Want to bet on that? You want to gamble on that beautiful, fragile angel surviving and going on to live a normal life after she’s done time behind bars?”

“No.” I gripped the book so hard my knuckles turned white. I felt like I was going to pass out. “Ross, you’re a doctor, for God’s sake. Do no harm. How can you do this?”

“You know,” he said, “it’s really true what they say. The first time’s hard, but it gets easier. Now, do we have a deal or don’t we?”

“You can go to hell! It’s where you belong.” I picked up my cane and started for the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

My hands shook so badly it took me a few seconds to unlock the deadbolt. “The sheriff’s office. Thank God it’s only a few blocks away.” I reached for the doorknob.

“You’re not going anywhere. Turn around, Lucie, and move away from the door. Or I’ll pull the trigger and kill you now. I swear to God I will.” The gun was pointed at my heart.

“Since when do you own a gun?”

His expression changed into a sneer. “It’s easy enough to get one in Virginia. Now shut up. You think you’re so clever. I’m going to get away with it, Lucie. Marty told me the ME’s about ready to rule Randy’s death a suicide. Don’t forget it’s an election year and the sheriff’s running again. They could close the case once and for all, if they decide Randy killed Georgia, then took his own life. Tie it up with a bow and no one will remember, come November.”

“What about me? What are you going to do with me?” My voice sounded far away. Would he really kill me in cold blood? If he did, it wouldn’t be here. He couldn’t afford to. There’d be blood everywhere.

“Let’s go,” he said, reading my mind. “This can’t be messy. And I need to get back here before the clinic opens at two.”

“Of course. God forbid shooting me should keep the good doctor from opening ten minutes late.”

“Don’t goad me. It’s not a good idea.”