Tarotica

rehearsed this speech a dozen times and still can’t think of an easy way to break it to him. Might as well just spit it out. “I know who destroyed Meditrina’s vines.”

“Oh? Which one of our French competitors did it?” Troy leaned forward, resting his elbows on the antique oak desk that had been his father’s when the old man ran the business. “I hope you have enough information to back up an accusation. If you’re right, the shit’s gonna hit the fan internationally.”

Eli shook his head. “It wasn’t one of our French competitors. Although that’s what I thought initially.”

“You’ve found out more since you sent me that report?” Troy shifted his position, as if he were having trouble getting comfortable in his expensive, ergonomically designed chair. “Good, that’s good.”

“Have you talked to Giselle Constant since she’s been back here?”

Troy frowned. “Well, yeah. Why?”

“Giselle planted vines infected with the Morte Jaune in Meditrina’s fields before she went to Texas to work for Coyote Fortuna. She acquired those diseased vines during the trip you took to France together three and a half years ago.”

“She told you that?”

“No, of course not.”

“How did you figure it out?”

“That’s a long story.”

Troy inhaled a deep breath, then let it out slowly. He picked up his coffee cup and held it between his hands for a while, as if drawing comfort from its warmth, before drinking. Eli studied his boss’s demeanor carefully, observing the subtle shifts in his expression. The lines between Troy’s eyebrows deepened, the corners of his mouth sagged. His head dipped slightly; his shoulders slumped.

“I suppose you know about our affair, too?”

Eli nodded. “It wasn’t a very well-kept secret, Troy.”

Troy shrugged.

“Poisoning the vineyard was Giselle’s way of taking revenge because you wouldn’t leave your wife for her, right?”

“So it seems.”

Watching Troy’s reaction to the news—sadness and resignation, instead of surprise or outrage—Eli suddenly realized it wasn’t news at all to his boss.

“You knew all along that she introduced the Morte Jaune into our vineyard, didn’t you?” he asked.

Troy looked up from his coffee cup and met Eli’s searching stare. He nodded.

Anger surged in Eli’s gut. His fists clenched involuntarily. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, glaring at his boss. “Who hired the goons to take me out? You or her?”

“They’re Giselle’s brothers.” Troy sighed. “They weren’t supposed to harm you, just scare you off. So you’d stop investigating the whole thing.”

Eli slammed his fist on the oak desk. “One of her brothers pulled a fucking knife on me. Did you know that?”

“Hey, you’re okay. Nobody got hurt.”

“No thanks to you.” Eli stood up and paced back and forth, the length of Troy’s office. Betrayal burned like hot coals in his chest. “Why didn’t you tell me? We’ve worked together for ten years, Troy. I thought we were friends.”

Troy held out his hands, palms up, in a gesture of helplessness. “I love her.”

“Even now, after she tried to ruin you?”

“What can I say?” His pained eyes searched Eli’s for understanding.

Eli flashed back to the nights he’d spent with Giselle, the lust she’d roused in him, and the great sex they’d had together. If Troy’s wife really was an “ice princess,” as Giselle claimed, he could easily imagine how his boss had fallen under the spell of a sultry Cajun temptress.

“What are you going to do now?” Troy asked.

The question had so many implications Eli couldn’t comprehend them all. “I honestly don’t know,” he said, and left Troy’s office.

* * *

Miranda stopped for lunch at a barbecue joint north of Raleigh, North Carolina.

She carried her pulled pork sandwich outside and ate at a picnic table in the shade of a huge live oak. It reminded her of the tree where Freeman, the hanging man, lived. When she’d finished, she dug into her oversized purse for her lipstick. Her fingers brushed the crystal from Uncle Bright’s field. Withdrawing the sparkling stone, she balanced it on the palm of her hand. Do you have a vision for me today?

As she gazed into the crystal, its wisps began to swirl like smoke rising from a candle’s flame. Slowly, they formed into shapes. A wide street with brick sidewalks. On both sides of the street rose elegant, eighteenth- and nineteenth-century mansions. Red, yellow, and copper leaves crunched under her feet as she and Eli walked hand in hand under a clear blue sky. Miranda recognized the scene: Salem’s Chestnut Street. October, her favorite time of the year.

For several moments she stared into the crystal, until the images faded. Am I really seeing the future? she wondered, closing her fingers around the stone. The crystal had accurately foretold the attack in New Orleans. What about the other visions it’s shown me? Angrily, she recalled the one of a dark-haired woman sucking Eli’s fingers in a vineyard.

Miranda slipped the crystal back into her purse. I guess I’ll just have to wait and see.

* * *

After his conversation with Troy, Eli sought solace in the fields where he’d spent most of his adult life. Strolling through Meditrina’s vineyards had always brought him a sense of peace. Now, however, he felt himself withering and dying inside, undermined by those closest to him.

Like these vines.

He trailed his fingers along the green-gold leaves and touched the ripe, purple grapes, knowing he was saying goodbye.

Holding his hand open, Eli gazed at the tattoo on his palm. His talisman, his link to Mother Earth and her abundance. I started working in this vineyard right after I finished college. It’s the only real job I’ve ever had. But knowing what I do, I can’t stay on here. What am I going to do now?

As if responding to his question, a voice in his head said, What do you want to do? He paused and gazed down the long row of vines. Good question. He plucked a grape and squeezed it between his fingers. Letting the juice run down his hand, he recalled his youthful aspirations, things he’d always imagined doing but had yet to achieve.

Travel to Europe. Write for Wine Spectator. Become a sommelier.

He considered getting a job with one of the other Napa vineyards. Perhaps he could try Sonoma. It wouldn’t be hard to do. He had plenty of experience and connections in the industry. Somehow, though, his heart wasn’t in it. It’s time for a change.

Eli turned around and walked back toward Meditrina’s offices. If I had Coyote’s money, I’d buy my own vineyard.

Thinking of his former co-worker, he remembered what Giselle had said when he caught her rifling his desk. “I’m worried that Fortuna Vineyards might be infected.” He’d assumed she’d simply used that excuse to keep him from guessing the real reason she wanted to learn what was in his Morte Jaune report. Should I tell Coyote about Giselle’s treachery? Perhaps she’s poisoned Fortuna’s vines as well.

In his small office overlooking the vineyard, Eli switched on his computer and picked up his e-mail. The first thing I have to do is get a new e-mail address, separate from Meditrina’s. He recognized most of the names in his inbox—colleagues and friends—but an unfamiliar one caught his attention. The subject line read: Lady Godiva.

He clicked on it and opened the attachment. A picture of a nude woman with purple-streaked hair popped up on his monitor. She stood on a sunny beach, holding out her hand to a bay colt. Eli smiled. Miranda.