The Merlot Murders

“What someone else did is no concern of mine,” he said. “You know, this vineyard could have its best harvest ever this year. The drought’s been great for the crop and your vines are coming into their peak producing years. Seems to me you’ve got enough on your plate with no access to your equipment and your wine cellar. If you’re going to start fighting among yourselves, then you can also find a new winemaker.”

He flicked another ash off his cigar and strode past us to a beat-up Toyota in the parking lot. He couldn’t get the engine to catch right away but when it did, he did a rubber-burning three-point turn and zoomed off into the night.

“Well, well.” Eli glared at me accusingly. “You certainly turned the old killer charm on him, Luce. I think he just quit.”

Chapter 7

“He didn’t quit,” I said. “He threatened to. He’s got a hell of a nerve, blackmailing us like that. What made Leland hire him, anyway? He’ll never replace Jacques. He’s a troglodyte by comparison.”

One of the reasons people bought so much wine from us in the past was because Jacques, with his gracious European politesse and elegant manner, could charm anybody into anything. If Quinn was always this abrasive, we wouldn’t be able to sell water to someone who’d just come through the desert.

“He came cheap,” Eli said. “Leland wasn’t offering what you’d call a competitive salary and he was the only taker. He’s supposedly a decent enologist and a viticulturist, even if he has a few rough edges. The crew likes him. I’m going back to the house. You coming or not?”

I nodded and we walked in silence over to the Jag.

At least Leland had hired someone who was good at both enology and viticulture. Enology is the science of wine making. Viticulture is the science of grape growing. Larger vineyards have enologists, also known as vintners, who are there only to make and blend the wine. They also have viticulturists who are out in the field with the vines, tending them, testing them, and deciding the optimum time for harvest. But at a small vineyard like ours, the two jobs are generally handled by one person.

“Where did he come from before we got him?” I asked as we got in the car.

“California. Some vineyard in Napa.”

“Why did he leave?”

“What is this? Twenty questions? I don’t know. He said he wanted to move on. I don’t think Leland really looked into it much. He was desperate for someone at the time.”

“That’s obvious. Mom would never have hired him.”

“What difference does it make anymore? The sooner we unload this place, the better. It’s been one catastrophe after another lately. I can’t take much more of this.”

We spent the rest of the short drive down the gravel road in silence. Last night Fitz said that he and I were two votes countering Eli and Mia. Now it was two against one. I glanced fleetingly at my brother’s profile and looked away.

He could not…would not…have gone to see Fitz in the barrel room after leaving the wake. He could not be capable of cold-blooded murder.

Or could he? And Leland. Him, too?

We pulled into the semicircular drive in front of the house. A few cars were parked near the old carriage house, which we used as the garage.

I cleared my throat. “Looks like almost everyone’s gone.”

Eli looked at me curiously. “You gonna faint or something? Your voice sounds weird.”

“I’m fine.”

We walked into the house. One of the waitresses who had been collecting dishes in the parlor said Dominique had gone over to the inn to see about dinner.

“I’m going to check on Brandi,” Eli said, heading for the stairs. “It’s warm in here. I hope no one turned the air off.”

“Who is going to tell Dominique about Fitz?” I asked Eli after he came back, reporting that Brandi was still asleep. “And I checked. The air-conditioning is still on.”

“I’ll tell her.”

“I’ll come with you.” We were standing in the large circular foyer. I was holding more plates, still heaped with chicken bones, remnants of dinner rolls, and daubs of color that had once been salads or vegetables.

“You stay here. If Brandi needs anything, you’ll have to take care of her. You can do that, right?”

“Eli.” I set the plates down by the bust of Jefferson, wiped my hands together, and faced him. “I limp because of an injury to my left foot. See these?” I waved my hands. “They work just fine, like they always did. Brain still works, too. Unless Brandi wants me to kick a field goal, I’m probably going to be able to handle anything she might throw my way. Okay?”

He turned the color of a June strawberry. “Jeez, Luce. I get it, okay? But Brandi…you don’t realize how precarious…she nearly lost the baby during her first trimester. It’s been a difficult pregnancy. We’ve got to be very careful.” He cocked his head at the sound of a car roaring up the driveway. “Who’s that?”

I crossed the foyer and glanced out one of the parlor windows. “Mia. Driving like she stole something. Where’d she get the red Mustang convertible?”

“It’s Greg’s. He must have let her borrow it while he’s at work. Wonder what brought her back here?”

“Does she know about Fitz…?” I began.

The front door opened and Mia burst in. “Know what about Fitz?” She sounded breathless. “They finally found him?”

She had changed from her black funeral dress into a pale yellow lace-trimmed camisole and matching shorts. Her blonde hair was pulled into a ponytail and she’d tucked a daisy behind one ear. When she was a baby, my mother called her mon ange—my angel. There was still something fragile and gossamer about her, both physically and emotionally. She lacked the steely stubbornness Eli and I had inherited, and our mental toughness. The news about Fitz—on top of Leland’s death—would crush her. Eli and I exchanged glances.

“Let’s go sit on the veranda,” I said gently. “We’ll talk there.”

With its worn herringbone-patterned wooden floors, white columns connected by arched latticework, and old-fashioned ceiling fan that whirred like a large dragonfly, the veranda was the place where everyone gravitated to read or nap or daydream—and to watch the vividly hued sunsets with their backdrop of the graceful Blue Ridge.

Not surprisingly it was in the same sorry state as the rest of the house. Planters and urns, which had once been filled with flowers, were moss-covered and sprouted weeds. The white wicker furniture looked scarred up and some pieces needed mending. The paint on the columns was peeling and scaly.

I sat with Mia on the wicker love seat, trying to ignore the stains and worn spots on the cushions made from my mother’s favorite Provençal fabrics. Eli sat across from us in the glider, rocking back and forth. Its springs needed oiling.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” Mia sounded weary. “First Pop, now Fitz. What happened? Tell me.”

I put my arm around her once again and this time her muscles went tense and rigid. “I’m so sorry, honey,” I said.

Eli shot me a look before he said, “We think he was trying to stop a robbery at the winery. I’m sorry, babe. Someone pushed him into a purged tank.”

She turned white under her suntan and her hand went to her mouth. “I’m going to throw up,” she said and bolted.

Eli got to her faster than I did. He held her shoulders as she stood retching into a flower bed that was now nothing but a mass of weeds. “Get some water, will you?” he muttered to me.

The front door closed as I came back through the foyer. I held a pitcher in the hand I didn’t need for my cane and had tucked a glass between my elbow and my ribs.

Mason Jones let himself in without bothering to ring the doorbell. He’d changed from the expensive-looking