The Merlot Murders

He’d cleaned me out.

Chapter 9

The money was gone. Philippe had helped himself because he needed it and that was reason enough, as far as he was concerned. No doubt he was gone, too. The note I’d left him said I wasn’t sure when I’d be back from America and he probably took that as a golden opportunity to float, along with the other flotsam and jetsam with whom he kept company, to some friendly new port. Of course she would have money, and Philippe would charm his way into her bedroom, putting him on a fast-track to her wallet. He did some of his best work lying down.

The phone rang on Leland’s desk. I grabbed it before it rang a second time and answered in French, without thinking.

“Oui, bonjour, yourself.” It was Kit and she was mad. “Have you read the Post today?”

“No,” I said. “It’s been a bit busy here.”

“Well, guess what? Someone gave them the full story on Fitz’s death and obviously didn’t put a gag order on them, either. Do you know what my boss said this morning? ‘If it’s news, it’s news to us.’ Did you talk to them?”

“He was my godfather, Kit.”

Silence. Then she said, “I’m sorry, Luce.”

“What did the article say?”

“That he was found floating in a tank of Merlot.”

“Oh God.”

“So was it Merlot?”

“Does it matter?”

“Whoever talked to the Post, it couldn’t have been that winemaker of yours,” she said. “I couldn’t get two words out of him.”

“I think it might have made the rounds at the Goose Creek Inn last night.” Mason said he’d heard from Elvis Harmon, who was dining with the Romeos. All that was lacking, probably, was the megaphone. “Some of the Romeos had dinner there.”

“The Romeos? Aw, for crying out loud. Of course it was them. They can be a bunch of real old ladies sometimes, gossiping the way they do,” she said. “No wonder the Post got the story. Joby Matsuda eats at the inn all the time with that exotic dancer he’s been trying to get into bed with. He probably didn’t even need to interview anyone, just opened his notebook and listened.”

“The difference between the Romeos gossiping and you gossiping would be…what, again?”

She said a bit stiffly, “It’s an open secret about Joby and that woman. The only one who doesn’t know is his wife. And we’re off topic.”

“It was Merlot and it doesn’t really matter.”

“Meet me for lunch? We should talk.”

“I can’t,” I said. “I’ve got an errand in Middleburg.”

“I’m driving over there myself. The deli. Twelve-thirty.”

“You’re going to grill me for this story, aren’t you?”

“Of course not.”

“You lie.”

“I’ll buy.”

“I’ll come.”

“Good. See you there.”

On my way out of the room I stopped and removed the water-color of Hugh Montgomery’s gravestone from its hook on the paneled wall. Unlike everything else in here, there was no dust on the picture or the frame. Someone had done just what I had done, and not long ago, either.

More than likely it was Fitz. He’d probably wondered—as I did—whether it was a random choice that she used that note card or whether the painting held some clue about the location of whatever the key unlocked. I turned the painting over. Fitz, or whoever it was, already would have found a note or anything else she’d left tucked between the frame and the canvas. I checked anyway.

Just her signature, written lightly in pencil, and the vineyard’s twining vine logo, which she’d designed.

I replaced the painting and met Dominique in the foyer. Her phone was clamped to her ear and she was giving orders. She nodded when she saw me, pantomiming that I should meet her at the winery.

I mouthed “later” and went into the kitchen. Quinn showed up while I was getting ready to put a plastic platter of Thelma Johnson’s buttermilk fried chicken into our old cooler.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got that money for me yet?” he asked, leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded across his chest. He was staring at me in that predatory way of his. I felt like he was mentally undressing me.

The platter slipped in my hands and two pieces of chicken skidded off and landed on the floor. “Damn.” I put the chicken back where it belonged. “I said I’d get it to you by the end of the day. Why? Is there a problem?”

“I need it sooner than that. Carlyle’s won’t fix the destemmer without cash up front.” He walked into the kitchen and lifted the top off a casserole dish, peering at the contents.

“If you’re hungry, there’s more in the refrigerator. This is spoken for.” I took the lid from him and re-covered the dish. “Since when does Carlyle’s need cash before they fix something for us? We’ve been going to them for years.”

He opened the refrigerator and looked inside, then closed the door. He turned around and looked at me blandly. “Since the last time they fixed something for you.”

I fiddled with the latch on the cooler and hoped he couldn’t see my face, which suddenly felt quite warm. “I’ll talk to Lew. He always takes care of us. You must be dealing with someone new.” Before he could answer, I said quickly, “You’ll have your cash this afternoon. I’m on my way to the bank right now.”

I heard the refrigerator door open one more time. Philippe had the same exasperating habit, like a six-pack of beer might have materialized while he wasn’t looking. “Are you taking all that food with you to the bank?” he asked.

“Of course not.” I snapped the cooler latch shut. “I’m taking it to the soup kitchen near Philomont. I’ve put some aside for the crew, but there’s more than we could possibly eat here. I thought we should donate it to them.”

“I’ll take it for you,” he said, closing the refrigerator a second time. His voice sounded gentler than it had a moment ago. “I’ve got to meet someone in Bluemont so I’ll drop it off for you.”

“Are you sure?”

He nodded. “The money,” he said. “The sooner the better. You take care of that.”

I left.

Dominique was right. It was all about money.

I drove to Middleburg, with no idea what to say to Seth. I parked in front of the ice cream parlor on Washington Street and walked the two blocks to Jay Street. Middleburg got its name as the midway point on an old stagecoach trading road that connected Alexandria and Winchester. George Washington’s cousin sold the land for the town to Leven Powell, a Revolutionary War officer who laid out the streets in a neat grid pattern and named them for friends who were signers of the Constitution. If Powell came back for a visit today, he’d still know the place, except for the lone traffic light at the intersection of Washington and Madison.

I turned onto Jay Street. Mac Macdonald, who owned Macdonald’s Fine Antiques on the corner of Jay and Washington, stood over a window box deadheading petunias. Mac was one of the Romeos, tall and skeletally thin, dressed characteristically in a bone-colored linen suit, pale blue silk tie, and matching pocket handkerchief. Leland said once that Mac’s idea of casual dress meant he took off his tie clip. He was more stooped than he’d been two years ago and his white hair was a thinner monk’s tonsure. He’d been at the funeral yesterday but we’d only spoken briefly.

He bussed me on the cheek. His cologne, something pleasantly old-fashioned, smelled like limes. “I heard the