In the late 1950s the highway department abandoned the bridge and redirected Route 50, Mosby’s Highway, to its present-day location, so it was now looked after by the local garden club. It was a pleasant site for a picnic, with no traces of the bloody battle that took so many lives.
Kit’s car was already there when I pulled into the gravel road near the path to the bridge. She came over as I parked the Volvo, dressed in a form-fitting pair of jeans and a low-cut halter top. The cloyingly sweet scent of honeysuckle hung in the humid air.
She shone a flashlight near my feet. “You going to be all right? I wasn’t thinking when I suggested we meet here. It might be tough for you to walk to the bridge. The ground’s pretty uneven and it’s hard to see, even with the flashlight. We could just stay here if you want.”
I probably wasn’t ever going to take up mountain climbing or rappelling, but I had no intention of being sidelined by something as unadventurous as walking a few hundred feet on rough terrain in the dark. Defeat, as they say, is for losers.
“I’ll be fine,” I said. “If you carry the basket with the wine and the glasses in it and let me lean on your arm, I should be okay.”
“Uh, sure.” She walked very slowly and kept up a relentlessly encouraging monologue about our progress.
“Will you cut it out?” I said, finally. “We’re not climbing the Matterhorn.”
“Sorry,” she said. “Did I sound patronizing?”
“You sounded like Annie Sullivan and I’m Helen Keller. I can manage just fine.”
“In that case,” she said, “shake a leg.”
We sat on the edge of the bridge. “I can’t hear the creek,” I said. “It’s strange not to hear any water.”
“Been like that for most of the summer. I can’t remember the last time we had rain. You want to open the wine?”
Kit held the flashlight while I extracted the cork from the bottle and filled our glasses.
“Mud in your eye.” She set the flashlight between us so the light shone upward like a giant pillar candle. “Hey, this is premium stuff.”
“It ought to be. It’s ten-year-old Cab.”
“Are we celebrating something?”
“Friendship,” I said. “We’re celebrating friendship.”
We clinked glasses. “You want to talk about what’s bothering you?”
“Not right now.”
Fireflies winked and the cicadas sang as we drank in silence. Moths zoomed around the beam of white light. After a while Kit said, “I thought you ought to know. I’ve started seeing Bobby Noland.”
“Are you kidding? Since when?”
“Yesterday. We got together because he was going to talk to me about Fitz. Started out all business then next thing I know, we’re making out in the backseat of his cruiser. Those Crown Vics have no springs, I swear to God. I’ve got bruises in the weirdest places. It’s not what you’re thinking,” she added. “He was off-duty.”
“Did he tell you anything about Fitz before you got personal with him?”
She looked into her wineglass. “Apparently your cousin doesn’t have an alibi for the time of his death.”
“Dominique? She spent the night at Joe Dawson’s.”
“’Fraid not, Luce. She didn’t show up until late. Really late.” She drank her wine.
“She didn’t do it, Kit. Maybe she did want to take over the inn, but she didn’t kill Fitz to make it happen.”
“Then who did?” She leaned forward so the flashlight’s beam glanced off the angles and planes of her face, turning her eyes into hollow black pools like the empty holes of a mask.
I ran a finger down the stem of my wineglass and thought about what Eli had said, about where her loyalties really belonged.
“I thought you said we were celebrating friendship,” she said. “So are we or aren’t we?”
“Of course we are.”
“Then maybe you could start trusting me again.” She picked up the bottle and topped off our glasses. “Everybody needs a friend, Luce. You more than anybody right now.”
“You mean with my family imploding?” I closed my eyes and drank. “God, it’s hot, isn’t it? I feel like I’m suffocating it’s so humid. Nothing makes any sense since I came home.”
“So tell me about it. It’ll help.”
I swung my feet around so they were dangling over the creek-side of the bridge and stared into the murky darkness. “Eli thinks you’re going to splash some lurid story about us all over the front page of the
“Eli’s an asshole,” she said, “whose emotional sensibilities seem to have atrophied since he married the Queen Bee. He’s become so materialistic he thinks the world is full of people just like him.”
I smiled. “Point taken.”
“Say hallelujah. Now tell me what’s bugging you,” she said gently.
I drank more wine while she watched me. “Fitz said before he died that someone tried to buy the vineyard and Leland wouldn’t sell,” I said finally. “He didn’t know who it was.”
“Ask Erica Kendall. She might have heard something.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Why?”
“Because Fitz thinks…thought…Leland’s death wasn’t an accident. He thought whoever was trying to get him to sell might have had something to do with it.”
“Go on.”
“He also said Eli stood to gain from Leland’s death since now there were no obstacles to selling.”
“Are you saying that Eli was involved in the death of his own
“I don’t think Eli killed Leland. I never did. I don’t think he killed Fitz, either. But with Leland out of the way, he had an easy way to solve his money problems.”
An owl hooted nearby and we both jumped. I grabbed the edge of the parapet as Kit’s fingers dug into my shoulder. “Watch it! You almost fell off!” Her voice was sharp. “Aw, damn. I spilled wine on my jeans.”
“Sorry. There’s a napkin in the basket. I wrapped the wineglasses in it.” I swung my legs back around and faced her again.
“Okay, so someone murders Leland because they know Eli is cash-strapped and he’ll jump at the chance to sell the vineyard.” She rooted in the basket for the napkin, then began dabbing at a spot on her jeans. “What’s so special about your land that someone would kill for it?”
“I don’t know. Other than the fact that it’s nearly five hundred acres.” I reached for the bottle and poured the last of the wine. “Have you ever heard of the Blue Ridge Consortium?”
“Sure. Bunch of superrich environmental do-gooders. What about them?” She crumpled the napkin and threw it back in the basket.
“Do you know who belongs to it?”
Kit shrugged. “Most of the people you’d expect. A lot of the horse-farm owners. Some of the Romeos. Except Austin Kendall, obviously.”
“Why ‘obviously’?”
“The consortium wants to keep the region unspoiled, just the way it is. No housing developments, no shopping malls, not even a bus shelter. Austin thinks the go-go growth and all the construction in the high-tech Dulles Airport corridor is the best thing that happened since Leven Powell founded Middleburg. So there’s a small difference of opinion.” She drank her wine. “Why are you asking about them?”
“Leland had a letter from Nate Midas among his papers. Asking for a ten-thousand-dollar donation. I was wondering if they were the ones who tried to buy the place or…” I stopped.
“Or what?”
“Or someone else did.” It sounded lame.
“I’m waiting.”
