The Merlot Murders

call her as soon as I could and Hollis Maddox giving me the phone number of the Gas-o-Rama, in case I didn’t have it.

A stair tread creaked behind me as I copied down the number. Mia, tanned and gorgeous, dressed in a white mini-skirt and a cropped black sweater. She stood at the top of the stairs carrying a bright red canvas suitcase in one hand. In the other, she held Leland’s revolver.

It was pointed at me.

Chapter 21

“Oh God. Please, Mia,” I whispered. “Don’t.”

“Who’s there?” Her voice sounded unnaturally high-pitched. I saw the flash of light and heard the bullet whiz past me. A vase filled with drooping flowers left from Leland’s funeral shattered as she screamed. I knelt and covered my face with my hands against an explosion of water, porcelain, roses, gladiolus, and dagger ferns.

“Oh my God! Lucie! What are you doing here?” I didn’t hear her come down the stairs since my ears were still ringing but suddenly her arms were around me and she was crying. “I didn’t think it was you.”

She helped me up, our arms around each other. “Where’s the gun?” I asked. “Please, honey. We need to put it somewhere safe.”

She had left it on the bottom step, next to her suitcase. I unloaded the remaining bullets. “You got this out of my nightstand,” I said. “Why?”

“I was leaving you something.” She spoke through hiccupy breaths, her tears making canyonlike tracks in what looked like an excessive amount of face makeup. “I could have killed you. Oh my God. I could have killed you.”

“You didn’t. No one got hurt. I want you to go outside on the veranda, okay? I’m going to put this gun away like I should have done this morning, then I’m going to get you something to drink. I think I saw a box of chamomile tea in the pantry. Go on, now.”

“I’ll clean up this mess.”

“Leave it.”

“No. I’ll take care of it. It looks…awful.”

She must have worked quickly because she was swinging absently in the glider, twisting a strand of hair around and around one finger, when I came outside carrying the russet-and-gold autumn leaf Rosenthal teapot that had been our mother’s favorite. “Everything else is on a tray in the kitchen,” I said. “Do you think you could carry it out here for me? The tea needs to steep for a while.”

When she returned with the tray she said, “Mom used to make this for me when I got nightmares. Tisane, she called it. I haven’t had it for years.”

“I’m afraid the tea is old.” I handed her a cup. “The box says chamomile but it smells like straw.”

“Doesn’t matter.” She kicked off her sandals and tucked one foot under her. With the other, she pushed herself back and forth on the glider again. Someone might have taken her for about fourteen or fifteen just then. I couldn’t reconcile this sweet-looking girl with the person who drew those violent pictures, including that brutal one of me. She leaned forward and took the cup and saucer I gave her.

“What were you doing with the gun?” I asked. “Why did you get it out of my nightstand?”

“What were you doing with it?” She sipped her tea.

“I asked first. I’m older.”

Her smile was wan. “I was leaving you something. Mom’s diary. The one missing from her bookshelf. I didn’t expect to find the gun. Then I heard a noise downstairs.”

“Go on.”

I looked at my sister’s lovely profile. Where her tears had left streaks, the bare skin around her eye was dark. She wasn’t wearing makeup. It was some of the camouflage cosmetic war paint that I’d used to hide bruises on my face after the accident. “Who hit you, Mimi?” I asked quietly.

She turned toward me and her eyes were brimming with tears again. “Greg. I thought he was coming back for me.”

“Come here.” I held my arms out. She set down her teacup noisily on the glass coffee table, then came around to the wicker love seat and into my embrace. I stroked her hair and waited until she stopped crying. “Why did he do it?”

She wiped more tears and revealed more bare skin. It was a hell of a shiner. “He said it was an accident. He said he was sorry. But he got mad at me for something I did and, oh my God, Lucie, I’ve never seen him like that.” Her voice shook. “Afterward he tried to make it up to me. He wanted to make love but I wouldn’t let him touch me…he got so mad.”

“Shhh. It’s all right.” I closed my eyes and rocked her. “He can’t hurt you anymore. Don’t you worry.”

“I’m scared of him. I’m leaving,” she said. “I’m going to New York.”

I said surprised, “With Sara Rust?”

“How did you know?”

“I talked to her today. I know you’re friends and that’s where she’s going, too. Does she know about this?” I pointed to the bruise.

“No!” She sat up, panicky. “Don’t tell her, either! I don’t think anyone knows about him—or this—except me. And now you.”

“Knows what about him?”

She reached for her teacup and stared into it. “Wonder if you can really tell your fortune with tea leaves?” After a moment she said in a more composed voice, “I needed to finish registering for my fall classes at school. I didn’t think he would mind if I used his computer. Lucie, he goes to those Internet chat rooms where you set up meetings with a stranger.” She shuddered. “He said it’s not breaking the law if both parties are consenting adults. I think he’s sick.”

I thought so, too. “You know he’s been hanging around Sara at work,” I said. “He told me he gave her money because she was in a jam.”

“He must be lying or she knows about the sex stuff and she’s blackmailing him. Greg never gave anyone a dime unless he had to.”

Sara had been pretty quick to ask for the hundred and fifty dollars before I even got two words out of my mouth. A real hustler, that one. When I’d looked into her eyes earlier today it was like looking at two dead planets. Not the most wholesome friend Mia could have.

“I always wondered why Uncle Mason helped him out,” Mia was saying.

“What?”

“Uncle Mason and Aunt Linda paid Greg’s tuition at UNC. The full ride.”

“I didn’t know that. Why?”

“I don’t know. They’re rich. It was probably Aunt Linda’s idea. She’s always taking care of lost causes, the real no-hopers, helping out behind the scenes. Besides I think it bothered her that she and Uncle Mason didn’t have kids. I think there were a lot of medical bills after Greg’s dad died.”

“Look,” I said. “Go to New York for a few days, then come home, okay? Your classes will be starting soon. You need to pack and get down to Harrisonburg. James Madison University is a long way from where Greg is and, anyway, I’ll take care of him. He’ll never go within miles of you as long as he lives. Just promise me you’ll come back.”

She played again with that strand of hair, absently braiding and unbraiding it. “I never registered for my classes, Luce. I missed the deadline. Technically I’m not enrolled in school this semester.”

“I can call someone…”

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” she continued as though I hadn’t spoken. “College is so hard, you know? Maybe I should just go to art school. I think I could get into a place like the Corcoran. It probably doesn’t sound too modest, but I think I’m pretty good.”

“You’re very good,” I said. “I saw the oil painting you started on Mom’s easel. And your sketchbook.”