The Merlot Murders

“Shoot.”

“Did you know that someone tried to buy the vineyard from Leland before he died?”

Mason tucked the tickets back in his jacket pocket and pressed his lips together, his expression slightly forbidding like I’d blundered into something the grown-ups were trying to keep hidden from the children. “I did. How’d you find out? We went to great lengths to keep that quiet.”

“Fitz told me. Who was it? I’d like to know.”

“Why, the consortium, of course.”

“The Blue Ridge Consortium?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He reached into the pocket of his trousers, pulling out a folded nail file. I watched him unfold it, then gently pick at an imaginary piece of dirt under an immaculately manicured fingernail. Over the years I’d seen him do that dozens of times. A lawyer’s delaying tactic. It gave him time to think.

“I’m going to tell you something.” He leaned closer so I smelled his cologne. For a man who could afford anything, he still wore the same inexpensive scent that he’d always worn. “I didn’t want you to know this, either. But, yes, we did offer to buy the place from Lee. Everyone figured out he was cash-strapped. Hell, you could have guessed even if he said nothing from the way he burned through money on those bogus investments of his. The consortium just wanted him to know his friends would help him out if he felt he needed to sell.”

“Was someone else trying to buy the vineyard?”

“Besides us?” He shrugged. “Not that I know of. Your daddy had his pride, Lucie. It was just a quiet little talk among friends.”

“Eli says we can’t afford to keep the place.”

“Well, can you?” he asked gently. When I didn’t answer right away he added, “Look, sugar, I’m going to tell you the same thing I told your daddy and your brother when he talked to me the other day. If you decide to sell, come to me. I’ll put together a deal so’s the house and the land won’t get split up. I’ll take care of you. You’ll get a fair price.”

I leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You better call Aunt Linda. I’ll meet you later at the concert.”

“I won’t be a minute. We can still walk over together.”

I did not want to see Greg right now, especially with Mason by my side. I would keep my promise to Mia—for the time being—but my fury at what he’d done to her would almost certainly bleed through anything I said and Mason would start probing. The next time I spoke to Greg I wanted to be alone.

“Actually, I’ve got some winery business to take care of.” I smiled. “You go ahead. I’ll be there soon.”

I waited until he left, then walked down to the barrel room. The shiny new heavy-duty lock was in the hasp.

I unlocked it, propping the door ajar with a brick. I hit the lights and held my breath. The grapevine thermometer now read sixty degrees. The carbon dioxide had built to toxic levels so I kept holding my breath as I swiftly crossed the room and flipped the switches on the fans. In another few minutes when the CO₂ cleared out, I could close the door again.

We had no money and no resources. How much longer could I keep the vineyard going on fumes? Leland’s friends—out of pity—had tried to help him out, save him from further embarrassment and the crushing debt he’d left us.

I walked into Quinn’s lab and leaned against the counter staring through the glass window at the rows and rows of casks. My mother’s lifetime work. Something bulky dug into my hip. The reading glasses Sara Rust had given me were in the deep pocket of my skirt. I took them out and set them on the counter, just as the lights went out.

The light switch was next to the laboratory door. I groped until I found it, then flipped it on and off. Power failures were nothing new, the consequence of winter ice or summer thunderstorms, so we had a backup generator that would kick in momentarily.

I stood in the bleak silence of total darkness and waited for the small exploding sound of the generator, followed by the flash of lights, the whirring of fans, and the burbling sound of water moving through the space between the tank jackets as the refrigeration system kicked in again.

The silence lengthened and my heart started to pound.

I felt my way toward the outside door. In the complete, unnatural silence I heard the scraping sound of my brick being moved and the door closing. A second later someone put the lock into the hasp and snapped it shut.

If I didn’t get out of here soon, the CO₂ would build up again and it would kill me.

Chapter 22

Carbon dioxide works fast.

Like Fitz, I could die of asphyxiation. The fermenting wine bubbling merrily around me was filling the enormous room with lethal quantities of toxic gas. While Fitz’s death had been instant—with only pure CO₂ in the tank—mine would be slow as the gas gradually sucked all the breathable oxygen out of the air. With no power and no fans there was no fresh supply of oxygen.

I had no idea how much time I had. More than a few minutes. Less than a few hours.

Though I knew my way around the barrel room, I had the temporary disadvantage of no night vision. If I made the trip across the room to the steel door—which I already knew was locked—I’d use up oxygen and time. I looked around for other ways to escape, but it isn’t called a “cave” for nothing. My pulse was racing like a rabbit’s and my heart thudded in my chest. I tried to slow my breathing.

Wine ages and ferments best in a cool, dark place. But for some reason our architect had mistakenly put in three slatlike casement windows located near the ceiling behind the stainless-steel tanks. They were sealed shut after the building inspector showed up and nearly had a coronary, since anything that lets in both air and light doesn’t conform to code. I don’t know how my mother talked him into it but we didn’t have to spend the extra money to brick them up or even paint them over as long as they remained permanently closed.

The windows were too narrow for me to climb through, and even if I could shimmy through the opening, I’d be doing a swan dive from two stories up onto drought-hardened terrain. But if I could prop our twenty-foot extension ladder below the window and then break the glass with my cane, at least I’d be breathing oxygen instead of CO₂.

My vision was improving and the huge steel tanks became looming shadows lining the far wall. The ladder should have been hanging from an oversized set of hooks on the adjacent wall, near the hoses. I hadn’t noticed if it was there when the lights were on. If it was gone that was it. I’d be dead when someone finally found me in the morning.

I knew from Jacques’s repeated lectures that one of the early symptoms of CO₂ poisoning was anxiety. Later came dizziness, confusion, and finally loss of consciousness and death. Already the room seemed stuffy. Wasn’t it too soon for that to happen? God, who knew?

The anxiety had started.

I walked slowly toward the wall using my cane to orient myself as a blind person would. The extension ladder was exactly where it belonged on the hooks. I leaned my cane against the wall so I could use both hands to get it down, just like Jacques and the crew always had. I don’t know why I assumed it would practically float into my arms but it was heavier and more unwieldy than I’d bargained on. My bad foot buckled as I jerked the ladder up and over the hooks. It slipped out of my grip, crashing onto the concrete floor. By some miracle it missed landing on my feet. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, feel it pulsing behind my eyes.

I half-dragged, half-shoved the ladder along the floor until I was below the bank of windows. Dizziness seeped into my brain. I bit the back of my hand until it hurt to keep from screaming.

I’d read stories about people who found some kind of superhuman strength that enabled them to pick up a car or move a collapsed wall because it was a matter of life or death. Wherever that burst of strength came from— divine intervention or adrenaline-fueled fear—I picked up the ladder and placed it against the wall like it was suddenly made of balsa wood.