“He’s not a nice guy,” Mason said. “Then you came home. Greg was getting tired of Mia anyway, so he decided to work on you. He bet he could get you to go to bed with him within a week. But you wouldn’t cooperate, would you? I think he really wanted to do this without it getting messy.”
“It got messy enough that you tried to set Sara Rust’s house on fire so you could get rid of the records from Knight’s Auto Body.”
There was a distant rumble of thunder. It could have come straight from hell. “Aren’t you the clever girl,” he said. “Guess we’re going to get that rain, aren’t we?” He motioned with his gun. “Let’s get on with it. I don’t want to get this suit wet.”
“Don’t do this. You haven’t killed anyone. Don’t.”
“Don’t be difficult, sugar.”
“I’m not jumping.”
“I’m going to have to shoot you, then.”
“Then do it.”
He raised his hand and aimed. I looked away.
“Goddamnit, Lucie! Jump!”
I looked over at him. He was furious.
“No.”
“Then I’ll have to make you.”
It’s still hard to remember precisely how it happened, but he did make a lunge for me. I swung the golf club at him, as hard as I could. The hooked end caught his hand, knocking the gun out of his grip. He yelped with pain and staggered to regain his balance. But I think those nice wing tips must have been brand new, because he slipped on the gravel like it was greased. He stumbled forward and pitched toward the low wall. God help me, but I swung at him again. He went over the ledge head first. His scream reminded me of the Wicked Witch of the West as she melted to her death.
I got to the parapet and looked down. He lay crumpled, face down in the dry creek bed. He’d landed among some river rocks. I was sure he was dead. If we got the kind of rain that the skies seemed to be promising, there’d be water flowing there again and maybe it would wash him downstream toward the Potomac.
I got back to the Mercedes, hobbling as fast as I could across the rough ground. There had been a car phone on the dashboard. I didn’t remember him locking the doors. Not only was the car unlocked, he’d left the keys in the ignition.
I took the phone out of the cradle and punched the button with the little green telephone on it. Greg’s name flashed on the display. I hit the button again and the LED display flashed that it was calling his number.
He answered instantly. “I’m leaving the house. I’m finished with the gasoline. You got rid of her, didn’t you?”
I disconnected.
Chapter 26
I jammed the phone back in the cradle. The Mercedes started like a charm as the phone rang again. Greg, calling back.
The ringing stopped and the message icon blinked a few seconds later. How long did I have before he wondered why Mason wasn’t answering the phone? I backed out onto Mosby’s Highway and raced for home. When I finally looked at the speedometer, it read eighty. Sixty in the Volvo and you’d need a chiropractor. I slowed to fifty to take the turn onto Atoka Road.
A wispy column of smoke floated upward as I turned onto Sycamore Lane. Was I too late, or would I meet him head on as I drove toward the house? He said he was leaving.
The taillights of Hector’s blue pickup, fishtailing as it churned dust, were disappearing down the road that led to the house as I headed toward the divide at the sycamore tree. At least help was on the way and Hector and the others knew about the fire. In the distance, sirens sounded faintly along with more thunder. But no rain—yet.
Highland House was made of stone and stone doesn’t burn. They’d probably said that when Sheridan’s men burned the Ruins. That fire had left…ruins.
I turned left at the divide toward the winery. Greg’s convertible satin the handicapped spot in the parking lot. He’d put the top up, probably on account of the expected rain. I parked and got out next to his car and saw a gun on the passenger seat. He’d locked the doors.
Wherever he was—the villa, the barrel room—I probably didn’t have much time before he returned. I lifted the golf club over my head and swung hard at the canvas roof. It bounced with such kick-back my arms nearly came out of my shoulder sockets and I staggered backward.
I needed something sharp. Mason’s car keys were attached to a slender silver monogrammed case. I opened the case. A nail file.
I jabbed at the plastic back window and made a small puncture. From small things big things come. I continued stabbing. The sirens grew louder as I worked, until finally the trucks screamed up Sycamore Lane.
The hole in the window was now wide enough to put my arm through. Unfortunately I needed the arms of a chimpanzee to reach the gun. I tried the golf club, angling like I was trying to hook a fish. Then I heard him behind me. He yanked me off the car and threw me to the ground. The golf club remained stuck in the plastic at a crazy angle.
“My car! What did you do to my car?”
I landed hard on my elbows and skidded in the brittle grass. What was it about men and cars?
“Fixed your air-conditioning.” I wasn’t as intimidated by him as I’d been by Mason.
He unlocked the car with his sensor and got the gun. Then he shoved the golf club through the hole so it came at me like a spear. I ducked and it hit the ground next to me. I grabbed it and pulled myself up.
“Move.” He picked up what looked like a metal strongbox that had been on the ground next to him.
“Where are we going?”
He seemed to be thinking. “The barrel room.”
“No.”
“I’m not asking. Move.” He gestured with the gun. “What’s Mason’s car doing here? Where is he?”
“Dead.”
He stopped walking. “You’re lying.”
“Why don’t you go see for yourself?”
“I will,” he said, “when I’m done with you.” This time he shoved the gun into my ribs. “What happened?”
I had known him since I was six years old. We’d played together, studied together, and made love together. Unlike Mason, he’d really killed someone. Fitz. He wouldn’t hesitate to use that gun.
Maybe I could stall for time. Maybe they’d put the fire out right away at the house and someone would come back to the winery. “He fell off the bridge at Goose Creek. What’s in the box, Greg?”
The gun was in my ribs again. “Shut up and get going.”
We had reached the door to the barrel room, which was ajar. When they took off for the house, closing up was probably the last thing on anyone’s mind. He opened the door. “After you.”
We went inside and he frog-marched me down an aisle between rows of stacked wine casks, stopping at the far end by Jacques’s workbench. The tools, usually neatly hanging on a pegboard above the bench, were heaped on the floor. The wine barrel with my mother’s painting of the vineyard’s logo was in pieces, the staves splayed open in a tidy circle.
“Why did you destroy that barrel? That was my mother’s artwork!”
He said nothing, but his eyes roamed over me, then swept the room. He hadn’t figured out what to do with me.
“That strongbox was in the barrel, wasn’t it?” I said. Maybe I could get him to talk and use up more time. “How did you know it would be there?”
“My old man designed the box for your mother. I was there when she asked him to do it.”
