The Merlot Murders

Dominique stood behind her. Her auburn hair was shorter than I remembered, layered in chunky tufts as though it had been cut with loping shears instead of styling scissors, giving her an untidy boyish look. She’d always been tiny with that indefinable waiflike French chic no American woman had ever successfully copied, but I wondered as I smiled at her if she was flirting with anorexia. There were black rings like bruises under her eyes and her skin stretched taut over her cheekbones. I used to think of her as delicate, like fine porcelain, but now she seemed so brittle she could have been hollow inside. I hugged her carefully.

“Chérie,” she said, “it’s good to have you home again. You look wonderful.” She smiled tiredly and stepped back to look me over. “You’ve changed.”

“I walk now,” I said. But I knew she was talking about other things.

“More than that,” she replied and left it at that.

“You’ve changed, too,” I said. “You’re dead tired. Eli says you’re working all the time.”

“Bah!” She flicked her hand, like she was shooing away a pesky fly. “Isn’t that the American way? Work hard? Get ahead? A chicken in every soup? I have a successful business. I have to work so much.”

Though her English had improved considerably since she moved to the States, she’d never really gotten the hang of a lot of American idioms. Get her really upset and the English would go out the window entirely. Some things, at least, were as they’d always been.

Mia was last. Eli hadn’t been kidding. She was unrecognizable, changed completely from the kid who used to wear ripped low-cut jeans with skanky little midriff-skimming tops that showed off her butterfly tattoo. I glanced automatically at Dominique, who I assumed was responsible for the transformation, but she shook her head almost imperceptibly. Then I caught the infinitesimal eyelid flicker in Brandi’s direction.

Though it was easy to see why my brother was captivated by his wife’s smoldering Playboy centerfold beauty, what was less understandable—at least, to me—was how he could deal with the fact that she was, frankly, thick as two planks. She once told me the only thing she liked about France was French toast and that she never understood all the fuss about the Mona Lisa, who was, well, rather a dull-looking woman.

But she’d clearly wrought a miracle with my sister, who looked stunning. Dressed in a clinging dark blue silk dress, fresh-faced, tanned, her long blonde hair worn in a sophisticated French twist, Mia stepped forward and held out her hand, like we were strangers. “Hello, Lucie.”

I had been moving toward her expecting a hug, but stopped when I saw her outstretched hand. I put out my own hand and shook hers. It probably looked as awkward as it felt. “Hello, Mia. You look wonderful.”

“Thanks.” She pulled out of my grasp, crossed her arms, and looked away. Her mouth moved and I thought she was going to say something else. Then I realized she was chewing gum. And she wasn’t going to say anything.

“Are you all right? How are you holding up?” I knew it sounded lame but I couldn’t think of anything else to say, especially with Brandi hovering nearby.

Mia’s gaze came back to rest on me. The expression in my kid sister’s eyes changed from incredulity to scorn. “Why, I’m fine. Just fine. Thanks for asking. Maybe you ought to go pay your respects to Pop. Everyone else has already done it.”

“Maybe I ought to.”

I leaned on my cane for support as I knelt down before the closed coffin, breathing the dense mingled odors of roses, gladiolus, and chrysanthemums from the substantial funeral bouquets. I shut my eyes and tried to pray for Leland.

Dominique came over as I pulled myself up, leaning on my cane, and stood beside me. “Don’t mind her,” she murmured. “It’s not you. It’s Gregory.”

“It sure feels like me,” I said. “And what about Greg?”

“They had an argument, just before you came in. Mia wanted him to stay with her all evening. She’s very… possessive. Or maybe I mean obsessive,” my cousin said. “I think she might be jealous because you and Gregory were lovers once.”

I groaned. “It’s over. As for being ‘lovers,’ come on, Dominique. Name one girl in my high school he didn’t come on to. He’s just moved to a new generation.”

“I don’t understand what anyone sees in him. The only person he cares about is himself.” She shrugged. “He’s certainly not my bag of tea.”

“Mine, either. Anymore.”

At exactly 7:30 P.M. people began arriving. By 7:45 the room was so crowded I could hardly move. I felt a big, meaty hand grasp my shoulder and turned around. My nose was practically plastered against his chest.

“Ma chère Lucie!” Fitz crowed. He was originally from Charleston and spoke with an aristocratic Southern accent that sounded ever so slightly British, so it seemed like he’d just said “my chair Lucie.” He’d picked up his French from Dominique and my mother. He had a good mind for the vocabulary, but his pronunciation—with that little drawl—reminded me of someone who’d just left the dentist’s office and the drugs hadn’t worn off yet.

He took hold of my other shoulder, pulling me to him like he was squeezing toothpaste from the end of the tube. A strong smell of the alcohol on his breath washed over me. “I’m so glad to see you, sugar.”

I stepped back to get away from the fog of booze. “I’m glad to see you, too, Fitz.”

He had aged. Though he was still portly, still with the flowing mane of white hair combed back and the neatly trimmed beard, there was something newly frail around his eyes which seemed to have shrunk away from his skin, settling deeper into the bones of his face. His breathing was labored.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“Now, Chantal darlin’, don’t you worry about me.”

“It’s Lucie, Fitz. You just called me Chantal.”

He released me and stepped back. “Oh, Lordy. I know that. I’m sorry, child. I didn’t mean to. I know who you are. But you know, you are the spitting image of her when she was your age.” He stared hard at me.

I squirmed. Eli had homed in on the pair of us. I turned slightly so he was out of my line of vision, but I could feel his eyes boring holes through my back.

“Let’s go,” Fitz said.

“What do you mean?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Right now?” I whispered. “In the middle of Leland’s wake? Can’t it wait?”

“It can’t.” He poked me gently. “Now let’s skedaddle. No one will notice. We’ll be right back.”

Eli noticed. I saw his jaw tighten when I glanced at him as we left the room.

Fitz led me outside through the service door. We stood near the back of the house on a wraparound porch. I felt like I was swimming in the suffocating humidity. It was quiet except for the occasional sound of a car driving by and the metallic end-of-summer sound of the cicadas.

I hitched myself up on the railing to take the weight off my aching left foot and propped my cane next to me. Fitz stood in front of me, arms folded across his chest.

“You have a little talk with your brother yet, sugar?”

It was a rhetorical question. “More like a monologue,” I said. “I got the ‘what you missed’ speed-dial version of life in Atoka for the past two years, with a big helping of guilt thrown in because I was gone.”

“Meaning he told you he wants to sell the vineyard?” When I nodded he said, “What about you? You gonna go along with that?”

“Of course not.”

“That’s my girl. I knew I could count on you. We’ll hold those people off.”

“What people?”

“Whoever was pressuring your daddy to sell the vineyard, Lucie. It’s been losing money lately. You know old Lee. He made a small fortune on those grapes. The problem is, he started with a large fortune. Your momma’s money.”

There was no humor in his voice and, anyway, it was an old joke among vineyard owners. Running a vineyard was an expensive proposition.

“Then someone offered to buy the place from him, except it was a fire sale price. Lee wouldn’t sell.”

“Eli didn’t tell me that,” I said.