The Chardonnay Charade

least?”

Quinn translated. Emilio shook his head and my heart sank. Then Quinn said something low and rapid that I didn’t catch. Whatever it was, it worked, and Emilio opened the door wide enough to let us inside.

The apartment looked more like a place to camp than a home. A daybed with a faded purple blanket thrown over it, a floor lamp with a torn shade, a Formica table, and two mismatched chairs were the only pieces of furniture. No sign of children anywhere. Nothing. The sink and the kitchen counter were stacked with dirty dishes. They’d been there awhile. Maybe he was living here alone.

Emilio reached for a crushed pack of Marlboros and kicked an overflowing ashtray that was on the floor so it was next to him. He sat on the daybed and lit up. No invitation to Quinn or me to sit, so I stood, leaning on my cane. Quinn spun one of the chairs, facing it backward, and parked himself like he’d mounted a horse.

“Where are Marta and the children?” I asked.

Emilio looked at me warily. “No están aquí,” he repeated.

“They’re somewhere,” I insisted.

“Lucie.” Quinn spoke warningly. “Let it go.”

“We need both of them to say Ross was with them the night Georgia was killed,” I said.

Emilio’s eyes darted from Quinn to me. I had a feeling he understood us better than he let on.

“¿Mande?” he asked Quinn, who dutifully interpreted.

Emilio said something rapid-fire.

“He said, okay, fine, Ross was with them that night. All night.”

“They’ve got to tell the police. It’s not enough to tell us.”

For the first time he spoke English. “No police.”

“Please, Emilio,” I said. “Ross—Dr. Greenwood—said to tell you that if you do this he will take care of your family. But he can’t help you if he’s in jail. He said to tell you he gives his palabra de honor.”

Emilio blew out a stream of smoke. “He said ‘palabra de honor?’”

“Yes.”

“How much?” he asked in English.

I glanced at Quinn, who regarded me placidly.

“How much what?” I said.

Emilio made the universal gesture for money.

“Aw, Emilio…” I began.

“Es muy caro vivir aquí,” he said.

“He’s not gonna talk otherwise, Lucie,” Quinn said. “He says the cost of living here’s killing him. How much you got on you?”

I opened my purse and pulled out my wallet. “Fifty-five dollars.”

“Give it to him.”

I handed over the money to Emilio, who pocketed it, then said, “I want more.”

“Here’s mine,” Quinn said. “An even hundred.”

I looked at Emilio and tried to keep the contempt out of my eyes. “We’ll set up a meeting at the vineyard,” I said. “Tomorrow. You and Marta must come with the babies. I promise there will be only one police officer. A detective. Tell him what you told us. Then you can leave.”

“I work. After ten.” Emilio exhaled more smoke and bent down to crush his cigarette in the ashtray. “Outside. Not inside. No buildings.”

“What about the parking lot?” Quinn said. “Do you have a car, Emilio?”

“No.” He lit another cigarette.

“Maybe Manolo can pick them up.” I waved away the fug of smoke. My eyes burned.

Quinn negotiated with Emilio in Spanish, then said, “Okay. We’re set. Manolo will get him at nine-thirty and bring him to us.”

“Marta and the babies, too,” I insisted.

Emilio shrugged. “Cost you more I bring them.”

“How much more?”

“Five hundred bucks.”

I exchanged glances with Quinn, who remained mute. My crusade. My money.

“Okay,” I said evenly. “Five hundred. Only if everyone’s there.”

Emilio looked me up and down. “Señorita,” he said. “I know what to do.”

He stood up and stubbed out the barely smoked cigarette in a plate that had dark smears and bits of dried food on it. Then he walked over the door and opened it.

“Hasta mañana.”

When we were back in the El, I said angrily to Quinn, “What a humanitarian! Ross took care of his family for free. He can’t stand up and do the right thing for someone who helped him when he needed it? They’re not even in the country legally, for God’s sake. Maybe he ought to go back where he came from.”

Quinn jerked the car in reverse so abruptly I had to put my hand on the dashboard to steady myself as he roared out of the parking lot. When we were back on the main road he said, “I’m surprised you could get the words out of your mouth around that silver spoon, sweetheart. Say we did send Emilio and his family back to the mud hut they call home in Salvador. Then who’s gonna clean all the toilets in the restaurants around here? Mow all the rich people’s lawns? Wash dishes all night, then jump on the back of the garbage truck first thing in the morning in the pouring rain or freezing cold? You wanna do that?”

We were back on Route 15 now, headed to Gilbert’s Corner. I didn’t want to look at his speedometer, but we were going well past the limit.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. But that was extortion.”

“Do you blame him?” Quinn was still mad. “Beats making minimum wage with no benefits, don’t you think? Maybe he’ll splurge and take the family to McDonald’s for a Happy Meal now that he’s so rich.”

“Okay,” I said. “Okay. I said I’m sorry. But we still had to buy Ross’s life from him. I would rather have given him a job than hand over cash like that. We could at least pay him a living wage.”

Quinn kept staring straight ahead, palm on the steering wheel once again as we hammered down the road. “Doesn’t work that way,” he said. “We’d have a mutiny on our hands with the rest of the crew who waited their turn and got green cards so they’re legit. You know that as well as I do.”

“There’s something else,” I said.

“What?”

“I don’t think the speed limit’s eighty.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw, but at least he let up on the accelerator. When we got back to the vineyard I said as I got out of the car, “Bobby is coming to the concert tonight with Kit. I’m going to ask him to come early so we can talk to him then and set up the meeting for tomorrow. Okay?”

“Fine.” He headed toward the steps to the winery, taking them two at a time.

“Hey!” I called.

He stopped and turned around. “What?”

“Are you still mad at me? I’m sorry about what I said. I mean it.”

He threw his hands up in the air. “I don’t know what I am anymore,” he said. “Especially where it involves you. Go call Bobby. I got stuff to do in the barrel room.”

I called Kit instead.

“Sure, we can come early,” she said. “Why, what’s up?”

“I need to talk to Bobby and it’s better if I do it face-to-face.”

“Uh-oh. Luce, it better not be about Ross. Bobby’s been up to his ass in alligators ever since they arrested him at the clinic. Apparently the sheriff department’s been getting calls—a lot of ’em on 911—saying Ross didn’t do it and the police are a bunch of pigs. Bobby’s had about all he can take.”

“Please do this favor for me,” I said. “Please? You won’t be sorry.”

“Somehow I think I already am,” she said. “The things I do for you. See you at six.”