could tell anyone. Now Jack’s taking the bottle back and he’s either going to keep it in his wine cellar or sell it privately. If he sells it, I bet it will be to someone who wants to remain anonymous.”
“So the bottle more or less disappears.” Kit dumped three packets of sugar into her cappuccino and stirred so the spoon made clinking sounds against the mug. “Where would he find a buyer like that?”
“Nicole Martin knows someone.”
“Shane’s girlfriend. The wine broker.”
“And Quinn’s ex-wife.”
“I heard about that over at the General Store. Everyone in Atoka’s talking about it. They must have hated each other’s guts when the divorce rolled around for him never to mention someone who looks like that.”
“She came by this morning to see the Washington bottle. Afterward he took her on a tour of the vineyard. They left holding hands.” I lined up her empty sugar packets in a neat row.
Kit watched me. “That bothers you, huh?”
“I don’t like her very much.”
“Is this about the green-eyed monster, Luce?”
“Don’t be an idiot. Why would I be jealous of her?”
“You tell me,” she said. “You know, I used to think you and Quinn cared about each other. At least a little.”
The waiter set down the bill. “It’s a professional relationship.” I reached for the leather folder. “We’re keeping it that way.”
Kit rolled her eyes as I set down a credit card. “If you say so,” she said. “Thanks for lunch.”
When we got outside she glanced at her watch. “I’d better get back to work. You know how the place falls apart without me. You going back to the vineyard?”
“Not right away. I’ve got an errand to do.”
“What are you up to? What errand?”
“I thought I’d track down Nicole Martin and have a chat with her without Quinn around.”
“So you can talk about him?”
“No. So we can talk about the Washington bottle.”
“I’ll bet you talk about Quinn, too,” she said.
After she drove off in her Jeep, I got in the Mini. Now that I knew Nicole and Valerie were friends, maybe I’d get some answers to my questions about Jack Greenfield and what Valerie knew about the Washington wine.
But Kit’s words bothered me, too, like a dull ache that I knew wasn’t going to go away any time soon. Was my animosity toward Nicole really petty jealousy?
Or was I right that Nicole Martin was nothing but trouble?
Chapter 13
Nicole hadn’t returned the Porsche to Jeroboam’s after Quinn’s tour. I drove past the store and down the alley to the small parking lot. Where else would she go with the car? Shane’s place?
He lived in a rented cottage in Paris—Virginia, not France—the last town on the highway in what was known as Mosby Heritage Area. The name came from the city in France as a tribute to Jefferson’s good friend the Marquis de Lafayette, but our Paris, unlike the City of Lights, was a tranquil village.
I turned west onto Washington Street, which soon became Mosby’s Highway. Dead ahead, the Blue Ridge Mountains looked solid and comforting. Already ancient when the Indians lived here a thousand years ago, they had never been scoured by glaciers like the mountain ranges farther north, which accounted for their gentle speed-bump contours.
A few cumulous clouds speckled shadows on the foothills. I didn’t know for sure why the mountains were blue—I’d heard it had to do with the pine trees releasing a chemical compound that caused a permanent bluish haze—but whatever the reason, the hue varied depending on the light, time of day, and season. Here the scenery turned to farmland as horses and cattle grazed in pastures and farmers mowed their fields for the last time this year. It looked as though summer had finally faded like an old watercolor.
The Porsche was just outside Paris, parked in front of a small convenience store. I pulled in as Nicole came outside, phone pressed to her ear, engrossed in conversation. Her eyes widened when she saw me.
“I’ve got to go,” I heard her say. “Don’t worry, I’ll handle it. No, I haven’t booked it yet. I’ll call you later.”
She snapped the phone shut and walked over to my car. Minis, by definition, are low-slung. Nicole wasn’t tall, but she did have the psychological advantage of looking down on me.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Looking for you.”
I could tell I’d caught her off-guard, but then her blasé self-confidence returned. “Is this about Quinn?”
I kept my eyes on hers. Was I that transparent? “No. It’s about you.”
Her eyes roamed over me and my cane propped against the passenger seat. I’d seen that look plenty of times in the faces of people who believe those of us with disabilities asked for it or somehow deserved what we’d gotten. Her look said it all. It could never happen to her. I almost felt sorry for her arrogance and stupidity. Almost.
“You want to talk about the Margaux, don’t you?” she said.
I moved to open my car door and she stepped back.
“Buy you a cup of coffee or a cold drink?” I said.
She squinted, appraising me like she was trying to figure out my angle. “You want to have coffee? Here?”
“Coffee’s pretty good. They get it from a place in Leesburg.”
She shrugged. “Yeah, sure, I’ll have a cup of coffee.”
She came inside while I bought two coffees. When we were back in the parking lot I said, “Unless you want to talk here, I know a place that’s not too far away. It’s nicer and more private.”
“Why all the secrecy?”
“No secrecy. It’s just an interesting place. You might like it.”
Another shrug. “I’ve got nothing else to do right now.”
She followed me to the old Goose Creek Bridge. In high school, Kit and I used to sit on the stone parapet and watch the creek while we drank unlabeled bottles of wine I’d stolen from the barrel room. The bridge dated back to Jefferson’s presidency but had been abandoned in the 1950s when Mosby’s Highway was rerouted. Now the garden club looked after it. We parked on a nearby dead-end road and walked over to a rusted gate at the entrance that kept cars out, but not people.
“What is this place?” Nicole asked as we walked down the gravel path to the bridge.
“The site of a Civil War battle. In the spring of 1863 Jeb Stuart’s troops fought Union soldiers, hoping to delay them so Lee’s army could get to Pennsylvania.”
She looked around at the quiet hills and surrounding woods. “And did they?”
“No. Gettysburg was ten days later.”
“The Civil War,” she said, “is ancient history.”
“Not around here. Gettysburg was one bloody campaign in Pennsylvania, but most of the war was fought right here on Virginia soil. Lee-Jackson Day is a state holiday.”
She brushed a strand of hair off her face and stepped up onto the parapet, staring down into the creek. “I’m sure that’s fascinating for you, but I just can’t relate to any of it.”
I sat on the bridge and swung my feet so they dangled above the creek. “Have a seat,” I said.
“Looks dirty. I’ll stand.”
“It’s not dirty.” I took the top off my cup and turned so I could look up at her. “Why did you go with Valerie Beauvais to the vineyards Thomas Jefferson visited in France, if you’re not interested in history?”
She blew on her coffee. Mine was already tepid. Hers was, too. She was stalling.
