The Bordeaux Betrayal

“Well, she better get over it,” Quinn said. “She’s got her hands full with that kid.”

“I know. Hey, you were good at that bad cop thing,” I said. “You terrified me.”

He looked pleased. “That was nothing,” he said. “I wasn’t even warmed up.”

Pépé showed up at eight o’clock the next morning just as I was leaving for the villa. We met in the foyer. He looked a little worse for the wear, his bow tie charmingly askew, smelling of cognac and tobacco and someone’s heavy, old-fashioned perfume. Thank God he hadn’t been driving.

“You want a cup of coffee? I just turned the pot off, so it’s still pretty hot,” I said, kissing him on the cheek. “How was it?”

“Formidable,” he said. “But I am a little tired.”

“Maybe you should go to bed.”

He nodded. “I think I will.”

“I’ll be back this afternoon to pick you up,” I said. “Maybe around three or four? Unless you want to sleep longer and we can go to the cemetery tomorrow.”

“No, no,” he said. “I want to go today. If that’s still agreeable with you.”

“Of course,” I said. “I’ll see you later.”

I watched him climb the stairs. He took his time. Eighty-two years old and out all night partying like he was twenty-eight. I blew him a kiss that he didn’t see and left for the vineyard.

I was the first to arrive at the villa. Quinn came later after opening the south gate for the Goose Creek Hunt.

“Did they show up?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah. Blowing that foxhorn, doing all the stuff they do. Came through the south gate like we figured they would.”

“Many horse trailers?”

“A few. Most of them rode their horses. Hacking, or whatever it’s called.”

“It’s called hacking. You see Amanda?”

“Yup.”

“Shane?”

“Him, too. With all the hounds, yapping up a storm. He said it’s going to be a good day with no wind and cool air. The fox’s scent will lie right there close to the ground. Easy for the pack to follow.”

“Good. Mick there, too?”

He put his hands on his hips. “Maybe I should have taken roll. Yeah, Mick was there, too. Sunny, Ryan. All the usual suspects.”

“I just asked.”

“You should have asked about Mick up front. Though I would have thought he would have told you himself. Especially since you’re sleeping with him again.”

“Don’t you have work to do?”

“Not before I get a cup of coffee. Is it made yet?”

“I haven’t had time.”

“I guess I have to do everything around here, don’t I?”

I followed him into the kitchen. “How’d you know about Mick and me?”

“Went by the General Store this morning. Thelma was feeling chatty.”

I’d been filling the coffeepot with water. I turned sharply and water splashed onto the floor. “When Thelma doesn’t feel chatty, she will no longer have a pulse. Do you mean to tell me it’s making the rounds at the General Store that I spent the night at Mick’s place?”

“You slept there? She wasn’t sure who bunked with who.” He took the pot from me and poured the water into the reservoir.

I wiped up the floor as the coffeemaker started to gurgle. “Don’t share that, okay?”

He got a carton of milk from the refrigerator. “So you are back together?”

“No. And I don’t want to talk about it.”

He leaned against the counter and folded his arms across his chest. “Okay, fine.”

I reached for the sugar bowl and spooned some into my coffee. “Any idea if Nicole’s left town yet?”

His eyes narrowed. “I don’t know. She called Sunday morning and left a message but I never called her back. You going to have any coffee with that sugar?”

“Huh? Oh. You make strong coffee. It needs extra sugar.”

“You’re mad Mick hired Nicole.”

I picked up the carton of milk. “Okay, so I am. You know something? I’ve finally realized everything’s about business with him—even when it seems like it’s not. His whole life revolves around work and winning and owning the best of everything.” I stirred my coffee until it became the color of liquid caramel. “Nicole’s got a great reputation, so of course he had to hire her. The thing is, he never seems satisfied or happy. He’s always restless. Bored.”

I thought about what Frankie said about him the other day. It was all about the thrill of the hunt with him.

“That include you?” Quinn asked.

“Yes.” I blew on my coffee. “How come you didn’t call Nicole back?”

He picked up his mug and held the swinging door open for me. “I don’t know.” We both walked into the tasting room as the door swung so hard the hinges creaked. “Guess we both have things we don’t want to talk about,” he said.

The hunt, which had allowed the new puppies entering the pack and the younger horses to be tested in the field, ended just before noon. It was the more informal season known as cub hunting and lasted from September through November. Even the dress was more casual because the members wore lightweight tweed jackets instead of the formal black jackets they’d use once the regular season began in November.

Amanda called just after twelve to say thanks and let me know everyone had left after a short tailgate.

“Any good runs?” I asked.

“A couple of good ones,” she said. “This time we stayed mostly in the western part of your farm. Beyond the pond.”

“That’s new for you, isn’t it?”

“Shane wanted to keep the pack well away from the Orlandos’ property,” she said. “We’ve got some unruly pups. Didn’t seem like it made any sense to tempt fate.”

“Everything look okay when you were out there?”

“Fine.” Her voice turned chilly. “Kyra will be by later today, of course.”

“Thank you. Look, Amanda, I hope everything’s okay between us. As far as I’m concerned, it’s all settled.”

“Why wouldn’t it be okay?” she asked, but I could tell it wasn’t.

Pépé was dressed and sitting in the library, reading old copies of the Washington Tribune when I got home around three-thirty.

“Ryan Worth’s columns?” I asked, kissing him on the cheek. Ryan had sent me a package a few days ago. “You’re finally reading them?”

“Eh, bien, I promised him I would.”

“What do you think?”

He set them on the coffee table. “He seems to drink a lot of wine that is ‘flirty.’ Or ‘muscular.’ Also a wine that grabs you by the throat and won’t let go.” He looked at me over the top of his reading glasses and put his hands around his throat in mock strangulation.

I laughed. “I think he’s trying to describe wine in ways that people can relate to.”

He shook his head. “I guess I am old school. I like to know about the taste, the finish, the nose. I do not want to know if the wine wants to wrestle with me.”

“Come on,” I said. “I’ll take you for a ride. Are you ready to go to the cemetery?”