“Tell you about what?”
“She said something last night at Mount Vernon about the wine Jack Greenfield donated for the auction. Asked me how I managed to get him to give us the Margaux. Then after dinner she told me I didn’t know what I’d got and that it had something to do with the provenance.”
“What about it?”
“I don’t know. She wasn’t going to tell me until she came by.”
“And now she can’t.” He swung the Gator around by the equipment barn and parked. “The phone’s been ringing off the hook ever since Ryan’s column ran in the
I chewed my lower lip. “How would Valerie know something about Jack’s wine that he wouldn’t know?”
He climbed down from the Gator and handed my cane to me. “Ask him.”
“If I did he’d be insulted. Ryan said she was a phony.”
“Then I’d believe Jack and forget about it.”
“I guess so.”
He gave me the look that said he knew I didn’t plan to and headed for the barrel room. I got the Mini and drove over to the Fox and Hound.
I stopped at the turn on Atoka Road where Valerie’s car had gone into the creek. The tall grass was matted and the bushes were broken and beaten down at the place the sheriff’s cruisers and the emergency vehicles had parked earlier. The asphalt was torn up in a long strip where it looked like the axel of her car and the undercarriage had dug into the road after her wheel came off. The marks—ugly as a scar—ended where her SUV had left the road, probably beginning to roll over until it landed in the middle of the creek.
I put my hand over my mouth and wondered if it had seemed like a slow-motion nightmare to Valerie, or if it had been so fast she never realized what was coming. It looked like the wheel had fallen off in the worst possible place—in the middle of an elbow-bend turn—and she’d lost control. No doubt the sheriff’s department or CRU had already found the wheel, which would help them piece together the rest of the scenario.
On any other day, the woods and the creek were pretty and peaceful—the kind of scene that would have made an appealing photo for a travel brochure. I said a prayer for Valerie and got back in my car. Three minutes later, I was in the parking lot of the Fox and Hound.
Even without knowing that the owners, Grace and Jordy Jordan, were Anglophiles, the red telephone box with “EIIR” and the London cab parked by the entrance were dead giveaways. The Jordans visited Britain every year for one of Jordy’s historical sightseeing jaunts, but they also brought home antiques, English china, and fine art to furnish the rooms and cottages of their elegant bed and breakfast.
I found Jordy in his office off the foyer. Grace had recently redecorated the entrance in shades of sage, cream, and butternut after falling in love with some William Morris textile prints on her last visit to the Victoria and Albert Museum in London. Oil paintings of English hunting scenes lined the walls. A large Portmeirion vase on the console table held dried flowers that smelled of cinnamon and cloves.
Jordy was in his early sixties, gray-haired, avuncular, and comfortable as a favorite reading chair. He set down a copy of
“Hello, my dear. Have a seat. Move those newspapers off that chair, will you, and hand them to me?”
I picked up a pile of
“The place has been in a state all day,” he said. “A couple of guests checked out early, what with the sheriff’s department here for most of the afternoon, carting off that poor woman’s belongings from Cornwall Cottage. Our guests expect privacy and discreet service.”
“She was on her way to see me when her car went off the road,” I said. “Any chance I can take a look at that cottage?”
Jordy shook his head. “The sheriff strung up crime scene tape around the place like Christmas garland. I can’t even take a look at it.” He folded his arms across his belly. “We had a couple who booked it beginning tomorrow. I called them this afternoon and explained that we needed to move them down the path to Devon. Just as nice and bigger. They asked why, so of course I told them the truth. You know what? They canceled their reservation.”
“Crime scene tape? The sheriff doesn’t think it was an accident?” I asked. What else had they found at the creek? Or in Valerie’s car?
“Apparently not,” he said. “Of course I’m sorry she’s dead, but that tape will upset our guests until it comes down. So disturbing. Though we did get a lot of calls all day on account of that auction you’re having at the end of the month. Place is full up for that weekend thanks to you. We’ve even got a waiting list in case of cancellations. I read the column in the
“I know,” I said. “Jordy, Valerie Beauvais was on her way to the vineyard to look at that bottle of wine before she gave a talk at Middleburg Academy.”
He made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Such a shame. I heard you found her and pulled her out.” His eyes strayed to my hospital-issue cane. “You all right, Lucie?”
“I got banged up when I slipped in the creek, but I’ll be okay. You mind if I take a look around here, anyway? I’ll stay away from the crime scene tape.”
He steepled his fingers. “What are you looking for?”
“I don’t know. Probably nothing.”
“Something to do with that bottle of wine?” He leaned back in his desk chair and regarded me.
“Valerie wanted to talk to me about something. Whatever it was, she never got a chance to do it. I guess I’m just scratching an itch, that’s all.”
Jordy and Jack Greenfield played poker with a local group of men known as the Romeos. It stood for Retired Old Men Eating Out and they could spread gossip faster than a strong wind could spread a fire in a dry spell. I’d just aroused his curiosity and he knew I’d been deliberately vague. The topic would come up for sure at the next poker game.
“Help yourself.” His smile was bland. “Don’t imagine you’ll find anything, but you’re welcome to look.”
“Thanks.” I stood. “I see you’ve got a copy of her book.”
His chair squeaked as he swung around to retrieve it from a gate-leg maple table. “Here. Take it, if you’d like. Put it in the wine library in your tasting room.”
“Don’t you want it?”
Jordy looked embarrassed. “My dear, I’m sorry to speak ill of the dead, but it’s unreadable.”
I took the book and thanked him. He walked me to the front door.
“Did you see her leave this morning?” I asked.
He shook his head. “She didn’t even show up for breakfast. Surprising since Gracie put out one of her award-winning English spreads.” He patted his stomach. “One of those will keep you until dinner. Tomorrow’s dinner.”
I kissed him good-bye and he closed the door. But as I walked toward Cornwall Cottage I saw the lace curtain in his office flutter and drop back into place. Jack Greenfield would definitely hear about my visit.
In the waning afternoon light the crime scene tape around the cottage gleamed. I walked up and clamped my hands around my eyes like goggles and peered through the windows. Luckily the curtains hadn’t been drawn.
The living room was immaculate as though ready for new guests. The bedroom was a different story. Covers thrown back on the king-sized bed with the sheets tangled and twisted. An antique quilt lay in a heap on the floor. I moved around to the kitchenette window. A can of nuts and a couple of empty bottles of wine sat on the counter. There was half a pot of coffee in the coffeemaker.
That was it. Jordy had been right—there was nothing to find, especially after the sheriff’s department had cleaned the place out. I started back down the flagstone path toward the parking lot.
The rubber tip of my cane came down on something hard wedged in a crevice between two stones. I looked down. It was a piece of metal—something round and dull-looking. I bent down and almost picked it up.
Fortunately I didn’t, because on closer inspection it looked a lot like a lug nut from the wheel of a car.
