The Riesling Retribution

B. J. Hunt called at the end of the day. I’d been expecting to hear from him once word got out about the discovery of the body on land he planned to use for the reenactment. 

“Wondering if I could drop by and check things out,” he said. “Sounds like we might have to change our plans now that you got crime scene tape strung up in that field. I understand you had some tornado damage as well.” 

“Bad news travels fast,” I said. “I suppose Thelma had her megaphone out this morning?” 

“Word does get around, doesn’t it?” He chuckled. “Well, it’s not just me that’s interested in coming by. Ray Vitale is in town. He wants to see the site, too, especially since he hasn’t been here before.” 

“Who is Ray Vitale?” 

“The Union commander. The guy’s so hard-core he lives like it’s still the 1860s. All my communication with him has been by mail. That’s U.S. Postal Service mail, not e-mail. He’s such a stitch Nazi that he won’t do it any other way. Damn annoying at times.” 

“What’s a ‘stitch Nazi’?” 

“A guy who says everything has to be absolutely authentic right down to the number of stitches it takes to sew a buttonhole,” he said. “Me, I don’t care what a person’s wearing for Skivvies and I don’t think you need to piss on your uniform buttons to make them look old. Stinks like hell when you do. As long as no one shows up wearing Nikes and a wristwatch, and carrying a cell phone, it’s good enough for me.” 

“Your friend sounds like a zealot,” I said, laughing. 

“Nope. A zealot is someone altogether different. “The South shall rise again.” That’s a zealot. They haven’t forgiven the Union for winning. Some of them never stopped fighting the war. And a Yankee zealot still wants to punish us.” 

“How’d you get involved with someone like Ray?” 

“Oh, the usual. Business. He owns several assisted-living centers in Virginia and North Carolina. We’ve handled funerals for a number of his residents.” 

“How about if you come by first thing tomorrow morning?” I asked. “I’ll take you over there myself.” 

“How about right now? Say, half an hour? Ray’s heading back to Richmond this evening.” 

B.J.’s event had been attracting considerable media attention and that meant publicity for the winery. We had no idea how many people would show up, but it was possible that as many as a thousand visitors could pass through the vineyard that weekend, including both reenactors and spectators. For us, it was a big crowd. 

I’d been hoping to close up the villa and head home, but if B.J. wanted to come by tonight, we’d do this tonight. 

“Of course,” I said. “Meet me in the parking lot at five thirty.” 

“I appreciate this, Lucie,” he said. “Ray’s awful anxious about your goings-on over there so it’ll be good to calm him down.” 

My goings-on. Bad news really did travel fast. 

I locked up and called Quinn on my cell phone, which finally had service restored. He sounded tired. 

“We made some progress cleaning up, but it’s slow,” he said. “I’ll probably rent a Bobcat in the next day or two once we finish pruning and tying up vines that can still be saved. And, uh, Benny took the chain saw over to where the sycamore came down. The road should be passable now if you’re heading home.” 

He caught me off guard about the tree. 

“Thanks, but I’m not going home yet,” I said. “B.J. and some guy who’s the Union commander want to see the site. They’re worried about the reenactment. The Union guy heard about the body and he’s really anxious. B.J. needs to calm him down.” 

“You don’t think they’ll cancel, do you?” 

“Nope. They just want to know if they need to adjust their plans.” 

“Want me to come along?” 

“I can handle it, but thanks anyway. Go home and get some rest. You sound beat.” 

“Yeah, guess I am.” He paused. “All right. Wait a minute. Tyler wants to know if he can come, too. He wants to meet the Union guy.” 

B.J. once explained to me the three main reasons people got involved in Civil War reenacting. Either they were so fascinated by a period in history they wanted to experience it as fully as possible, something akin to time traveling, or they were like boys with toys—men who liked shooting guns and playacting war. The third reason fell somewhere between the first two and had to do with teaching the next generation about a time in our history when America had gone to war with itself. It also was a way of honoring those who had given their lives for what they believed was a worthy cause. Tyler got involved for reasons one and two. He became interested in the Ball’s Bluff reenactment soon after he started working at the vineyard and signed up with B.J’s home unit, Company G of the 8th Virginia Infantry. 

“If you don’t need Tyler—” I began. 

“Oh, believe me,” Quinn said, “he’s done here.” 

I decided not to pursue that. “Tell him to meet me in the parking lot in fifteen minutes. I’m on my way to the equipment barn to get one of the Mules.” 

“I think Chance is over there,” he said, “fixing a broken weed whacker. Do me a favor and tell him he needs to start answering his phone. I’ve been trying to reach him for the last hour.” 

“Maybe he doesn’t get service there.” 

Quinn snorted. “We’re missing the dodine and I want to do the bâttonage tomorrow on the Cab and Merlot. Tyler says he has no clue what happened to it. Maybe Chance stashed it somewhere.”

A dodine was a stirring paddle used to move around the lees, or sediment, in wine barrels and looked like a long metal pole with a small propeller attached at the bottom. Once it was lowered inside the barrel it whirred away, stirring up everything much like shaking a carton of pulpy orange juice after it sat in the refrigerator for a while. Quinn believed in frequent bâttonages, or barrel stirrings, for both reds and whites. He said it yielded better results, softening the red tannins, deepening the aromas and flavors, and making a creamier, smoother wine.

A broken weed whacker and a missing dodine. Was Quinn right that we had more than our usual share of bad luck and trouble?

“I’ll speak to Chance.” I sighed. “How could something as big as the dodine go missing?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.” His words were clipped. It sounded like he blamed Chance again.

“Okay,” I said, but he’d already disconnected.

The simmering headache behind my eyes began to throb. When I got nearer to the equipment barn, the thudding bass from a boom box turned up loud enough to make the ground pulse beneath my feet mirrored the pounding in my head. Chance didn’t notice me until I tapped his arm. Bruja, improbably, was sound asleep but her front paws covered her ears.

“Can you turn that down?” I mouthed at him.

He went over and hit the power switch. The silence seemed to fill the space between us and Bruja raised her head, her tail thumping.

“Now I know why you didn’t answer Quinn’s phone calls. Next time, at least set your phone to vibrate.”

He smiled his mesmerizing smile and pulled the phone out of his pocket. “Battery’s run down. I forgot to recharge it last night. What does Quinn want?”

His eyes held mine, friendly, questioning, with a hint of suggestiveness in them. I needed to get the conversation directed back to business.

“The dodine’s missing. He’s wondering if you know where it is.”

I pawed through the key cabinet until I found the key to the red Mule. It wasn’t on the hook where it belonged. Nor were most of the other keys. I began moving them to the correct hooks.

“That barrel stirrer? Sorry, no idea,” he said. “I haven’t seen it for a couple of days.”

“What’s wrong with the weed whacker? Whoever is using these keys needs to put them back properly. You can’t find anything here. It’s a mess.” 

“I’ll talk to the guys. And the weed whacker needs a new string. I’m replacing it.” 

I finished sorting the keys. “You’d better see Quinn before you leave tonight.”