The Riesling Retribution

don’t see any beer.”

“I didn’t know you were coming. There’s a nice bottle of Crémant.”

“Fizzy white. I guess I could drink that.”

We brought the wine and hors d’oeuvres outside to the veranda. Eli took the glider and I sat in the love seat. He popped the Crémant cork and poured, but when we clinked glasses neither of us made a toast. I watched him check his phone yet again.

“Beau Kinkaid’s ex-wife is now Mrs. Sumner Chastain,” I said. “You ever run into Chastain Construction in any of your projects?”

“Chastain Construction has tentacles that reach every state in the southeastern United States. It’s impossible not to run into them.”

“Do they have a good reputation?”

He bit into a piece of bruschetta and thought while he chewed. “Let me put it this way. You know how Quinn talks about the homogenization of the wine world where everybody ultimately ends up making the same Chardonnay or the same Pinot? No distinguishing characteristics of terroir, nothing to reflect the land and soil it came from, or the personality of the winemaker?”

“They build the same buildings?”

“Over and over and over again. Churn ’em out, one homogeneous subdivision, shopping mall, and planned community after another.”

“Nice.”

“They’re big and they get the job done.” He shrugged. “You can’t fight big.”

“Their press people are in charge of managing Annabel Chastain. Kit tried to talk to her. They’ve erected a fortress,” I said.

He glanced at his phone for a few seconds and did some scrolling, then set it on the coffee table.

“You keep doing that,” I said.

“Habit.”

“More like an addiction. Though I don’t blame you for checking in case—”

He cut me off, looking pained. “I’m not just looking to see if she called. I gotta stay on top of stuff at work. This thing gets e-mail, you know.”

“Which you read the millisecond it comes in.”

“So sue me, I’m curious. Anyway, that last one was personal. Remember Zeke Lee? From high school?”

“Vaguely. Friend of yours.”

“He’s coming to that reenactment. Says he belongs to B.J.’s regiment. He asked if I’ll be there.”

“You are coming, I hope?”

“He means as a participant. He says he can loan me whatever clothes and gear I need, if I’m interested. It’s too late to sign up, but I could be a walk-on.”

“They didn’t have cell phones during the Civil War. Or e-mail.”

“What, you think I can’t do without twenty-first-century gadgets for a weekend?”

“Not really. Do you?”

“Of course I can.”

“Maybe you should try it. You mind lighting the grill? I’ll get the chicken.”

“Where’s the electric fire starter?”

“I knew it,” I said and left for the kitchen.

We ate dinner outside by candlelight. By tacit mutual agreement we avoided the subject of Brandi and his marriage. Finally, I brought up Annabel Chastain again.

“Beau’s dead and Leland’s dead. That leaves her,” I said. “That means it’s going to be her word against no one’s. I think she’s setting Leland up for this.”

“If she’s got the Chastain Construction public relations machine behind her, she’s got no worries. They’ll roll right over Leland and that’ll be the end of it. That company’s got more lawyers on their payroll than you got grapes in the vineyard.”

“Well, we’ll just have to fight back.”

“Luce…” He leaned his elbows on the table and massaged his temples. “How are we going to do that? They’ll keep hammering at us until we quit. We haven’t got the money or the resources to go up against them.”

“So you’re saying we should just give up?” 

“Look, they must have found a thirty-eight slug if they came by and took Leland’s thirty-eight. What if they find a match? The guy was buried on our land. The ex-wife says there was bad blood. So if I were a betting man I’d say it’s not looking too good for our side.” 

“What if he didn’t do it?” 

“Then who did?” 

“I don’t know.” 

Eli clasped his hands behind his head as he stared out toward the mountains. 

“I don’t want to believe it, either, but there doesn’t seem to be any evidence to refute that he didn’t murder that guy and then cover it up for thirty years.” 

“There has to be something,” I said. 

Eli looked at me with something between resigned sadness and pity. 

“If there is,” he said, “it’ll take a damn miracle to find it. And you can bet Chastain Construction will do their best to make sure you don’t turn up anything. Be careful, Luce. You’re playing with fire.”

Chapter 12

The weekend celebration of the twentieth anniversary of Montgomery Estate Vineyard will be indelibly etched in my memory, but not for reasons I would have imagined. Though we started on a high note with an unexpected celebration, it didn’t take long for things to head south. 

Ironically, the weather for the entire weekend couldn’t have been more perfect if we’d ordered it up ourselves. Sparkling sunshine, the vivid blue skies of a Van Gogh painting, scattered thin-ribbed clouds, a soft breeze, and none of the oppressive energy-sapping humidity that was our usual summer fare. 

The first people to arrive showed up at the villa before we’d even opened the doors. Kit and Bobby, arms around each other, walked in looking like they’d just won the lottery. 

“We wanted to tell you first. Well, second after my mother and Bobby’s folks.” Kit held out her left hand where a small diamond in a plain gold setting sparkled on her finger. 

I had started to set a large tiered platter of grapes and assorted cheeses on the oak trestle table when she waved her ring under my nose. The tray tipped sideways as I bent to examine it. Bobby grabbed one of the handles before anything could spill and we set it down together. Everyone laughed. 

“Told you Lucie’d be surprised,” Bobby said to Kit, who continued admiring her ring and grinning like a fool. “She thought I’d never do it.” 

“Darling, I thought you’d never do it.” Kit arched an eyebrow as she ate a grape and looked seductively at him. 

We laughed some more and I hugged Kit. “I’m so happy for you.” 

I hugged Bobby, too, but his eyes, though smiling like hers, turned grave as he patted me on the back. Something was wrong. 

“We have to make a toast,” I said. “To celebrate. The Middleburg Business Association sent a bottle of champagne for our anniversary. It’s chilling in the fridge. I’ll get it.” 

“You should save it,” Kit said. 

“Nonsense. Just a small glass.” 

Kit glanced at Bobby. “I guess we could. Though my fiancé, here, would prefer a beer.” 

“Those bubbles give me gas,” he said, “but I suppose I can make an exception.” 

I got the bottle and Bobby opened it on the terrace. The cork flew out and the fizzy liquid erupted. We laughed again as I held a champagne flute underneath and he filled it with champagne.