today.”
“I’m already plenty sorry about a lot of things, believe me,” I said. “But right now we need him.”
He stared at me. “Yes, boss.”
It was the first time he’d called me that. I ignored his mocking tone and left.
Chance was in the kitchen drinking coffee when I got back to the villa. I poured myself a cup and gave him the same ultimatum about no fighting.
He nodded. Like Quinn, he avoided looking at me.
“One more thing,” I said. “Do you know anything about missing cases of wine or a problem with records that don’t tally?”
His eyes hardened. “Is Quinn blaming me for that, too?”
“I don’t need your sarcasm and you didn’t answer my question.”
“It’s no.”
“You and Quinn need to cool it. And we’ll get to the bottom of this other stuff after we get the Riesling in.”
“Am I free to go?”
I didn’t like his belligerent tone of voice.
“Why don’t you take the lugs out to the fields and leave them at the end of the rows so they’re ready for tomorrow?”
“Whatever you say.”
“By the way,” I said, “for the time being, you report to me.”
He shot me a look of scorn and left. After I drank my coffee, I went back to the barrel room, but it was like being in a morgue. A mood of gloom and tension had settled over the place like a miasma and no one was talking to anyone.
I hated it.
Frankie called just before noon and asked if I could sign some papers. I fled to the villa, glad to escape the funk. When I got there, she was on the phone.
“It’s B.J.,” she said. “He’s on his way over with that other guy. Ray Vitale. They want to check out the site again. Something about finalizing the script for their battle. Can I just let them do their own thing or do you want to go with them?”
“They can go on their own. Tell B.J. to call me if there’s anything else they need.”
“Sure.”
She showed up in my office a few minutes later.
“I thought I’d run into Middleburg and pick up a sandwich at the deli and a piece of homemade pie from the Upper Crust. My treat for lunch. What can I bring you?”
“A piece of rawhide to chew on.”
She grinned. “How about turkey or ham?”
“Sorry. Turkey on a croissant? But I’m paying. I think you bought last time.”
Frankie walked over to the small closet in my office and took out her purse. “Forget it. You deserve some pampering after wading through all that testosterone over in the barrel room.”
She pulled out her wallet and looked up, a frown creasing her forehead.
“Maybe you’ll have to buy, after all. My credit card’s missing. Damn.”
“Are you sure? Maybe you misplaced it.”
“Nope. I’m a creature of habit. I always put it in the slot behind my license.”
“Check your purse. Maybe it fell out.”
She dumped the contents on the seat of a red-and-white flame-stitched wing chair my mother had recovered when this was her office.
“You were right.” She sounded relieved. “Here it is. At the bottom of my purse. Wonder how that happened?”
“Maybe you forgot to put it back the last time you used it. Or Tom used it and forgot to tell you?”
She shook her head. “I doubt it. Tom has his own credit cards.”
“Why don’t you call the bank and make sure everything’s okay? You’ll probably feel better.”
“Maybe I’ll just drop by. It’s Blue Ridge Federal, so I pass it on the way to the bakery.”
She returned forty-five minutes later with the sandwiches and two glazed white bags from the bakery.
“I brought you a couple of cowpuddles from the Upper Crust. They just finished baking them. Place smelled great,” she said. “Sorry it took so long.”
She didn’t look happy.
“What happened?” I asked.
She pulled up the wing chair and took her sandwich out of the wrapper. “I canceled my credit card. Someone did use it. Today. Can you believe it? Two thousand dollars’ worth of stuff at Neiman Marcus.”
I set down my croissant. “It wasn’t Tom?”
“Tom’s allergic to shopping. I buy all his stuff. And I don’t spend two grand at Neiman’s.”
“Maybe it’s a mistake and got charged to the wrong account?”
Frankie bit into her sandwich. When she finished chewing she said, “I’m calling them after lunch. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but Brandi and Eli were in your office by themselves yesterday. My purse was in your closet like it always is.”
“Neiman’s is Brandi’s favorite store,” I said. “Why don’t you call them now?”
She called while we ate. Her end of the conversation was a lot of “uh-huhs” and “yups.”
“My husband must have ordered that,” she said, finally, “and forgot to tell me. I apologize. Umm, would you mind canceling the order, though? Thanks. Sure. I appreciate that. Sorry for the mix-up.”
She disconnected and met my eyes.
“What is it?” I asked.
“A couple of designer dresses and a jacket. They were supposed to be delivered to Forty-forty Hunting Horn Lane in Leesburg.”
Eli and Brandi’s address.
I felt ill. Brandi had told Eli to rob a bank if that’s what it took to get money. But there was a difference between being on the brink of homelessness or having nothing to eat and doing something stupid and reckless like stealing a credit card to buy designer clothing from an upscale department store.
“I don’t even know how to begin to apologize,” I said. “And I don’t understand why she’d do something this dumb. I’ll get a keyed lock put on that closet so no one but us has access to it from now on.”
Frankie was still watching me.
“If you want to press charges,” I said, “go ahead. I’m not going to make this difficult or awkward for you.”
“Lucie.” She picked at a piece of ham. “Brandi was never in your office on her own. Eli was. She joined him and then she left before he did. Even if she used the card, he would have had to know about it.” She let the rest of that thought hang in the air between us.
“You’re saying Eli used it?” I asked. “Sent Brandi a gift?”
“Maybe. Or at least knew she got the card and copied down the information.”
“That doesn’t sound like Eli. Desperate, yes. Dishonest, no.”
“How else do you explain it?” Frankie asked.
I put my sandwich down and folded the wrapper around it. I had lost my appetite.
“I don’t know.”
“I’m not going to press charges,” she said. “The credit card’s canceled so it can’t be used again. The stuff wasn’t shipped. Tom makes two thousand dollars in a couple of days, so it’s not about the money. But I am mad and I want an explanation and an apology. In return, I won’t report it to the sheriff.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “Do you want me to talk to Eli, or do you want to do it?”
“You can do it.”
I nodded, feeling heartsick. My father had been called a murderer. Now my brother was branded a
