“I’m all right, thanks.”
“Simon told me about your friendship with Rebecca Natale. I didn’t realize you’d been with her just before she disappeared. No wonder you seemed so upset.”
I probably shouldn’t have been surprised that Simon deWolfe knew about my relationship with Rebecca since he handled security for his half brother. Had Olivia Tarrant told him? Who else in Sir Thomas Asher’s circle knew about the two of us?
“I hope they find her soon. I’m going crazy wondering what happened to her.”
“Simon’s in constant contact with the D.C. police while this is going on. He’ll probably be one of the first to know when something new develops. I promise I’ll pass along anything I find out.”
“You seem to know him quite well.”
“Of course. We met through Tommy and Mandy,” he said. “At their place in West Palm. All of them come down every year for winter polo. We used to party together when I was living there.”
Before Mick moved to Virginia, he owned a pharmaceutical company in Florida that he sold for a bundle of money after growing bored with it. I had sensed that same restlessness and what seemed like an incessant need for a new distraction when we were seeing each other. It wasn’t long before he moved on from me to the earl’s daughter. That’s when I’d realized it was only a matter of time before he tired of his life in Virginia as well and left for the next adventure. With Mick the future was an ever-shifting horizon.
“So you’ve known Simon for a while?” I asked.
“Yeah, we’re mates. We go hunting together. Now that he’s buying a house here I expect I’ll see more of him.”
So Simon deWolfe was a hunter, too.
“Look, I was serious last night about dinner,” Mick went on. “I know you may not be up for it with what’s just happened, but why don’t I call back in a day or two? I need to see you, Lucie. You know I’m not going to stop asking until you say yes.”
He’d said “need.” What was going on? “Mick—”
“I mean it.”
“Okay,” I said. “But give me a couple of days.”
“Whatever you want.”
I disconnected and I walked over to the long pine table we used for winemaker’s dinners. Quinn pulled out a chair for me.
“You all right?” He took the seat next to mine.
“Fine. Why?”
“No reason. Here, try this.” He pushed a glass of wine over to me.
“Mick knows the Ashers,” I said. “Kit and I ran into him last night at the Inn with a guy called Simon deWolfe. Turns out he’s Sir Thomas’s brother. Half brother, actually. Mick just wanted to see how I was holding up with all the news about Rebecca.”
“Nice of him to look out for you. You don’t owe me an explanation, Lucie. Mick’s a good guy.”
I took a deep breath. “It’s not what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking a friend called to comfort you on a tragedy involving another friend. Is it something more than that?”
“No.”
“Okay, then. Bottoms up.”
I swirled the wine, then held the glass to my nose before I drank. He did the same. Back to business. Fine by me.
“It’s okay,” I said. “Good nose, smooth finish.”
“It’s a fifty-fifty blend from the barrel with the South African yeast and the wine in the tank with the American strain.”
It was the blend we used for the Viognier that won the Governor’s Cup.
“This time around it doesn’t taste like wine that would win a prize,” I said. “It’s good but not fabulous.”
“That’s why we’re doing trials.” He shrugged. “Okay, how about the same ratio with the Rhone strain?”
“All right. Or maybe a different ratio of South African to American.”
“Sure. Sit tight and I’ll get it.”
He disappeared into the bay like a shadow vanishing into the night, and I felt as though a glass curtain had descended between us. He was shutting me out of whatever was really going on in his life. I didn’t know whether to be hurt or angry or both.
A phone rang, but this time it was my cell. A Washington, D.C., number, no caller ID.
“I’m looking for Lucie Montgomery.” The male voice sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it.
“Speaking.”
“Detective Horne here.”
I licked my lips and tasted Viognier. The road to hell. “You found Rebecca?”
“I’m afraid not, but we’ve located her purse and ID. We’ve also got a person of interest temporarily in custody.” Horne still sounded beat and I wondered how much sleep he’d gotten since I saw him yesterday. “A homeless guy living down in the woods by the river. A pawnshop owner in Georgetown called nine-one-one when he showed up trying to sell that wine cooler you told us about. And some jewelry. Can you describe what she was wearing?”
I did. Then I said, “Do you think this man killed Rebecca?”
Horne snorted. “He said he didn’t. He claims some dude showed up in his tent and just gave him all her stuff. Told him to sell it and use the cash for food and a warm place to stay. It was like Robin Hood stopped by.”
Rebecca still missing and someone giving away a priceless antique and her jewelry? No way. “Do you believe that?”
He sighed. “Like I told you, I don’t discount anything. Sometimes the most bizarre thing you hear turns out to be what really happened. Look, did Ms. Natale mention meeting anyone once she picked up that package for her boss? A man, maybe? A date with anyone?”
“No. No one.”
“All right. Thanks for your time.”
“Before you go,” I said. “Are you looking for this other person? Robin Hood?”
“We’ll follow up,” he said. “If he exists. But to tell you the truth, the number one person I’m looking for is Rebecca Natale. I got her clothes, her jewelry, and that wine holder. What I don’t have is a body.”
Chapter 8
Quinn and I went our separate ways after the bench trials. He took one of the all-terrain vehicles out to the vineyard, saying he needed to check some trellises, and I pretended to believe him. If one wanted time and space, a good place to find it was the churchlike solitude of acres of bare vines where the only sounds were the whistling wind and the sweet cries of the first birds of spring.
I, on the other hand, sought company that I knew I’d find in the ivy-covered villa my mother had designed for our tasting room. Last fall after harvest, Frankie had planted winter pansies in the halved wine barrels that lined the courtyard portico between the barrel room and the villa. As I walked along the portico I deadheaded white, yellow, and plum-colored blossoms to distract me from thinking about a winemaker who wanted to get lost and a friend who hadn’t been found.
More pansies—lilac and white—bloomed in the border gardens around the villa. A straw basket with gardening tools sat by the door next to a tidy pile of weeds. Frankie must have been cleaning the beds and decided to take a break. I called to her as I walked inside the airy, light-filled room and felt the familiar heart tug as I thought of my mother who had chosen this place for her winery because of its breathtaking view of the vineyard framed by the layered Blue Ridge Mountains.
The room still bore the unmistakable stamp of her style and flair—her oil paintings of the vineyard on the walls, the cheery Provençal fabrics she loved on the sofas and chairs, and the brilliantly hued Turkish carpets
