brought from my grandparents’ home in France. Frankie wasn’t here, nor was she in the small galley kitchen. I found her in my office, pink cheeked and mud spattered, perched on the edge of my desk watching television, her garden gloves in a heap on the floor.
“Hope you don’t mind.” She twisted her blond windblown hair into a knot and stuck a pencil through it. “A friend called to tell me to turn on CNN so I came inside. The D.C. police are holding a press conference about an antique silver wine cooler that belonged to James Madison. They said Rebecca Natale had it with her when she went missing and that Sir Thomas Asher was supposed to return it to the White House today.”
So the news about the wine cooler finally leaked out.
“When did the press conference start?” I asked.
“About five minutes ago. Look, there’s Asher and his wife next to the mayor and the chief of police. She looks really upset, but he seems like he’s handling it pretty well.”
I threw myself into my desk chair and stared at the screen as the D.C. police chief, the mayor, and Tommy Asher answered questions ranging from serious to borderline lewd asked by a packed room of reporters and photographers. Frankie was right. Miranda Asher, pale and ghostlike, looked as though she hadn’t slept much recently, but her grim-faced husband answered questions put to him with calm stoicism. Detective Horne was there, too. He must have called me from that auditorium.
“Boy, Asher is like the Rock of Gibraltar,” Frankie said.
“Isn’t he?”
As the press conference wore on, the questions kept coming back to an almost prurient interest in Rebecca’s clothing found folded in the rowboat and the fact that she was now nearly nude. The subject of rape was raised and someone else asked about a possible sexual ritual. The mayor and the chief exchanged glances, and it seemed clear neither he nor she wanted to go down the kinky road. Instead, the chief brought up the man Horne had referred to as Robin Hood.
“We’re asking for the public’s help in locating this individual,” she said. “Sir Thomas Asher has generously pledged a one-hundred-thousand-dollar reward to be paid to the person or persons who provide information leading to an arrest and conviction in this case.”
There was another barrage of questions about Robin Hood and how much longer the search for Rebecca would go on.
“Thanks, folks,” the mayor said. “I think we’ve worn this subject out. This is all we have for you now.”
The chief and the mayor drifted away from the podium as one last question concerning the stolen wine cooler and referring to the British soldier who took it as a thief was picked up by a live microphone. Sir Thomas Asher, on his way out the door, turned and strode across the room to the podium.
“Who asked that question? Who referred to that British soldier as a thief?” His mouth was a thin, angry line. “Identify yourself please.”
“Boy, somebody pushed his hot button,” Frankie said.
The press room was as silent as death. A hand finally went up in the crowd and the camera panned to a familiar face.
“Oh, God, it’s that reporter from Channel 3 who was down on the river last night,” I said. “Kit thinks he’s a jerk.”
“I’d hate to be in his shoes,” Frankie said. “Look at Asher. Like a volcano about to go off.”
“Shh … listen.”
“My wife and I have donated millions of dollars to charity in this country and around the world.” Asher’s clipped British voice was calm, but there was no mistaking his outrage. “Next week we plan to give the Library of Congress one of the largest gifts in its history, outside of the Jefferson library and the Lessing Rosenwald rare book collection. That anyone should question my integrity and the integrity of my family is personally offensive. The Madison wine cooler will be returned to the White House as soon as the police release it from evidence. I hasten to add that I had no idea it was in my family’s possession, no clue about its provenance, until Dr. Alison Jennings, a historian who works with me, discovered it and did some investigating. Had I known what it was, it would have been returned long ago. I find the word ‘thief’ insulting and reprobate, and I expect an apology from your network, sir.”
He turned abruptly and left the room as the place erupted. A moment later the picture flashed to the shell- shocked reporter. I picked up the remote and hit the mute button.
“Now I know why they call him ‘Tommy the Barracuda,’” Frankie said. “He ate that kid for lunch.”
“If he’d let it go, no one would have focused on it,” I said. “Why didn’t he ignore it? Now it’s going to be a story of its own.”
“Probably because the kid hit a nerve.” Frankie bent and picked up her gloves. “That’d be my guess.”
“Well, his ancestor did steal the wine cooler,” I said. “He didn’t borrow it for two centuries. I don’t think Channel 3 owes him an apology at all.”
“He’s probably pretty strung out over this whole thing with Rebecca,” Frankie said. “And lost his cool. It happens.”
A bell went off in the hallway outside my office.
“We’ve got company,” Frankie said. “I’ll see who it is.”
She was back a moment later. “Ali Jennings wants to see you. Someone else who looks kind of strung out, if you ask me.”
“A lot of that going around.” I stood up. “I think she’s here about wine.”
I found Alison Jennings outside on the terrace with her back to me and gripping the railing so tight her knuckles showed white. I didn’t know her as well as I knew Harlan, though our paths crossed occasionally at parties, community events, or the Middleburg shops. It was known around town that she was the rock of her family, devoting herself to her twin sons after Harlan lost his Senate seat and more or less moved to their Georgetown pied-à-terre so he could build a client list for his new consulting firm. It was Alison who made the long commute to her university job in D.C., coming home each evening to supervise homework, cheer the boys at sporting events, and bake cookies for their school fund-raisers. After the twins left for boarding school, her life increasingly revolved around her teaching and research, but she still remained Middleburg based. I’d heard from Mick that she’d taken up foxhunting again, riding with the Goose Creek Hunt. People said she was a crack shot.
“Alison?”
She turned around. Frankie wasn’t kidding. I’d never seen Ali Jennings look anything but smart and pulled together, even if she were only picking up a quart of milk at Safeway. Today without makeup she looked haggard, as though she had aged years since Saturday night. Her beautiful red hair, pulled into an unflattering ponytail, betrayed that she was overdue for an appointment with her colorist and her riding clothes were dingy and shapeless.
“Can I get you something?” I asked. “Coffee? A glass of water? Wine?”
“Maybe a glass of water. I’ve got a fierce headache.”
“Come on.” I held one of the terrace doors open. “Let’s go inside. You’re shivering. By the way, I heard the police found the Madison wine cooler. Sir Thomas mentioned your name at a press conference just now.”
Her smile was forced as she followed me into the tasting room and sat down on one of the bar stools. “Did he?”
I slid the glass of water and a bottle of ibuprofen across the bar. “Try this. Are you feeling all right? You could have just called me about the wine, you know.”
“Thanks, but I thought it would be better to do this in person.” She held the glass with both hands. “The wine is for Harlan’s birthday party next week. A surprise, or at least I hope it is, so please don’t mention it to him. I thought I’d get two cases of your Viognier. He said you raved about it the other night.”
I smiled. “It won the Governor’s Cup. I didn’t know his birthday was coming up.”
“I’m having the party out here, so I need to figure a way to lure him from our place in Georgetown.” Her voice seemed to waver. “He spends so much time there now.”
“I’m a little surprised you aren’t spending more time in Georgetown yourself now that the boys are gone,” I said. “I’d forgotten what a commute it is from Middleburg until I drove to D.C. last weekend. It wasn’t even rush hour—”
