come in. A shaft of light from an open leaded glass window lit her profile so that she looked like the medieval princess who inhabited the castle—heavy brows, dark long-lashed eyes, exquisite cheekbones, an aquiline nose, a serious mouth.
“Can I help you—?”
Her gaze shifted from me to Quinn and her hand flew to her throat.
Allen Cantor hadn’t been kidding about Brooke being a knockout. She was tall and slender, dressed in well- fitted black shorts that showed off long, tanned legs and a white T-shirt with a deep V-neck that hugged willowy curves. For a moment I could have sworn she was the younger sister of Quinn’s beautiful ex-wife, Nicole.
I heard Quinn breathe “whew” next to me as Brooke flew across the room and threw herself in his arms.
“Quinn! Where have you been? Oh, my God, it’s been ages. I’ve missed you so much.”
Quinn’s arms went around her like he was afraid she was going to break. So much for worrying about his presence screwing up this deal. Finally, he disentangled himself and introduced me.
Brooke blinked as she looked from Quinn to me, taking stock of my cane.
“You’re the one who called just now,” she said. “Lucie Montgomery. You’re from Virginia.” She turned to Quinn. “That’s where you went when you left. You two know each other?”
“I’ve been the winemaker at Lucie’s vineyard for the past few years,” he said.
Brooke’s mouth fell open and, for a second, her guard came down and I saw the old hurt in her eyes, how painful his departure must have been for her.
“Why didn’t you call me?” Her voice held a quiet note of reproach. “I had no idea you were coming. How long are you going to be in California?”
I wondered how he planned to answer that.
“It’s kind of complicated.” He looked uncomfortable. “Hey, Brookie, do you think it would be possible to taste that Cab?”
She smiled at the affectionate use of the nickname, though the abruptness of the request seemed to take her aback.
“Sure, no problem. It’s downstairs in the barrel room, of course. Or, as I like to call it, the dungeon.” Her eyes flickered to my cane. “There’s no elevator, only stairs. Is that, I mean—?”
“I can handle stairs. And dungeons.”
“If you’re sure.”
It almost sounded like she wished I’d said I couldn’t join them.
We’d reversed roles, Quinn and I, good cop, bad cop. Brooke was so captivated by him, so glad to see him again, that he probably could get a tour of her underwear drawer, if he’d asked. I had my doubts what she’d say if I inquired about Teddy Fargo’s off-limits-to-the-public gardens. Quinn was going to have to finesse this for us.
The wine was good—very good—just as Charles had promised. Neither Quinn nor I said anything, but it couldn’t have been Brooke’s. Teddy Fargo—Theo Graf—had made it. I wondered why it hadn’t crossed my mind before now.
It didn’t take us long to figure out the blend we wanted. Brooke’s eyes darted between the two of us and I caught the tiny flare of surprise as she realized how well we knew each other, how easily we slipped into a private, coded way of communicating that had been honed over the past four years.
After the paperwork was done, Quinn asked for a tour of the rest of the vineyard.
“I was hoping you’d ask.” She flashed a flirty smile at him.
Her bright red four-seater all-terrain vehicle was out by the crush pad. I got in back before anyone could say anything, so Quinn climbed in the passenger seat next to Brooke. She started the engine and gave us an overview of her land, much of which was woods stretching up the steep slopes of the hills behind the winery. The Gaudí-style castle, still unfinished, sat at the end of a road that branched off behind the orchard. Her home was a small stone cottage that would have been intended for a groundskeeper in grander days.
The vines—she had only six acres, planted in Cab, Zinfandel, Chardonnay, and Sauvignon Blanc—were terraced on stepped fields that surrounded the winery on three sides. Her vineyard was small and compact, but as Allen Cantor had said, that’s how she wanted it. I kept silent while she and Quinn talked about her trellising system, what she was doing for canopy management, her hopes for this year’s harvest. She was tight for start-up money, which was obvious; otherwise she wouldn’t have been selling her wine.
“The guy who owned the place before me was into organic pesticides.” She turned the steering wheel and swung the ATV down the Zinfandel block. “I’m following what he did, though it drives my dad nuts. But, hey, there’s no REI or PHI. It’s better for the grapes, better for the environment.”
REI stood for reentry interval, the amount of time after spraying before anyone could work safely in the vineyard; PHI was preharvest interval. Same thing. You couldn’t harvest grapes that were still coated with a potentially lethal pesticide, so PHI was critical: no spraying of toxic substances permitted a certain number of weeks before harvest. The time interval depended on the product.
I knew that Quinn’s eyes were rolling up into the back of his head as Brooke talked about organic spraying. He and I had the same discussion, regular as clockwork, every year: Organic pesticides may be better for people, but they aren’t effective at killing pests or fungus, especially with the climate we have in Virginia. So decide what you want, he’d say to me. A decimated crop because we sprayed the vines with nontoxic
But Brooke had nudged open the door when she mentioned the previous owner, Teddy Fargo, and that was all I needed.
“So what did your predecessor use?” I asked. “Bt?”
“Yes,” she said over her shoulder. “He was into some other stuff, too. Not just for the grapes, but for the gardens, especially the roses.”
“Did any of it work?” Quinn asked. “Don’t tell me he was one of those New Age weirdos who put bull semen in animal horns and planted them under the vines?”
I wanted to poke him for being ornery and changing the subject, but he wasn’t sitting close enough so that I could do it unobtrusively.
“How’d you guess?” she asked. “You bury them at night during a full moon. After the ritual naked dance through the vineyard.”
“You know, I’ve been thinking about trying that,” I said.
Quinn looked incredulous. “You’re not serious?”
Brooke caught my eye and grinned.
He caught on, finally. “All right, very funny. Both of you.”
“You started it,” she said. “You’re just like Daddy. An unbeliever.”
“Bull crap. That stuff’s voodoo, say what you want. You got six acres, Brookie. How much naked dancing and planting under the full moon are you willing to do?”
She took a corner too fast—I think on purpose—and hit the brakes. Quinn and I grabbed on to our seats. “Six acres’ worth. Eventually.”
I needed to reroute the conversation back to Fargo. “I’m interested in what else the former owner used. Even if Mr. Skeptic here isn’t.”
“There used to be a greenhouse up there.” Brooke pointed to one of the hills behind the vines.
“Where?” I asked. “It looks like nothing but woods and scrub.”
“There’s a dirt road that winds around behind those madrones if you follow the contours of the hill,” she said. “It was private, out of sight. I think Ted was into crop modification, but he didn’t want to experiment near the vines. He had a separate garden away from everything else.”
“Experiment?” Quinn said. “What kind of crops?”
“I have no idea.”
“Brookie, there are rumors the guy was growing marijuana here.”
Her eyes flashed. “There’s not a single marijuana plant anywhere on this property, okay?”
“Someone told me he grew black roses,” I said. “Did he ever say anything about that?”
For a long moment she was silent. “I don’t think so,” she said finally. “I’ve seen everything that he left
