“Yes?”
“Bullet went straight to her heart. She didn’t have a prayer.”
“Does Pépé know?”
“Yup.”
By the time he finished with us, it was nearly ten o’clock.
He came into the kitchen. “You two are free to go,” he said. “I could confiscate that gun of your father’s since Luc was carrying concealed without a permit. A French hunting license. Nice try.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Ah, forget it.” He rubbed his tired eyes with both hands. “You and I are going to be talking again.”
“I understand.”
Bobby stopped rubbing and looked at me, fatigue and worry making canyonlike furrows that creased his forehead and deepening the marionette lines on his face.
“Jesus,” he said, “isn’t this a hell of a mess?”
Pépé stayed in town for Juliette’s funeral. The press had a field day with the story; it was sensational, all the necessary elements—a secret society, murder, lust, greed, corruption, sex, and steeped in decades of lies and deception—that made it perfect for the tabloids. The Fauquier County police came out in force to keep the scrum of reporters and photographers away from what had turned into a major national media event as Pépé and I joined the other mourners at the old Episcopal church near Upperville.
The only person not in attendance was Charles, who was still in the hospital and expected to recover. Ironically, I heard from Kit that he was on a suicide watch. She had picked up the story for the
The day after Juliette’s funeral, Kit interviewed Elinor Falcone and broke the story about Stephen, precipitating the national firestorm of moral outrage and shocked incredulity that Charles had predicted. She kept my name out of it and I was grateful.
Jasmine Nouri turned up in a motel in Charlottesville. Bobby told me the charges against her, which included being an accessory to attempted murder, would probably be reduced. She might even get away with a suspended sentence by cooperating with the police in putting together their case against Charles.
After the funeral, Mick Dunne cornered me and led me outside to the cloisters, where we stood as the rain poured down around us in the swirling gray mist. I told him then that it wasn’t going to work between us.
“Because of Quinn?” he asked. “You got back together in California, didn’t you?”
“No,” I said, “we didn’t. You were right, Mick. He’ll be back for harvest this year, but that’s it.”
He put a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Lucie.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “I’m over it.”
Chapter 26
I drove Pépé to the airport on a gray rainy morning, the day after the funeral. The depressing weather matched our moods.
“Are you going to be okay?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“You mustn’t blame yourself for what happened,” I said. We had driven most of the route in silence. In another ten minutes we’d be at Dulles Airport yet again. “You didn’t believe what Charles said, did you?”
“I should have realized how depressed she was. Maybe I could have prevented her death.” He’d ignored the question.
“No. You couldn’t.” I was adamant. “Look, she thought she was going to be able to commit murder and escape a husband she loathed. When she got caught, she couldn’t face the consequences, so she took her own life. It has nothing to do with you.”
“I believe it does.” He sounded so melancholy that my heart ached for him.
“I’m sure Jasmine had no idea the powder keg she set off when she sent Charles those pictures and that it would result in the deaths of three people. By the time she met Juliette and discovered she had a willing accomplice who wanted Charles killed off—plus she’d found Theo, who was also eager to go along—all the wheels were in motion for their little conspiracy. No one could have stopped anything,” I said. “It played out the way it had to— including bringing you and me into it.”
The highway billboards listing which airlines were located at which concourse began flashing by. I put on my turn signal when I spotted Air France.
“I’ll come to Paris to visit you,” I said. “This year when harvest is over, after you get back from Morocco. Maybe around the end of October?”
“It’s about time. I’d like that.” He smiled and brushed my cheek with a finger. “Don’t park,
I didn’t argue with him, but I did wait after he exited the car until I could no longer see him and he’d disappeared in a maze of glass and steel. Though I hoped he’d turn around to wave goodbye, he never did.
I sat there, lost in my thoughts and worrying about him, until a security guard finally chased me away. Afterward, I drove slowly home in the rain, taking the long way on the back roads.
By October when we saw each other again, we’d be okay. Pépé’d bounce back to his old self and I would have finished the last harvest with Quinn.
Ready to move on, write the next chapter.
The next day I told Frankie I planned to advertise for a new winemaker. She looked at me the way a mother looks at a child who is about to do something she’ll regret forever.
“Quinn will be back for harvest in a few weeks,” she said. “Why can’t you wait and talk to him about this? Maybe he’ll change his mind and stay for good.”
“We’ve done all the talking we need to do,” I said. “Look, I need to clear my head. I’m going over to the cemetery to tidy up the graves. That wind and rain yesterday probably brought down some leaves and branches.”
“Give yourself a break. You don’t have to take care of that today.” She paused and studied my face. “Never mind. I shouldn’t be sticking my nose in your business, but I can’t bear to see you looking so sad.”
“I’ll be okay,” I said. “The Montgomery women are tough. I’ll get through this.”
She nodded. “I know.”
When I was done cleaning what little debris there was among the headstones, I sat with my back against my mother’s marker until the sun became a fireball and began to slip behind the mountains. A vehicle—the engine sounded like the old Superman blue truck that Antonio used—came down Sycamore Lane while the flame-colored sky was at its fiercest and most intense. It stopped at the bottom of the hill near the mulberry trees and a door slammed. Frankie obviously told Antonio where to find me.
He came through the gate, backlit by slanting gold light so he was completely in silhouette, but I knew right away it wasn’t Antonio.
“How come you haven’t returned a single one of my calls?” Quinn asked. He sprinted across the cemetery, threading his way between the graves before I could answer, and pulled me to my feet. “I called you every day for a week until I finally wised up and got my news from Frankie.”
“There wasn’t anything else to say,” I said.
“What are you talking about?”
“Especially after you spent the night with Brooke right after we stayed together on the houseboat.”
“What the hell—you think I did
