The Chardonnay Charade (25 page)

Outside his office, I heard the outside door open and bang shut. Then someone—it sounded like a woman wearing high heels—came toward us.

Ross drew a finger across his lips. No talking.

What the hell? What did I have to lose? At least if he shot me he’d be caught.

The doorknob rattled and Siri’s clear musical voice said happily, “Ross? You in there? Can I come in? I’ve got coffee and muffins.”

It was over before it started. As she opened the door, I turned and threw the book in his face. He moved instinctively to deflect it and I raised my cane, bringing it down like a sword on the arm that held the gun. As it flew out of his hand, I yelled to Siri, “Get his gun! Now, or he’ll kill us both!”

“What?” She stood there, dazed and stunned, holding a paper bag from the bakery and a cardboard holder with two large coffees in it.

“The gun!” I screamed. “Get it! Siri, now! He killed Georgia and Randy! He’ll shoot us, too!”

Her hesitation gave Ross enough time to dive for the gun, which was under his desk. When he stood up this time, I knew he wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger. He didn’t. I had no idea what kind of shot he was, but at this close range, he couldn’t miss. He pointed the gun at me.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Siri hurl one of the coffees as the gun went off. Someone screamed. Later I realized it had been Ross, scalded by the blistering liquid.

I swung my cane and he gave up the gun more easily this time. No one noticed the blood seeping through my shirt until the police showed up.

I had to stay overnight at Catoctin General. The bullet had grazed my ribs, a minor miracle. I think Ross had been aiming for my heart.

Bobby Noland came to the hospital while they were fixing me up. I told him everything, including what Ross had said about knowing what really happened the night of Mia’s accident. Turned out she’d been right. She hadn’t even been driving. Abby had been behind the wheel, on her way to see the promiscuous Brad, who had decided he wanted to kiss and make up. With her car in the shop for a previous fender-bender, Abby took Mia’s keys and managed to pour Mia into the backseat, where she passed out. When Abby hit the Jeep, she panicked and called Brad. Their lucky night, to have no witnesses—especially among the passengers in the other car—so they moved Mia to make it look like she’d been driving, wiped Abby’s fingerprints off the steering wheel, then took off.

When they got back to Abby’s place, Brad called Ross, who made another late-night house call, putting two and two together the next day when he read the morning papers.

Bobby told me later the CSI team lifted a nice set of Abby’s prints off the back of the rearview mirror of Mia’s car.

“Happens almost every time,” he said. “As many cop shows as there are on TV, you’d think enough people would remember to wipe the mirrors for prints. Every day I get on my knees and thank God for stupid criminals.”

I did not see Ross again. There would be no reason for me to testify at his trial. Like he’d told me, he knew about the affair and knew Randy and Georgia were meeting that night. He faked the call from Emilio and Marta and got Georgia to agree to switch cars—he’d already delivered the children the night before. Then he waited until he saw the Explorer head over to the barn. He slipped inside and heard them and that’s when he found the flashlight. Furious, he hid Georgia’s Roadster in the bushes off Atoka Road and jogged back to the vineyard, collecting a canister of methyl bromide. And waited. After he knocked her out, he made sure that his beautiful wife would be so disfigured no man would ever want to look at her again.

After that he needed to set up Randy, making it look like he killed Georgia, then himself. He returned to the barn, pretending to be an intruder. When Randy investigated, Ross’s judo skills trumped Randy’s size. The rest was improvised, but easier than he’d expected. Randy’s car keys were on the lanyard on his belt. Ross put him in his own car and drove to White’s Ferry, where he shot Randy and dumped him in the Potomac.

The trek back to Middleburg was a terrific trial run for someone training for a marathon, though Ross barely managed to get home, shower, and change when my call came in. It wasn’t in the plans for Georgia to be found so quickly. Randy, on the other hand, took far too long floating down the Potomac until he washed up on T. R. Island. And Emilio and Marta screwed things up by disappearing, too.

Now they were going to disappear for good. In return for Emilio testifying against Ross, he would not do jail time, but he and his family were being deported back to El Salvador.

“You know, if Jen had shown up at the wrong time, or even waited around for Randy, she would have seen Ross,” I said to Quinn. “He might not have killed Georgia that night, or Randy, either.”

We were sitting on the terrace at the villa at the end of the day. I’d just returned from the hospital, where my bullet wound had been cleaned and dressed again. Quinn had brought out a bottle of Chilean Chardonnay. “Thought we’d try this. Jen would have been in the way. No telling what Ross might have done.”

“More Chardonnay?” I asked. “Ross managed to get away with two murders. He never could have talked his way out of three.”

“Nearly managed, you mean,” Quinn said. “Bobby never bought that murder-suicide story. Then you figured out about the forgery. And yes, more Chardonnay. Tasting for next year’s vintage. Never too early to start.”

“So you’re staying here, then?”

He uncorked the wine. “I’ve come to the conclusion that you need me more than Mick does.”

“What is
that
supposed to mean?”

“Take it any way you like.” He smiled. “There’s something else.”

“Yes?”

“Bonita’s moving in with me. I hope you’re going to let Hector and Sera stay at their place for a while, even if he’s retired. Bonita loves her folks, but they drive her nuts, and vice versa. So this seems like a good solution.” He handed me a glass of wine. “Okay?”

I stared into my wine. “Okay,” I said. “How did Mick take it when you turned down his job offer?”

Quinn seemed surprised. “Haven’t you spoken to him?”

“Once, after Ross was arrested,” I said. “He was pretty devastated by the whole thing. Said he had no clue what was coming.”

“I thought you two were…” Quinn didn’t finish.

“Were what?”

“Together.”

“Not really.” I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

He clinked his glass against mine. “There’s a Spanish proverb that goes, ‘With wine and hope, anything is possible.’”

“One out of two isn’t bad.”

“No hope?”

I wrinkled my nose. “No wine. This stuff’s corked. How about another bottle?”

“All right,” he said. “Let’s start over.”

Virginia Wines vs. California Wines

As they say in real estate, the difference between a Virginia wine and a California wine can be summed up in three words: location, location, location. In wine-making the term is
goût de terroir,
which literally means “the taste of the land.”

“In California, because they have endless sun, you can get wines that have a higher alcohol content than Virginia wines,” says Juanita Swedenburg, owner of Swedenburg Estate Vineyard in Middle-burg, Virginia. “California wines tend to be more robust and often more heavily oaked, while Virginia wines are more delicate.”

John Delmare of Rappahannock Cellars in Huntly, Virginia, agrees. The favorable growing environment in California is conducive to intense fruit flavors, which he says are the result of ripe, and even overripe, fruit. “When that happens you get a wine that has what’s called a ‘chewy’ taste,” he says.

Delmare owned a vineyard in California before moving to Virginia in the 1990s—and still has strong ties in California wine country—so he’s in a good position to explain the difference in terms of taste and technology. “It’s a lot harder to grow grapes in Virginia where you need to be an expert farmer,” he says. “There’s also a finite selection of grapes that can be grown. But what you get in Virginia are more complex and balanced wines, reminiscent of French or European wines.”

Gordon Murchie, president of the Vinifera Wine Growers Association, points out that California and Virginia don’t grow the same grapes, either. The top five California varietals produced are (in order): Chardonnay, Cabernet Sauvignon, Zinfandel, Merlot, and French Colombard.
*
In Virginia, that list consists of Chardonnay, Cabernet Franc, Merlot, Vidal Blanc, and Cabernet Sauvignon.
†

“We grow a host of French hybrids in Virginia that aren’t grown in California. Three prime examples are Vidal Blanc, Sevyal, and Chambourcin,” Murchie says.

So how can you tell the difference between a California and Virginia Chardonnay, the number-one grape grown on both coasts? Part of the answer is in the barrels used in fermenting.

“Because of the ‘fruit-forward’ taste of a California Chardonnay,” John Delmare explains, “forty to fifty percent of the barrels can be new, meaning they impart a strong oak flavor. In Virginia, we use mostly older barrels because we don’t want to overpower the more delicate fruit with other tastes—especially oak. A Virginia vineyard wouldn’t use more than twenty to thirty percent new barrels.”

It was a Virginian—Thomas Jefferson—who first promoted the idea that the newly formed United States ought to have its own wine industry. Though he’d hoped Virginia would lead the way, he’d undoubtedly be pleased at the way things turned out—according to Gordon Murchie, there are now wineries in all fifty states.

“Jefferson understood that the soil and the climate make the wine,” Juanita Swedenburg says. “When he was ambassador to France, he drank wines from all over Europe, so he appreciated this difference. Today, we can taste wines from anywhere in the world. That’s the fun part—to be adventurous enough to try something new and see if you like it.”

It takes a village to make a book, although this one seems to have taken a state (or commonwealth, to be precise)—and that would be Virginia. I am indebted to many people throughout the Old Dominion who have generously helped me with research and fact-checking. As always, if it’s right, they said it; if it’s wrong, it’s on me.

First and foremost, heartfelt thanks and gratitude to Juanita Swedenburg of Swedenburg Estate Vineyard in Middleburg, Virginia, for all the technical assistance and hands-on experience to make Lucie’s vineyard run so well. Thanks also to Jon Wehner of Chatham Vineyards in Machipongo, Virginia; John Delmare of Rappahannock Cellars in Huntly, Virginia; and Gordon Murchie of the Vinifera Wine Growers Association.

Lieutenant Rich Perez and PFC Tommy Thompson of the Fairfax County Police Department and John French, crime lab supervisor, Baltimore Police Department, helped with police matters and forensics. Steve Bussmann of Bussmann Aviation in Vienna, Virginia, answered questions about the use of helicopters to treat frost in a vineyard.

I made extensive use of local historian Eugene M. Scheel’s series
Loudoun Discovered: Communities, Corners & Crossroads
published by the Friends of the Thomas Balch Library, Leesburg, Virginia, and also owe him thanks for taking the time to talk to me and set me straight on historical details.

More thanks for research help go to Tony and Belinda Collins, Skipp Hayes, Stan Kerns, Sarah Knight, Jim Malone, André de Nesnera, Andrew Thompson, and Lyle Werner.

Donna Andrews, Cathy Brannon, Louise Branson, Mary Featherly, and Catherine Reid read and commented on drafts of this book. Thanks, also, to Carla Coupe, Laura Durham, Peggy Hanson, Val Patterson, Noreen Wald, and Sandi Wilson.

In New York, I’m grateful for the support and talent of many people at Scribner, but especially Brant Rumble, Katie Monaghan, Susan Moldow, Anna DeVries, Andrea Bussell, and Whitney Frick, as well as Maggie Crawford at Pocket Books. Finally, deepest thanks to Dominick Abel, who made it all happen.

Ellen Crosby is a former freelance reporter for
The Washington Post
and was the Moscow correspondent for ABC News Radio. She has spent many years overseas in Europe and the former Soviet Union, but now lives in Virginia with her husband and sons. Crosby is the author of
Moscow Nights
and
The Merlot Murders.
She is currently writing the third book in the Wine Country Mystery series.

Visit her website at
www.ellencrosby.com
.