The Merlot Murders (17 page)

She’d written in French and, as I expected, there were detailed lists of everything she had planted. Even better, the book was filled with sketches, ideas for gardens she’d tried and discarded, as well as the final outcome. What I did not expect was that she also had written about her life, her marriage, her children. How odd that neither Fitz—nor I—had guessed that she would have chosen to weave together the history of her family and her gardens—her two passions—and that these were the diaries we’d been searching for.

If I destroyed them as he’d wanted I’d lose any chance of recreating her plans. Who would care if I kept the books now? The meticulous accounting of plants, seeds, fertilizer, even the weather, probably wouldn’t interest Eli or Mia. I’d been the only one who liked helping in the garden. Eli used to pretend not to know the difference between a plant and a weed and Mia somehow successfully made a case for being allergic to dirt.

I brought them all over to her desk and stacked them in a pile. Then I went through them in order. Each volume spanned two years and on the back flap my mother had listed important events and a page number, like an index. I read about people and places I had long forgotten. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but a thousand words—especially when infused with emotion and warmth and the richness of well-observed detail—can bring back powerful memories.

What was surprising was that she’d stopped writing for one two-year cycle—or else that volume was missing. I did some figuring, trying to recall what happened twenty years ago.

From what she’d written in the previous volume it was obvious these were the years when the first vines had been planted, when Jacques and Hector had come to work for us. I had been eight years old, Eli was ten, and Mia wasn’t on the scene yet—though my mother would have been pregnant with her. It had been a busy, productive period. Odd that she would not have wanted to document it, unless the two births—Mia’s and the vineyard—kept her too busy to write.

Brel was singing, “
Je Ne Sais Pas”
—“I Don’t Know.” It sounded jazzy and upbeat despite the words, another forlorn French song about lost love, except for the refrain.

I know I love you still.

If my mother and Fitz had an affair as I long suspected, had anything come of it? A daughter? I thought about that joyous picture I’d found in Fitz’s bedroom of him, my mother, and Mia. Even if Fitz were Mia’s biological father, I knew I would love my mother still. Would Mia?

Everyone involved was dead, except my sister. If it were true, what would this do to her?

Maybe there was no necklace belonging to Marie Antoinette in whatever Fitz’s key unlocked. Maybe it was, as Shakespeare wrote, the key to my mother’s honor and her life. Maybe she’d hidden the missing diary to protect her daughter—and Fitz. That’s why he wanted the diaries burned. He guessed the truth…or he knew it.

I returned the books to the shelf and switched off the record player, slipping the record into the dust jacket. Mia’s sketchbook, which lay underneath, was open to a rough sketch of a design for the festival poster.

Her cheerful ideas, including the one we’d used with our twining vine logo and the dancing instruments, were all there. I smiled as I turned the pages. A few blank pages, then more drawings, pencil sketches, quite different from her other work. I stopped smiling. She hadn’t been listening to Brel when she drew these. More like Wagner or Shostakovich. They were dark and macabre, the work of a tormented soul. Skeleton heads piled on top of each other in a room filled with wine casks. Another called
Requiem
of a face like Munch’s
Scream
standing over rows of coffins at the cemetery. The giant sycamore tree at the fork in the road, distorted so it looked like a crucifix dripping in blood. On the last page a robed figure with a hidden face held a sword at the throat of a woman kneeling before him. Her hair was filled with snakes, like Medusa, and her hands were clasped in prayer.

Her face was mine.

I slammed the book shut and flung it across the room.

The image was so lifelike, so true, that I wondered if she’d used a photo or if she’d been able to draw my face that perfectly from memory. The sketchbook had landed behind my mother’s desk. I retrieved it and opened it again to that last drawing.

If it weren’t so hideous—and it weren’t me—I could admire it for her talent as an artist.

Now what? Ask her about it? Pretend I hadn’t seen it? Were there more sketchbooks, more tortured drawings? Whose faces had she drawn in those? Fitz’s? Leland’s? More drawings of death and killing?

I left the book where I found it, then got the keys to the Volvo. I didn’t know where I was going until I stopped at the cemetery. My old refuge.

For a long time after my mother died, I used to talk to her headstone, telling her about my day, my problems, my life. Since my accident, we hadn’t spoken much.

Today I had questions for both her and Leland. Was Fitz Mia’s father? If he was, had Leland known about it? It was an open secret that he had a roving eye, so by then did he care if she’d strayed? Maybe he’d sown a few oats of his own and I had other half brothers and half sisters out there somewhere who didn’t know about me, either.

By the time my mother died, the state of my parents’ marriage—if the truth must be told—was like the Easter eggs we used to make as kids where we’d first prick pinholes in both ends and blow the raw contents into a bowl. We’d paint the shells with my mother’s paints or dye them pastel colors, then decorate them. They were always beautiful on the outside like small jewels, but so fragile—because they were hollow.

I left my parents’ graves and went to sit by Hugh Montgomery’s sun-warmed headstone. Hugh was buried on the crest of a hill at the highest part of the cemetery from where there was a magnificent panoramic view of the Blue Ridge. I watched stray clouds make harlequin patterns of sun and shadow on the mountains, then closed my eyes.

It had been hard enough maintaining the flimsy bonds that held Eli, Mia, and me together these last few years. Like the tilt-a-whirl ride at an amusement park, we stayed pinned in place as we spun around faster and faster, as long as there was some inner pull that kept us from flying off in different directions. Now that both my parents were dead, the inner pull—the centripetal force—was the vineyard.

I didn’t hear the gate open and close, but I felt a presence in front of me that suddenly blocked the light against my eyelids. I opened them, shielding my eyes.

“Can I join you?” Greg sat down next to me.

“You just did.”

“I was on my way over to the Ruins,” he said. “I’m emceeing that jazz concert you’re having tomorrow night. I thought I’d check out the sound system.” He broke off a few stems of wild chicory from a clump next to us and handed me the pale blue flowers. “Peace offering? You’re mad about the other night, aren’t you?”

Wild chicory only opens briefly, in the morning. I loved the flowers, but it was a hit and run affair since they were gone almost as soon as they bloomed. Just like him.

“Those flowers belong to my Great-Great-Great-
Uncle Hugh. Family lore has it that they were his favorite because they were exactly the color of his wife’s eyes.”

He set the flowers down near where he’d picked them and leaned against the gravestone. Our arms were touching. I shifted so they weren’t. “I’m sorry if I upset you the other night. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Nothing came over you. It never does.”

“Look, Lucie, I know this is awkward because of Mia. I swear to God, she reminded me so much of you.”

Not if he’d seen that drawing, she wouldn’t. Still, he was a cad playing us off against each other. “How could you do this to her? And me? What do you want, anyway?”

He flushed underneath his sun-god tan. “I know what I did after you got hurt was unforgivable. But give me another chance. I promise it will be different this time.”

After I got hurt. That was one way of putting it. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Come on, honey. Your sister’s the one who came on to me. What was I supposed to do? I mean, look at her. She’s gorgeous.”

He’d said those exact words to me once before. The night of the accident, when he was driving too fast in the rain down Atoka Road. We’d been talking—no, arguing—about Brandi when he took that last corner and lost control of the car.

“Yeah,” I said, bitterly. “She is. Don’t worry, I remember how it goes. You can’t help yourself.”

“What are you talking about?” His pupils were two pinpricks in eyes the color of cold sapphires.

“Who’s Sienna? Is she the new one?”

“What?” He looked stunned, then he laughed. “Oh my God. You think…it’s not what you’re thinking, Lucie.” He seemed to relax visibly. “You must be talking about Rusty’s daughter. Her name is Sara Rust. She’s the daughter of my old man’s business partner at the garage.” He picked up a stone that was lying on the ground near the headstone. He tossed it in the air and caught it. “How’d you hear about the ‘Sienna’ name-thing?”

Greg’s father, Jimmy Knight, and John “Rusty” Rust had owned Knight & Rust Auto Body in Aldie. After Jimmy died of lung cancer Rusty sold the business to an auto repair chain, then retired. Greg almost never talked about his family. I always thought it was because he was vaguely ashamed that his father came home at night with dirt under his fingernails and grease on his clothes.

“From Angela Stetson. She works with her at Vinnie Carbone’s club,” I said.

“I never understood how a guy who looked like a ferret in high school ended up getting himself a gig like that. The guy used to be a twerp. No girl would date him unless they got paid to.”

“The story I heard is that you’re at the twerp’s place all the time.”

“Look,” he said. “Sara is like a kid sister to me. She got herself in a bit of a jam so I gave her some money.” He didn’t look at me while he spoke, just kept concentrating on tossing and catching that rock.

“I don’t…” I said, then stopped. The girlish—almost childish—voice on the answering machine. “Hi, it’s Sara! I’m not here. Leave a message and have an awesome day. Here’s the beep.”

It had to be the same girl. Sara Rust—Sienna—was the one whose phone number I’d found in Leland’s folder. Though why he would be interested in a young girl who was an exotic dancer at Mom’s Place was a mystery. The obvious reasons didn’t add up. He didn’t like them that young.

“You don’t what?” Greg asked.

“I don’t believe anything you say anymore. I want you to leave.”

“Say you forgive me.”

“No.”

“Say it.” He reached over and pulled me to him, just like the other night. “You know you want to,” he murmured, pulling the clip out of my hair and easing me down so I was lying on my back. He pulled away the straps of my tank top and my bra as his mouth came down on mine then traveled down to the space between my breasts.

He shifted and moved on top of me, sliding his hand down to the top button of my jeans. I put my hand on his and pushed it away.

“No,” I said. “I can’t do this.”

He sounded drowsily surprised. “Come on, Lucie. Just like old times.” He grabbed my hand and pinned it behind my head. “You know you want to.”

“Get off me,” I said. He pulled back so he was straddling me now, sitting on his haunches. He caught my other hand and held them together. I wriggled against him and he tightened his grip. “What are you doing?”

“Having fun.”

“Get off me, Greg. I mean it. You’re hurting me.”

Unexpectedly he let go of my hands and stood up. “Have it your way.”

I sat up and fixed my bra and tank top without looking at him. Then I found my hair clip and twisted my hair back into a knot. He stood there, watching. I half-expected him to extend a hand and help me up but he did nothing. I leaned on my cane and pulled myself up so I was facing him.

“Don’t ever do that again,” I said. “It was a mistake.”

“It was no mistake.” He pulled me roughly to him and kissed me, a hard fierce kiss that was brutal, not tender. “We’ll finish this another time.”

He walked down the hill to the steal-me red Mustang convertible Mia had driven the other night. He’d left the top down on a perfect summer day. I watched as he angrily sped off, never turning his head to glance my way as his car churned up a cloud of boiling dust.

I put the back of my hand to my mouth. My lips felt bruised, but at least they weren’t bloody. We’d done that before.

There was something different about this time. The passion I remembered from our marathon sessions at the Ruins two years ago was gone. Instead it seemed efficient and almost mechanical, like he was taking care of business.

Before I left I apologized to Hugh for cavorting on his tombstone. Then I said good-bye to Leland and my mother.

Why did all the secrets, all my unanswered questions, keep bringing me back to this cemetery? I stared at Hugh’s grave for a long time.

The answer, I was sure, lay somehow with him.

I heard piano music through the open windows as I pulled up in front of the house. Grieg’s Piano Concerto in A Minor. That would be Eli playing my great-grandmother’s concert grand Bösendorfer in the sunroom. If he was playing Grieg, he was upset.

Though I tried to close the front door quietly the music stopped at once and he appeared in the parlor doorway, dressed in pressed white shorts and a cerise-colored Lacoste shirt, carrying his Filofax. “I’ve been waiting for you.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve been here for thirty-nine minutes.”

“I was out.”

“We need to talk.” He crossed the foyer and stood in front of me. “I’m sure, now that you’ve had time to think, you’ll agree it’s a good idea…what’s that stuff on your arm?” He ran a finger from my left shoulder down to somewhere near my elbow. “It’s
dirt
.”

“So?”

“Where were you that you’re covered with dirt?” He walked over to the demilune table and set down the Filofax, pulling a snow-white handkerchief out of the pocket of his shorts. Carefully he wiped his hand.

“I am not covered with dirt. I was at the cemetery and I sat down for a while.”

“What were you doing at the cemetery?”

“Thinking.” I twisted my arm so I could see what he was talking about and rubbed at the brown smudge. “What were you saying?”

“For the last time, I’m
giving
you the house in France. A gift. But the quid pro quo is that we have to sell the vineyard and this place.”

“Eli, we’ve already discussed this. No.”

“I went to see Seth Hannah.” He folded his arms and glared at me. “Seth Hannah.”

I knew where this conversation was going so I just nodded.

“We’re behind on our loan payments,” he said. “Leland’s loan payments. Seth told me he let you off the hook for this month because he thought he was going to get the whole caboodle repaid when we sold. Now he’s upset because you told him we were selling and we’re not.”

“I never said we were selling.”

“You mean you told him we weren’t?”

“I really didn’t say one way or the other,” I replied. “I guess he assumed we were.”

“Damnit, Lucie, he thinks you lied to him!” he shouted. “He’s talking about calling the loan. He wants the money we owe him. He wants it now!”

“Who said he isn’t going to get his money? We’ll repay him.”

“Oh, sure. Maybe we could rob a bank or something. Some other bank besides his, that is. You are out of your mind.” The phone rang and he strode across the room and grabbed the receiver. “Hello? Yeah, sure. She’s right here.” He held it out to me like it was contaminated. “It’s for you.”

“Who is it?” He rolled his eyes and said nothing. I took the phone. “Hello?”

“What’s up with Mr. Congeniality?” Kit said. “I think I just got frostbite.”

“Fine, thank you,” I said. “How did those tests go with your mother?”

“Can’t talk while he’s there? Figures. How about meeting me later at the Goose Creek Bridge? Nine o’clock. You can fill me in.”

“Sounds good.”

“I’ve got a bottle of something new I can bring. Have you ever tried Mexican wine?”

“Uh, no. Why don’t you let me take care of that?”

“Sure. I’ll save it for another time, then. See you.” She hung up.

“Take care of what?” Eli asked. “If you were talking about her mother, then I’m Frank Lloyd Wright. You’re seeing her, aren’t you?” He rocked back and forth on his heels.

“She’s a friend.”

“She’s a
reporter
. Do you think she has to spend even a nanosecond figuring out whether her job or your friendship comes first? For the chance to get a story on the front page of the
Washington Tribune
that woman would do anything. All that crap she hands out about being honest in her reporting. You know what this is about. It’s
personal
. She’s trying to get back at me because I broke up with her and she’s using you to do it.”

“Who gives you advice inside that head of yours besides the Easter Bunny and Tinkerbell? You think she still carries a torch for you? Get over it, Eli.”

He shook his head. “You are so naïve. And you are meeting her again. Aren’t you?”

“So what?”

“Let me guess.” He smirked. “An alumni reunion of the Goose Creek Bridge Chapter of Juvenile Boozers Anonymous. See? I knew it!”

“We were not boozers. And how did you know about that?”

“Kit told me when we were, ah, seeing each other. I don’t know how you pulled it off.”

“We didn’t pull it off completely. Dominique told me once that Jacques knew. She said he watered the wine before I took it.”

He laughed, but there wasn’t any mirth in it. “Good old Jacques. Not much got by him. At least it didn’t if it involved me.”

“What does that mean?”

“I caught hell for everything. But you—jeez—you could have tap-danced on top of the fermenting barrels and he would have thought it was cute.”

“I hung around while he worked. Unlike you.” I paused, then said, “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

“Is it about money?”

“No. Something else. Do you remember Mom’s gardening journals?”

“Vaguely. Why?”

“Fitz told me before he died that Mom kept diaries. Personal diaries. I said he was mistaken until I looked through her gardening journals. She didn’t just keep lists about her plants and the gardens. She wrote about us, too. And some other things.”

He bent and brushed imaginary lint off his shorts. When he straightened up his eyes were bland. “You mean her gardening journals were also her diaries?”

I nodded.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Fitz wanted to burn them. He wouldn’t say why and he got mad when I asked him. I think it was to protect her. There was something between him and Mom, wasn’t there?”

A muscle twitched in his jaw and he looked beyond me, his mouth compressed into a tight line. “Yeah,” he said finally. “There was.”

“You know that for a fact?”

“I got up for a glass of water one night as he was sneaking out of her bedroom. He never saw me.”

“You never told me.”

“What in the hell was I gonna say?”

“The journal from the year Mia was born is missing. All the others are in the bookcase in Mom’s study.”

“Are you sure it’s missing?” He sounded calm, but he folded his arms and began drumming his fingers on his forearms like he was playing Grieg again. “Maybe she didn’t keep a diary for a while.”

“Maybe. But I doubt it.”

He stopped playing and steepled his fingers. It looked like he was praying. “Let’s not borrow trouble, shall we? We’ve got enough problems without wondering about things we…”

“I know. I know.”

He glanced at his watch. “Good Lord. I’m six minutes late to give Brandi her vitamins. I’ve got to go.”

“Can’t she take them herself?”

“She likes me to give them to her,” he said, picking up the Filofax as he fished in his pocket and pulled out his keys. “Look, I want you to destroy those damn diaries just like Fitz said. Have a bonfire or something. And we still haven’t finished our conversation about this mess you’ve created by refusing to sell. I don’t want to play hardball, Lucie, but there are ways of forcing you to do it.”

“Like what?” Someone tried to force Leland to sell and he was dead.

“I’m talking to Mason,” he said. “Getting some legal advice.”

“You’re going to sue me?”

“I don’t know. I just said I’m looking into it. And while we’re on the subject of family relations, I’m really worried about Brandi and the baby. She’s not sleeping well or eating right. It’s not good for the baby’s health.” He paused and added, “Her problems started just after you came back.”

“Meaning what? My being home is the reason Brandi isn’t eating or sleeping? Are you serious?”

He looked pained. “Lucie, I’ve already told you how much this baby means to us. Brandi knows you don’t like her and it bothers her. She shouldn’t be upset. If you take the place in Grasse it works out well for everyone, you included. See what I’m saying?”

Love may be blind but in my brother’s case it was deaf, dumb, and arrogant. I leaned on my cane. “I’m sorry she’s not feeling well. During a pregnancy hormonal changes can make someone very emotional and that’s normal. If she’s not eating or sleeping, maybe you ought to take her to her obstetrician for a checkup.”

“This isn’t some hormonal thing.” He glared at me. “It’s real.”

“Then you’d definitely better see the doctor.”

“I’m warning you, Lucie. If anything goes wrong…” He turned on his heel and left, slamming the front door.

After he drove off I climbed the stairs even more slowly than usual and took a long shower and brushed my teeth good and hard. I was clean, except for the taste of bile that stayed in my mouth no matter what I did.