The Riesling Retribution (12 page)

I was about to close down the search when I saw a link that intrigued me. A polo website. With a photo. Annabel and Sumner at a match in Florida presenting a check to the director of a program that rescued pets abandoned during natural disasters like the hurricanes that plagued that state and the entire Gulf Coast. The photo was grainy but at least now I knew what she looked like. A pretty, willowy blonde in a white pantsuit and a double strand of Wilma Flintstone choker pearls around her neck. Either she’d been a teenager when she married Beau or she took good care of herself—maybe both. Sumner looked old enough to be her father. White haired, black caterpillar eyebrows, heavy horn-rimmed glasses, and a movie-star tan.

I printed out the picture and studied it. They looked at ease and in their element, but who was I to judge after chiding Kit for her stereotyped generalizations? I folded the page in quarters, shoved it in my purse, and left for Middleburg.

I drove down Mosby’s Highway as it narrowed to two lanes and became Washington Street inside the Middleburg town limits—which was only a few blocks. If I continued east for another forty miles or so, I’d be in Washington, D.C., and what was a winding country road out here would gradually widen to accommodate lanes of thundering traffic and the second-worst rush hour commute in the country.

But here in the western part of Loudoun County, we’d fought hard to keep our land open and green, and to preserve the charm and allure of villages like Middleburg, with its pretty main street of shops and restaurants owned and patronized by neighbors and friends. On weekends the town was always full of folks from D.C. who came to get away from the city’s relentless pace and brutal politics, and metropolitan suburbanites looking to escape the sameness of strip malls, big-box stores, and fast-food restaurants. I saw them at the vineyard, as well. What they wanted, it seemed to me, was reassurance that small-town America, with all the nostalgia and conjured images of a sweet, simpler life, still existed as a place they could reclaim, even if only for a few hours.

The Coach Stop was one of those old-fashioned places, a fixture
of Middleburg since the late 1950s that had retained its down-home atmosphere combined with family-style cooking. The restaurant was bustling with the usual lunchtime crowd and half a dozen people waved or called out hello, including all the waitresses, as I walked in. Kit waved from one of the booths. I slid into the semicircular banquette and we did the perfunctory air kiss.

“I ordered onion rings already,” she said. “With ranch dressing.”

She saw my face. “Oh, come on. Don’t give me that what’s-with-the-diet? look, will you? For the past month I’ve been totally stressed ever since I took over as bureau chief. Anyway, it’s only an extra ten pounds. You know I can take if off like that.” She snapped her fingers.

The “extra ten” had actually crept up to an extra thirty, but that depended on when she began counting. And she’d been talking about the diet for years, long before she got her new job.

“You asked me to remind you,” I said. “I’m only doing what I’m told.”

“Well, don’t do it today. I’ll get back on track. But right now I’m still stressed.”

Our onion rings arrived and we ordered. A chef’s salad and iced tea for me, a bacon cheeseburger plus a strawberry milk shake for Kit.

She picked up an onion ring and dunked it in a blob of dressing she’d poured on her plate. “You’re mad at me. I can tell.”

I took an onion ring and skipped the dressing. “I hope the
Trib
’s not going to turn this into a soap opera involving my family.”

“Luce, Bobby did pick up your dad’s gun.”

“You know about
that,
too?”

Kit had been going out with Bobby for the past two years, but he bent over backward to make sure the sheriff’s department didn’t cut the
Trib
any extra slack. Kit sometimes complained that not only did she not receive any special favors, she had to work harder than her colleagues for the same information. But Bobby was adamant about no proprietary information leaks. If Kit knew about Bobby confiscating the gun, word must be all over town.

“Someone saw the cruisers pulling out of the entrance to your vineyard this morning and went by the General Store afterward.
My crime reporter happened to stop in for coffee and heard about it, so he called and pestered the life out of public affairs at the sheriff’s department,” she said.

Her crime reporter could probably do a bang-up job of reporting if he parked himself in one of the rocking chairs at the General Store and just sat there all day. Sooner or later he’d know everything about everyone.

“A lot of people own a Smith and Wesson thirty-eight,” I said. “It doesn’t mean Leland did anything.”

“That’s what it was? A thirty-eight?”

“You are trying to pump me for information, aren’t you?” I slumped back against the banquette. “How can you be so disingenuous?”

The waitress showed up with our beverages. “Be right back with your food, ladies.”

When she was out of earshot, Kit said in a low voice, “That’s not fair. I’m not being disingenuous and I’m not trying to pry anything out of you. But I am worried about you.”

“You don’t need to be. I’m fine.”

She picked up her milk shake and drank. When she set her glass down, she’d left a thick cerise lipstick kiss on the rim. Kit wore makeup like she was onstage at the Kennedy Center and needed to be seen in the balcony.

“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” she said.

“You think Leland killed him, don’t you?”

“The evidence is stacking up—”

“What evidence? It’s all circumstantial.”

Our meals arrived, silencing us again.

Afterward, Kit said, “You know I’m on your side.”

I picked at my salad. “I wasn’t aware there were sides.”

“Come on, Lucie.”

“Can we talk about something else? How about Beau Kinkaid? Did you find out anything about him?”

She sighed and ate another dressing-drenched onion ring. “Not much. These days with the Internet all you have to do is be on some PTA committee and your name pops up on the school website. Unfortunately, Beau Kinkaid didn’t do anything that made
him show up anywhere on the Web. Believe me, I searched. What I found out the old-fashioned way was that he was born in Richmond, June 30, 1939. Went to high school same town, no college record anywhere. Married Anne Gresham, no kids. Parents and a brother all dead.”

“That’s it?”

“Some people leave a bigger footprint in the world than others.” Kit shrugged. “The only one left who knows anything is his wife, Anne. Now married to—”

“Sumner Chastain. I checked, too. And she’s ‘Annabel’ now.”

“Well, the Chastain Construction machine is closing ranks around her. I called their house, and all calls are being forwarded to the company press office. The only thing I got was a two-sentence statement about Mrs. Chastain being distressed at the discovery of her ex-husband’s body and that she’s cooperating fully with the Loudoun County Sheriff’s Department,” she said.

“You going to talk to her when she comes to town?”

Kit finished chewing. “You bet.”

“It’s weird she didn’t report that he was missing, don’t you think?”

“You didn’t hear? He abused her and she wasn’t sorry he was gone.”

“I heard. I still think it’s odd not to report it at all.”

She shrugged. “You know, she could have blackmailed your father, if she suspected him of murder. Had the best of both worlds. That would be a reason not to report it.”

“That’s an evil theory. She’d hardly be likely to admit something like that when she talks to Bobby, if that’s what she did. Besides, she seems to have remarried well enough that she wouldn’t need to blackmail anyone.”

“Maybe. But after dating a cop for two years and hearing some of his stories, I’m less and less surprised at the stupid things people do that they believe they can get away with.” She pushed her plate away. “You want dessert?”

“No, and neither do you. You could have drowned in that milk shake.”

“Back to being my keeper, huh? Never mind, I’ve got to save
room for dinner. Bobby’s taking me to D.C. tonight.” She raised an eyebrow so I could see all four colors of her Technicolor eye shadow as she signaled for our check. “He says he’s got a surprise for me.”

“What do you think it is?”

“With Bobby, who knows? Maybe a visit to the police memorial and then pizza and a beer somewhere. His idea of fancy is a restaurant where the paper napkins are rolled around the silverware instead of in one of those dispenser thingies.”

I smiled and she picked up the check. “On me. You’re feeding us this weekend. We’re looking forward to your party.”

“Me, too, now that we have our power back on.”

She walked me outside.

“If you find out anything about Beau Kinkaid, will you let me know?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said. “See you tomorrow at the anniversary party.”

I drove home. Dead ahead of me were the mountains with their softly graded hues of blue. Solid and comforting, I usually never tired of the view. But today I couldn’t concentrate on anything except scenarios of what Annabel Chastain might tell Bobby about Leland’s role in her ex-husband’s death. With Chastain Construction’s press office stage-managing events, I had no doubt they would do whatever was necessary to protect Annabel Kinkaid Chastain.

That included throwing my father to the wolves.

I went back to the fields and spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning up storm debris. When I got home that evening, Eli’s Jaguar was sitting in my driveway. I parked behind it and listened as piano music flooded through the open windows of the sunroom. It sounded like Chopin—something torrential and passionate played on my great-great-grandmother’s Bösendorfer concert grand, a wedding present purchased by her husband on their Austrian honeymoon. I closed my eyes and let the music wash over me. Eli could have gone to Juilliard or studied with some top teacher and actually made a living as a concert pianist, he was that talented.

The piece crashed to an end with a dissonant chord Chopin hadn’t written. I went inside, wondering what had happened to bring my brother here again. Maybe he was even more desperate for money than the last time we’d spoken.

He looked up from the keyboard when he heard me. Disheveled and unshaven, his eyes had the look of a dog that had been kicked repeatedly and had no idea why. In the cheery room filled with light pouring in through the banks of windows and reflecting off walls painted the color of liquid sunshine, he seemed dark, disturbed—and broken.

I crossed the room and wrapped my arms around his shoulders. “What happened? Where are Hope and Brandi? Are they all right?”

He shrugged and ran his finger across the top of the music stand
as though checking for dust. “I suppose they’re all right. They’re probably at home.”

“Why aren’t you at home?”

“I’m not living there anymore. We’re splitting. Trial separation.”

I bent down so my cheek rested on top of his head. “I’m so sorry.”

“Yup.” His voice sounded strangled.

“You all right? Where’d you sleep last night?”

“My car. My office.”

He hadn’t answered the first question. “Since when?”

“Couple of nights.”

“Why didn’t you come here?”

“I couldn’t.”

I closed my eyes, not wanting to imagine what he’d done on those nights.

“You’re staying here tonight,” I said. “And as long as you need, until you get things sorted out.”

“Thanks.” He patted my arm, but he still sounded lost.

“You going to see a marriage counselor?”

“Don’t think so. Right now she just wants her space.”

“Where’s your stuff?”

“I grabbed some clothes and threw them in the car. Everything else is still at the house.”

“Well, get what you’ve brought and put it upstairs in your room. I’ll go fix us drinks and dinner. I stopped at Safeway today and restocked my fridge after the power failure. You okay with grilled chicken and asparagus? If you want to take a shower, I’ll start getting it ready.”

“I’m not hungry. Thanks, anyway.”

“You have to eat.”

He got up and looked around the familiar room. “What am I going to do, Luce? What am I going to do?” His voice broke.

“First you’re going to get your clothes out of the car. Then you’re going to take a shower and change. After you eat something you’re going to get a decent night’s sleep in a bed. The rest will come.” I shoved him gently toward the door. “Go on.”

He showed up in the kitchen twenty minutes later wearing old
jeans and a faded maroon-and-orange Virginia Tech T-shirt. His dark hair was still wet and he hadn’t bothered with the usual gel, so it fell across his forehead the way it used to before Brandi began masterminding his clothes and appearance, turning him into her own personal dress-up doll.

“Where’d you get that T-shirt?” I uncovered a ceramic bowl of homemade topping for bruschetta.

“There’s still a couple of things in my old dresser upstairs.” He stuck a finger in the bowl and licked it. “Tomato salad?”

“It’s for the bruschetta. Use a spoon if you want to taste it. It’s gross when you use your finger.”

“My finger is very clean. Don’t worry.” He rummaged in the silverware drawer and found a spoon, helping himself to another mouthful. “Tastes good.”

“It ought to. Tomatoes and basil are from my garden.” I pulled a baking pan with half a dozen slices of toasted baguette drizzled in olive oil out of the broiler and handed him a spoon. “Here. The tomatoes go on top of the baguette. Not too much or it gets messy. I’ll finish the asparagus.”

“Brandi orders from every restaurant in Leesburg. Otherwise, it’s frozen.” He heaped tomatoes on a piece of bread and ate it. “Where’d you learn to make this?”

“Dominique served it as an appetizer a couple of times at the Inn. It’s her recipe. Are you planning on eating everything as you fix it, or will you leave some for our drinks?”

“Sorry.” He unclipped his phone from his belt and checked it, setting it on the counter. “I stopped by the General Store. Heard they identified the guy you found. An old friend of Leland’s.”

“Business associate. Doesn’t sound like they were friends,” I said. “His name was Beau Kinkaid. Does it ring any bells?”

Eli picked up his phone and checked his messages again. “Nope. I was probably in diapers when it happened. I was precocious, but not that precocious.”

“It seems it happened thirty years ago,” I said. “So you would have been one.”

“My two-year-old memories are kind of dim.”

“Bobby said Beau Kinkaid’s ex-wife is coming up here from
Charlottesville to talk to him. She says the last time she saw her husband alive, he was mad at Leland and wanted to settle things.”

Eli finished fixing the bruschetta and went over to the refrigerator. “What do you have to drink around here? I don’t see any beer.”

“I didn’t know you were coming. There’s a nice bottle of Crémant.”

“Fizzy white. I guess I could drink that.”

We brought the wine and hors d’oeuvres outside to the veranda. Eli took the glider and I sat in the love seat. He popped the Crémant cork and poured, but when we clinked glasses neither of us made a toast. I watched him check his phone yet again.

“Beau Kinkaid’s ex-wife is now Mrs. Sumner Chastain,” I said. “You ever run into Chastain Construction in any of your projects?”

“Chastain Construction has tentacles that reach every state in the southeastern United States. It’s impossible not to run into them.”

“Do they have a good reputation?”

He bit into a piece of bruschetta and thought while he chewed. “Let me put it this way. You know how Quinn talks about the homogenization of the wine world where everybody ultimately ends up making the same Chardonnay or the same Pinot? No distinguishing characteristics of
terroir,
nothing to reflect the land and soil it came from, or the personality of the winemaker?”

“They build the same buildings?”

“Over and over and over again. Churn ’em out, one homogeneous subdivision, shopping mall, and planned community after another.”

“Nice.”

“They’re big and they get the job done.” He shrugged. “You can’t fight big.”

“Their press people are in charge of managing Annabel Chastain. Kit tried to talk to her. They’ve erected a fortress,” I said.

He glanced at his phone for a few seconds and did some scrolling, then set it on the coffee table.

“You keep doing that,” I said.

“Habit.”

“More like an addiction. Though I don’t blame you for checking in case—”

He cut me off, looking pained. “I’m not just looking to see if she
called. I gotta stay on top of stuff at work. This thing gets e-mail, you know.”

“Which you read the millisecond it comes in.”

“So sue me, I’m curious. Anyway, that last one was personal. Remember Zeke Lee? From high school?”

“Vaguely. Friend of yours.”

“He’s coming to that reenactment. Says he belongs to B.J.’s regiment. He asked if I’ll be there.”

“You
are
coming, I hope?”

“He means as a participant. He says he can loan me whatever clothes and gear I need, if I’m interested. It’s too late to sign up, but I could be a walk-on.”

“They didn’t have cell phones during the Civil War. Or e-mail.”

“What, you think I can’t do without twenty-first-century gadgets for a weekend?”

“Not really. Do you?”

“Of course I can.”

“Maybe you should try it. You mind lighting the grill? I’ll get the chicken.”

“Where’s the electric fire starter?”

“I knew it,” I said and left for the kitchen.

We ate dinner outside by candlelight. By tacit mutual agreement we avoided the subject of Brandi and his marriage. Finally, I brought up Annabel Chastain again.

“Beau’s dead and Leland’s dead. That leaves her,” I said. “That means it’s going to be her word against no one’s. I think she’s setting Leland up for this.”

“If she’s got the Chastain Construction public relations machine behind her, she’s got no worries. They’ll roll right over Leland and that’ll be the end of it. That company’s got more lawyers on their payroll than you got grapes in the vineyard.”

“Well, we’ll just have to fight back.”

“Luce…” He leaned his elbows on the table and massaged his temples. “How are we going to do that? They’ll keep hammering at us until we quit. We haven’t got the money or the resources to go up against them.”

“So you’re saying we should just give up?”

“Look, they must have found a thirty-eight slug if they came by and took Leland’s thirty-eight. What if they find a match? The guy was buried on our land. The ex-wife says there was bad blood. So if I were a betting man I’d say it’s not looking too good for our side.”

“What if he didn’t do it?”

“Then who did?”

“I don’t know.”

Eli clasped his hands behind his head as he stared out toward the mountains.

“I don’t want to believe it, either, but there doesn’t seem to be any evidence to refute that he didn’t murder that guy and then cover it up for thirty years.”

“There has to be something,” I said.

Eli looked at me with something between resigned sadness and pity.

“If there is,” he said, “it’ll take a damn miracle to find it. And you can bet Chastain Construction will do their best to make sure you don’t turn up anything. Be careful, Luce. You’re playing with fire.”