The Bordeaux Betrayal (4 page)

“She was supposed to come by my vineyard this morning for a meeting. Then she was going to speak to a group of kids at Middleburg Academy. The teacher called when she didn’t show and told me she was staying at the Fox and Hound up the road. He asked me to go by and see if I could find out what delayed her.”

“What’s her name?” Hernandez kept writing and didn’t look up.

“Valerie Beauvais.”

“Spell that, please? The last name.”

I told her.

“You a friend of hers?”

“Not really. I met her last night at a dinner at Mount Vernon. She gave a lecture about a book she just wrote.”

“She mention car trouble at Mount Vernon? A flat tire, maybe?”

“Not to me. Why?”

She pointed to the SUV. “You didn’t notice one wheel is missing?”

For the first time I noticed that the back driver’s side tire on Valerie’s car was gone. “Oh my God. I didn’t realize.” Hernandez watched me. “All I wanted to do was get her out of the car.”

“Right.” Hernandez indicated the Mini. “Is that your car over there?”

“Yes.” Two officers stood next to it. I watched one of them lean over the windshield and write something down. Probably the VIN number.

“Excuse me. You don’t think I—?” I stared at Deputy Hernandez. She gazed back clear-eyed, but I could tell she was still taking stock of my stunned reaction.

“I’m sure you realize we need to check out every possibility,” she said. “One, you were on the scene. Two, you know the deceased.”

“Do I need a lawyer?” I asked.

“You’re not being charged with anything at this time. I understand you’re refusing to go to the hospital?”

My paramedic nodded. “I dressed her injuries. She needs to take it easy for the rest of the day but she should be okay. And she shouldn’t be driving.”

“An officer will take you home.” Hernandez stood up. “But it might be a while. Unless there’s someone you could call—a family member, maybe?”

My waterlogged phone lay on the ground next to me. “Can I borrow your phone, please?”

She handed it to me and I flipped it open, suddenly unsure whom to call. Hector was gone. If I asked my brother Eli he would moan, once he finally got here, that he really ought to be finishing a set of drawings for some building or the client would hit the roof and would I please not drip water or blood on the custom-leather seats of his precious Jaguar. My sister Mia was away at college in Harrisonburg.

I started to dial Mick’s number and punched “end.” Hernandez watched me.

“We can take you—”

“Thanks. That won’t be necessary.” I called Quinn Santori, my winemaker. When he answered I said, “I’m in kind of a jam. Any chance of a lift home? A deputy from the sheriff’s department and a paramedic have told me I can’t drive.”

He took a moment to reflect on that. “And I thought my day was bad with the pump acting up. Where are you?”

He showed up in his metallic green El Camino ten minutes later, pulling in behind a crane and a flatbed truck with the Loudoun County Sheriff’s Department logo on it. As usual he was dressed in combat fatigues, an old Hawaiian shirt, and more jewelry than most women.

Deputy Hernandez looked Quinn over. “That your ride?”

“That’s my ride.”

Shortly before my father passed away last year, he hired Quinn when our first winemaker, whom I adored, returned to France after suffering a small stroke. Quinn wouldn’t have been my first choice, probably not even my last. I knew he would have said the same about me. But in the past few months he’d finally stopped acting like everything I knew about wine-making could be summed up in ten minutes as long as I spoke slowly. And I finally got used to working with someone with the attitude of Dirty Harry and the sartorial taste of a thrift shop habitué.

“What happened?” His face, to my surprise, looked pale under his fading summer suntan. “Are you all right?”

I told him everything.

“You went in the creek after that woman?” he said.

“She was still in her car. I couldn’t just leave her there.”

“You’ve got blood all over you. What happened?”

“I slipped in the creek and a tree limb got in my way. I’ve got a few scratches on my back. Can we go now, please?”

“Sit tight. I’ll have to carry you.”

“I don’t need to be carried. I can walk just fine, if you can help me up. And maybe let me lean on your arm.”

“Where’s your cane?”

“Somewhere between here and Leesburg, depending on the creek.”

He helped me up. My bad foot buckled and his arm went around my waist. “Stop being a martyr and let me carry you.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Sure, jelly-legs. I’ve got half a mind to throw you over my shoulder.”

“That would be a very bad decision on your part.” The faint scent of his favorite Swisher Sweet cigars clung to his shirt. I breathed it in like calming incense, glad I’d called him after all. “Maybe Manolo or one of the other guys from the crew can come back for the Mini.”

“I’ll take care of it. Let’s get you home first.”

“There’s one other thing.”

“Yeah?”

“The wheel came off Valerie’s car. It’s probably the reason she went into the creek. They’re not charging me with anything, but since I knew her and they found me at the scene—”

“That deputy believes you ran an SUV off the road with that windup toy?” He glanced over at the Mini. At least he sounded like he didn’t believe I’d done it.

“I don’t know.” My cuts burned and my head ached. “They’re checking it out.”

Quinn held the door of the El and I slid carefully into the passenger seat. “Jesus,” he said. “That’s a hell of a way to start the day.”

I washed my hair in the sink and took a sponge bath to keep my bandages dry. By the time I finished and swallowed a double dose of ibuprofen, Manolo, who’d taken over Hector’s old job, had brought the Mini back to the house.

Short of wearing a body bag, there was no way to hide my injuries, especially since I now had some spectacular-looking bruises, which appeared in large red blotches, on my arms and legs. I went through my closet and finally settled on a long black-and-white cotton halter dress with a low-cut back for comfort and a black pashmina shawl for camouflage.

Joe had left messages at the winery, at my house, and no doubt on my now-defunct cell phone. I decided to tell him about Valerie face-to-face. It wasn’t right to deliver news like this in a phone call. And to tell the truth, I wondered about the relationship my cousin’s fiancé had with the deceased. Had they been lovers? Joe sure hadn’t taken any pains last night to conceal that they were more than casual friends.

I had to ease myself slowly into the Mini, but at least I felt clearheaded enough to drive. And I had the ibuprofen bottle for backup.

Middleburg Academy sat on fifty secluded acres of manicured lawns and well-kept gardens. I had attended Blue Ridge High, the local public high school, which had all the architectural charm and style of a maximum-security prison. The academy’s pretty campus of ivy-covered gray stone buildings with crenellated walls and turreted towers was stamped with the imprimatur of old money and tradition. Its students were the daughters of senators, sheikhs, CEOs, and famous Hollywood names. In addition to the academic program, the staff encouraged the girls to bring their horses and board them on the grounds during the school year—most of them did.

I drove up the oak-lined private road past a fountain surrounded by a garden of fall mums arranged in burgundy and gold stripes for the school colors. In the spring the gardeners made floral designs based around the initials “MA.” If anything died or wilted to spoil the perfection, it was replaced instantly. I left the Mini in the lot near the main building, parking a few cars away from Joe’s red Toyota Camry, recognizable for the “Virginia: First in Wine” bumper sticker I’d given him.

The school’s reception area, with its dark paneled walls, velvet sofas, worn oriental rugs, stone fireplace, and oil paintings of headmistresses and significant donors, looked like the lobby of an elegant English hotel. The woman behind the front desk wore a smart black suit and a single strand of pearls.

“May I help you?” She removed her horn-rimmed glasses and looked me over.

My shawl had slipped off one shoulder. Her eyes flickered from my face to my shoulder and I followed her gaze. She was staring at a raw, red bruise the size of a fist.

I hiked the shawl back into place and said, “I’m here to see Joe Dawson.”

“Dr. Dawson is teaching at the moment.” Judging by her voice, I hadn’t made a good first impression.

“It’s an emergency or I wouldn’t be here.”

She raised one eyebrow. “If this is a domestic matter—”

Great. She thought my boyfriend beat me up.

“There’s been an accident involving someone he knows,” I said. “Someone else. Not me. Please, it’s important.”

“Oh.” She put her glasses back on and now she really looked me over. “I assumed it was about you. Please have a seat. I’ll find him right away. Whom shall I say is calling?”

I told her and she picked up the phone.

Five minutes later I heard footsteps on the marble staircase around the corner from the front desk and Joe bounded into view. As I stood up from the sofa, my shawl slipped again. Joe’s eyes, like the receptionist’s, went straight to my shoulder.

“My God, Lucie! What happened? I’ve been trying to call you all day.” He moved quickly across the lobby and reached for my hands. At a school this posh, the staff was expected to look smart and dress appropriately. Joe had missed a spot shaving this morning, his tie had a stain on it, and there was eraser dust on the sleeve of his navy blazer. His eyes had dark circles under them. Hopefully the board of visitors wasn’t in town for a meeting.

“Can we talk some place private?” I asked.

“Sure, sure.” He turned to the receptionist. “Janice, anybody using the conference room?”

Janice looked like she wished we could stay right where we were as she was dying to know herself. “Uh, no. It’s free. Go right ahead.”

There were more paintings of dead headmistresses in the cool, airless room. All wore slight smiles of amused superiority and had eyes that seemed to follow wherever I moved. Joe flipped on the lights and pulled a mahogany chair with a burgundy leather seat away from the conference table.

“Sit down, cupcake.”

He was smiling but his eyes were grave. At least he’d used his favorite nickname for me. I sat gingerly and leaned the metal cane the hospital had given me after my car accident against the table.

Joe took the chair next to me and crossed his legs. His socks were mismatched, too—blue and brown.

“What happened to you? Can I get you something? Water?” he asked. “Where’s Valerie?”

“Nothing, thanks.” I shook my head and took one of his hands in both of mine. “I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, but Valerie was in a car accident this morning. That’s why you didn’t hear from her.”

Joe’s baby-faced good looks and dimpled smile still got him carded when he tried to buy liquor even though he was in his mid-thirties. His face sagged and suddenly he looked a lot older. “She’s in the hospital?”

“No,” I said. “Her car went off the road at that hairpin turn between the Fox and Hound and my vineyard. One of the wheels came off somehow and she went into Goose Creek. She didn’t survive the accident. I thought I should tell you in person.”

He’d been nodding as I talked and he kept on nodding when I finished like he was still processing what I was saying and hadn’t gotten to the part about Valerie being dead.

“I’m sorry,” I said again.

He quit nodding and the light went out of his eyes. “Is that how you got these bruises?”

“I pulled her out of her car. It was filling up with water. She was dead when I got there. No one could have saved her.”

“I see.” He removed his hand from mine and touched the edge of my shawl, rubbing his fingers over and over the fringed edge until I thought the dye would come off on his hand. “You’re pretty banged up. And you’re sitting funny. What did you do to yourself?”

“I fell when I was getting her out of the car. It’s nothing serious.”

He leaned over and his arms went around me. “How could a wheel come off her car?” His voice was thick with grief. “How could she be dead?”

“The sheriff’s trying to find out.” I didn’t tell him they also were looking into whether I had anything to do with her accident. “They’re going to reconstruct the crash.”

He buried his face in my hair. “I should have driven her here this morning. It never would have happened. She’d be fine.”

“Don’t.”

He dropped his arms and stood, staring at a portrait of a dark-haired headmistress dressed for foxhunting in breeches, boots, a white shirt and stock, and the red riding jacket worn by someone accorded the honor of Master of Foxhounds. I wondered if he was trying not to cry.

“She wasn’t just an old friend from school like you told me, was she?” I said. “I saw you together last night. You were in love with her. At least, that’s what it looked like.”

He shifted his eyes from the painting to me. His face hardened and I knew I’d crossed a line into territory where he felt I didn’t belong. “I cared about her. What of it?”

“What about Dominique?” I said. “Your fiancée?”

He looked as though I’d just slapped him. “Jesus, Lucie. What do you take me for? I guess she didn’t tell you. Probably too busy to mention it. We’re not engaged anymore. Or at least, it’s on hold. We both needed a little space.”

“I didn’t know that.” Though he certainly hadn’t wasted any time filling his share of that little space.

He jammed his hands in his pockets. “I’d better get back to the kids. And I appreciate you coming here to tell me about Valerie.”

He walked me to the main entrance and we both stepped out into the warmth of the balmy afternoon.