“What did he say when you gave him the message?”
“Are you kidding? At first I didn’t want to pass it on because then he’d know I knew, but this guy sounded like such a bad-ass I figured I better do something,” she said. “So I taped a note on a bottle of wine that was on his desk. He didn’t bring it up, and I didn’t either.”
Our crab cakes arrived, steamy and fragrant, and we dug in.
“I wonder how he got into money trouble,” I said. “He drives an old car, doesn’t wear flashy clothes—where does he spend it?”
“Wine. Where’d you think?”
“That’s a business expense.”
“He buys a lot of wine,” she said through a mouthful of coleslaw. “I’m always listening to him talk about how much he paid for some rare bottle of Château Whatever. I’m sure he’s got a cash-flow problem. Plus he’s buying stuff that’s still in the barrel.”
“Futures?”
“I guess. There’s something else. You were right. Clay was actually thinking about letting Valerie work for us.”
“No fooling? Wonder if Clay read her book. I tried to get through it. It was terrible.”
“Clay’s been lonely since his wife died. I don’t imagine it was a decision he made with his head, especially after I saw her author photo. Blonde. Tan. Young. Clay probably ate her up with a spoon.”
I stabbed a piece of crab cake with my fork. “I don’t think Ryan killed Valerie. He came by the winery the other night to look over the donations for the auction since he’s writing the notes for the catalog. We talked about her. He admitted he was glad she was dead but told me flat-out he didn’t do it.”
“Do you think he would have told you flat-out if he did?”
“Okay. But I still don’t think he’s guilty.”
Our waiter seated two women at the next table. As he handed them menus he accidentally bumped my cane, which clattered to the floor. He picked it up, apologizing.
I took it and tucked it into the alcove near the fireplace. “My fault. I shouldn’t have left it in your way.”
He smiled and cleared our dishes. I ordered coffee and Kit asked for a cappuccino with a slice of chocolate torte.
After he left Kit leaned forward. “Sounds like you have an idea who is guilty.”
“I know this might sound off the wall, but I think Jack Greenfield might be involved.”
“No way. Jack Greenfield has arthritis. He could never have done it.”
“He withdrew the Washington bottle from the auction yesterday. Whatever you do, don’t tell Ryan. Amanda is going to ask Sunny to lean on Jack to let us keep it.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Jack asked for that wine back? Why?”
“He says it’s too valuable to let go.”
The waiter set down our coffees and Kit’s dessert.
“How do you connect that to killing Valerie? Sorry, kiddo. This time I agree you’re off the wall.”
“Think about it,” I said. “Valerie knew something about the provenance of that wine and died before she could tell anyone. Now Jack’s taking the bottle back and he’s either going to keep it in his wine cellar or sell it privately. If he sells it, I bet it will be to someone who wants to remain anonymous.”
“So the bottle more or less disappears.” Kit dumped three packets of sugar into her cappuccino and stirred so the spoon made clinking sounds against the mug. “Where would he find a buyer like that?”
“Nicole Martin knows someone.”
“Shane’s girlfriend. The wine broker.”
“And Quinn’s ex-wife.”
“I heard about that over at the General Store. Everyone in Atoka’s talking about it. They must have hated each other’s guts when the divorce rolled around for him never to mention someone who looks like that.”
“She came by this morning to see the Washington bottle. Afterward he took her on a tour of the vineyard. They left holding hands.” I lined up her empty sugar packets in a neat row.
Kit watched me. “That bothers you, huh?”
“I don’t like her very much.”
“Is this about the green-eyed monster, Luce?”
“Don’t be an idiot. Why would I be jealous of her?”
“You tell me,” she said. “You know, I used to think you and Quinn cared about each other. At least a little.”
The waiter set down the bill. “It’s a professional relationship.” I reached for the leather folder. “We’re keeping it that way.”
Kit rolled her eyes as I set down a credit card. “If you say so,” she said. “Thanks for lunch.”
When we got outside she glanced at her watch. “I’d better get back to work. You know how the place falls apart without me. You going back to the vineyard?”
“Not right away. I’ve got an errand to do.”
“What are you up to? What errand?”
“I thought I’d track down Nicole Martin and have a chat with her without Quinn around.”
“So you can talk about him?”
“No. So we can talk about the Washington bottle.”
“I’ll bet you talk about Quinn, too,” she said.
After she drove off in her Jeep, I got in the Mini. Now that I knew Nicole and Valerie were friends, maybe I’d get some answers to my questions about Jack Greenfield and what Valerie knew about the Washington wine.
But Kit’s words bothered me, too, like a dull ache that I knew wasn’t going to go away any time soon. Was my animosity toward Nicole really petty jealousy?
Or was I right that Nicole Martin was nothing but trouble?
Chapter 13
Nicole hadn’t returned the Porsche to Jeroboam’s after Quinn’s tour. I drove past the store and down the alley to the small parking lot. Where else would she go with the car? Shane’s place?
He lived in a rented cottage in Paris—Virginia, not France—the last town on the highway in what was known as Mosby Heritage Area. The name came from the city in France as a tribute to Jefferson’s good friend the Marquis de Lafayette, but our Paris, unlike the City of Lights, was a tranquil village.
I turned west onto Washington Street, which soon became Mosby’s Highway. Dead ahead, the Blue Ridge Mountains looked solid and comforting. Already ancient when the Indians lived here a thousand years ago, they had never been scoured by glaciers like the mountain ranges farther north, which accounted for their gentle speed-bump contours.
A few cumulous clouds speckled shadows on the foothills. I didn’t know for sure why the mountains were blue—I’d heard it had to do with the pine trees releasing a chemical compound that caused a permanent bluish haze—but whatever the reason, the hue varied depending on the light, time of day, and season. Here the scenery turned to farmland as horses and cattle grazed in pastures and farmers mowed their fields for the last time this year. It looked as though summer had finally faded like an old watercolor.
The Porsche was just outside Paris, parked in front of a small convenience store. I pulled in as Nicole came outside, phone pressed to her ear, engrossed in conversation. Her eyes widened when she saw me.
“I’ve got to go,” I heard her say. “Don’t worry, I’ll handle it. No, I haven’t booked it yet. I’ll call you later.”
She snapped the phone shut and walked over to my car. Minis, by definition, are low-slung. Nicole wasn’t tall, but she did have the psychological advantage of looking down on me.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Looking for you.”
I could tell I’d caught her off-guard, but then her blasé self-confidence returned. “Is this about Quinn?”
I kept my eyes on hers. Was I that transparent? “No. It’s about you.”
Her eyes roamed over me and my cane propped against the passenger seat. I’d seen that look plenty of times in the faces of people who believe those of us with disabilities asked for it or somehow deserved what we’d gotten. Her look said it all. It could never happen to her. I almost felt sorry for her arrogance and stupidity. Almost.