The Merlot Murders (22 page)

“I’ve got it covered. Thanks, anyway.”

He tucked my arm through one of his. “You going over to the concert? I’ll walk you there. I’m surprised there aren’t more folks showing up for this.” He waved his tickets. “Parking lot’s pretty empty.”

“That’s because the concert doesn’t start for another hour. You’re very early.”

“Lordy. Guess I should have looked at these, shouldn’t I? I must be getting old. I’d better call Linda and tell her she doesn’t need to rush.” He patted his breast pocket. “Left my mobile in my car, too. Old
and
forgetful. I’d better go get it.”

The sun, blisteringly pitiless earlier in the day, was setting in the west, coloring the horizon rim pale red. “Can I ask you something first?”

“Shoot.”

“Did you know that someone tried to buy the vineyard from Leland before he died?”

Mason tucked the tickets back in his jacket pocket and pressed his lips together, his expression slightly forbidding like I’d blundered into something the grown-ups were trying to keep hidden from the children. “I did. How’d you find out? We went to great lengths to keep that quiet.”

“Fitz told me. Who was it? I’d like to know.”

“Why, the consortium, of course.”

“The Blue Ridge Consortium?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He reached into the pocket of his trousers, pulling out a folded nail file. I watched him unfold it, then gently pick at an imaginary piece of dirt under an immaculately manicured fingernail. Over the years I’d seen him do that dozens of times. A lawyer’s delaying tactic. It gave him time to think.

“I’m going to tell you something.” He leaned closer so I smelled his cologne. For a man who could afford anything, he still wore the same inexpensive scent that he’d always worn. “I didn’t want you to know this, either. But, yes, we did offer to buy the place from Lee. Everyone figured out he was cash-strapped. Hell, you could have guessed even if he said nothing from the way he burned through money on those bogus investments of his. The consortium just wanted him to know his friends would help him out if he felt he needed to sell.”

“Was someone else trying to buy the vineyard?”

“Besides us?” He shrugged. “Not that I know of. Your daddy had his pride, Lucie. It was just a quiet little talk among friends.”

“Eli says we can’t afford to keep the place.”

“Well, can you?” he asked gently. When I didn’t answer right away he added, “Look, sugar, I’m going to tell you the same thing I told your daddy and your brother when he talked to me the other day. If you decide to sell, come to me. I’ll put together a deal so’s the house and the land won’t get split up. I’ll take care of you. You’ll get a fair price.”

I leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You better call Aunt Linda. I’ll meet you later at the concert.”

“I won’t be a minute. We can still walk over together.”

I did not want to see Greg right now, especially with Mason by my side. I would keep my promise to Mia—for the time being—but my fury at what he’d done to her would almost certainly bleed through anything I said and Mason would start probing. The next time I spoke to Greg I wanted to be alone.

“Actually, I’ve got some winery business to take care of.” I smiled. “You go ahead. I’ll be there soon.”

I waited until he left, then walked down to the barrel room. The shiny new heavy-duty lock was in the hasp.

I unlocked it, propping the door ajar with a brick. I hit the lights and held my breath. The grapevine thermometer now read sixty degrees. The carbon dioxide had built to toxic levels so I kept holding my breath as I swiftly crossed the room and flipped the switches on the fans. In another few minutes when the CO
₂
cleared out, I could close the door again.

We had no money and no resources. How much longer could I keep the vineyard going on fumes? Leland’s friends—out of pity—had tried to help him out, save him from further embarrassment and the crushing debt he’d left us.

I walked into Quinn’s lab and leaned against the counter staring through the glass window at the rows and rows of casks. My mother’s lifetime work. Something bulky dug into my hip. The reading glasses Sara Rust had given me were in the deep pocket of my skirt. I took them out and set them on the counter, just as the lights went out.

The light switch was next to the laboratory door. I groped until I found it, then flipped it on and off. Power failures were nothing new, the consequence of winter ice or summer thunderstorms, so we had a backup generator that would kick in momentarily.

I stood in the bleak silence of total darkness and waited for the small exploding sound of the generator, followed by the flash of lights, the whirring of fans, and the burbling sound of water moving through the space between the tank jackets as the refrigeration system kicked in again.

The silence lengthened and my heart started to pound.

I felt my way toward the outside door. In the complete, unnatural silence I heard the scraping sound of my brick being moved and the door closing. A second later someone put the lock into the hasp and snapped it shut.

If I didn’t get out of here soon, the CO
₂
would build up again and it would kill me.

Carbon dioxide works fast.

Like Fitz, I could die of asphyxiation. The fermenting wine bubbling merrily around me was filling the enormous room with lethal quantities of toxic gas. While Fitz’s death had been instant—with only pure CO
₂
in the tank—mine would be slow as the gas gradually sucked all the breathable oxygen out of the air. With no power and no fans there was no fresh supply of oxygen.

I had no idea how much time I had. More than a few minutes. Less than a few hours.

Though I knew my way around the barrel room, I had the temporary disadvantage of no night vision. If I made the trip across the room to the steel door—which I already knew was locked—I’d use up oxygen and time. I looked around for other ways to escape, but it isn’t called a “cave” for nothing. My pulse was racing like a rabbit’s and my heart thudded in my chest. I tried to slow my breathing.

Wine ages and ferments best in a cool, dark place. But for some reason our architect had mistakenly put in three slatlike casement windows located near the ceiling behind the stainless-steel tanks. They were sealed shut after the building inspector showed up and nearly had a coronary, since anything that lets in both air and light doesn’t conform to code. I don’t know how my mother talked him into it but we didn’t have to spend the extra money to brick them up or even paint them over as long as they remained permanently closed.

The windows were too narrow for me to climb through, and even if I could shimmy through the opening, I’d be doing a swan dive from two stories up onto drought-hardened terrain. But if I could prop our twenty-foot extension ladder below the window and then break the glass with my cane, at least I’d be breathing oxygen instead of CO
₂
.

My vision was improving and the huge steel tanks became looming shadows lining the far wall. The ladder should have been hanging from an oversized set of hooks on the adjacent wall, near the hoses. I hadn’t noticed if it was there when the lights were on. If it was gone that was it. I’d be dead when someone finally found me in the morning.

I knew from Jacques’s repeated lectures that one of the early symptoms of CO
₂
poisoning was anxiety. Later came dizziness, confusion, and finally loss of consciousness and death. Already the room seemed stuffy. Wasn’t it too soon for that to happen? God, who knew?

The anxiety had started.

I walked slowly toward the wall using my cane to orient myself as a blind person would. The extension ladder was exactly where it belonged on the hooks. I leaned my cane against the wall so I could use both hands to get it down, just like Jacques and the crew always had. I don’t know why I assumed it would practically float into my arms but it was heavier and more unwieldy than I’d bargained on. My bad foot buckled as I jerked the ladder up and over the hooks. It slipped out of my grip, crashing onto the concrete floor. By some miracle it missed landing on my feet. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, feel it pulsing behind my eyes.

I half-dragged, half-shoved the ladder along the floor until I was below the bank of windows. Dizziness seeped into my brain. I bit the back of my hand until it hurt to keep from screaming.

I’d read stories about people who found some kind of superhuman strength that enabled them to pick up a car or move a collapsed wall because it was a matter of life or death. Wherever that burst of strength came from—divine intervention or adrenaline-fueled fear—I picked up the ladder and placed it against the wall like it was suddenly made of balsa wood.

The metal latch in the extension mechanism clanked against the rungs as I pulled on the rope. The ladder grew toward the window like Jack’s beanstalk. I heard the lock snap into place and tied off the halyard. Then I hung my cane on one of the rungs and gripped the sides of the ladder. My hands were so sweaty they slipped.

I am, unfortunately, acrophobic. An accident involving me and a rickety tree house when I was eight. I wiped my wet hands on my skirt and looked up. The windows seemed to float above me. I shook my head and blinked hard until they finally stopped moving. Then I put my foot on the first rung—and climbed. After a couple of rungs I hooked my cane over my arm so I wouldn’t keep bumping against it. I’d made it to the fifteenth rung before the cane hit the side of the ladder. It slipped, ricocheting off one of the steel tanks before clanking on the concrete below. I rested my head against one of the rungs and sobbed.

CO
₂
pools in low places. The top of the ladder was better than the bottom and I was nearly there. There was no climbing down to get the cane. I counted four more rungs, then I was at eye level with one of the windows and moonlight was glinting through the caked-on grime. I rubbed the glass with my hand even though I knew there would be nothing to see except a field leading to the woods. This was the far side of the building. Anyone who strolled by below was somewhere they didn’t belong.

My head ached. Concentrating was a chore. Open the window. That’s all I had to remember. Just one thing.

I banged on the glass with my fist but it might as well have been steel. Nothing moved. I tried the joint between the glass and the frame, running my finger along the caulked seal.

The caulk was old and brittle and there was a piece missing. I dug at the hole with my fingernail and another long chalklike piece fell out. My breathing was more labored now but I kept pulling at new ragged edges, as more and more caulk broke off. CO
₂
poisoning is supposed to leave an acid taste in your mouth. By the time I finished mine tasted of blood from biting the tip of my tongue.

I pushed on the glass again, willing it to move. It was stuck as firmly as when I’d started. The window was caulked on the outside, too.

I thumped the glass again with my fist, this time beginning in the lower right-hand corner and working my way around the perimeter of the window. If there was one spot where the caulk had fallen out, maybe I could shove the glass out of the frame. I heard a small crack and something gave way. I pounded some more.

The glass swung like a hinge, about two inches out of the frame. I put my mouth and nose to the opening and gulped fresh air. My head throbbed and my heart felt like there was a vise around it, but at least I wasn’t going to die yet.

In the distance, music from the jazz concert floated across the sultry stillness and the cicadas sang to me. There were no other sounds. I was alone.

Unless whoever kicked that brick away from the door was still around. If I called out now he’d know I was alive. Then he’d come back and rattle the ladder until I landed like Humpty Dumpty on the concrete floor below.

I clung to the window ledge and listened to a jazz riff that sounded like someone trying to sound like Mangione. All I had to do was stay here until morning when Quinn or Hector opened the door to the barrel room and discovered me perched atop the ladder like a bird in a treetop. Guarding a warm room filled with tanks of very expensive vinegar.

I hooked one arm through the rung of the ladder and held on to the windowsill with the other. And waited.

The voices came after what seemed like hours. At first I thought I was dreaming them. Then they grew closer. Coming my way.

“I can’t imagine what happened to her.” Kit, sounding worried. “We agreed to meet at the villa at eight-fifteen.”

“Hey!” I shouted. “Look up! I’m here!”

“Why in the hell don’t I hear the air conditioner and the equipment?” Quinn was with her. “Something’s wrong. I’ve got to get inside and find out what’s going on. Come on! Let’s go!”

Their voices grew fainter as they moved away from under the eaves. I saw—or maybe hoped for—darker shadows in my line of vision that meant they had moved to where they could finally see the sliver of my barely opened window.

Quinn’s voice again. “Holy shit, look up there! There’s a window open. Someone’s in there. With the power off the place will be full of carbon dioxide. Run!”

“Yes,” I shouted uselessly. “I’m in here. Please come get me!”

I suppose, in retrospect, Quinn did the right thing taking care of the wine first before he got to me. The lights came on and the air-conditioning started with a roar. The fans began whirring and I blinked in the hard, sudden brightness.

The door opened and I heard Kit scream my name.

“Kit! Don’t move,” Quinn ordered. “Let the CO
₂
clear out first.”

The ladder shook as Quinn climbed toward me. I clung to it, white-knuckled, too scared to look down where Kit stood twenty feet below, praying I wouldn’t fall off in the process of being rescued after the near-death miracle of surviving poisoning by carbon dioxide. He stopped just below me and put an arm around my waist. He smelled of perspiration and something tropical, like coconut. “Are you strong enough to climb down on your own if I stay right here with you? I don’t think the ladder’s sturdy enough for me to carry you and I don’t want to find out the hard way.”

“I’ll be all right.”

“Take your time.”

We went down slowly, and then he jumped off a few rungs from the bottom and reached up and pulled me into his arms like he was grabbing a sack of potatoes. “Let’s get her out of here,” he said. “She looks like a ghost.”

He carried me outside and set me down on the grass.

“Is she going to live?” Kit asked.

“She’ll be okay, but she’s probably got a headache the size of Pittsburgh.”

“Why are you talking about me in the third person?” I mumbled. “I can hear what you’re saying.”

“Hush,” Kit said. “We probably ought to get her to the hospital.”

“She doesn’t want to go to the hospital,” I said. “And she means it.”

“Don’t be silly,” Kit said. “You’ve got to let someone check you out.”

“No! I’ll be fine.”

“Well, then, you’re coming home with me,” Kit said.

“No, she’s coming home with me.” Quinn stood up. “Keep her quiet. I’m going to call Hector and get him to stay here tonight in case there are more equipment problems.”

“Lucie,” Kit said urgently after Quinn left, “do you know how lucky you are to be alive? Jesus Lord. What are the odds that your power and your backup would fail at the same time?”

I tried to sit up on my elbows but my head felt like Fourth of July fireworks exploding and the ground started to spin so I lay down again. “They didn’t. Someone shut down the power and the generator. Then they put the lock through the hasp so I couldn’t open it from inside.”

“Oh my God.”

“Where was Quinn when you found him?”

“You don’t think Quinn…? Oh, no. Not him.” She put her hand on my forehead, checking apparently for a fever or signs I was delirious. “I ran into him as he was coming back from the Ruins. I’d been looking for you for a while. I saw the look on his face when he realized what had happened. He was trying to calculate how long it had been since he was last there, when he knew the power was on. It wasn’t him.”

I tried to sit up again and groaned.

“Lie down,” she said. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Unless I roll away. I get vertigo just being two inches off the ground.” I lay on my back again. “When you called you said you had something to tell me.”

“It can wait.”

“Maybe not.”

“I found out who tried to buy the vineyard from your father.”

“I already know. Mason told me tonight.”

“I think it stinks.”

I made one more attempt to lever myself to a semi-sitting position. The aurora borealis was still going on inside my head, but I was lucid enough to figure out that we weren’t talking about the same thing. “What stinks?”

“Building a Civil War theme park. Here, of all places. It’s disgusting.”

“What are you talking about? The Blue Ridge Consortium offered to buy it, presumably to turn it into parkland, not theme-park land. Besides, who would want to build a Civil War theme park here, anyway? How dumb can you be to invent something when you’ve got the real McCoy?”

“That’s not what I heard,” she said. “Leland was approached by someone on behalf of a group of developers. They want to get in under the radar, get the land first. Then they’d work on bribing whoever they needed to in Richmond to get the zoning laws changed.”

“How do you know about this?”

“I’m a reporter. It’s my business to know.”

“Well,” I said, “it doesn’t matter anymore, anyway. The vineyard’s not for sale.”

“They’ll buy something else. You’re not the only fish in the pond.”

“The Blue Ridge Consortium will stop them, once they get wind of it. Besides, who do you know around here who’d like to have their farm back up on a theme park?”

“Don’t be naïve,” she said. “For enough money some people will do anything.” I opened my mouth to reply, but Kit shook her head. Quinn was walking toward us. She said in a low voice, “Don’t say anything about this. For once in my life, it would be nice to have a scoop and not get beat by the
Post
.”

I nodded as Quinn reached us. “Hector’s on his way. I found him talking to Eli when they were clearing up after the concert.” He leaned down and scooped me up. “Put your arms around my neck.”

He was settling me into the front seat of his Toyota when a black Corvette pulled into the parking lot and Hector got out.