Quinn and I went our separate ways after the bench trials. He took one of the all-terrain vehicles out to the vineyard, saying he needed to check some trellises, and I pretended to believe him. If one wanted time and space, a good place to find it was the churchlike solitude of acres of bare vines where the only sounds were the whistling wind and the sweet cries of the first birds of spring.
I, on the other hand, sought company that I knew I’d find in the ivy-covered villa my mother had designed for our tasting room. Last fall after harvest, Frankie had planted winter pansies in the halved wine barrels that lined the courtyard portico between the barrel room and the villa. As I walked along the portico I deadheaded white, yellow, and plum-colored blossoms to distract me from thinking about a winemaker who wanted to get lost and a friend who hadn’t been found.
More pansies—lilac and white—bloomed in the border gardens around the villa. A straw basket with gardening tools sat by the door next to a tidy pile of weeds. Frankie must have been cleaning the beds and decided to take a break. I called to her as I walked inside the airy, light-filled room and felt the familiar heart tug as I thought of my mother who had chosen this place for her winery because of its breathtaking view of the vineyard framed by the layered Blue Ridge Mountains.
The room still bore the unmistakable stamp of her style and flair—her oil paintings of the vineyard on the walls, the cheery Provençal fabrics she loved on the sofas and chairs, and the brilliantly hued Turkish carpets brought from my grandparents’ home in France. Frankie wasn’t here, nor was she in the small galley kitchen. I found her in my office, pink cheeked and mud spattered, perched on the edge of my desk watching television, her garden gloves in a heap on the floor.
“Hope you don’t mind.” She twisted her blond windblown hair into a knot and stuck a pencil through it. “A friend called to tell me to turn on CNN so I came inside. The D.C. police are holding a press conference about an antique silver wine cooler that belonged to James Madison. They said Rebecca Natale had it with her when she went missing and that Sir Thomas Asher was supposed to return it to the White House today.”
So the news about the wine cooler finally leaked out.
“When did the press conference start?” I asked.
“About five minutes ago. Look, there’s Asher and his wife next to the mayor and the chief of police. She looks really upset, but he seems like he’s handling it pretty well.”
I threw myself into my desk chair and stared at the screen as the D.C. police chief, the mayor, and Tommy Asher answered questions ranging from serious to borderline lewd asked by a packed room of reporters and photographers. Frankie was right. Miranda Asher, pale and ghostlike, looked as though she hadn’t slept much recently, but her grim-faced husband answered questions put to him with calm stoicism. Detective Horne was there, too. He must have called me from that auditorium.
“Boy, Asher is like the Rock of Gibraltar,” Frankie said.
“Isn’t he?”
As the press conference wore on, the questions kept coming back to an almost prurient interest in Rebecca’s clothing found folded in the rowboat and the fact that she was now nearly nude. The subject of rape was raised and someone else asked about a possible sexual ritual. The mayor and the chief exchanged glances, and it seemed clear neither he nor she wanted to go down the kinky road. Instead, the chief brought up the man Horne had referred to as Robin Hood.
“We’re asking for the public’s help in locating this individual,” she said. “Sir Thomas Asher has generously pledged a one-hundred-thousand-dollar reward to be paid to the person or persons who provide information leading to an arrest and conviction in this case.”
There was another barrage of questions about Robin Hood and how much longer the search for Rebecca would go on.
“Thanks, folks,” the mayor said. “I think we’ve worn this subject out. This is all we have for you now.”
The chief and the mayor drifted away from the podium as one last question concerning the stolen wine cooler and referring to the British soldier who took it as a thief was picked up by a live microphone. Sir Thomas Asher, on his way out the door, turned and strode across the room to the podium.
“Who asked that question? Who referred to that British soldier as a thief?” His mouth was a thin, angry line. “Identify yourself please.”
“Boy, somebody pushed his hot button,” Frankie said.
The press room was as silent as death. A hand finally went up in the crowd and the camera panned to a familiar face.
“Oh, God, it’s that reporter from Channel 3 who was down on the river last night,” I said. “Kit thinks he’s a jerk.”
“I’d hate to be in his shoes,” Frankie said. “Look at Asher. Like a volcano about to go off.”
“Shh … listen.”
“My wife and I have donated millions of dollars to charity in this country and around the world.” Asher’s clipped British voice was calm, but there was no mistaking his outrage. “Next week we plan to give the Library of Congress one of the largest gifts in its history, outside of the Jefferson library and the Lessing Rosenwald rare book collection. That anyone should question my integrity and the integrity of my family is personally offensive. The Madison wine cooler will be returned to the White House as soon as the police release it from evidence. I hasten to add that I had no idea it was in my family’s possession, no clue about its provenance, until Dr. Alison Jennings, a historian who works with me, discovered it and did some investigating. Had I known what it was, it would have been returned long ago. I find the word ‘thief’ insulting and reprobate, and I expect an apology from your network, sir.”
He turned abruptly and left the room as the place erupted. A moment later the picture flashed to the shell-shocked reporter. I picked up the remote and hit the mute button.
“Now I know why they call him ‘Tommy the Barracuda,’” Frankie said. “He ate that kid for lunch.”
“If he’d let it go, no one would have focused on it,” I said. “Why didn’t he ignore it? Now it’s going to be a story of its own.”
“Probably because the kid hit a nerve.” Frankie bent and picked up her gloves. “That’d be my guess.”
“Well, his ancestor did steal the wine cooler,” I said. “He didn’t borrow it for two centuries. I don’t think Channel 3 owes him an apology at all.”
“He’s probably pretty strung out over this whole thing with Rebecca,” Frankie said. “And lost his cool. It happens.”
A bell went off in the hallway outside my office.
“We’ve got company,” Frankie said. “I’ll see who it is.”
She was back a moment later. “Ali Jennings wants to see you. Someone else who looks kind of strung out, if you ask me.”
“A lot of that going around.” I stood up. “I think she’s here about wine.”
I found Alison Jennings outside on the terrace with her back to me and gripping the railing so tight her knuckles showed white. I didn’t know her as well as I knew Harlan, though our paths crossed occasionally at parties, community events, or the Middleburg shops. It was known around town that she was the rock of her family, devoting herself to her twin sons after Harlan lost his Senate seat and more or less moved to their Georgetown pied-à-terre so he could build a client list for his new consulting firm. It was Alison who made the long commute to her university job in D.C., coming home each evening to supervise homework, cheer the boys at sporting events, and bake cookies for their school fund-raisers. After the twins left for boarding school, her life increasingly revolved around her teaching and research, but she still remained Middleburg based. I’d heard from Mick that she’d taken up foxhunting again, riding with the Goose Creek Hunt. People said she was a crack shot.
“Alison?”
She turned around. Frankie wasn’t kidding. I’d never seen Ali Jennings look anything but smart and pulled together, even if she were only picking up a quart of milk at Safeway. Today without makeup she looked haggard, as though she had aged years since Saturday night. Her beautiful red hair, pulled into an unflattering ponytail, betrayed that she was overdue for an appointment with her colorist and her riding clothes were dingy and shapeless.
“Can I get you something?” I asked. “Coffee? A glass of water? Wine?”
“Maybe a glass of water. I’ve got a fierce headache.”
“Come on.” I held one of the terrace doors open. “Let’s go inside. You’re shivering. By the way, I heard the police found the Madison wine cooler. Sir Thomas mentioned your name at a press conference just now.”
Her smile was forced as she followed me into the tasting room and sat down on one of the bar stools. “Did he?”
I slid the glass of water and a bottle of ibuprofen across the bar. “Try this. Are you feeling all right? You could have just called me about the wine, you know.”
“Thanks, but I thought it would be better to do this in person.” She held the glass with both hands. “The wine is for Harlan’s birthday party next week. A surprise, or at least I hope it is, so please don’t mention it to him. I thought I’d get two cases of your Viognier. He said you raved about it the other night.”
I smiled. “It won the Governor’s Cup. I didn’t know his birthday was coming up.”
“I’m having the party out here, so I need to figure a way to lure him from our place in Georgetown.” Her voice seemed to waver. “He spends so much time there now.”
“I’m a little surprised you aren’t spending more time in Georgetown yourself now that the boys are gone,” I said. “I’d forgotten what a commute it is from Middleburg until I drove to D.C. last weekend. It wasn’t even rush hour—”
The pain in Alison’s eyes stopped me. Sometimes I should just keep my mouth shut. What had I missed? Were there problems between her and Harlan?
“It’s the horses. I stay out here for them.”
“Of course. I forgot about the horses.”
“I saw you at the gala. Talking to Harlan.”
Surely she wasn’t hinting about something between her husband and me? I looked her directly in the eyes. “Yes, that’s right. The only familiar face in the crowd.”
“Except for Rebecca Natale, if she’d been there.” Her voice grew harsh. “I didn’t know you were old friends from college, Lucie. She’s the one who invited you the other night, isn’t that right?”
It sounded like an accusation.
“Yes,” I said, “it is. What’s wrong, Ali?”
Alison drained her glass and set it down on the bar.
“When you and she were at school together, Rebecca had an affair with the husband of a colleague who happens to be my best friend. Jill O’Brien.” She brushed a tendril of hair off her face with a swift flick of her hand. “She’s Jill Walsh now and she teaches in the history department with me at Georgetown. I’m sure you knew all the sordid details of what happened with Rebecca since the two of you were such good friends. Jill said it was the talk of the campus for months.”
So that explained why Alison was here in person.
“I tried to ignore the gossip and, believe it or not, Rebecca and I never spoke about it,” I said. “I’m sorry. I had no idea it involved a friend of yours.”
“Jill called her a scheming little vixen. Lured poor Connor into the affair and then threatened to expose him if he didn’t continue to see her.”
She folded her arms and waited for my reply. Ali was sure it was all Rebecca’s fault. But Connor’s dedication to Rebecca in the volume of Pope’s poetry hadn’t exactly read like an older man pushed unwillingly into a relationship with a beautiful coed. Then there was Rebecca’s remark the other day about no one giving a damn what Connor had done to her.
“I’m sure there are two sides to every story. Even this one.”
“Rebecca destroyed their marriage. What other side could there be?”
Ali banged her hand on the counter. Something else was going on here that I was missing. Then she filled in the blanks.
“I suppose you’ve been seeing her when she came to D.C. on all those so-called business trips?”
“All what so-called business trips?”
“Come on, Lucie. I know about it, so you don’t have to pretend, okay? Rebecca’s been traveling to Washington every few weeks because Tommy manages a couple of Harlan’s funds.” Her voice wavered. “Jill warned me what might happen.”
I got it now. Harlan and Rebecca.
I opened the small wine refrigerator under the bar and found a half-full bottle of Viognier, splashing it into two glasses. It wouldn’t do much for her headache, but it was her heart that really hurt.
“I had no idea.” I set one of the glasses in front of her. “Honest to God. The first time I saw Rebecca since she graduated twelve years ago was last Saturday. Were Harlan and Rebecca … seeing each other?”
Alison threw back her head and drank. Her eyes were anguished.
“A quaint way to refer to an affair,” she said. “Yes, they were.”
“How did you find out?”
“The usual. A note in the pocket of his suit trousers when I was sending it to the cleaners. I still take care of his dry cleaning. So stupid, isn’t it?” she said. “I confronted him and he told me he’d ended it. The note I’d found, about meeting her, was to break it off.”
“Did he?”
“Of course. He gave his word.” Alison set her glass down for a refill. “Unfortunately, Rebecca called Harlan Saturday afternoon after she picked up the Madison silver and said she had to see him. Said it was urgent, a matter of life or death. Could he come get her in Georgetown so they could talk? He went to meet her and she told him she wanted to go back to our place.”
“What happened?” I asked.
Alison shrugged. “Harlan says she clammed up as soon as she walked through the door. Wanted a drink so he gave her one. Only one. Then he told her she had to go. He tried to call a cab for her, but she wouldn’t hear of it.”
“What did she want to talk about?”
“He has no idea.” She took a long swallow of wine. “Now he feels like he should have pushed harder, made her talk about what was bothering her. He feels responsible for what happened to her.”
I drank my wine, trying to recall the time line Saturday afternoon after Rebecca left me at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. According to Olivia Tarrant, Rebecca’s cab driver said he dropped her off in Georgetown and thought she was waiting for someone. He’d been right: Harlan. But then where did she go after she left the Jenningses’ Georgetown home?
As though she read my mind, Alison said, “After Rebecca left, that’s the last time Harlan saw her. She told him she wanted to walk for a while and clear her head.”
“Do the police know that?”
She laughed. I couldn’t tell if it was derision or hysteria.
“Do they know? Oh, you bet they know. They’ve been to the Georgetown house and searched it with tweezers and a microscope. My God, there was nothing too minute that didn’t fascinate those evidence people. Wait until word gets out about this.”
“But if nothing happened and Rebecca left—”
“Harlan had to tell them about the affair, Lucie. He wasn’t going to lie about that, even if—” She looked into her glass.
“Even if it gave him a motive for murder?” I said.
She pressed her lips together. Her expression was bleak.
“Do you have any idea where she went after she left our place? Did she say anything, drop any hint? Please, if you know anything …”
I shook my head, and the light drained out of her eyes.
“The police have been all over that with me, Ali. I wish I could help you, but to be honest, I’m still trying to work out why Rebecca called me out of the blue and wanted to get together. That doesn’t make sense, either.”
“Without something concrete for the police to go on, it’s Harlan’s word against no one’s that she left our place that afternoon. It’s like she vanished into the ether. Except for her clothes in that boat and this Robin Hood, or whoever he is, who handed over her things to that homeless man.”
“Have the police charged Harlan with anything?”
“They brought him in for questioning and then released him. Apparently he’s not considered a flight risk.” She drank some more wine. “But they believe he had motive and opportunity.”
“He didn’t do anything, Ali.”
“Of course he didn’t. It’s too ridiculous to even consider.”
I thought about Harlan joking with me at the gala, his little kiss, our banter about his election campaign, and his wistful interest in watching a sunset at the vineyard with Alison. There was no way he was so cold-blooded and calculating that he would show up at a party hours after killing an ex-lover, flirting and acting like he didn’t have a care in the world. At least I couldn’t believe he was capable of doing so—even though his story sounded a little far-fetched. I wondered if Ali thought it did as well but didn’t want to admit it. Though I did believe there was more to what had gone on between Harlan and Rebecca than what he’d told his wife or the police.
I wondered what Harlan was covering up. I also wondered if Rebecca were alive or dead—and if Harlan knew something about that, too.