Sour Grapes (A Savannah Reid Mystery #6) (19 page)

so late at night? she wondered. So far, she had dealt solely with Catherine, as the lady had requested. But her curiosity was piqued by this man who wanted to

be a state senator, yet hated speaking to a crowd. A man who wandered his land, alone in the moonlight.

Quietly, so that she wouldn't wake Atlanta, she slipped off her pajama bottoms and donned a pair of

jeans. After pulling a sweater on over her top, she stood, looking down at her Beretta in its holster. Her system rebelled against the thought of strapping it on

again . . . but . . .

She took the pistol out of the leather, tucked it in the rear waistband of her jeans, and tiptoed out of the room.

Anthony Villa didn't see Savannah until she was only

a few yards from him. But he didn't seem surprised that she, too, was walking the grounds_

"Good evening, Ms. Reid," he said as she approached. "Fancy meeting you out here. Are you making your rounds or something official like that?"

"No, actually, I'm suffering from insomnia," she replied. "And you?"

He grinned sheepishly, like a kid caught running around the house at night when he was supposed to be

in bed. In his jeans and UCLA sweatshirt, he looked quite different from the formal host she had observed

at the luncheon or the judge in a tuxedo, who had been evaluating the pageant beauties in their gowns that

evening.

"Would you believe," he said, "I'm conversing with the vines?"

She smiled. "And are they good listeners?"

"The best. They hear every word I say, but they never give me unwanted advice." He laughed. "I used to sing opera to them, but it made the wine sour, so I've settled for moonlight heart-to-hearts."

Savannah nodded thoughtfully as she studied the

vines with their clusters of plump berries. "They don't listen so good in the daytime?"

"Sure, they're here for me anytime. The problem is: I'm so busy these days that I don't have time to come

out and commune like I used to."

"That's a shame."

"You've no idea." He reached down, picked up away-ward vine, and gently coaxed it upward, twining it around the trellis. "These vines are dear old friends. My grandfather planted them himself, long before I was born. These particular ones are nearly seventy years old."

"I had no idea they would produce so long."

"They will if you take very good care of them. I'm afraid that if I win the senate seat, I won't have the time I need to nurture. . . Well, you don't want to hear my problems, Ms. Reid, when you have troubles of your own right now."

Savannah ran her fingers along a vine and could almost

feel the vitality flowing through it. She placed her hand under one of the clusters and was surprised how

heavy it was. The dew-damp grapes felt cool and smooth against her fingers.

"They're starting to get ripe," he said. "Pretty soon we'll have to spread the nets over them to keep the

birds away."

He knelt in the dirt and fingered a dark tube that lay

half-buried in the soil. "Those damned coyotes," he said. "They're chewing through my irrigation lines again. They've discovered it's a great place to get a fresh drink of water. They eat the grapes, too. So do the deer and the raccoons. Half of this business is keeping the varmints in check. But then, you know all about varmint control."

"Yes, I'm afraid I do. But my varmints have two legs, and they aren't nearly so cute." She cleared her throat and changed the subject. "Your wife is very concerned," she said, "that my . . . problem . . . will become your problem, with the bad publicity and all."

SOUR GRAPES 189

He nodded and smiled, a tender expression on his face. "Ah, my Cade. She's always worrying about something. She's good at a lot of things, but worrying is what she's best at."

"She's very supportive of your campaign."

"Catherine is my campaign. We're partners in everything. She's my perfect complement."

"How nice to hear a husband speak so well of his

wife. That's rare these days."

"Wives like Catherine are rare. Let me tell you a story, Ms. Reid. . . about grapevines. . . and about a true partnership."

He led her to the end of a row and pointed to a vine

that was clearly illuminated in the moonlight "This

vine is a product of grafting. The roots are from vines that are native to America. The rest of the plant is a European variety.

"You see, until the mid 1800s there were grapevines here in the Americas, and others in Europe. The American vines were sturdy, hardy, but the European vines yielded the best wine. Then someone transported some vines from America to Europe, and, unfortunately, a nasty little bug along with them. The result was an infestation that destroyed most of Europe's vineyards

by attacking the roots of their vines.

"But some bright person . . . or maybe his bright wife

. . . got the idea of grafting the European vines onto the

resistant American roots. The results were so spectacular that the practice continued, long after the European vineyards were out of danger. It was the perfect partnership, like my wife and me."

Savannah considered his story and his metaphor. She looked out across the vista of hills and valleys filled

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with fog and felt the cool, moist breezes on her face, and she wondered how he could cherish any partnership

that would take him away from this magic place.

"So, which are you, the vine that produces wonderful fruit or the sturdy root?" she asked.

"I'm definitely the root. These are my roots, all around you. From the olive trees that I played in as a kid, to the rosebushes my grandmother Rosa planted, to the wine you drank at lunch. . . this ground gave birth to it all. We're dirt people, we Villas."

"And Catherine Whitestone?"

"She's the reason why the winery has grown by leaps

and bounds these past ten years. It's her marketing genius that expanded the complex, built the guest lodge and put in the pool, added gourmet meals to the tasting-room menu. Really, before she arrived, all we did here was make wine."

"And that wasn't enough?"

He looked a bit confused. . . but only for a moment. "No. After all, a person should always try to better himself in life, don't you think?"

"Not necessarily." She shrugged. "I mean, if you're already happy doing what you're doing--and you seem very happy raising your grapes and making your

wines--you're luckier than most. Maybe that's enough. Maybe it's a good life that doesn't need to be improved

. .

.just enjoyed."

He smiled, but it was a bittersweet expression. "I don't think my wife would agree with you."

"That's okay. I don't think many ambitious people would."

Suddenly Savannah realized that she liked Anthony

Villa much more than she liked his wife. And when she thought back on what Atlanta had said about him

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"kinda sexy for an old silver-haired fart"--she realized that she agreed with her younger sister. There was, indeed, something sexy about this earthy but intelligent man who felt passionate about his wife--whether she deserved it or not--his land, his wine, and his heritage. And he did look very good in a sweatshirt and jeans by

moonlight

Savannah decided then and there, it was time to leave the vineyard. Just turn around and walk away, girt she told herself. And make it snappy.

"I've got to get back," she said. 'Thank you for the history lesson. . . and for reaffirming my faith in happy marriages."

"Anytime, Ms. Reid. Anytime you suffer from insomnia, I'll probably be out here somewhere. And I'd love to tell you what the ancient Greeks and Romans

thought of wine."

She didn't reply, just gave him a dismissive wave as she made a speedy retreat.

No, she wouldn't be returning for any more wine lessons in the moonlight with Anthony Villa. She was a well-trained, so-called decent Southern girl, and Granny Reid had told her more than once, "Savannah, darlin', if you ever feel yourself takin' a likin' to a married

man . . . you just turn tail and run . . . run . . . run! 'Cause ain't no good gonna come of it. Only a heap ' tears and sorrow."

"Don't you worry, Gran," she whispered into the moonlit night as she increased her stride to a jog. "My tail is turned. and I'm a-rurmin'."

D reakfast, in all of its fresh fruit, yogurt, and bran-1/muffin glory, was served on the poolside tables beneath the blue-and-white-striped umbrellas. The coffee wasn't nearly strong enough to raise Savannah's blood

pressure to even minimal levels. But she downed it, uncertain of when she might ever see food or a t-2ffeine source again.

Afterward, she chased Marion Lippincott around the complex for over half an hour, trying to get a private moment with her. This beauty-pageant business was a lot more work than private detecting, she decided. And, as far as she was concerned, "The Lip" was welcome to it. She would just stick with chasing down the perverts and the robbers, murderers and wayward husbands who fooled around with the gals who

groomed their wives' poodles. This pageant routine was far too stressful.

194 G.A. McKevett

Finally, she nabbed Mrs. Lippincott inside the gift shop, buying a handful of 35mm film for one of the pageant photographers who was running low.

"You would think," she was saying to the woman behind the counter, "that a professional photographer would bring enough film to do the job. I can guarantee you, he will never work one of my pageants again."

The clerk didn't seem to care that Mrs. Lippincott was upset. . or about anything else for that matter. Perhaps the coffee hadn't been strong enough for her, either, Savannah thought, as she watched her not even bother to stifle a leisurely yawn.

But it gave Savannah the opportunity to be sympathetic.

She stepped up to the counter and plopped down a few dollars for some overpriced French crackers.

"I can't believe you have to take care of something as trivial as film," she said.

"Oh, no. Film isn't trivial," she replied. "In this business, hairpins aren't trivial. With teenage girls, absolutely everything is monumental . . . especially at a

beauty pageant."

Both women took their purchases, bagged in classy gold sacks with the Villa Rosa logo, and walked out of the shop.

"Before we go back into the center," Savannah said, pausing outside the gallery, "I need to ask you a few questions about a couple of your girls."

Marion hesitated, glancing over Savannah's shoulder at the door. Duty was calling, but she acquiesced. "Okay, but--"

"I'll make it brief. What can you tell me about a girl named Desiree who is staying in the room next to

mine?"

"Desiree Porter is an odious child, who makes my life

SOUR GRAPES 195

miserable anytime she shows up at one of my pageants. She's spoiled, selfish, and not half as intelligent or attractive as her nitwit mother has led her to believe she

is."

"Oh." Somehow, Savannah hadn't expected such candor from a professional like Mrs. Lippincott. Desiree must have really made an impression. "Is she highly competitive?"

"She will do anything to win. I daresay, she has done everything she can think of . . . and although she isn't

at all wise, she's quite cunning. I would imagine she's thought of a lot of ways."

"Have you ever known her to hurt another girl at a

pageant?"

"Nothing I can prove, but I've had my suspicions." "How did she feel about Barbie Matthews?"

"More than once, they've been the winner and first runner-up for important crowns. Desiree hated her, and I'm sure the feeling was mutual."

Savannah gave a quick look around, but--other than some people in the parking lot, who were well out of earshot--they were alone. "Do you think Desiree is capable of killing another girl. . . like Barbie?"

"I wouldn't put anything past Desiree. Most of the girls I see in the pageants are delightful, lovely young women--the best of our society. But Desiree is the worst. I've only known one other girl who was more cruel, more manipulative and devious."

Savannah had a feeling that she knew what she was

going to hear. "Yes . . . ?"

"Barbara Matthews. She was the worst." Marion Lippincott gave Savannah a little smile that sent a chill

over her, in spite of the warm, morning sunshine that was chasing away the previous night's fog. "But she's

196

A. McKevett

dead now, isn't she?" said Marion. "And whatever happened to her. . . I can honestly say, I believe it couldn't have happened to a more deserving brat."

"I see."

"Now, I really must get this film back to the photographer. He's taking pictures of the girls in their interview suits."

She turned to leave, then reconsidered. "By the way , . . another one of the girls left today. She was afraid to stay after what happened yesterday, so she went back home."

"Who was that?"

"Francie Gorton."

Savannah sighed as she watched Marion Lippincott

walk away with her determined stride, and she felt a bit relieved that the girl was no longer on the scene. It was probably better that way.

She'd feel much better once they were all home, safe Ind sound. And especially one little lady from Georgia.

Savannah found Dirk hanging around the now

empty breakfast tables. He was shoving a banana into his mouth with one hand and poking muffins inside his

racket with the other.

"You better watch that excess fiber, boy," she told him. "You know what it does to your digestive system, Ind you're going to be in the genteel company of ladies

ill day."