The Chardonnay Charade (12 page)

“Where are you from?” Quinn asked. “Besides England.”

“Florida, for the last eight years.”

“What was in Florida?”

“A pharmaceutical company.”

“Quinn,” I said finally, “give the poor man a break. He just asked for a tour. We don’t interview our prospective employees this intensively.”

“Yeah, especially the last one we hired,” he said.

I turned to Mick. “I’d love to show you around. I’m sure Quinn can spare me for an hour or so.”

“I’ll manage.”

The wall phone in the lab rang. Quinn grabbed it. “Montgomery Estate Vineyard.”

“Come on,” I said to Mick. “We’ll take my car.”

“Do you two always get on like that?” Mick asked as we walked outside.

I could have asked, “Like what?” but there was no point trying to con someone as perceptive as he was.

“No,” I said. “We’re both upset about Hector being hospitalized. And then there’s Georgia’s death. That pesticide should have been locked up. Maybe if it had been, she’d still be alive. So we’re getting on each other’s nerves more than usual just now.”

We reached the Mini. I’d left the top down because of the glorious weather. As I set my cane on the sun-warmed backseat he said quietly, “Well, the viewing is set for tomorrow evening and her funeral will be on Friday morning. Once the police find her killer, then maybe Ross will have some peace. And so will everyone else.”

As we got in the car, my mobile phone rang. Quinn, calling me.

I flipped it open. “Miss me already?”

“Like a toothache after it’s gone,” he replied. “Listen, Mary Sunshine, I’ve got some news. That call was the EPA. They’re coming out to pay us a little courtesy call next week. And the guy I talked to sounded like he’s planning on playing hardball.”

“What did you tell him?” I asked.

“What do you think I told him?” he retorted. “Your wish is my command. He wants to see all our paperwork, the whole megillah. We got a week to get ready.”

“We’ll be ready.”

“Like we have a choice? Have a nice tour.” He hung up.

Mick was watching me. “Everything all right?”

“Just fine,” I said, and put the car in gear. “The EPA is going to drop by next week. Come on. I’ll take you to see the vines. At least for now, it’s still business as usual around here.”

It is a truism among winemakers that good wine is made in the vineyard—as opposed to the winery—which means that all the additives in the world won’t make a silk-purse wine out of sow’s-ear grapes if we’ve botched things up in the fields. I planned to take Mick through the south vineyard because of its spectacular view of the peaceful, layered Blue Ridge Mountains and because we’d managed to escape any damage from the freezing temperatures among these vines. Here, at least, we still had the promise of a good harvest.

I cut through the parking lot to the south service road and veered off-road at the first opportunity, so we were driving alongside the large orchard.

“Are you going to be all right?” Mick asked. He’d laid his arm across the back of my seat, without touching my shoulder.

“We’ll be fine,” I said, aware of his arm and the pleasant, masculine cologne he wore. “You know, if you’re serious about setting up a vineyard, you really ought to be talking to the people at Virginia Tech or the agricultural extension office. They’re the experts.”

“Oh, I’ve rung them,” he said. “But I wanted to talk to you, too.”

“Why me?”

“Because we’re alike, you and I. I heard how you took over this vineyard after your father died and what you’re doing to make a go of it,” he said. “I also heard about what you went through after your accident.”

I could feel the color drain from my face. “Ross told you about
that
?”

“Lucie.” His fingers brushed my shoulder. “He didn’t violate doctor-patient confidentiality. I didn’t mean that at all. But he did tell me about you.”

I pulled over and stopped the car by a pale pink clematis that twined through the split-rail fence. I felt, just then, like the Wizard of Oz when Toto pulled back the curtain and the old man stood there in front of Dorothy and the gang, exposed, vulnerable—and feeling like a fool.

“My medical history,” I said coldly, “has absolutely nothing to do with running a vineyard.”

“On the contrary,” he said, “it has everything to do with it.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re so determined to beat the odds.”

“No offense,” I said, “but I do know a thing or two about making wine. Unlike you.”

“None taken,” he replied. “And I didn’t mean to upset you. It was the farthest thing from my mind. I’m terribly sorry.”

We sat in silence for a while until Mick said, “Those apple trees look quite old.”

I appreciated the change of subject, even if it had been anything but subtle. “There have been apple trees on this land since my family settled here after the French and Indian War,” I said. “When Lord Fairfax received a land grant from the King of England, he made each of his tenants agree to plant either apple or peach trees as a condition of their tenure.”

“Sounds like the English,” he said. “Look, if you’re not still angry with me, do you think we could take a look at your grapes?”

“I’m not angry,” I relented. “But I don’t like talking about what happened to me. It’s in the past. It’s over. I’ve dealt with it. Now I just want to move on.”

“All right,” he said. “I’ll keep it all business from now on. You have my word.”

“Thank you.” I noticed he’d removed his arm, along with the easygoing manner.

“Do you sell apples as well as grapes?” The question was crisp and formal.

Maybe he wasn’t used to anybody talking back to him. Well, tough.

“Yes. We have two orchards.” I matched his tone. “Here we’ve got all the classic varieties—Winesap, Granny Smith, Macintosh. We let people come and pick them in the fall, then use what’s not picked out to make cider. In the other orchard we’ve got more exotic varieties. Those we sell to the local grocery stores.”

“What about your grapes? What do you grow?” He’d pulled a small pad with a slim pen attached to it out of his pocket.

“Right now only
vitis vinifera.
My mother and Jacques, our first winemaker, were French and they wanted to plant the so-called ‘noble grapes.’ Our whites are Chardonnay, Riesling, Sauvignon Blanc. Reds are Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, and Pinot Noir.”

He wrote swiftly. “What about the new fields? What’s going in there?”

“We just ordered the rootstock.” I ticked them off on my fingers. “Norton, which is a native Virginia grape. Also Viognier, Malbec, Seyval, Syrah, Petit Verdot, and Cabernet Franc. The last two are blending grapes.”

He noted those as well, then said, “I’m surprised you’re going to grow blending grapes, rather than only straight varietals.”

I expected a remark like that from a neophyte. Maybe Quinn was right about how much Mick knew about the wine business—or how little.

“Growing blending grapes gives you more options when you produce wine,” I explained. “In America a wine can still be called a particular varietal—like Cabernet Sauvignon—as long as it contains at least seventy-five percent of that grape. We’re more liberal than the Europeans. They require eighty-five percent of the primary grape.”

He nodded like he might have known this, so I continued. “Because we can blend up to twenty-five percent of one or more grapes and still have the varietal, we can experiment until we get a better wine. Something that’s more complex and interesting. Basically, the whole can be better than the sum of its parts.”

I started the car again. “Let’s go over to the established fields so you can see how far along each varietal is. The whites are the first to develop, which is why we harvest them first—but I’m sure you know this.”

“Yes.” He closed the notepad and stuck it in his shirt pocket.

We motored between blocks of vines as I pointed out the various grapes and gave him a quick history. A light wind blew steadily, rustling the leaves and the garnet-colored bailing ties we used to secure the vines to the wires. The late-morning sunlight filtered through the mostly open canopy, gilding the grapes and transforming the young leaves so they seemed almost transparent.

“You must enjoy coming here,” he said unexpectedly. “It’s very peaceful.”

“It’s a good place to come think,” I said. “If only you didn’t have to spend so much time worrying about the grapes. When they’re in bloom, though, and it’s just the flowers, it’s heaven. It smells sweet, like wild honeysuckle.” I glanced at my watch. “We should get over to the new fields.”

With the danger signs gone and the tarps removed, it was now merely innocuous-looking red Virginia clay soil. I stopped the car and turned off the engine.

“I’d suggest we go for a walk, but you’re not wearing the best shoes.”

He laughed. “I saw you staring at them when we were back in your laboratory. Left my trainers at home. I packed in rather a rush.” He glanced around. “So why did you choose this place?”

“Because it’s high enough that there won’t be any frost pockets like the ones that wiped out our fruit the other day,” I said. “If you look over there you can see how we cleared out all the trees and vegetation below to maximize cold air drainage.” I pointed in the distance.

He nodded, shielding his eyes. “It looks like they face east, judging by the sun.”

“As much as possible all vines should face east, north, or northeast,” I said. “It’s too hot on southern and western exposures. Eastern slopes get the sun first thing in the morning, so dew and rain dry sooner. You get fewer diseases that way.”

“Your vines ought to do well here, then. I’m sure you’ll have a good harvest.”

“Not for another three years. You do know that’s how long it takes between planting and the first harvest?” I asked.

“Look, I did read
Wine Making for Idiots
or whatever it’s called. And I’m not completely clueless,” he said dryly. “Despite what some people think.”

I grinned and started the engine. “Have you seen enough?”

When we got back to the parking lot, I pulled up next to his rental car.

“I’d like to take you to dinner,” he said, “to thank you for your time and trouble.”

“I thought this was going to be all business.” I retrieved my cane from the backseat. “And it was no trouble.”

“I lied,” he said, and pulled me close, kissing my cheek. “I’ll give you a ring about that dinner,” he murmured in my ear. “I always repay my debts.”

My face was still burning as he pulled out of the parking lot.

“Back from the grand tour? Looks like it went just fine. You two certainly hit it off.”

I hadn’t heard Quinn come up behind me, but managed to say coolly, “The British are very polite. He was just thanking me for showing him around.”

“Honey, that was beyond polite. And he was checking out a lot more than the vineyard.”

So he’d seen the kiss.

“You have a one-track mind,” I told him. “Look, I’m meeting Kit for lunch in Leesburg at twelve-thirty. It’s only eleven. Why don’t I stop by Seely’s and pick up some flowers for Hector? I’ll tell him they’re from both of us. I should have enough time to get to the hospital before lunch.”

“Tell him I’ll be by later. And tell him the flowers are from you. He’ll know damn well I wouldn’t do something like that. Men don’t send other men flowers.”

“He could have died. You could make an exception, you know? Where are you going now?” We were back on our customary footing, talking about work.

“South vineyard. I want to see how the cleanup of the freeze damage is coming along. You’ll be back after lunch, right?” He nudged me. “Hey! Are you listening or are you still playing tour guide?”

“I’m listening.”

“No, you’re not. I asked if you were coming back after lunch. We’ve got that reception tonight. Or did you forget that, too?”

“I didn’t forget anything, and it’s not a reception. It’s a private cocktail party. Hors d’oeuvres here, dinner at the Inn.”

“Do we know who’s coming?”

“Nope. Just that Austin Kendall is paying for it,” I said. “And I’ll be back after lunch, so why don’t we finally settle on the Chardonnay once and for all? That way we can get it in bottles tomorrow, if we work fast enough.”

“Or Friday morning.”

“Mick just told me Georgia’s funeral is Friday morning.”

“I can bottle wine without you, you know. I’ve done it before, believe it or not.”

“Very funny.”

“Bonita will help,” he said. “It’ll be awesome.”

Seely’s Garden Center was a sprawling, beautifully landscaped nursery located at the intersection of Sam Fred Road and the Snickersville Turnpike, not far from where Goose Creek continued its meandering route north toward the Potomac River. The nursery had been founded by Noah’s grandfather and it looked as if a fourth generation—Noah’s youngest daughter, Jennifer—was ready to carry on the family business when Noah finally retired for good.

Here in Loudoun and Fauquier Counties we take our gardens seriously, not just because we’re an agricultural region, but also because of the great natural beauty of the land. The annual Virginia historic garden week tour had taken place at the end of April. The spring farm tour was last week. Both events were great for local tourism and they also gave Seely’s an inevitable bump in sales due to the serious garden-lust that resulted from seeing someone else’s award-winning roses or heirloom tomatoes. Today the place was crowded as I drove in.

Above the door to the main building was a plaque with a quote from Thomas Jefferson written in calligraphy: “No occupation is so delightful to me as the culture of the earth, and no culture comparable to that of the garden.” The building itself was an enormous airy structure that looked like a cross between a log cabin and a barn. On the right was the greenhouse. On the left a warehouse-like store sold garden supplies, lawn care products, small tools, and other gardening essentials. The florist was tucked into a corner of a year-round Christmas shop located just off the main store. I bought a bunch of spring flowers from a pretty teenager wearing a gray polo shirt with “Seely’s Garden Center” and the outline of a tree embroidered in green on the pocket.

“Is either Jennifer or Noah around?” I asked as I paid her.

“Noah’s in his office behind customer service,” she said. “And I think Jen is watering plants outside somewhere. Try the bedding plants under the awning.”

“Thanks.”

The door to Noah’s cluttered office was ajar. He looked up from his paperwork as I knocked, pushing his reading glasses up so they sat on his bald head. For someone whose livelihood came from the outdoors, I often wondered why he chose a room with no windows as the place where he took care of business. The furnishings were spartan and utilitarian except for his thriving African violet collection, which flourished under special lights on a tiered shelf in the corner. Stuck in the pot of the smallest flower, a ceramic sign read “Grow, dammit!”