The Sauvignon Secret (22 page)

We’d come this far. Why ruin everything?

“Back to the pictures,” I said.

He sipped his drink. “You have the floor. We were talking about a breakup, I believe?”

“Of the Mandrake Society.”

He grinned and I went on. “After they split up, everyone went their own way. Maggie was dead and Theo thought the others conspired to tamper with her car and cause her accident. That meant Mel, Paul, Vivian. And Charles.”

Quinn set his drink down and made circles on the table with it like he was trying to work this out. “Especially Charles. Based on everything you said, Theo held him more accountable than anyone else.”

“I wonder if Theo knew about the affair? Or maybe he guessed,” I said.

He stopped moving his glass around. “How long after Stephen died was Maggie killed?”

“You mean like days or weeks?” I asked and he nodded. “I don’t know, and Charles didn’t specify. But after Stephen died, his sister—I think her name was Elinor—showed up. That’s what seemed to freak everyone out.”

“What happened to Elinor?”

“Charles paid her off and told her that Stephen was a patriot. Said he saved her from a lifetime of caring for her disabled brother, who wouldn’t amount to much anyway, not to mention all the bills she wouldn’t have for his medical expenses. Unquote.”

I shrugged and drank my mojito. I still felt the same cold fury I’d felt that night in the lodge, remembering the matter-of-fact way Charles had tossed off that remark.

“God, that’s sick,” Quinn said. “Except I suppose we need to remember that was forty years ago. Those were the days when you stuck people like that in closets and tried to forget about them.”

“‘People like that.’ It breaks my heart.” I fished in my purse for the last two photos and pulled out the one of Stephen Falcone, setting it on the table for Quinn to see. “That’s Stephen. Look at him. He has such kind eyes. And a sweet smile. I bet he really trusted everyone. Never thought anyone would do anything to hurt him.”

Quinn picked up the photo, his lips pressed together. “I’m sorry, Lucie,” he said.

I took the final photo, the blackmail photo, and slid it in front of him. “And now here’s this.”

Even Quinn reddened, staring at the raw sexuality of a man and woman utterly engrossed in making love when they believed no one was watching.

He cleared his throat. “Wonder who took it.”

“We can eliminate two people right off the bat,” I said. “These two. It must have been someone else among the Fearsome Fivesome.”

“Sixsome.”

“Huh?”

“Charles was part of this group, too.” He tapped his finger on the edge of the photo. “There were six of them, counting Charles. What do you bet he took the photos on your phone?”

“It could have been a timer,” I said. “And he said he wasn’t a member of the Mandrake Society. He was married, though not to Juliette back then. Said he didn’t like their drinking and disdained what he called their ‘sexual experimenting.’ ”

“He doesn’t look too disdainful doing what he’s doing there.”

My turn to blush. “Why would he lie about being part of the group? About”—I indicated the picture—“that.”

“Maybe he had a rich-but-jealous wife and he didn’t want her finding out he was screwing a gorgeous twentysomething hot chick, in case she decided to divorce him and leave him penniless.”

“That sounds like a plot from one of Thelma Johnson’s soap operas.”

Unexpectedly, his eyes softened and he sounded wistful. “Good old Thelma. I miss getting coffee in the General Store in the morning with her and the Romeos. Finding out what’s going on in the world.”

“That can be remedied.” I tried to keep my voice light.

He sighed. “Yeah, I know. You’ve only dropped two million hints.” He slid the photo over to me. “Back to the matter at hand. What’s your explanation for this, since you don’t seem to like mine?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” I said. “But I wish I knew more about Maggie Hilliard. She’s the one who gave the group their name and then had those wineglasses made for everyone. So she’s into bonding, weekend parties at the beach. Kind of like a family.”

“Then why would she betray her boyfriend by having sex with another member of the group? Especially the father figure.”

“Ugh, that almost sounds like incest when you put it like that.”

Our waitress stopped by. “Another round, folks?”

Quinn glanced at me and we both shook our heads. “We’re fine with these,” he said. “Thanks.”

She set down the bill and left.

Quinn indicated the picture of Maggie and Charles. “ ‘Incest’ is a pretty strong word, if you ask me. Though Maggie doesn’t exactly come across as a wholesome all-American girl, into group hugs and singing ‘Kumbaya’ with the rest of the campers when she’s doing this with a married guy old enough to be her father.”

I turned the photograph over.

“Except she was the one—apparently the only one—who felt so much remorse about Stephen that she wanted to come clean about covering up his death.”

“Returning to a distasteful subject, she had sexual relationships with two men she worked with at the same time. That can’t have done much for group dynamics,” he said.

“Unless she was coerced,” I said. “What if Charles lusted after her and promised to protect the Mandrake Society if she cooperated? So being a good team player, she went to bed with him. Maybe she figured they’d be discreet since he was married and she was involved with Theo. Counted on the others never finding out about it.”

“Yeah, well, throw that theory out the window because someone did find out,” Quinn said. “And decided to record them in flagrante delicto. Wonder who it was. And why.”

“Two reasons: blackmail or jealousy.” I ticked them off on my fingers. “Maybe both.”

“That’s why. What about who?”

“You don’t take a picture like this unless you intend to do something with it. Someone meant to use this photo to influence—or blackmail—either Maggie or Charles. Or hurt Theo. Again that leaves Mel, Paul, and Vivian.”

“My money’s on Vivian,” Quinn said. “It seems like a female thing. What do you bet she was jealous of our girl Maggie who
was having good-time sex with not one but two guys who worked together?”

“Mel had the photograph,” I said.

“Maybe Vivian made copies and put ’em in her Christmas cards to the rest of the gang.”

“Now you’re being crude.”

“I notice you didn’t dispute that I could be right.”

“Okay, multiple copies,” I said. “But when did the others see this photo? At the time? After Maggie was dead, or long after they were disbanded?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it does. Charles implied that Theo believed—but couldn’t prove—that Maggie driving off that pier and drowning wasn’t an accident. So I’m betting Theo didn’t know about the affair, because if he did, you’d have to wonder about a lovers’ quarrel between him and Maggie.”

“Meaning Theo might have tampered with her car in a jealous rage?”

“Yes, except Charles said Theo accused him and the others of doing something to shut Maggie up about Stephen. That’s when he threatened to make them all pay for her death. So I guess we can eliminate Theo.” I frowned. “Wonder what made him doubt the drunk-driving explanation?”

“I don’t know, but it leaves us with the Usual Suspects. One or all of whom might have had a motive for murder.” Quinn tipped his glass and drank, rattling the ice cubes. “Vivian, Mel, and Paul. And we can’t discount Charles, either.”

“Everybody’s dead,” I said. “Except Charles.”

For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

“What if Charles engineered Maggie’s accident?” I said finally. The thought had been flitting uneasily through my mind all afternoon, ever since I found that photograph. If Charles bore some responsibility for Maggie’s death, played some role, it changed everything.

“How?” Quinn asked.

“I don’t know. If he did, the police never figured it out.” I shrugged. “Maybe I’m grasping at straws.”

“If he did, that could explain why he wants to know if Theo is still alive. Maybe Charles is worried Theo finally learned something after all this time that can tie him to Maggie’s death.” He paused. “There’s no statute of limitations on murder, you know.”

“No,” I said. “There isn’t, is there?”

“You’d better watch it, Lucie. I know we’re just speculating, but if any of this is true, you’re dealing with a guy with no conscience.”

“I know,” I said. “And if it’s true, then it would make Charles a murderer.”

Quinn paid the bill and we walked up the hill to the Porsche. Low cumulus clouds piling up in great heaps like meringues scudded across the sky over the Pacific. Underlit by the sun, they were the color of an old bruise. Above they exploded in soft gold that faded to creamy yellow, like the skies on my French grandmother’s prayer cards portraying the Blessed Virgin ascending to heaven.

“I have an idea,” Quinn said.

“What?”

“We ought to get an early start tomorrow. It could be a long day in Napa.”

I glanced at him. “Yes, I suppose it could.”

“So … well, I was thinking.” He seemed to be frowning at his feet. “How about if you checked out of the hotel now and spent the night on the houseboat with me? Sausalito’s already on the other side of the Bay, so we could beat all the city traffic and head straight up from there.”

“It would save time, wouldn’t it?” My heart raced. “I guess it makes sense.”

Was he asking me to spend the night with him in his bed, or was this really just about traffic and getting an early start?

“I’m not sure what makes sense now.” His voice was quiet in my ear as he pulled me close, burying his face in my hair. “Especially about us.”

I closed my eyes. “Me neither, Quinn. But I know what I want. I want you back in my life. What about you? What do you want?”

If I pushed too hard, I knew I risked losing him. Quinn was like that, afraid to commit, afraid of getting tied down … but at least, at the very least, he owed me an honest answer to that question after everything we’d been through together.

“What do I want?” He blew out a long, soft breath. “Tonight I want it to be like it was that first night.”

I felt like he’d knocked me sideways. I wanted to say, “And tomorrow? What about tomorrow and the day after that and the next and the next …?” But I didn’t, because I couldn’t. There would be no talk of the future, no declaration of our feelings, no discussion about whether he would be coming back to Virginia for good.

Tonight there would just be us and it would have to be enough, for now and maybe forever, until I could pick up the pieces of my life and move on, if that’s how we ended it.

I leaned on my cane for support and kissed his cheek. “It won’t take me long to pack my things.”

The drive to Sausalito, as lights winked on across San Francisco on a surprisingly clear summer evening, was intoxicating. What lay ahead once we got there thrummed between us, alternately thrilling and scaring me. I pushed Charles, and whatever dark secret the survivors of the Mandrake Society had harbored, to the farthest recesses of my mind as we drove across the Golden Gate Bridge, its enormous red-orange piers rising up out of the night sky, majestic and imposing. In the distance, the Bay Bridge sparkled like a diamond necklace, and the city itself was a graceful, ethereal kingdom of glittering lights.

The houseboat was located in a marina just beyond the town, off Bridgeway on Gate 5 ½ Road. I hadn’t known what to expect. I had pictured a large room, somewhat primitive and rustic, that served as the living, dining, and sleeping area with some clever rearranging of modular, vaguely uncomfortable wooden furniture with thin beach-type cushions. Instead, it was a luxurious little jewel, with the neat efficiency of a puzzle whose seams fit together so perfectly they disappeared.

I don’t remember much about when we first got there, except a blurred recollection of scented roses blooming on a floating patio, the creak of wooden stairs under our footsteps, a lavender front door, water lapping against the sides of the gently rocking boat. Then we were inside, with soft light shining from a seashell-decorated lamp and Harmony’s strong, primitive paintings—something tribal, Tahiti, Bora Bora, the Amazon—hanging on pale yellow walls. Quinn led me down a narrow corridor lined with fitted doors, behind which I assumed she carefully stored clothes or linens. Neither of us spoke until we got to the master bedroom, with its king-sized platform bed and lights from the marina slatting into the darkness through the blinds of a large window. He jerked the cord shut with a quick move and then we tumbled onto the bed, sharp sighs and little cries as we undressed—I heard the rip of fabric—and devoured each other with dizzy, desperate fury.

If this was going to be our last time, I knew that tonight—the way his hands moved over me, our bruised mouths, the pressure of his body on mine, how we fit so perfectly together—would be branded on my skin, our whispered words tattooed onto my heart and into my memory. In years to come I knew remembering this night would fill me with a breathless ache triggered by some small thing when I least expected it—a sea breeze light as a caress across my cheek, a boat rocking like a cradle in a sweet lullaby, faint shafts of moonlight making animal stripes on bare skin, a tangle of bed-sheets that smelled of musk and sweat and passion.