Overnight the temperature dropped below freezing so that by the time Quinn and I went downstairs for breakfast, the lawn and gardens were covered in a fine coat of hoarfrost that shimmered and gleamed as if the landscape had been shined to a high polish. In the pale morning sunlight, the straw-colored ornamental grasses looked diamond-tipped.
Prescott Avery’s death was the number-one story on the Sunday morning NPR news show. Quinn and I listened as he made coffee and I cut slices of my future sister-in-law’s homemade pumpkin spice bread and put them in the toaster.
The local reporter who covered the story gave a straightforward account of how Prescott had collapsed at his home and was found by family members a short time later. He had been hosting an annual neighborhood Thanksgiving weekend party and had left to get something in his wine cellar when the tragedy occurred. Dr. Winston Churchill Turnbull, a Loudoun County medical examiner who happened to be a guest at the party, pronounced the ninety-five-year-old Mr. Avery dead at the scene.
The toaster dinged and Quinn poured our coffees. As usual he had brewed it strong enough to fuel one of the spaceships that resupplied the International Space Station. I got out butter and a jar of my homemade strawberry jam from the refrigerator and brought the toast over to a scarred-up oak trestle table where for generations my family had sat to discuss, opine, argue, comfort, laugh, cry, and eat. If I looked closely enough, I could still see Eli’s algebra homework and a perfect circle where Leland had smacked down a quarter one night as a family bet, both imprinted in the soft wood.
“At least your name didn’t come up in that story,” Quinn said. “So it seems you’re off the hook.”
“Thank goodness. And I guess that’s a more or less accurate description of what happened.”
It was obviously a slow news day—Thanksgiving weekend, after all—because after the live report, the show’s host replayed a clip from an eight-year-old piece about the group of billionaires that had met in Aspen, Colorado, that spring to establish the Caritas Commitment. It was followed by a full-length interview with Prescott recorded thirty years ago when he turned sixty-five as part of a series of leadership interviews with highly successful, creative entrepreneurs called “Perspectives on Life.” How had Prescott achieved his business and financial success? What habits had he cultivated that had helped him the most? What stoked his creativity? What advice did he have for the next generation?
Finally, as the interview was about to wrap up, the reporter had asked Prescott about his retirement plans. Prescott swore, which was bleeped out.
Then he said, “Are you kidding? Who said anything about retiring? I have too many things to do, too many projects and ideas in my mind to slow down now. Hell, son, I’m just starting the third half of my life.” He laughed. “I don’t plan on quitting for a long time.”
“Last question, Mr. Avery: Any regrets about decisions you’ve made over the years? Anything you’d do differently?”
There was a pause before Prescott said in a pained voice, “No regrets about any decisions I’ve made—just lessons learned that made me who I am today. But I do have two great sorrows: the deaths of my son and daughter. My deepest personal regret is that their time on earth was cut too short. But as to regrets about my business decisions, or would I change anything—no, none. I regret nothing.”
Quinn’s eyes met mine. Je ne regrette rien. Victoria’s perfume.
“I know,” I said. “Life’s just full of little ironies sometimes, isn’t it?”
AS USUAL THE WASHINGTON Tribune lay on our doorstep, courtesy of one of the workers who got it for us every morning from the faded, weather-beaten Tribune mailbox at the entrance to the vineyard and drove it to our front door. I picked it up as Quinn and I left the house just before ten o’clock and brought it with us in the Jeep.
Quinn’s plans for the rest of the morning were to take one of the ATVs out to the field to examine—for at least the fourth time—the diseased vines in the Merlot block that we’d discovered during harvest. I wanted to talk to Frankie Merchant about our plans for the annual “Christmas in Middleburg” celebration next weekend. It was one of the town’s biggest events of the year, three days of festivities that included tree-lighting, caroling, the Goose Creek Hunt’s well-loved Hunt and Hounds Review, a parade, and Breakfast with Santa at the community charter school. If other years were anything to go by, the town would probably swell to over ten thousand with people from D.C., Maryland, and other parts of Virginia arriving—if the weather cooperated. Since Middleburg’s population as of the last census totaled 851 and in Atoka you could practically count the number of residents on the fingers and toes of the mayor and the three members of the town council—okay, truth be told, Atoka had sixty-four residents—it was a huge influx of visitors for us.
On the drive from the house to the winery, I read Quinn an abbreviated version of the Trib’s story about Prescott’s death. As Kit promised, it was their headline and her byline was on it.
PRESCOTT AVERY, PATRIARCH OF INFLUENTIAL MEDIA AND NEWSPAPER DYNASTY, OWNER OF WASHINGTON TRIBUNE, DEAD AT AGE 95.
“Okay … she writes that the cause of death is still unclear, but apparently Mr. Avery became unwell at a party he was hosting for friends and neighbors at his home on Saturday afternoon and collapsed at approximately five P.M. downstairs in his wine cellar.” I looked up. “She must have gotten the time of death from Bobby or Win.”
“Anything in there about you finding him?”
I skimmed the rest of the story. “Nope. Win Turnbull, local medical examiner, pronounced him dead at the scene. Blah, blah, blah … nothing we don’t know. No funeral plans have been made so far, but in lieu of flowers the family requests that donations be made to the Miranda Foundation.”
“Looks like they abandoned that plan to claim he died in his sleep,” Quinn said.
“What difference would it make, anyway?”
“Beats me. Maybe Clay is hoping nothing leaks out about the family being pissed off at Prescott for supposedly wanting to sell the Trib. It doesn’t look so good now that he’s dead.”
“You can’t keep a secret like that,” I said. “Word is going to get out sooner or later.”
“Maybe Clay was hoping for later.”
I refolded the paper. “I think we should send a donation to the Miranda Foundation.”
He nodded. “Did your parents know her? Miranda, I mean. How old was she when she died?”
Five years ago Quinn had moved to Virginia from California when my father hired him just before he died. Even if Quinn lived in Atoka for another fifty years, folks would still say that he was “from away.” No one expected him to understand the convoluted and intertwined history, genealogy, and backstory of Southern families like mine and the Averys who had lived on the land we owned since before the country was founded. Although to Quinn’s credit, he was becoming assimilated enough that once or twice I had heard him referring to the crew as “y’all” or its Southern plural “all y’all.”
“Leland knew Miranda,” I told him, “but she died before he and my mother were married. She was in her mid-twenties. Everyone was shocked because it was so unexpected. She was perfectly fine, then a week later she was gone.”
“It must have nearly killed Prescott and Rose to lose both their children within a couple of years of each other,” he said.
“I’m not sure which was a worse tragedy,” I said. “Miranda came down with the flu one winter and within days she had pneumonia. Then she got an infection that turned into sepsis. By the time they got her to the hospital it was too late.”
“Someone at the party yesterday was talking about the motorcycle accident that killed Tommy. He was speeding and he’d been drinking. No helmet.”
“His blood alcohol was one-point-four,” I said. “The family was in Nantucket, the last day of a summer vacation. The police said he had been doing seventy when he took a turn on a winding beach road and spun out on a patch of sand. Flipped over multiple times and broke his neck and back. Tommy was the apple of his father’s eye, the golden boy, the heir apparent,” I said. “His death just about destroyed Prescott. Celia had had a miscarriage a few months earlier and hadn’t been able to get pregnant, so there would never be an heir to carry on the family name, either.”
Quinn pulled into the parking lot behind the ivy-covered building my mother had designed, where we sold wine, held tastings, and hosted many of our events, parties, and musical evenings. She had named it the Villa and wanted it to look like one of the graceful old homes she remembered from her childhood in France rather than a boxy commercial building.
Already this morning smoke was curling out of the chimney. That would be Frankie’s doing; her car was in the parking lot. On cold days like this, we kept a fire burning in the enormous stone fireplace using firewood the workers collected all year, mostly old or dead trees from the property.
Quinn parked the Jeep and said, “I can’t imagine how awful it must have been for Prescott.”
“Rose still had Clayton, who was her son from a previous marriage, so he was a comfort to her,” I said. “But Prescott felt as if he had no one. He and Clayton never really got along—different temperaments, Clayton with his dark hair and dark skin like his Italian father instead of a blond, blue-eyed Ralph Lauren model like Miranda and Tommy. I think both Clay and Prescott tried for Rose’s sake, but any effort they made fell apart after she died. It was as though Prescott resented Clay for living when his own son was dead.”
“No one can live up to a saint,” Quinn said. “A person who’s been crystalized in amber and remains perfect for all time. You’re just punishing someone for not being who you want them to be. Or need them to be. I feel sorry for Clay.”
“So do I. Plus he gave up his own career—he wanted to be a landscape architect, since no one expected him to go into the family news business. He took over Tommy’s job as assistant publisher until Prescott retired and ran the place until handing the reins over to Scotty. Until the family brought Alex in, that is.”
“I wonder how Clay feels now that Prescott’s gone,” Quinn said. “Maybe he’s relieved. Can’t say I’d blame him.”
I stole a quick, worried look at him. Quinn had never known his own father, who had walked out on his mother before Quinn was born. It was a prickly subject.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Prescott was a force of nature and he could be cantankerous. I think it must have been difficult for anyone to live with him—with the exception of Rose. He adored her and she felt the same way about him. My mother said it was as if they lived in their own little world and nobody mattered but each other. On the one hand it was very sweet, a real, romantic love story. But she also said they were so self-absorbed that any affection or attention they gave their children was almost an afterthought. Funny, but I think Clay picked up that diffidence even though he and Prescott aren’t blood relatives, which is why Alex turned into such a rebel and Scotty’s just … so intense. Clay’s wife couldn’t cope with it. Plus she had Rose to live up to. So they split up.”
“Rose died the summer I arrived here when you were still in France,” Quinn said. “I remember your father stopping by the barrel room on his way to the funeral. It was the first time I’d seen him in a three-piece suit. He was driving into Washington since the service was at National Cathedral. He went to the cemetery, too, over in Leesburg.”
“Union Cemetery,” I said. “That’s where the Avery family plot is. Rose was a good person, except she had a blind spot when it came to Prescott. After she was gone it was as though he’d lost his compass. He told me yesterday that his family thought he was spending too much money on expensive purchases, like the copy of the Declaration of Independence. Which makes sense if they’re as broke as Grant hinted they were—he shouldn’t be buying priceless historical documents.”
It also probably explained why Prescott told me not to mention to anyone what he’d done. By now, of course, Clay would have discovered the Declaration if he had checked out Prescott’s Masonic shrine.
“It’s always hard to believe folks as rich as the Averys could have money problems,” Quinn said as we got out of the Jeep.
“It happened to us,” I said. “Although we didn’t have that kind of money.”
“Maybe not, but you still managed to dig out of a deep hole.”
“I never want that to happen again. Ever.”
Not sleeping at night, wondering and worrying how we were going to pay the crew. No money to fix the air-conditioning system in the house when it conked out during the hottest August on record. Selling family heirlooms one by one, a slow painful trickle. Buying more time at Blue Ridge Federal not to foreclose on the farm. Trying to keep up a cool, calm, unworried façade when we were just about at rock bottom.
“It won’t happen again.” He kissed me. “I won’t be long. I want to take another look at those vines while there’s still no snow on the ground. We really ought to rip them out and start over. Replant in the spring.”
I wished he hadn’t said that.
“Come on, you know I don’t want to do that. My parents planted those vines almost thirty years ago. They’re the oldest vines we own. They may not have been producing much, but the wine was amazing. Maybe we can regraft them. Or save them somehow.”
“Sweetheart—”
“Can we talk about this another time?”
I had one more idea, but I hadn’t brought it up with him yet. He probably wouldn’t go for it.
“Sure.” He gave in and I was glad we were ending the discussion before it turned into another argument. “I’m going to stop by the barrel room to check on the tanks Antonio was supposed to clean after I’m done in the field. I’ll meet you in the Villa after that.”
I nodded and he dropped another kiss on my hair. “I love you,” he said and then he was gone.
FRANKIE MERCHANT LOOKED UP from behind the long S-shaped bar where she was untangling a string of Christmas lights when I walked into the Villa a moment later. A green plastic storage box with its red lid leaning against it was full of more lights. They, too, looked like a nest of snakes.
“I saw you and Quinn in the parking lot, so I put the kettle on. I could use a cup of tea to warm up and I thought you’d like one, too.”
It was hard to heat the enormous vaulted-ceiling room in winter to a comfortable temperature. A fire in the fireplace took some of the edge off. Behind the bar, the staff used space heaters. But it still got chilly, especially if you spent the afternoon here pouring wine for guests.
“I’d love some tea. Thanks.”
Frankie took off her glasses and used them as a headband to sweep a strand of strawberry-blond hair off her face. “I called the Averys this morning. Got the maid and asked if I could talk to Kellie even though I knew she wasn’t coming in to work,” she said. “She told me what happened yesterday. I didn’t know you and Quinn were the ones who found Prescott.”
I nodded. “How did she sound?”
Frankie came around from behind the bar and walked over to the fireplace, standing with her back to it, hands behind her. “Brokenhearted.”
“She was devastated yesterday.”
“Poor kid. I think she was closer to him than she is to Scotty or Clay.”
“Quinn told her not to come to work until she’s ready. She’s probably going to need a few days off.”
Frankie’s eyes clouded. “I don’t mean to sound selfish but I hope she’s not going to stay away too long. This week is going to be crazy with everything we’ve got going on.”
“Come on, we’ll manage. We always do.”
“I know.” She sighed. “The water’s probably hot. I’ll get our tea. I brought in a holiday-spiced tea from Fortnum & Mason. An early Christmas gift from a girlfriend who just got back from London.”
“Sounds lovely. I’ll take a look at those lights.”
“I wonder who put them away last year and got them in such a mess.” She stuck her hands on her hips like an irritated schoolteacher about to scold a student who’d forgotten the homework again.
“Me, I think. Sorry. We had an event coming up right after New Year’s and I seem to remember we were rushing to get all the decorations taken down.”
“Oh.” She looked nonplussed. “Well … in that case, they’re all yours.”
Frankie ran the day-to-day operations of the retail end of our business, plus she planned all of our social events with the skill and precision of a general organizing a multifront military campaign. For years I’d taken care of everything by myself as my mother had done, but it finally got to be too much and I’d hired Frankie. Eventually, as we grew, the work got to be too much for her as well so we’d hired a staff—an assistant tasting room manager, a bookkeeper, and two elderly women who took care of social media, advertising, and filling orders. But Frankie was still the commander who supervised everyone else.
She disappeared into the kitchen and I brought the lights over to two leather sofas that faced each other across from the fireplace. Mosby, the vineyard barn cat and champion mouser, who mostly appeared in winter when it was cold outside and food was harder to find, lay flattened like a gray velvet rug in front of the crackling blaze. He opened one sea-green eye and blinked at me before going back to sleep. I sat down on one of the sofas and laid the lights out on a large oak coffee table. They were a mess, all right.
Frankie returned carrying a tray with our tea and a plate of Christmas cookies.
“How’s it going with the untangling?” She sat down across from me.
“Slow.”
She handed me a mug of tea. “I made cardboard holders to wrap the lights around just so they wouldn’t end up like this. I found them in the bottom of the box. Maybe this year you might try using them.”
“Noted.”
She grinned. “Have a cookie. I baked these last night, trying out recipes for our holiday cookie exchange. I couldn’t sleep so I got up and made cookies.”
Frankie was an insomniac with OCD tendencies. If she wasn’t baking she’d be vacuuming her immaculate basement or alphabetizing her spices.
I bit into a cookie that tasted of tart lemon. “These are delicious. So’s the tea.”
“Cocoa nibs, clementine, and Christmas spices in the tea. Lemon curd in the cookies.”
A log popped and hissed and the fire collapsed slightly. Mosby rolled over, ignoring it. Frankie got up, took a log from a bundle of firewood that was stacked in a copper bucket, and put it on the fire.
“When do you want to put the decorations up?” I asked.
She had been planning our holiday events since Labor Day; we’d both agreed that with the ugly state of politics in Washington, the general malaise in the country, and the depressing headlines in the news, we wanted a simple, old-fashioned holiday and the theme would be “Home for Christmas.”
A cookie swap. A tree-decorating party where folks could string cranberries and popcorn to make garlands. A night of caroling. We would serve wassail and mulled wine, and since we were opening the first bottles of our Madeira for Christmas, Frankie wanted to make Madeira cakes and mince pies.
We were also collecting nonperishable items for the food pantry in Leesburg and toys and winter coats for the homeless shelter. Eli, Sasha, Quinn, and I had decided to forgo giving gifts to each other and spend the money instead on food, toys, and coats for the local charities.
“I thought I’d start decorating tomorrow. You and Quinn are still getting the tree and the pine garland on Tuesday, right?” Frankie asked. She licked lemon curd off her fingers. “I’ll take care of the wreaths. This year I’m using grapevines to make them.”
“I don’t know how you can outdo what you did last year. Those wreaths were gorgeous,” I said. “And yes, to the tree and garland on Tuesday. We’re also getting the tree for the house. Eli and Sasha are going by Seely’s tomorrow with the kids to pick out their tree—it’ll be their first one as a new family, plus they’re in the new house, so they’re making a big deal of it for Hope and Zach. Noah said he’ll send a truck by with all three trees on Wednesday.”
“A nursery that delivers. Nice.”
I reached for another cookie. “Montgomery Estate Vineyard is probably their best customer in two counties. My family has been buying plants from Seely’s Garden Center since Noah’s father opened the place fifty years ago.”
“It’s your first Christmas together, too,” Frankie said. “You and Quinn. Any special plans?”
“Quinn’s always been sort of a minimalist about Christmas. And you know me, I go overboard decorating the house, trimming the tree, holiday baking, Christmas music … all of it, just like you do. I think we’ll have to see how this works out.”
“I was hoping he’d play Santa when we have the tree-trimming party. I’ve got the suit and beard. You think he’ll go for it? I already got Eli to agree to dress up when he plays the piano for our caroling night.”
If my brother hadn’t been an architect, he would have been a concert pianist. Once upon a time he had considered applying to Juilliard.
“Eli is a natural ham. He’ll do anything. As for Quinn as Santa Claus … I don’t know. I’d love to be around when you ask him,” I said.
“Actually, I thought you could do that.”
“Me? Why me?”
“Who else? Come on, he’s less likely to turn you down. Please?”
She gave me her sunniest smile.
“All right.” I relented. “He’s coming by after he examines the diseased vines in the Merlot block and checks some things in the barrel room. By the way, we gave everyone the day off. That includes you. I hope you’re not planning to stick around and work all day.”
“It’s quiet. I thought I’d get a head start on things for next week. Especially since I’ll be one person short without Kellie.”
The front door opened and closed. It was too soon for Quinn to have finished in the vineyard. I turned around to tell whoever it was that we were closed.
It was Bobby Noland and he wasn’t here to buy wine.
“I saw the Jeep in the parking lot as I was driving over to your house,” he said. “So I took a guess you and Quinn might be here.”
“Quinn’s either in the vineyard or the barrel room,” I said. “He’ll be here shortly. Is something wrong?”
Bobby was wearing a pair of jeans and work boots. An open-necked plaid flannel shirt under a navy blazer. As he walked over to us, I caught a glimpse of his shield attached to his belt underneath the blazer. This was not a social call. He was here on business.
He glanced at Frankie, who immediately got up and said, “I think I’ll get the rest of the Christmas decorations from the storage room, if you two don’t mind.”
She started to leave and then, gracious as always, said, “Bobby, there’s spiced tea in the teapot and homemade cookies. Can I get you a mug?”
He held up a hand. “I’m tempted, Frankie, but I’m trying not to put on my usual Christmas fifteen pounds. I already got a head start with what I ate for Thanksgiving.”
She smiled and left the room.
“Mind if I take a seat?” he asked.
“Of course not,” I said as he sat across from me. “What’s going on?”
“There’s news,” he said. “A new development. When B. J. Hunt was preparing Prescott’s body for the funeral, he noticed some bruises that didn’t look consistent with that fall Prescott took, so he asked me to come by and take a look. We’re opening a new investigation into the death of Prescott Avery. He didn’t fall and hit his head. Someone struck him and the blow killed him, although Win gets the last word on what exactly did happen.”
I felt the air leave the room. “What are you saying? That Prescott was murdered? In his own home?”
He nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”