For the longest time I sat there and stared at the photos of Zara Tomassi when she’d been a teenager. Had Johnny known about the affair? And what about the baby? Could it have been the love child of Zara and Warren Harding? If Johnny knew about any of this, had he finally become so outraged and furious at Zara that it had driven him to murder?
Maybe this was what Gino had been so worried about. Maybe he knew about Zara’s affair with Harding. If Harding had been the father of Zara’s child, the revelation could bring all kinds of unwelcome attention—everyone from historians to gossip magazines, and even the mainstream press, would be interested—to someone who was in line to become the next president of a prestigious conservative Catholic think tank.
I wrapped up Eli’s sandwich—I couldn’t eat, not now—and put it in the refrigerator. Then I retied the packet of letters with the blue ribbon and slipped the photographs of Zara back in the envelope after I took pictures of them with my phone. For safekeeping, I put everything in the bottom drawer of the antique secretary that had belonged to my mother and was now in the study off my bedroom.
Quinn needed to know what I’d found. But before I told him anything, I wanted to get my hands on the Studebaker album, which was still in Frankie’s office at the villa. Though I was almost certain I wasn’t mistaken about Zara’s being the woman on Harding’s lap, I wanted to look at that photograph again.
And then there was the bizarre coincidence that one of my relatives had been partying with Quinn’s great-grandfather’s first wife right here in Atoka. Wait until Quinn heard about that, not to mention learning whom Zara had been sleeping with—the president of the United States—when she was married to Johnny Tomassi.
I drove over to the villa and thought about the six degrees of separation that supposedly connect any two people in the world. In Atoka, it had shrunk to only two degrees. Maybe even one.
Now that the snowstorm had moved up the East Coast, the sun had come out, brilliant and blinding. Against the deep azure of a cloudless sky, the sunlight reflecting off the snow was so dazzling, my eyes hurt. By tomorrow the pristine whiteness would be churned up and dirty, but today the vineyard, draped in a fresh blanket of snow, looked like a glittering winter fairyland.
The plowed-out parking lot was empty when I pulled in. Like everyone else, we had announced we would be closed for the day. I unlocked the front door, let myself in, and turned off the alarm. The place was hushed and quiet, just odd little noises, which I finally realized were the sound of melting snow dripping off the roof. From behind the bar, Mosby, the barn cat, came padding out, stretching and yawning as he flopped over in a patch of sunshine.
“Hey, buddy, how’d you manage in the storm? Did you keep the mice at bay?” I scratched him behind his ear. “Let’s find you something to eat.”
In the kitchen, I opened a can of cat food, gave Mosby fresh water, and fixed myself a cup of green tea, which I took into Frankie’s office. The album was sitting on the credenza behind her desk. I got it, sat in her chair, and found the page I was looking for. It was the same woman all right. I checked the pictures on my phone. The black-and-white studio photographs were of a demure young girl—dark shoulder-length hair framing her face in soft curls, a discreet amount of makeup, a high-necked white blouse trimmed in lace. She looked like she belonged in an old-fashioned advertisement for shampoo or bath soap, an all-American beauty.
The woman sitting on Warren Harding’s lap could not have looked more different. By then she’d cut her hair—bobbed it, as they said in those days—and her clothes and makeup were anything but demure. Harding’s hand rested on her exposed thigh through the slit in her dress. She was leaning forward to show off a provocative amount of cleavage, and one long, slender arm held a tilted glass of champagne in the air, as if she didn’t care whom she spilled it on. Based on her glassy-eyed expression, she was probably drunk, as well. What a difference a few years had made.
I went back to the beginning of the album and started over, this time looking for more pictures of Zara and Lucky. Too bad I didn’t know what her friend—or her sister—Izzy looked like, or even her full name. What were the odds Izzy was in that group photo as well, and that maybe Lucky had known her, too? I had nearly come to the end of the album when I heard the beep of the security system, someone coming in through the front door.
Whoever it was would have seen my car and known I was here. I slammed the album shut and had just turned around to set it back on the credenza when Frankie said, “Were you looking for something?”
I spun around. “Just looking at Mick’s photo album.”
We had not gotten around to talking about it yesterday, though I knew she must have gone through it, since she had shown it to Eli before the tasting party.
“Oh.” She seemed puzzled. “You drove over here just for that?”
“I thought I’d feed Mosby and check on things,” I said. “What about you? Why aren’t you taking a well-deserved day off?”
“I’ve still got heaps to do to get ready for Saturday.” She sat down in the wing chair across from the desk. “I thought I’d take advantage of the quiet to get some work done. I think Father Niall might stop by later, as well. I hope you don’t mind, but I invited him over for a glass of wine at the end of the day, since we’re closed and there wouldn’t be anyone around.”
Somehow I didn’t think she had expected me to be here in the villa, either.
“I don’t mind at all.” I stood. “I ought to be going.”
She gave me a curious look. “Was there something in particular you were looking for in Mick’s album?”
There was only so long I could keep putting her off. Frankie wasn’t stupid. I picked up the album again and found the Harding picture, turning it around so she could see it. “Recognize anyone? I mean, besides Warren Harding.”
She gave me a crooked smile. “Yes, I saw that picture, as well. Obviously not Mrs. Harding on his lap. Whoever she is, she’s stunning.”
I pointed to the picture of Lucky. “Look at her. Look what she’s wearing.”
Frankie’s hand flew to her mouth. “My God, it’s your dress. How sensational. Who is she? Good Lord, she’s the portrait of you, Lucie.”
I told her about Lucky, the same stories I’d told Mick. When I was done, Frankie’s eyes were enormous.
“That’s quite incredible. We should … we should do something about that photo.” Her eyes darted around the room, as if she were searching for inspiration.
“I don’t think so, Frankie. The future president of the United States is partying with a bunch of young women—one of whom is my namesake—and his wife isn’t anywhere to be seen.”
“Oh, come on. Harding’s affairs were common knowledge,” she said. “The Library of Congress owns a collection of steamy love letters he wrote to one of his mistresses. Her family donated it or something. I read about it a while back, when the letters were first released to the public. You can read them on the Internet.… Let me tell you, some of what he wrote was X-rated stuff.” She gestured to the photo. “This is pretty tame.”
Based on what I’d read at my kitchen table an hour ago, I could believe the letters were explicit. Harding even had a name for his penis: Mount Jerry.
“It’s Mick’s picture—” I said, but she cut me off.
“Oh, Mick will say yes. Don’t worry about that. We could copy it and blow it up, make it into a poster for the party. It is the ‘Anything Goes’ party, after all. It’ll add some spice, plus, it’s local history … and then there’s your dress.”
“I don’t want to use it, Frankie. I’m sorry. I just don’t.” With everything I knew now about Zara, Harding, and Quinn’s family, it just seemed like a bad idea.
She looked surprised and a little hurt. “You’re the boss.” She gestured to my mug. “Can I get you another cup of tea?”
“Thanks. I’m still good.”
“I’ll make myself a cup, then,” she said. “Excuse me.”
She left the room, and for the second time in two days I knew she was irked with me. I followed her into the kitchen. “I need to find Quinn,” I said. “We’ve got some things to sort out.”
She put a mug in the microwave and slammed the door. “He’s over in the south vineyard. He and Antonio are plowing so the guys can get in to prune. I drove by them on my way here.” She got the milk out of the refrigerator and said, without looking at me, “If there’s anything I can do about whatever’s on your mind, you have only to ask. You know that.”
“I do,” I said. “And thank you, but I’m afraid I really can’t talk about it.”
“I see.” She didn’t. The microwave dinged and she got her tea.
“Would it help if I said that Mercury’s in retrograde and that’s part of the reason? It’s a lousy time for communicating and not good for relationships, either. Nothing turns out right.”
She gave me a look like I’d lost all my marbles. “Not really,” she said, and splashed milk in her mug. “But I guess it will have to do.”
* * *
QUINN STOPPED PLOWING WHEN he saw the Jeep pull up to where he’d cleared a path at the edge of the Chardonnay block. I grabbed my cane off the passenger seat and got out as he came over. He wore mirrored wraparound sunglasses against the brilliant sunshine and snow, and when he got close, I saw a fun-house version of myself in them.
He studied me and said, “You look upset. The letters were from my old man, weren’t they?”
I wished I could see his eyes behind those glasses.
“I don’t know an easy way to tell you this, so I’ll just say it straight out,” I said. “Zara was having an affair with Warren Harding. The Warren Harding, as in President Harding. The letters were love letters from him to Zara and, let me tell you, they were pretty explicit. I also found an envelope with two photos of her, probably taken when she was a teenager.”
I don’t think he could have looked more stunned if I’d told him I’d seen the Gray Ghost in the vineyard last night, Colonel. John Singleton Mosby, the Confederate Army’s legendary guerrilla commander, who folks said still roamed our area on moonless nights looking for Yankee soldiers.
The wind picked up, blowing snow around us like a mini-tornado. A frigid blast of air caught the ends of my scarf and whipped it in my face. Quinn moved so he stood in front of me, shielding me from the buffeting wind.
“There’s more.” I grabbed my scarf and knotted it tighter around my neck, tucking in the ends.
He took off his sunglasses, squinting in the harsh brightness. His expression was grim. “I can’t wait to hear.”
I told him about borrowing Mick’s photo album for Frankie, who wanted it as inspiration for our party. “Apparently, Harding came to one of the Studebakers’ parties,” I said. “And after I saw the photos of Zara that had been in the trunk, I realized that I had also seen a picture of her in Mick’s album.”
“Zara was here? At a party at the Studebakers’? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“She grew up in Washington and her father was a prominent congressman, so that’s probably how she met Harding. She was beautiful, Quinn. Gino was right. A real knockout. No wonder Johnny fell for her. And so did Warren Harding.”
There would be time later to tell him about Lucky Montgomery. He still looked like someone had just slapped him.
“So Gino was right,” he said. “Angelica did leave something behind in her trunk.”
“What do you want to do?”
He looked over at the snow-covered vines. “I need some time to deal with this,” he said. “And I want to finish the plowing myself. That way, I can be sure there’ll be no damage to the vines.”
“You ought to read the letters.”
He put on the sunglasses, so I couldn’t see his eyes again. “I know.”
“Come over for dinner tonight. Eli will be taking care of Hope afterward, putting her to bed, so we’ll have some privacy. You can look at them then.”
My phone rang and I pulled it out of my pocket. “It’s Kit. Last night I asked her to see what she could find out about Zara’s family in the Trib archives. She’s probably calling about that.”
I hit Accept and said, “Hey, what’s up?”
“You tell me,” she said. “I did some research on your Congressman Ingrasso and his family. Personal life only, since that’s what you asked.”
“Uh-huh.” I held the phone away from my ear so Quinn could listen, as well. He bent his face close to mine.
“So it seems his daughter Zara married a guy named Gianluca Tomassi, the founder of Tomassi Family Vineyard in California. The wedding was a big deal, a couple of hundred people, with a huge reception at the Willard Hotel. The cardinal married them in St. Matthew’s Cathedral and President and Mrs. Warren Harding were among the guests.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” she said, “but you already knew that, didn’t you? Maybe from Gino Tomassi, who came by to pay you a visit yesterday? Bobby stopped in at the General Store this morning and got an earful from Thelma.”
Quinn’s eyes met mine. I hadn’t told him about Gino dropping into the General Store and my getting the third degree from Thelma about him. Quinn made a slashing motion across his throat.
“I didn’t know the Hardings were at the wedding,” I said to Kit, which was the truth. “Did you find anything else?”
I heard the noisy sound of a straw sucking up the last of a drink and the rattle of ice cubes in an empty cup. “Obviously, the marriage didn’t last long,” she said. “The next thing that turned up is her obit, two years later. It’s funny, though. The article about her wedding took up two columns in what used to be the society section. Her obit was one short paragraph. She died after suffering head trauma from a fall on the family estate in California. Survived by her husband, no children. A private burial, no funeral Mass. That’s weird, don’t you think?”
Quinn and I glanced at each other. “Can you send me those articles?” I asked.
I heard the whoosh of an e-mail being sent, and she said, “I just did. You want to tell me what this is all about? You weren’t looking for information about Congressman Ingrasso. It was his daughter, wasn’t it?”
“I wasn’t sure what you’d find,” I said. That, actually, was true. “Thanks for doing this, Kit. I really appreciate it.”
“Well, when you can explain what ‘this’ is, I’ll be all ears,” she said in a tart voice. “In the meantime, Mom called again and bent my ear about Roxy Willoughby and how she was poisoned. I was on the phone for over half an hour trying to calm her down.”
“I’ll call Mac after I hang up with you,” I said, “and see what I can find out. I’ll bet he was the one Faith heard arguing with Roxy and that will be the end of it. She knows Mac didn’t poison his aunt.”
“Well,” she said, sounding mollified. “I suppose that’s the least you could do, since you aren’t going to tell me why you’re so interested in the Ingrasso family and Zara Tomassi.”
She hung up, and I said to Quinn, “I knew she’d suspect something. I shouldn’t have asked her to go through the archives for old stories on Ingrasso. Obviously, it was going to lead to Zara. We’re no nearer knowing anything about her baby.”
“Yeah, but we did learn something,” he said. “Her obituary confirms what Gino told us. An accidental death at Bel Paradiso.”
“Actually, it confirms what Johnny and Angelica said. What we did learn was that there was no funeral Mass for Zara. I think that’s odd, with the Ingrassos being such staunch Catholics. They’d at least have had a memorial Mass.”
“Maybe not, if the baby was Harding’s,” Quinn said. “A nice Catholic family would want everything hushed up, just like Johnny and Angelica did.”
“I guess so.” But it still sounded odd to me. “I’d better call Mac. See you tonight?”
“Okay.” He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “Thanks.”
“Are you all right?”
“Dandy.” He gave me a twisted smile. “I’m just freakin’ dandy.” Then he stomped back to the Gator.
I watched him until he lowered the plow with a sharp jerk and started plowing again before I went over to the Jeep. He was more upset than I’d ever seen him, even the time he left to go to California. And once again, it had something to do with his family.
My heart ached for him and I hoped he’d figure this out, make peace with himself and the ghost of his father, because if he didn’t, it would haunt him forever. I got into the Jeep, turned on the motor, and blasted heat through the vents with a loud roar that filled my head. When it was warm again, I turned it down and phoned Mac.
“Why, Lucie darling, how nice to hear from you,” he said in his broad drawl. “Though I have to say, I was rather expecting your call.”
“You were?”
“I figured it wouldn’t take you long to find out, the way news travels in this town,” he said. “I’m so glad you called before I sold it to anyone else.”
“Sold what?”
“Your grandfather clock. Isn’t that why you’re calling? I just had it brought here yesterday from the Georgetown store. With the storm, no one’s been in to see it yet. It’s a splendid one, sugar, in perfect condition. English, from the 1850s, just like the one you sold me.”
“Actually,” I said, “I didn’t know about it.”
When I first moved home from France, my father had so many debts that, out of desperation, I’d sold Mac several pieces of furniture, all family antiques, and begged him to give me a good price. Eli and Mia had been furious when they found out, but it wasn’t as if we’d had a choice. We couldn’t even afford to pay Quinn’s salary; we were that tapped out.
The hardest thing to let go was a beautiful English tall case clock that had been in our family for generations. I couldn’t bear to be in the house when Mac’s movers had come to take it because it had been so upsetting. And later when I got home and saw the empty space in the foyer where it had been, I felt as if the heartbeat of the house had stopped and someone beloved had died.
“I know it broke your heart to sell that clock,” Mac said. “I never felt quite right about taking it, but preferred you sell to me rather than to someone who didn’t know its history. I know you never asked, but I made sure the right person bought it.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I had no idea.”
“We haven’t spoken about it, but I’ve been on the lookout for something to replace it ever since. Now that you’re back on your feet again financially, I thought maybe it was time. Excuse my little pun.” He chuckled at his own joke. “Do come by and see it, Lucie, honey. I’m keeping it for you, but I know someone else is going to fall in love with it the moment they set eyes on it.”
I was touched by his concern, but I also knew Mac. He was baiting the hook and now he meant to reel me in. I knew why, too.
A few years ago, he and several of the Romeos had lost their shirts when they discovered that a financier they trusted had been suckered into a Ponzi scheme into which he had poured all their money. It had been a devastating blow for everyone, but it had been especially hard on Mac, whose only income now came from his two antiques stores in Middleburg and Georgetown.
The silver lining, so to speak, was that as Roxy Willoughby’s nephew, he was her sole heir, her only surviving relative, and the assumption around town had been that he would inherit her considerable estate one day and be back on his feet. Then Roxy changed her will shortly before she died, and everyone—including Mac, according to Thelma—learned she had an estranged granddaughter in England named Uma Lawrence.
“I’m in the store today,” he said to me now, “even though we’re closed on account of the snow. You could stop by this afternoon and have a look before anyone else gets a chance to see it. I wouldn’t want someone to outbid you, sugar, and have you disappointed all over again.”
Another tug on the line, but he was right. If he’d found a clock like the one I’d sold him, I was definitely interested. Plus, it gave me a legitimate excuse to see him and work the conversation around to whether he’d been the one Faith overheard arguing with Roxy.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
I could practically hear him beaming through the phone. “Knock on the door and I’ll let you in. You might have to knock real hard, since I could be in the back.”
Or he’d be hovering nearby, waiting for me, which I figured was the more likely scenario.
I drove over to Mac’s down freshly plowed streets and thought about everything I’d learned about Quinn’s extended family in the past twenty-four hours, including the fact that he had an extended family.
Why would a testa dura like Angelica Tomassi have hidden love letters from Warren Harding to Johnny’s first wife? It couldn’t have been to protect Johnny, or she would have burned them along with the rest of Zara’s things. Maybe I was right and they were some kind of insurance policy to keep Johnny in line so his eye wouldn’t wander to another woman again, to remind him how unfaithful Zara had been.
Then there was the matter of Zara’s death, whether it was an accident or possibly murder.
Now that I knew Warren Harding had also been involved, it could explain why Zara’s own family—who had been devout Catholics, and her father, a prominent Washington congressman who probably wouldn’t have wanted word to get out that his daughter had been sleeping with the president of the United States—had been willing to go along with the conspiracy of silence surrounding her death.
Which meant that if it was murder, everyone involved—Johnny, Angelica, and the Ingrasso family—had had a motive for covering up something that then had remained a secret for nearly a century.
Until now. Someone apparently had discovered that Zara’s baby had lived after all, found the child’s birth certificate.
But why now, after so much time? And who was foolish enough to take on Gino Tomassi? It was like kicking a hornets’ nest and figuring you wouldn’t get stung.
Because Gino—and I was sure of this—would go to any lengths to keep this family scandal a secret. And he had the friends in the right places who knew how to shut someone up for good.