Quinn called Gino after that—it was going on eleven—and, as expected, his phone went to voice mail, since he was probably still at the White House dinner. He left a noncommittal message, asking Gino to return the call anytime and saying he had new information “concerning the matter we were discussing yesterday.” Plus, he had a few questions.
It all sounded very matter-of-fact, no hint of what we’d uncovered.
“What do you bet you get a return call as soon as he listens to his messages?” I said. “Maybe he’ll even call back tonight.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me if he did. I’m convinced Gino knows what really happened to Zara. He’ll want to know what we found out, deal with it, and get control of the situation as soon as possible.” He reached for the bottle of brandy again and held it out to me.
“I’ve had enough,” I said. “Actually, we’ve both had a lot.”
He filled his glass anyway. “I’ll pay for this tomorrow, but right now I don’t give a damn.”
“Quinn—”
The logs on the fire suddenly pancaked into a heap, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. He got up and took the poker, prodding the glowing wood so the fire would burn more evenly before it finally died down. Then he sat down and pulled me to him.
I laid my head on his chest and listened to the slow, steady beat of his heart. He tilted my face for a kiss. It had been a while since we’d kissed like this, deep and slow and sweet. Too long.
“I don’t want to talk about Gino anymore. What’re you wearin’ to the party Saturday night?” he asked as I felt him relax against me. His mouth was next to my ear and his breath was hot with brandy. He had started to slur his words. “Do I hafta wear some Roarin’ Twenties gangster suit?”
Mick had asked me practically the same question when he asked me to be his date.
“We can talk about that later,” I said. “Not tonight.”
He mumbled something incomprehensible and turned so his other arm lay across my waist, trapping me like a prisoner. Thirty seconds later, his eyes were closed and his brandy glass started to tilt. I extricated it from his hand before he dumped brandy on the sofa, and he murmured something else I didn’t understand.
I set the glass on the coffee table as the front door opened and closed. A moment later, Eli poked his head through the doorway and gave me the what’s-up look. I put a finger to my lips, untangling myself from Quinn and letting him slump over on the sofa.
I grabbed the bottle and our glasses and joined Eli in the foyer. He took one look at the bottle and said, “Did you two really polish off half a bottle of brandy tonight? Plus the dinner wine? What’s going on? Jeez, Luce, it’s not like you to get wasted, especially on a weeknight. Or Quinn.”
“Nothing’s going on, and I only had one glass of brandy.”
He followed me into the dining room, where I set the bottle back on the sideboard, and then we went into the kitchen, where I left the glasses in the sink.
“Quinn looked like he was down for the count,” Eli said as we climbed the back stairs to the second floor. “I presume he’s staying over?”
“I’m going to get him a quilt from the hope chest so he doesn’t freeze when the thermostat drops to sixty for the rest of the night. It’s even colder downstairs than upstairs, but I think he’s better off sleeping where he is.”
“Is everything all right with you two?”
There were a million ways to answer that. “Everything’s fine.”
He gave me a disbelieving look and said, “Right. Is Hope okay?”
“An angel. How was your evening with your friend?”
“Fine,” he said. “Very nice.”
We said good night and he went to check on Hope. Quinn didn’t stir when I moved his legs off the floor and placed them on the sofa before laying an old Flying Geese quilt over him. Then I tidied up the letters and the photo albums and put them in a drawer in one of the side tables next to the sofa.
After that, I went back upstairs, got undressed, and climbed into bed. Frankie’s copy of The Great Gatsby was on my nightstand. I picked it up and opened it to chapter 1, page 1.
In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.
“Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”
I had nearly forgotten the plot, but it wasn’t long before I was completely engrossed in the story of working-class Jimmy Gatz who reinvented himself as the fabulously wealthy Jay Gatsby to impress a woman he was desperately in love with.
The last thought I had before I fell asleep was how complicated life can be when you fall in love with the wrong person. Like Zara Tomassi and Warren Harding.
* * *
BY THE TIME I came downstairs the next morning, Quinn was already in the kitchen, cooking up a storm. Though he looked like something someone had forgotten to shoot, he’d made coffee and was busy flipping eggs and a couple of mystery ingredients in a skillet.
“Good morning,” he said. “You’re just in time for breakfast.”
“What are you making?”
“Omelet surprise. I found the odds and ends in your refrigerator and put them all together. I hope you’re hungry. The only milk you had was chocolate.”
I stared into the frying pan. “I never heard of adding macaroni and cheese to an omelet. Or soy sauce.” I picked up the bottle. It was nearly empty.
He kissed my hair, still smelling rough, and said, “I’m sorry about last night. I think I had too much to drink.”
“You said so last night and that it was because of all the family stuff you’re dealing with.” I went over to the coffeepot and poured myself a cup while he got two plates from a cabinet. “We could talk about it, you know. You don’t have to keep it bottled up like the Great Sphinx.”
“Thanks, but I don’t need therapy. Just Gino out of my life. Then I’ll be fine.”
That’s how he was. Bury everything deep inside and immerse himself in work. I sipped the coffee and coughed. He’d made his usual rocket fuel brew.
“I wonder when you’ll hear from him,” I said.
“Gino? Three A.M.” He put our plates on the worn oak table. “Come and get it.”
“Pardon?” I sat down and he joined me.
“He called at three A.M., when he got back to the Hay-Adams after carousing with a bunch of paesans from the old country once the White House dinner was over. He sounded a bit in his cups. You want ketchup?”
“Uh, no, thanks.” I wondered how he could tell Gino was drunk, since he would have been fairly inebriated himself. “What did you say?”
“At that hour? I told him something had turned up in Angelica’s trunk that he’d be interested in looking at, more than the photo album, and that he was welcome to drive out here and I’d show it to him.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he needed to clear his calendar in the morning and that he figured he could be to Middleburg by ten-thirty or thereabouts, so I told him to meet us at the Goose Creek Inn. If he couldn’t make it, let me know. Otherwise, we’d see him there.”
I was glad he’d said “we.” I wanted to be in on this, too.
“Your omelet is pretty good,” I said. “And the Goose Creek Inn doesn’t open until eleven-thirty—for lunch.”
“Sticks to your ribs, and I know it doesn’t open until eleven-thirty. After Gino stopped by on Monday, I got questioned six ways from Sunday by everyone around here, all wanting to know if I was planning to quit and move back to Napa because he’d offered me a job. Plus, as you so helpfully informed me, Gino stopped by the General Store to get directions to the winery from Thelma, the Mouth That Roared, and now she and the Romeos have been busy getting out the word that Gino Tomassi of the world-class Tomassi Family Vineyard paid me a visit,” he said, stabbing the air with his fork to emphasize each word. “To avoid being the number-one topic of conversation around Thelma’s coffeepot this morning, I texted your cousin at three-ten A.M. and asked if she’d be willing to let you, me, and another person meet privately at the Inn.”
One of the reasons the Goose Creek Inn was so popular was my cousin’s well-known reputation for discretion. Washington power brokers who dined there over the years knew she’d whisk them away to a table in a secluded corner or a special room when they showed up with their “secretaries” or “nieces.” Dominique probably knew more secrets than the CIA and FBI combined about who was seeing whom on the side. But she also knew how to keep her mouth shut and guarantee the privacy of her famous guests, which is why they kept coming back.
“Did you really text Dominique at three in the morning?” I asked.
“You bet I did. She keeps worse hours than Gino does. She texted right back and said no problem, just knock on the front door and someone would let us in. No one will see us or know we’re there and we’ll be gone before the place is open.”
* * *
QUINN HAD FINISHED BREAKFAST and was long gone by the time Eli came into the kitchen at eight o’clock, a trace of arctic cold clinging to his clothes.
“It is so cold, your words could freeze in little speech bubbles,” he said, setting the Washington Tribune on the table. “I don’t remember a winter this bad.”
I pulled the paper over and looked at the front page. The lead story was the White House state dinner last night. “I think the high temperature for the day is going to be twelve degrees.”
I read the headlines: LA DOLCE VITA AT THE WHITE HOUSE AS PRESIDENT AND FIRST LADY HOST ITALIAN PRIME MINISTER. The subheading read “Warm Welcome in Spite of Frigid Weather and Snowstorm.” Above the story was a picture of the smiling trio, the men in tuxedos and the First Lady in a stunning gown, standing under the White House portico, with a caption about how bellissima she looked in Versace.
Eli walked over to the coffeepot and said, “I smell mac and cheese.”
“Quinn made an omelet with our leftovers.”
I flipped to the “Lifestyle” section, which had a more gossipy account of the evening, along with a photo gallery. I skimmed the article and, sure enough, there was a photo of Gino, dapper in a well-cut tux, walking alongside a diminutive man in the clerical attire of a bishop or maybe a cardinal—black cassock with violet buttons down the front, short elbow-length cape, wide fringed violet sash around his waist, enormous silver cross, and a violet biretta on his head. I looked down at the caption. Gino’s companion was the papal nuncio.
Eli sipped his coffee. “Obviously, Quinn made the coffee, as well. I ought to bottle the rest of it so we can use it to strip floors.” He got bread out of the bread box and stuck a couple of pieces in the toaster. “What’s so fascinating in the Trib?”
“The story about the White House state dinner last night. Someday I’d like our wine to be served at one of those.”
“Yeah … Hey, that’s Gino Tomassi.“He pointed to the picture. “Frankie told me he stopped by here the other day to see Quinn. She said they know each other from California. I guess this explains why he’s in town.”
“Yup.” I closed the paper and folded it up. “Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“When were you going to tell me you met someone new?”
He gave me a knowing look. “I knew you wormed it out of Quinn as soon as I left. Sasha’s nice, Luce. You’ll like her. I’m bringing her to the party Saturday night.”
Valentine’s Day.
“I’m sure I’ll like her. And I’ll look forward to meeting her,” I said in a neutral voice. “Does Hope know?”
He gave me a nervous look. “Ixnay to that. One thing at a time. I don’t want to upset her.”
“So it’s serious?”
“It’s the first relationship I’ve had since Brandi walked out. That doesn’t make it serious.” The toaster bell dinged and he got his toast.
“I’m not prying.”
“Of course you’re prying. You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t pry.”
“I’m only asking because I’m worried about Hope, how she’ll take it.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Is that all?”
“And you, of course,” I added. “I’m worried about you, too. I don’t want you to get hurt again.”
“You don’t need to be worried. I’m a big boy, remember?”
I set my coffee cup in the sink. “I’d better get going, or I’ll be late.”
“Something happening at the winery?”
“Bottling tomorrow,” I said. “Don’t forget.”
“Sure.” He spread Persia’s homemade blackberry jam in a thick layer on his toast. “What about today?”
I didn’t want to tell him about meeting Gino at the Inn later on.
“First thing, I’m going to drop by Foxhall Manor and check in on Faith. I’m taking her the last piece of Persia’s apple pie, so do not polish it off for breakfast, under penalty of death.”
“Okay, okay. Want me to wrap it for you while you get ready?”
“No, because you’ll lop off a corner.”
“You have no faith in me,” he said. “And for the record, I’m not the only one who’s not being very forthcoming. Care to tell me what’s going on around here?”
He gave me a level look and I faltered. “Everything’s fine. Really.”
“Sure it is.” He folded his arms across his chest. “You know what they say about secrets and lies, don’t you? ‘What you can’t say owns you. What you hide controls you.’”
“I’d better go,” I said. “I’m going to be late.”
* * *
I PARKED NEXT TO a blue Toyota with a dented bumper in the parking lot at Foxhall Manor. It looked a lot like Skye Cohen’s car. Sure enough, I ran into Skye in the lobby, on her way out. She was carrying two small Japanese porcelain table lamps, one in each hand, like they were war trophies.
“Can I get the door for you?” I asked.
“Thanks,” she said. “A friend of my grandmother’s who lives here told me they were getting ready to give these away. Nice, aren’t they?”
“Very. What do you mean ‘give them away’?”
“You know they have kind of a thrift shop in the basement, don’t you?”
“I didn’t.”
She nodded. “The Manor tries to sell whatever furniture people give them when someone dies or donates something. The profits go toward their medical center. Anything still hanging around after six months gets donated to charity or tossed, since they run out of space. So we pick it up for Veronica House to furnish homes for some of our people.”
“What a good idea.”
“I’m also taking a dining room set and a sofa,” she said. “But they’re being delivered straight to the new condo we’re furnishing. I met a guy whose wife interviewed my grandma a few weeks ago for a newspaper article. He’s got a big truck and he’s doing it for us real cheap.”
“Are you talking about Will Baron?”
She blinked, surprised. “How did you know that? You know Will?”
“I do,” I said. “And I know his wife. Where does he get the truck?”
“Oh, MacDonald’s Antiques lets him use it. He just drives the furniture to where we need it. Our guys take care of loading and unloading.”
I wondered if Mac knew about Will’s moonlighting, and then figured he didn’t, because Mac kept a close eye on expenses. He wouldn’t like paying for gas and the extra wear and tear on his truck just so Will could pick up some additional money on the side, even if he was helping a local charity. Then I decided none of this was my business.
“That’s great,” I said. “I’d better be going.”
“Sure,” she said. “Be seeing you.”
I held the door and she left.
* * *
“I’M POSITIVE IT WAS a man I heard in Roxy’s apartment,” Faith said a few minutes later when I was up in her apartment and she was greedily wolfing down the last slice of Persia’s homemade apple pie. “It wasn’t the television.”
“How can you be sure?”
She gave me a look, like I’d just asked the world’s dumbest question. “Because if it was the television, everyone would have been shouting.” She raised her voice to make sure I got the message. “Roxy was the only one who was shouting. He was trying to calm her down.”
“Oh,” I said as someone knocked on her door. “Shall I get that?”
“It’ll be the maid. Yes, please.”
A sturdy young Hispanic woman in a pale blue uniform stood in the doorway, next to a well-equipped cleaning cart. “I come to clean,” she said with a heavy accent.
“Pilar,” Faith called to her, “can you please come back in half an hour, after my guest leaves?”
“Of course.” Her head bobbed up and down. “I go cleaning next door. Then I come back.”
She left and I went back to Faith. “Do you have the same maid every day?” I asked.
“Yes. Pilar does a good job.”
“If she was the one who left your door ajar the day Roxy had her visitor, maybe she ran into him in the hall on her way back to your room.”
“I don’t think so. She didn’t come back until after they’d left.”
“Then perhaps she heard something as she was leaving.”
“She speaks almost no English. I doubt she’d have understood.”
I took Faith’s plate, which she’d scraped clean, into the kitchen. “Well, Mac says it wasn’t him,” I said as I washed it. “Do you want another cup of tea?”
“Yes, please. Did you actually ask him?” Faith sounded horrified. “Good Lord, Lucie.”
“How else was I going to find out?”
“What did he say?”
“What you’d think he’d say. He wasn’t happy with me for asking why Roxy was upset and he said it wasn’t any of your business. Or mine.”
Faith sat up in her chair. “Roxy was my friend. I was worried about her.”
“I know. That’s why I asked.” I went back into the living room. “What about Roxy? Did she say anything to you after that argument? Even something that didn’t seem significant at the time?”
She lifted her hands from her lap and let them fall again. “If I knew, I’d tell you. But she was upset, I can tell you that.”
“What did she talk about?”
“Well, family. I remember she said your flesh-and-blood family are the only people in the world who are never supposed to let you down. With everybody else, it’s optional.” Faith’s mouth twisted in a grimace. “Of course, now I understand why she said it, regretting not being there for her daughter and granddaughter.”
“That’s so sad.”
Faith nodded. “Well, at least now we know it wasn’t Mac who upset Roxy,” she said. “But it was somebody. And I’m still counting on you to find out who it was.”
“I know,” I said.
Mac had more of a reason to be arguing with his aunt than anyone else did. If it wasn’t him, who else could it have been? Someone from one of Roxy’s many charities who felt passed over by the new will? And since many of them were local organizations I wondered if it would turn out to be someone I already knew.