Maybe I was right about the reason Gino didn’t want the Tomassi family history resurrected: Zara didn’t fall and accidentally hit her head out walking alone on the farm. Someone had killed her and covered it up.
And the most logical suspects were Quinn’s great-grandparents, Johnny and Angelica Tomassi. One or both of them had murdered Johnny’s first wife and gotten away with it for nearly a century.
Or maybe they had until now.
For a long moment the room was silent except for the whir of the blower forcing heat through the vents and the quiet hum of the refrigerator.
Then Quinn said in a tense voice, “What if Lucie’s right?”
“It was an accident,” Gino said. “So drop it, both of you.”
“Only because Johnny and Angelica said it was an accident,” Quinn said.
“I said, drop it.” Gino’s voice cracked like a whip.
“You at least ought to go to the police about someone blackmailing you,” I said to him. “Or the FBI. Extortion is a federal crime.”
Gino shot me an incredulous look. “I will do nothing of the kind. There’s no need for the police or anyone else to be involved.”
Quinn got up and raked his hands through his salt-and-pepper hair. “Oh, for God’s sake, cue The Godfather. You’re talking about omertà.” He walked over to the counter with its assortment of open bottles of wine. I thought he was going to pick up yet another bottle to polish off, but instead he seemed to collect himself before he came back and stood behind his chair, gripping the back of it with both hands. “Welcome to how the Tomassi family does business, Lucie. Justice the same way they took care of things in the old country. No need to bother with cops or any of that legal crap. It’s much more efficient when you handle things yourself, right, Gino?”
“You watch your smart mouth, Quinn. You’re damn right I’ll handle it myself.” Gino looked like he was a heartbeat away from coming off the couch at Quinn. “I hired an ex-cop, runs his own PI agency now. He’ll take care of this. My guy thinks we’re dealing with an amateur, maybe even someone just fishing. He’s asking for a quarter of a million dollars by Friday. He’ll let me know where and when.”
Quinn threw himself into his chair again and we exchanged looks. Gino could probably find that much cash behind the sofa cushions at home. We’d have to take out a loan, with the vineyard as collateral.
“You ought to be thanking me,” Gino said to Quinn. “I’m protecting you, too. Your reputation, your family’s honor.”
“You’re doing this for yourself. For the Tomassi Family Vineyard. You’d take a chain saw to my family’s branch of the family tree if you could.”
I didn’t like where this was going.
Whatever Gino’s private investigator had found out would be swept under the carpet—or more likely, buried forever. And what about the blackmailer? Would Gino teach him a lesson? Or her? Would he get his old friend the mob boss to take care of it? Was that what he meant by handling it?
“There’s something else,” Gino said to Quinn.
Quinn gave him a look full of contempt. “With you, Gino, there always is.”
Gino ignored him. “Your mother ended up with Angelica’s old steamer trunk, since your grandmother—Angelica’s daughter—got all of her mother’s jewelry and most of Angelica’s personal effects after she died.”
“What of it? Mom kept that trunk in our attic and used it to store her own things. For years she kept her wedding dress in it, until she finally gave it to Goodwill.”
“I know you sold your mother’s house a few months ago,” Gino said. “I told you I’ve been keeping an eye on you. So I was wondering, what happened to the trunk?”
I knew exactly what he was talking about. Quinn had shipped it to Virginia when he was still in California, a beautiful old steamer trunk of burnished wood, with leather straps, an elaborate brass lock, and a high-domed top. The intertwined initials APT were barely visible in faded gold. The shipping company had brought it to my house instead of Quinn’s, since there had been no one home at his cottage, and I’d phoned him to ask about it.
“Can’t you just accept the delivery?” he’d asked. “I’ll move it over to my place once I get back.”
But when he returned from California, we both thought he was going to move in with me, and so the trunk had stayed in the basement of Highland House, my home. Quinn, however, slowly but surely began finding reasons why he needed to sleep on the sofa in the office or at his cottage. The idea that we were going to live together went up in smoke, and neither of us had brought it up since then.
Quinn stared at Gino without batting an eye and said, “I shipped it here. Why? There’s nothing in it now except stuff that meant something to my mother, stuff she saved of mine, like my old report cards, school photographs. I think my high school yearbook is there, too.” He shrugged. “Unless you want the Tomassi christening gown.”
“That was handmade in Italy. Sure I want it,” he said. “What about Angelica’s photo album? The one with the pictures of Johnny and her after they first got married, the early days of the vineyard, and my father and your grandmother when they were kids.”
A muscle moved in Quinn’s jaw. “What about it?”
“So you do have it.” Gino sounded pleased. “I’d like it. It should be at the vineyard, since it’s part of our history. I’ll pay you for it if you want.”
“Don’t insult me. What else, Gino? I know you. You want something else besides that album.”
Gino moved his wineglass around on the coffee table as if he were considering a move in a chess game. “You’re like your father. He had a good bullshit-detection meter, too.”
“I wouldn’t know. And leave him out of this.”
Gino stopped playing with his glass. “The blackmailer claims to have proof the baby lived. Maybe Angelica kept something. Maybe it’s still in the trunk.”
Quinn shook his head. “No one’s had access to it, so whatever it is, the blackmailer didn’t get it from me.”
“It’s in my basement,” I said. “Where it’s been ever since the movers delivered it from California last fall.”
“I’d like to look at the album, and I’m going to be here all week. I could send a courier to pick it up and bring it to my hotel in D.C. At least let me have the pictures duplicated. I’ll return it before I leave.”
Quinn shrugged. “I’ll think about it.”
“What are you doing in Washington that keeps you here for a week?” I asked.
“Meeting with my East Coast distributors. On Thursday and Friday, I’m at a conference for Custodei Fidei, the Guardians of Faith, at Catholic University,” he said. Then he added, like it was an afterthought, “The Italian prime minister is in town and there’s a state dinner at the White House tomorrow, so I’ll be going to that.”
“Dinner at the White House,” I said. “That ought to be nice.”
“Yeah,” he said. “It ought to.”
I thought he sounded the teensiest bit smug about dining with the president. But Quinn had latched on to something else. “The Guardians of Faith? I forgot you were mixed up with that bunch of right-wing fanatics.”
I knew I shouldn’t wade into this one, considering the level of combustibility in the room, but I did anyway. “Who are they?”
Before Gino could answer, Quinn said, “A bunch of neoconservative Catholics who took over the old Angwin Winery in Napa and formed an evangelical think tank. They’re worried the world’s going to hell in a handbasket and it’s their duty to prevent that from happening.”
“The Custodei Fidei,” Gino said in a clipped, tight voice, “brings together senior business, government, and religious leaders to have a thoughtful dialogue on topical social and moral issues viewed through the lens of the Catholic faith.”
“What that means in English,” Quinn said to me, “is that they take their name seriously as guardians of the true faith, keeping the wicked world at bay. When I was in California last year, I saw articles in the Mercury News about their annual conference at the winery over the summer. The people who show up there believe it’s their sacred mission to do something about the decline of modern society by upholding traditional family values, which are also in the toilet.” He turned to Gino. “Which is why this blackmail couldn’t come at a worse time, airing all the Tomassi’s family’s dirty laundry, could it? I heard that you’re in line to become the next president. How do you think the board of trustees, which includes a couple of bishops, if I remember right, would feel about appointing you as their next leader if they knew your little secret?”
Gino’s face turned that mottled shade of red again, as if his blood pressure was off the chart. “Don’t you screw with me. Do you understand?”
“In addition”—Quinn continued talking to me, as if Gino hadn’t spoken—“there’s the Bellagio deal. I heard rumors when I was in California and then I saw the article in the latest issue of Decanter. Gino and Dante Bellagio are planning on going into partnership together, looking to buy a vineyard in Napa and start a new label like Bob Mondavi and Philippe Rothschild did with Opus. Another Tomassi heir in the picture would complicate that deal, too.”
Dante Bellagio was a wealthy Italian count who owned the largest winemaking conglomerate in Italy. One of his relatives was an influential cardinal at the Vatican. A daughter owned a fashion house with her own label in Milan. If Bellagio and Tomassi established a vineyard together in California, it would be an especially sweet deal for Gino, since Italian wines already made up the largest share of American wine imports. Plus, thanks to Dante’s reputation and clout, Tomassi wines would gain name recognition in Italy.
“I am through here.” Gino stood and pulled on his coat with sharp, angry motions. “The two of you will treat this conversation with the sanctity of the confessional. Do you understand? Because if you ever—I mean ever—repeat a word of what was said in this room, I will personally make you sorry you did.”
“I’m already sorry,” Quinn said.
“Please leave,” I said.
“You heard her,” Quinn told him. “Get out.”
Gino slammed the door, and the room reverberated with the sound. A moment later his footsteps clattered down the metal staircase, followed by the whomp of the heavy barrel room door as it closed. I picked up the wineglasses with shaking hands and carried them over to the sink to wash them.
I looked over at Quinn to see if he’d noticed how rattled I was, but he’d thrown himself on the couch and was lying on his back, shielding his eyes with the back of his hand.
When I finished the dishes, I dried my hands on a dish towel and leaned against the counter. I felt calmer, but I was still angry.
Gino was gone. Good riddance.
“Hey,” I said, “are you all right?”
“Are you kidding me?” Quinn uncovered his eyes and sat up, swinging his legs around so his work boots hit the floor. “I’m sorry you had to witness that. Gino’s a real piece of work.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I had no idea you were related to the Tomassis. Why didn’t you tell me?”
He gave me a warning look. “Aw, come on. Don’t go there, Lucie.”
“Why not?”
“Just—don’t.”
“Quinn—”
“Then tell me this,” he said, his eyes challenging. “Would it have mattered, made a difference to you in any way about my competence in this job?”
I took too long to answer.
“I thought so,” he said, getting up. “Now you know why I didn’t tell you.”
I walked over and stood in front of him. “I don’t want to get into an argument with you over this,” I said. “Please. Especially after that awful scene with Gino.”
“Then forget about it. Forget Gino, forget Zara and Johnny and Angelica. Forget my family. I’m sure as hell going to.”
“No you’re not.” We were venturing into territory that always got us in trouble, but I couldn’t stop. “You can’t keep running away from things … from people. Including your family.” I took a deep breath. “From people who care about you.”
He gave me a searing look. “Are we still talking about Gino? In case you hadn’t noticed, neither he nor I would spit if the other one was on fire.”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” I turned to go, and he grabbed my arm. “I’m going over to the villa to take care of some paperwork. I need to talk to Frankie. Let’s drop this conversation, okay? I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
He released my arm. “Fine by me,” he said. “Whatever you say.”
I turned and walked out of the office. When I got to the stairs, I was so upset that I nearly missed the step again, grabbing the railing before I stumbled. It wasn’t fine by Quinn. None of this was fine. Gino Tomassi’s visit here had opened up a Pandora’s box of trouble for all of us, and somehow I knew there would be more to come.
Much more.