The Bordeaux Betrayal Read Online Free PDF Page A

didn’t realize.” Hernandez watched me. “All I wanted to do was get her out of the car.”
    “Right.” Hernandez indicated the Mini. “Is that your car over there?”
    “Yes.” Two officers stood next to it. I watched one of them lean over the windshield and write something down. Probably the VIN number.
    “Excuse me. You don’t think I—?” I stared at Deputy Hernandez. She gazed back clear-eyed, but I could tell she was still taking stock of my stunned reaction.
    “I’m sure you realize we need to check out every possibility,” she said. “One, you were on the scene. Two, you know the deceased.”
    “Do I need a lawyer?” I asked.
    “You’re not being charged with anything at this time. I understand you’re refusing to go to the hospital?”
    My paramedic nodded. “I dressed her injuries. She needs to take it easy for the rest of the day but she should be okay. And she shouldn’t be driving.”
    “An officer will take you home.” Hernandez stood up. “But it might be a while. Unless there’s someone you could call—a family member, maybe?”
    My waterlogged phone lay on the ground next to me. “Can I borrow your phone, please?”
    She handed it to me and I flipped it open, suddenly unsure whom to call. Hector was gone. If I asked my brother Eli he would moan, once he finally got here, that he really ought to be finishing a set of drawings for some building or the client would hit the roof and would I please not drip water or blood on the custom-leather seats of his precious Jaguar. My sister Mia was away at college in Harrisonburg.
    I started to dial Mick’s number and punched “end.” Hernandez watched me.
    “We can take you—”
    “Thanks. That won’t be necessary.” I called Quinn Santori, my winemaker. When he answered I said, “I’m in kind of a jam. Any chance of a lift home? A deputy from the sheriff’s department and a paramedic have told me I can’t drive.”
    He took a moment to reflect on that. “And I thought my day was bad with the pump acting up. Where are you?”
    He showed up in his metallic green El Camino ten minutes later, pulling in behind a crane and a flatbed truck with the Loudoun County Sheriff’s Department logo on it. As usual he was dressed in combat fatigues, an old Hawaiian shirt, and more jewelry than most women.
    Deputy Hernandez looked Quinn over. “That your ride?”
    “That’s my ride.”
    Shortly before my father passed away last year, he hired Quinn when our first winemaker, whom I adored, returned to France after suffering a small stroke. Quinn wouldn’t have been my first choice, probably not even my last. I knew he would have said the same about me. But in the past few months he’d finally stopped acting like everything I knew about wine-making could be summed up in ten minutes as long as I spoke slowly. And I finally got used to working with someone with the attitude of Dirty Harry and the sartorial taste of a thrift shop habitué.
    “What happened?” His face, to my surprise, looked pale under his fading summer suntan. “Are you all right?”
    I told him everything.
    “You went in the creek after that woman?” he said.
    “She was still in her car. I couldn’t just leave her there.”
    “You’ve got blood all over you. What happened?”
    “I slipped in the creek and a tree limb got in my way. I’ve got a few scratches on my back. Can we go now, please?”
    “Sit tight. I’ll have to carry you.”
    “I don’t need to be carried. I can walk just fine, if you can help me up. And maybe let me lean on your arm.”
    “Where’s your cane?”
    “Somewhere between here and Leesburg, depending on the creek.”
    He helped me up. My bad foot buckled and his arm went around my waist. “Stop being a martyr and let me carry you.”
    “I’ll be fine.”
    “Sure, jelly-legs. I’ve got half a mind to throw you over my shoulder.”
    “That would be a very bad decision on your part.” The faint scent of his favorite Swisher Sweet