The Chardonnay Charade Read Online Free PDF Page A

everyone. Then she left with Hugo Lang.”
    Bobby rolled his eyes. “He was the last person you saw with her before she got popped? Aw, jeez. A U.S. senator. Just what I need. Where was Ross?”
    Popped. I winced. “He got called away early. One of his patients went into labor. He was out all night delivering twins.”
    Bobby wrote in the notebook. “What time did he leave?”
    I tried to remember. Last time I’d seen him he’d been talking to Siri Randstad, the clinic’s executive director.
    “I think it might have been when the band finished their last set. So around ten-thirty.”
    “I need a guest list,” Bobby said. “Everyone who was there. Also waiters, waitresses. And anyone you got working at the vineyard.”
    “The guest list is in my office at the winery. Quinn has the information on our workers and the day laborers. Dominique can tell you about the catering staff.”
    “Anybody else I missed? You have any music or entertainment?”
    “Randy Hunter’s band played all night.”
    Bobby looked up from his notes. “You kiddin’ me? No offense, but what’s a redneck band doing playing for that kind of fancy-dress crowd?”
    “Georgia set it up,” I said. “Randy did it for free because it was good exposure, plus it was for charity.”
    “She did, did she? All right. Anything else I should know?” When I hesitated, he added, “Make my job easy, Lucie. If you don’t tell me, I’ll find out anyway.” He tapped his pen on the notebook.
    “Harry Dye got drunk and gave Georgia a piece of his mind.”
    “Talk to me.”
    “She and Hugo Lang went up onstage during one of the band’s breaks so she could announce that he was endorsing her for state senate.”
    “Harry went with them?”
    “No, of course not. Actually…” I stopped.
    He was right on top of me. “Yeah? What?”
    “Harry’d just finished having it out with Randy. Then Georgia started to talk and Harry started in heckling her. Something about, ‘Gals like you ought to stay home where you belong instead of trying to mind everybody else’s business.’”
    “You mean he had words with Georgia and Randy? Jeez. What’d he say to Randy?”
    “I didn’t hear.”
    “All right. Go on about Georgia.”
    “It was over pretty quickly. The place went completely quiet, then Georgia told him he’d obviously had one too many drinks and that he wasn’t a good advertisement for his own vineyard,” I said. “Polite, but you could tell she was ready to rip his insides out and tie them in a knot. Luckily, a couple of the Romeos hauled Harry out of there right away. I think they took him home.”
    The Romeos were a group of retired businessmen whose name stood for “Retired Old Men Eating Out.” Patrons of a grateful network of local restaurants and cafés, they played poker, solved the world’s problems, and, along with Thelma Johnson, who owned the general store, were the richly vibrant source of local information otherwise known as gossip. In Atoka the six degrees of separation rapidly compressed to two.
    “Which Romeos?” Bobby asked.
    “Austin Kendall and Seth Hannah.”
    He noted that, then said, “You got any idea what Georgia would be doing on your service road in the middle of the night?”
    “No. It’s not open to the public unless it’s apple-picking season. The only people who used it yesterday were the caterers and the people who brought in the tents. The guests came by the main road and parked in the winery parking lot. Then they walked to the Ruins.”
    “Everybody leave the way they came?”
    “I’m not sure, since I took off around midnight. But usually once the guests leave, the staff takes Sycamore Lane. The service road’s full of potholes. If you don’t know where they are—especially in the dark—it’s hard on your alignment.”
    He shut the notebook. “I’d appreciate having that guest list. My officer will drive you over to the winery.”
    “Okay if I take my car?” I asked. “It’s over by