The Chardonnay Charade by Ellen Crosby Page A

Noah Seely were hateful.”
    “Harry Dye got pretty upset with her at the fund-raiser the other night, too.”
    “I heard about that,” he acknowledged. “Good for Harry. Georgia lied about Noah being endorsed by that gay rights magazine, the one with those extreme ideas about marriage and legalizing drugs. Sure they supported Noah. Fifteen years ago when he was trying to get Virginia wildflowers planted along highways and roadsides. A whole different ball game.”
    “I remember that wildflower project,” I said. “My mother designed the poster for it.”
    “So she did,” Mac said, “now you mention it. Very classy. Just like your sweet momma, God rest her soul.”
    He laid a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Lucie, but I don’t know where Randy went. That’s what I told the sheriff. Trout are biting, though. Bass, too. He might have just picked up and gone fishing.”
    “Sure,” I said. “Maybe that’s just what he did.”
    “That’s all you wanted? Sure I can’t interest you in making a little purchase today?”
    “If I win the lottery, I’ll be back.”
    He laughed. “Hang on a sec. I got something that might be right up your alley. Just came in, too. Let me show you before you leave.” I followed him over to a trestle table where antique prints were arranged by subject in a row of toile-covered boxes. He went directly to the box labeled “Nature” and picked up two prints from the front of the stack.
    “Beautiful, aren’t they? Fellow just brought them in last week. Native Virginia wildflowers. Just what we were talking about. These two are probably mid-nineteenth century. Look at the colors, though. Still so vivid.”
    “Virginia bluebells! How pretty,” I said softly. “And a columbine! They are beautiful.”
    “Thought you’d like them,” he said. “There was a book, too, but I sold it almost as soon as I bought it.”
    “A book of prints like these? I wish I could have seen it.”
    “I can keep an eye out for something like it, if you want.”
    “I’d appreciate it,” I said. “How much for these?”
    “One-fifty for the pair. I can have them framed if you like,” he offered, adding gently, “I know you lost a lot of your mother’s paintings in the fire.”
    I bit my lip. “We tried to save what we could, but we did lose so much of her work. I think I’ll take them like they are, though. Quinn and I are looking for ideas for new wine labels. These prints would be great, as long as I can find a few others from the same era.”
    Mac looked mournful. “Shame about that book, then. Sounds like just what you needed. I’ll see what I can do for you, sugar.”
    I paid him and as he walked me to the front door, I brought the conversation back to Georgia. “I bet there’s a lot of speculation among the Romeos about who killed her.”
    It was all the opening he needed.
    “She riled a lot of people, Lucie. Including you vineyard folks. It sure would take the shine off your shoes if she’d gotten that dang-fool bill passed about vineyards going through wholesalers to sell their wine. I know she’s trying to keep kids from getting hold of alcohol so easily but I got one word for that. P-A-R-E-N-T-S.” He sounded like a church preacher getting ready to deliver a stem-winder. “Why should she rain on everyone else’s parade? You know that would be the death of the little vineyards. They bring in a lot of revenue from tourism and from selling wine. I rely on that kind of traffic. But then you got the other folks who still think it’s demon alcohol, or whatever, like Prohibition days. She’s talking their language. Or was.”
    “You think her death could have been politically motivated?”
    He folded his arms across his chest once again and drummed his fingers on his forearms. “Honey-child, when this all comes out in the wash, I bet we’re going to find that there was a lot more to who killed Georgia Greenwood than meets the eye.”
     
    When I got back to the Mini, I