The Riesling Retribution by Ellen Crosby Page A

wrists as I shampooed his hair and massaged his temples, as he had done with me. But this time there were no romantic overtones and we were back to our usual banter.
    “You look good from this angle,” he said.
    “Upside down?”
    “For some people, it’s their best side.”
    “Watch it. I control the water and you’re in a vulnerable place. By the way, you do a good job of covering that bald spot.”
    He jerked upright, splattering water down the front of my T-shirt and jeans. “What bald spot?”
    I laughed and eased him back in the chair. “Calm down. You’ve got more hair than a Chia Pet.”
    He chuckled and let me finish rinsing the shampoo out of his hair. When I was done, he sat up and I handed him my towel.
    “Sorry it’s so wet. I only brought one.”
    “It’s okay.” His eyes held mine. “I don’t mind at all.”
    At the far end of the barrel room, the outside door opened and closed. A woman’s voice said, “Knock-knock? Hello?”
    “Sorry, we’re closed,” Quinn said. He threw the towel on the workbench and headed toward the front door, trying to pull on his shirt, which had gotten tangled up in itself. I shoved the shampoo under the towel and followed him.
    A waiflike blonde with a boyish haircut, jet-black eyebrows, and exotic cheekbones waited by the door, hands in the back pockets of jeans that looked like she’d painted them on. Red high-top sneakers and a bright yellow tank top that didn’t meet the waistline of her jeans. She looked about sixteen. Her gaze traveled from Quinn to me, taking stock of our wet hair and water-stained clothes.
    Quinn still hadn’t managed to get his shirt completely untangled. I reached over and tugged on it as our visitor watched, an amused smile creeping into her eyes.
    “We’re, ah, definitely closed,” I said.
    “I apologize for…interrupting,” she said. “But a blond woman in the other building told me I could find the owner here. And I didn’t come to buy wine.” She zeroed in on me. “Lucie Montgomery?”
    “Yes?”
    She held out her hand. “Savannah Hayden. I work for the medical examiner. I need access to the site where those remains were recovered. Thought I’d stop by and let you know I’ll be out there for a while.”
    I froze, with my hand half outstretched toward hers. “Is something wrong? Detective Noland told me last night they were finished.”
    Her voice was cool. “Maybe Detective Noland was finished, but I’m not. I need to take another look around and resurvey the area.” She clasped my hand and shook it. “I trust there’ll be no problem with that.”
    “Are you a doctor, Savannah…Miss Hayden?”
    “Not an MD,” she said. “But it is Dr. Hayden. I have a PhD in forensic anthropology.” She looked over at Quinn, who had not taken his eyes off her since she’d introduced herself.
    “What did they miss?” he asked. “It must be important or the medical examiner would be doing this. They wouldn’t have sent a forensic anthropologist.”
    Savannah’s smile was tolerant, but it looked like she appreciated the shrewdness of Quinn’s remark. “I’m sorry, Mr….?”
    “Quinn Santori.”
    “Mr. Santori. I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation. But I need to see the site so I can put things in context.”
    “I’m not sure how much context you’re going to get,” I said. “The bones were already scattered when I discovered the grave the other day. That was before Bobby Noland and his deputies spent all day yesterday digging the place up.”
    She folded her thin arms across her chest. “I understand. Still, it’s possible to learn a lot from visiting the site.” She shrugged. “Maybe I’m looking for different things than they were.”
    “Like what?” I asked. “Generally speaking, that is.”
    “Generally speaking, you’d be surprised what can be determined by knowing the orientation of a body in the surroundings where it’s found. Was it on a hill or in the woods? Facing which way? How