Free The Riesling Retribution by Ellen Crosby

to calm him down.”
    “You don’t think they’ll cancel, do you?”
    “Nope. They just want to know if they need to adjust their plans.”
    “Want me to come along?”
    “I can handle it, but thanks anyway. Go home and get some rest. You sound beat.”
    “Yeah, guess I am.” He paused. “All right. Wait a minute. Tyler wants to know if he can come, too. He wants to meet the Union guy.”
    B.J. once explained to me the three main reasons people got involved in Civil War reenacting. Either they were so fascinated by a period in history they wanted to experience it as fully as possible, something akin to time traveling, or they were like boys with toys—men who liked shooting guns and playacting war. The third reason fell somewhere between the first two and had to do with teaching the next generation about a time in our history when America had gone to war with itself. It also was a way of honoring those who had given their lives for what they believed was a worthy cause. Tyler got involved for reasons one and two. He became interested in the Ball’s Bluff reenactment soon after he started working at the vineyard and signed up with B.J’s home unit, Company G of the 8th Virginia Infantry.
    “If you don’t need Tyler—” I began.
    “Oh, believe me,” Quinn said, “he’s done here.”
    I decided not to pursue that. “Tell him to meet me in the parking lot in fifteen minutes. I’m on my way to the equipment barn to get one of the Mules.”
    “I think Chance is over there,” he said, “fixing a broken weed whacker. Do me a favor and tell him he needs to start answering his phone. I’ve been trying to reach him for the last hour.”
    “Maybe he doesn’t get service there.”
    Quinn snorted. “We’re missing the dodine and I want to do the bâttonage tomorrow on the Cab and Merlot. Tyler says he has no clue what happened to it. Maybe Chance stashed it somewhere.”
    A dodine was a stirring paddle used to move around the lees, or sediment, in wine barrels and looked like a long metal pole with a small propeller attached at the bottom. Once it was lowered inside the barrel it whirred away, stirring up everything much like shaking a carton of pulpy orange juice after it sat in the refrigerator for a while. Quinn believed in frequent bâttonages, or barrel stirrings,for both reds and whites. He said it yielded better results, softening the red tannins, deepening the aromas and flavors, and making a creamier, smoother wine.
    A broken weed whacker and a missing dodine. Was Quinn right that we had more than our usual share of bad luck and trouble?
    “I’ll speak to Chance.” I sighed. “How could something as big as the dodine go missing?”
    “That’s what I’d like to know.” His words were clipped. It sounded like he blamed Chance again.
    “Okay,” I said, but he’d already disconnected.
    The simmering headache behind my eyes began to throb. When I got nearer to the equipment barn, the thudding bass from a boom box turned up loud enough to make the ground pulse beneath my feet mirrored the pounding in my head. Chance didn’t notice me until I tapped his arm. Bruja, improbably, was sound asleep but her front paws covered her ears.
    “Can you turn that down?” I mouthed at him.
    He went over and hit the power switch. The silence seemed to fill the space between us and Bruja raised her head, her tail thumping.
    “Now I know why you didn’t answer Quinn’s phone calls. Next time, at least set your phone to vibrate.”
    He smiled his mesmerizing smile and pulled the phone out of his pocket. “Battery’s run down. I forgot to recharge it last night. What does Quinn want?”
    His eyes held mine, friendly, questioning, with a hint of suggestiveness in them. I needed to get the conversation directed back to business.
    “The dodine’ s missing. He’s wondering if you know where it is.”
    I pawed through the key cabinet until I found the key to the red Mule. It wasn’t on the hook where it