Free The Riesling Retribution by Ellen Crosby Page A

belonged. Nor were most of the other keys. I began moving them to the correct hooks.
    “That barrel stirrer? Sorry, no idea,” he said. “I haven’t seen it for a couple of days.”
    “What’s wrong with the weed whacker? Whoever is using these keys needs to put them back properly. You can’t find anything here. It’s a mess.”
    “I’ll talk to the guys. And the weed whacker needs a new string. I’m replacing it.”
    I finished sorting the keys. “You’d better see Quinn before you leave tonight.”
    “I’d just as soon avoid him when he gets like this.”
    “Like what?”
    He was still smiling, but now his face showed genuine puzzlement. “Come on, Lucie. Don’t tell me you don’t know. I figured you’ve just been turning a blind eye to it all this time.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “The way he treats the crew. Me. How do you work with someone who’s so…” He shrugged.
    “So what?”
    He stared at his feet for a while, then looked up. “Abusive. That’s the only word I can think of to call it.”
    It stung like a slap. Quinn could be abrasive, even irritable and ornery. But I would never characterize him as abusive. That implied cruelty.
    “Quinn’s a good winemaker,” I said. “Sometimes he can be curt and maybe he’s short-tempered when the pressure’s on during harvest. But he’s harder on himself than he is on anyone else.”
    Chance shook his head like I didn’t get it.
    “Sorry. Not true. He’s really tough with the crew when you’re not around. You don’t see or know everything that happens.”
    I ran my finger over the notched edge of the ignition key.
    “I’m not blind to his faults. But in the two years he’s worked for me, I’ve never had a single complaint.”
    “You really want to take his side over something like this? Come on, Lucie.”
    He sounded almost jocular, as though he were trying to cajole me into something as innocuous as joining him for a drink, instead of indicting Quinn for violent behavior toward the men.
    “I just can’t believe—”
    “The guys won’t speak up about it, either. They’re scared of him.”
    My phone rang and “Hunt & Sons Funeral Home” flashed on the display. “Hang on, I’ve got to take this.”
    I opened my phone. “Hey, B.J. Yes, I’m on my way. Is Ray Vitale with you? He is? Give me two minutes…Right…’Bye.”
    I closed the phone and said to Chance, “Look, this is a pretty serious accusation. I’ve got to go, but we need to finish this conversation another time.”
    He stood there, holding the new line for the weed whacker, a flat, unreadable expression in his eyes. Disappointment in me? Disgust?
    Actually, it seemed like something else.
    “Sure,” he said. “We’ll talk whenever you want.”
    “Chance,” I pleaded with him. “I’m sorry but B.J. wants to calm down the guy in charge of the Union reenactors because he’s all freaked out about that grave. I need to take them out to the site.”
    “You’re the boss.” He picked up a rag and wiped grease off his hands.
    “You want me to tell Quinn you don’t know where the dodine is?”
    “That’s okay. I’ll talk to him. I’ll be over in a few minutes.”
    “Don’t worry. He won’t bite your head off.”
    “Unlike the day laborers, I can handle myself with Quinn.”
    He was still wiping his hands with the rag, no longer looking at me. I wanted to say something to end this conversation on a better note, but for the life of me, I couldn’t think of anything.
    Instead I turned and left, clenching the key until the hard edges dug into the palm of my hand.
    It was true that Quinn had become increasingly exasperated with the inexperienced day laborers who worked for us. Many had never worked in agriculture before and often didn’t seem to know what they were doing out in the field when it came to some of the tedious but necessary chores like leaf pulling or dropping fruit. Had the never-ending series of accidents and mistakes along