The Hen of the Baskervilles(16)

So did Mother. Even though she was theoretically also in charge of the quilt and pie barn, good luck ever finding her there short of a disaster like this morning’s quilt theft. She preferred the more elegant company of the winemakers.

“Meg, dear,” she said, when I strolled into the tent. “What’s wrong? Are the boys all right?”

“They’re fine,” I said. “Michael will probably bring them by to see you later.”

“More unpleasantness, then?”

“No more thefts or vandalism as far as I know,” I said. “But a friend of mine has a problem.”

I glanced around to make sure no one else was nearby and then relayed Molly’s situation to her as succinctly as I could.

“The poor dear!” she exclaimed. “You’re right—we simply must do something.”

“Shall I tell her to come and talk to you?”

“Good heavens, no,” Mother said. “I’ll make a few calls and then go over and talk to her. She wouldn’t want to come here.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Don’t you realize—never mind. You need to see for yourself what the poor girl is up against. Follow me.”

Mother swept through the tent, giving the impression that her simple day dress came with an invisible train and possibly a tiara. She exchanged cheerful greetings with most of the arriving winemakers, and even air kisses with some of the women. I followed in her wake, hoping to pass unnoticed and avoid another round of interrogations about fair security.

“Here we are,” Mother said, stopping at one of the booths. “Don’t mind us, Dorcas,” she stage-whispered to the woman behind the counter. “I just wanted Meg to get a good look at her.”

“Be my guest,” Dorcas murmured. “And if you block my view, all the better.”

“Her?” I asked.

“Genette Sedgewick,” Mother said. “The Other Woman.”





Chapter 8

“Other woman?” I repeated. “Oh! You mean Molly’s husband’s new—”

“Precisely.” Mother didn’t point, or even move her head, but she indicated, with her eyes, the booth diagonally across from Dorcas’s. Then she and Dorcas and the winemaker from the booth next door began talking in low voices. I turned around, pretending to be waiting for them to finish, and studied the Other Woman’s booth.

It was jarringly out of place. Some of the booths were fairly plain. Most echoed either the Mediterranean or the Palladian theme, whichever prevailed at their end of the tent. Or perhaps Mother had anticipated the booths—she had a keen appreciation of good wine, and had probably already seen the different winemakers’ booths at other festivals—and visited their vineyards, too. And had designed the wine pavilion to coordinate with them.

Genette’s booth was … well … loud. It was made of chrome with panels of translucent acrylic or opaque plastic in a variety of harsh, garish colors that clashed horribly with each other, like mustard yellow and bubblegum pink, which seemed to be her signature colors. The booth did provide a perfect background for her wine bottles, whose labels featured the same horrible colors in a jagged abstract design. I’d seen better artwork from Josh and Jamie, and they weren’t even three yet. The booth had little alcoves here and there, each displaying a single wine bottle with a couple of wineglasses in colors that matched the labels—where on earth would anyone find mustard-yellow wineglasses? Tucked in with the wine bottles and glasses were peculiar decorative elements, like small trays made of rough-cut trapezoids of corrugated sheet metal, little tangles of barbed wire, and angular bouquets of short PVC pipes. Some enormous letters sprawled across the back panel of the booth, probably spelling out the name of her winery, but in such an odd, jagged typeface that I couldn’t actually read it. Two rectangular blocks constructed entirely of black metal and industrial steel grating jutted out into the aisles, impeding traffic. The lighting, a combination of neon and bare lightbulbs, didn’t help.

“We made her turn off the blinking lights,” Dorcas murmured.

“And the music,” Mother added, with a shudder.

Genette herself stepped into view. She was talking on a cell phone, and not, apparently, enjoying her conversation. She was pushing forty, but trying her best to look on the sunny side of twenty. Blond, but probably not by nature. On the slender side, but not nearly enough for the short, tight, bright red dress she was wearing. Considering how she was snarling and gesticulating at the phone, I found it astonishing how serene her face was. After a few moments it occurred to me that perhaps she’d had Botox.