Since in addition to not telling me what the problem was, Mother also hadn’t told me precisely where it was, I headed for the entrance closest to Genette’s booth. Good call. As soon as I walked in, I could see that Genette’s booth was in disarray, with half of its contents missing and the other half askew. But before I wasted too much time wondering what kind of misguided burglar would target her booth with so many better vineyards all around her to choose from, Genette stood up behind the chrome and Plexiglas counter. She was holding one of her little decorative tangles of barbed wire in her left hand and staring at it reproachfully, while sucking a small bleeding wound on her right hand.
“This is impossible!” she wailed.
If anyone else in the tent had uttered such a cry of despair, they would have been surrounded instantly with sympathetic ears and helping hands. I glanced around to see that everyone in the nearby booths was studiously busy.
I strolled over to Dorcas’s booth.
“We thought someone should know,” she said, sotto voce. “On the one hand, we’re all thrilled at the idea of being rid of her. But if she’s the killer and is going on the lam…”
I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the chief.
“Yes?” He sounded annoyed, but not necessarily at me.
“I wouldn’t interrupt you, except I thought you might be interested in the fact that Genette Sedgewick seems to be packing to leave,” I said. “The new girlfriend of your murder—”
“I know who she is,” he said. “Blast! She’s not local, is she?”
“No,” I said. “She’s from … I can’t remember where—near Culpeper? Or maybe near Charlottesville? Near something with a ‘C’. Not Caerphilly, though, and it’s at least an hour away, whatever it is.”
“Don’t try to detain her. But keep an eye on her till I can get there.”
“Roger.” I hung up and looked around for something to do that would keep me unobtrusively busy near Genette’s booth. Just then she spotted me.
“There you are!” she exclaimed, as if she’d been searching for me for hours. “I need help!”
“Lucky you,” Dorcas murmured, as I strolled away from her booth toward Genette’s.
“What’s wrong?” I asked Genette.
“I need to leave,” she said. “And I don’t have anyone to help me take down my booth and pack my stuff.”
She stood there, blinking slightly, and pouting, but no longer anxious. Instead, her face wore a look I’d seen often enough on the faces of my nieces and nephews, and lately even my own little sons: the trusting yet slightly petulant look of someone who has handed her problems over to the proper authority and expects to have them solved.
And solved now. As I stood there, almost admiring her nerve, I could see her foot was beginning to tap.
“You’d like to hire someone to help you?” I said. “I can ask around and see if—”
“‘Hire someone’?” she echoed. “Don’t you have bellhops who can do that for me?”
“No,” I said. “Hotels have bellhops. We have an all-volunteer staff who are already pulling double shifts, thanks to the thefts and the vandalism and the—other unfortunate events.”
At the last minute I stopped myself from actually uttering the word “murder.” After all, however much I might disapprove of her relationship with a man who was still legally married to one of my friends, she had lost someone very close to her. Or at least someone whose usefulness she’d miss.
Unless, of course, she’d killed him. In which case, wouldn’t she be suffering from guilt and anxiety?
I didn’t see any signs.
“This is ridiculous,” she snapped. “How am I supposed to get my stuff home?” She threw up her hands in a gesture that smacked more of annoyance than despair.
“How did you get it here in the first place?” I was curious to hear how she’d answer.
“Brett handled all that,” she said. “And now that he’s gotten himself killed, what am I supposed to do?”
Gotten himself killed. Talk about blaming the victim. I was tempted to turn on my heels and leave her to handle her own problem. But I realized that getting her out of the pavilion would have an immense positive effect on the other winemakers’ morale. And I could steer the business to Randall’s cousin who owned the Shiffley Moving Company.
“As I said, we don’t have staff to handle load-ins and load-outs,” I said aloud. “That’s clearly stated on the exhibitor’s contract. Ordinarily, there would be nothing I could do. But given the unusual circumstances, I would be willing to help by seeing if I can find some workmen you can hire to pack for you.”