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right now they’re only separated,” I said.
    â€œThe jerk,” Dorcas muttered.
    â€œPrecisely.” Mother’s voice dripped with icy disapproval.
    â€œAnd Mother, before you ask,” I went on. “I don’t think we can enforce a rule against adultery in the wine pavilion next year, but we can misplace Genette’s application for a booth until all the spaces are taken.”
    â€œThank you, dear.” Mother was almost purring with satisfaction.
    â€œGreat idea,” Dorcas said. “Wish you’d known her well enough to do it this year. Of course, I’m hoping she’ll get bored with her vineyard by next fall.”
    â€œYeah,” her neighbor put in. “She bought it almost three years ago now. It only took her two years to get tired of running that restaurant she bought in Middleburg.”
    â€œAnd before that, three years to give up on being a world-famous fashion designer,” Dorcas said. “Wonder what her next hobby will be?”
    â€œShe seems to have expensive hobbies,” I said. “Where does she get the money?”
    â€œInherited it, or so I heard,” Dorcas said. “Her family must have been really loaded.”
    â€œWasn’t her family, from what I heard,” the other winemaker said. “Came from her late husbands—two of them, both with big wallets and weak hearts.”
    â€œSounds plausible,” Dorcas said. “However she got her hands on her money, she certainly never seems to have a problem paying for what she wants.”
    Genette and Brett finally tired of their exhibition. She fussed over his hair, straightened the collar of his shirt, topped off his wineglass, and waved like a housewife in a fifties sitcom as he ambled off.
    Then she turned around, scanned her surroundings, and spotted me. Her face twitched slightly, in what I realized would have been a frown if her forehead could move. Then she pasted an artificial smile on her face and gestured to me in much the way an impatient diner would summon an errant waiter.
    â€œUh-oh,” Dorcas said. “You’ve been summoned.”
    â€œDon’t let her bully you,” the other winemaker said.
    â€œMeg will be fine.” Mother smiled encouragement at me.
    Armed with that vote of confidence, I strolled over to Genette’s booth.

 
    Chapter 9
    â€œFinally,” she said, as if she’d summoned me hours ago. “I need to talk to someone about getting my music back.”
    â€œI can check with our lost and found,” I said, pretending to misunderstand her. “Are we talking sheet music or CDs or—”
    â€œI haven’t lost my CDs,” she said. “But that woman made me stop playing them!”
    She was pointing to Mother.
    â€œYes, she’s in charge of the wine pavilion,” I said. “And you do realize that we have a rule prohibiting anything that interferes with your neighbors’ ability to do business in their booths, right?”
    â€œBut music wouldn’t interfere,” she protested. “It would liven things up around here. I mean, look at this place! It’s dead in here.”
    I looked. Considering that it was barely a quarter to eleven in the morning—not a time of day I, at least, associated with drinking wine—the tent was pretty busy. A fair number of visitors were already strolling up and down the aisles, or stopping to talk to the winemakers. You could hear the occasional pop of a cork or clink of a glass, and the conversations blended into a pleasant hum, occasionally punctuated by laughter.
    â€œSounds fine to me,” I said.
    â€œMaybe for a morgue. Check this out.” She turned around, punched a button, and a tsunami of noise erupted from the two speakers that had been masquerading as ugly occasional tables. It sounded as if someone were torturing half a dozen cats by throwing them onto drums, into trash cans, and through a couple of