The Merlot Murders by Ellen Crosby Page B

know anything yet?”
    “About what?” Eli said. “What are you talking about?”
    “When the police scanner’s not working,” Kit said, “we get our information from jungle drums.”
    She was a reporter with the Washington Tribune, an ascending star who’d been working in D.C. on the national desk until her mother had a stroke. From one day to the next she asked to be assigned to the regional bureau in Leesburg to be closer to home.
    A lot of people thought it was a demotion, criticizing her for what they said was a self-inflicted wound that was going to stall out her career. Kit told them to go to hell.
    “One of our guys found Fitz inside one of the stainless-steel tanks. It had been purged,” I said.
    “Oh my God.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a reporter’s notebook. “Put that away,” Eli said. “This is a private matter.”
    “Like hell it is, Eli. Fitz was a nationally prominent chef.”
    “You’re doing a story?” I asked.
    “Yeah. For the National desk. Metro’s pretty ticked off because they wanted it, but, hey, like I said, Fitz was well known. And, um, cause of death is, well…”
    “Get out of here, Kit,” Eli said. “You’re trespassing.”
    Kit walked over to him and fingered the collar of his polo shirt. “Peach, hunh? New color for you. Kind of feminine, but it suits you.”
    The sound of the barrel room’s large hangar door opening behind us cut off Eli’s reply. Two paramedics wheeled out a stretcher with a body bag strapped to it. Bobby walked behind them, looking grim. No one spoke as they crossed the courtyard and loaded Fitz into the waiting ambulance.
    I pulled out Eli’s handkerchief yet again. Kit put her arm around me and the coil of her reporter’s notebook dug into my shoulder.
    Bobby walked over to us after the ambulance moved slowly off in the darkness. “Hey, Kit,” he said. “You here on business or as a friend of the family?”
    “Both.”
    “Public affairs will have a statement. Probably tomorrow morning.”
    “I need something tonight, Bobby.”
    He chewed his gum for a moment, like a cow ruminating. “Sorry. No can do.”
    She closed her notebook. “Off the record? Come on. Fitz was a friend.”
    He chewed some more, then said, “Your word?”
    Kit nodded.
    “I wouldn’t tell her anything,” Eli said stiffly.
    Bobby stared at him, then flipped open his own notebook. “Looks like Fitz might have surprised someone in the middle of a robbery. One of the workers didn’t show up today. A couple of the men say he left the camp they have near Winchester and no one’s seen him since last night. Santini said he had the payroll money in a safe in that lab he’s got next to the barrel room since today is payday. Picked it up from the bank yesterday because he didn’t want to mess with it on the day of Leland’s funeral. A couple of the guys from the crew were there when he locked it up, including the guy who’s missing. Name of Zeus.” He looked up.
    “So how did Fitz end up in the tank?” I asked.
    “I’m getting to that part,” he said. “Don’t rush me.”
    “Sorry.”
    “We think someone might have forced him into the tank,” he said. “The guys are checking for prints and going over everything. One of your hammers is missing from that pegboard you got with all your tools. Neat idea to draw an outline of everything so you know where stuff belongs.” He sounded approving. “Could be it’ll turn up somewhere and someone just forgot to put it back, but we found evidence of blunt trauma to the head. The hammer could have been used as a weapon, but that’s just speculating.”
    “Oh my God,” I said.
    “Enough of a blow to kill him?” Kit asked. “Do you think he was dead before someone put him in the tank?”
    He shrugged. “Dunno. The ME will let us know when they do the autopsy.”
    “Who would want to do that?” I asked. “Why Fitz?”
    “Sounds pretty random to me,” Eli said. “Wrong place, wrong