Death, Dismay and Rosé

by J. C. Eaton

  “Sure we do. Let the sheriff’s office handle it.”

  “Come on, you know as well as I do they’re not even considering another suspect. So, what do you say? Crack of dawn on Sunday?”

  “If it wasn’t Alex hanging on the line, I’d never agree to such a preposterous idea. In fact, I’m having second thoughts already.”

  Second thoughts. That’s good. That means he’s considering it.

  “Look, what’s the worst thing that can happen? They won’t let us in. Big deal. Lots of ways to get into a Glen race without passing through the official gates,” I said.

  “I honestly can’t believe you’re Francine’s sister.”

  “You, and most of the teachers at Penn Yan Academy. So, yes or no, are we in?”

  “I suppose. Define ‘crack of dawn’ for me. Last time it was ten in the morning on your time.”

  “I was still on New York City time. Get here early. Seven. Seven thirty the latest. Meet me at the winery. I’ll get some breakfast rolls and coffee from the bistro. Fred and Emma are there before five.”

  “I’ve got a knot in my stomach thinking about this.”

  “Don’t worry. It will go off without a hitch. I’ll fill you in on all the details that transpired with Don and Theo when we ride over there on Sunday. I’ll also tell you about the winemakers dinner, although there probably won’t be much to tell except to describe the food.”

  “Good. At least we’ll have one topic of conversation that doesn’t involve a whole lot of drama.”

  “Admit it. Your life has become a heck of a lot more interesting since I arrived.”

  “If you’re asking, Am I buying more Tums? The answer is yes. In bulk.”

  At least Godfrey agreed to accompany me to the raceway even though it was a day later than I would have liked. I wanted to nab Vance’s killer prior to the actual race in case it turned out to be a messy, time-consuming deal. Now I’d have to settle for pointing the finger at the culprit with a clock ticking and the words down to the wire spinning in my head.

  With the list of vintage car drivers now on my iPhone screen, I reached for a napkin and begin to write down the names of the ones who were racing Porsches, a popular choice along with Jaguars, MG’s, Ferraris, and Corvettes. Too bad I wasn’t looking for a Lotus, Shelby or Alfa Romeo because there were only a few of those.

  My list consisted of nine names, and that meant nine separate Google searches. The last thing I felt like doing. And the last place I felt like doing it was at the winery, where I’d be interrupted.

  I took a long last sip of my Coke before leaving the bistro, waving goodbye to the otherwise occupied tasting room workers, and headed directly home. Once comfortably ensconced on my couch, I began my Google search in earnest, starting with Connor Prendergast. It was a short search. He was from some town near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, that I had never heard of and had recently competed in the Pocono Raceway. Cross him off the list.

  Next was a woman—Trina Matthews. From North Carolina. I exed her off the list as well but made a mental note that her standing at the Florence Speedway in Timmonsville, South Carolina, was pretty darn good.

  Same deal with the next four names on the list—two from California, one from Florida, and one from Michigan. None of them anywhere near this little neck of the woods.

  With only three names to go, I wondered if I’d made a mistake thinking whoever stole Vance’s engine was a local driver.

  “If I pull up a big fat zero,” I said to Charlie, “then it’s all over for Alex.”

  The dog ambled over to the couch and gave me the paw treatment. He kept scratching my knee with his paw until I got up, went to the kitchen, and grabbed two doggie treats for him. Once back at the couch, I looked up the seventh name on my list—Augie Lennox. Alabama born and Tennessee raised. I drew a line through his name before bothering to see where he raced before.

  With only two names to go, I got really nervous. This wasn’t how I expected my Google search to go. Then again, in all the detective movies, the sleuth always found out who the killer was at the last minute. In this case, I didn’t.

  The last two names were drivers from Wisconsin and Tennessee. I let out a groan that could be heard across the lake. “If this doesn’t stink, Charlie, I don’t know what does.” I bent my head down and stared at the floor. The dog must have figured it was a golden opportunity for him because, having exhausted the paw treatment on my knee, he tried another tactic—bumping my head with his.

  “Aargh. All right. Give me a second.”

  I went back to the kitchen and brought the bag of all-natural grain-free dog treats with me to the couch. As I reached in to hand him one, I looked at the company information on the back of the bag and paused. It read “Boulder, Colorado,” and in big print, “All USA ingredients.” Same as always but with one difference. That particular company had been located in Buffalo, New York. I should know. I’d given Charlie lots of those treats in the past few months.

  Maybe Colorado offered them a better tax deal. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that I was still in the game. Unfortunately, it also meant I had to begin my search all over again, because whoever stole Vance’s car might have come from a different state, but they darned well could be living in New York at this time.

  It was after four and my brain felt like mush, but I had to expand my search, starting with Connor Prendergast from good old Pennsylvania. Wikipedia highlighted his driving career but not his personal life. I moved through social media as if I was on an archeological dig. First Facebook, then Twitter, and finally LinkedIn.

  “Well, isn’t that nice,” I told Charlie. “Thirty-year-old Connor lives outside of Pittsburgh with his young wife, Elinor. Guess we can toss him in the not-a-killer pile.”

  From Connor, I tortuously plowed through four more names, including Trina, and got nowhere. Unless developing a stiff neck counted for something. Sure, drivers had relocated, but none of them to New York. Still, I had four more names to go.

  Augie Lennox was a bust, but when I pulled up the information for another Pennsylvania driver, Kurt Sherry, I was stunned. His real name was Robert Kurtis Sherry but he had gone with Kurtis as his professional name. I said the name out loud as if to verify what I had discovered—Robert Sherry. R.S. The same initials on that restraining order in Vance’s notes. According to what he had written, too much had been invested already. Whatever that meant.

  Suddenly, I didn’t feel as wiped out as I had an hour ago. I tracked down Kurtis, aka Robert, Sherry like a bloodhound. A social media bloodhound who pored through friends of friends and all sorts of miscellaneous information until I got to that tiny bead I needed—finding out where he lived.

  Too bad that morsel of information left me no better off than where I was before. Kurtis Sherry lived in Towanda, Pennsylvania.

  Chapter 35

  “No sense calling this a day when I can aggravate myself with the last two names,” I said to Charlie. “And don’t think that means more treats for you.”

  The dog, who had rolled himself into a ball on the rug by the couch, looked up and then closed his eyes.

  The next hour went painstakingly slow. Mainly because I stopped every few minutes to sigh and rub my eyes. The other two drivers were from Wisconsin and Tennessee and nothing on their social media sites indicated they had moved to New York.

  It was after five and I felt as if I’d run a marathon but without all the fanfare. Not even someone to hand me a water bottle. I wasn’t sure how I was going to broach the subject with Godfrey on Sunday when I all but convinced him I’d have a definitive answer regarding Vance’s killer.

  Oh, I have a definitive answer all right—I don’t know.

  Unable to shake the feeling I was defeated, I went upstairs and took a cool shower. If nothing else, I felt somewhat refreshed. As I toweled off, something occurred to me. Sayre, Pennsylvania, was only an hour or two south of the Finger Lakes Region. That’s not a very far distance and certainly within reac
h of engine-swapping on Seneca Lake. With no other recourse, I figured Kurtis Sherry’s bay at the raceway would be Godfrey’s and my first step when we got in on Sunday. If we got in. It all depended on how convincing we were. Or, more specifically, if we didn’t muck it up.

  I threw on some frayed jeans and a T-shirt before heading downstairs to make myself something to eat. I was tired, cranky, and too darn lazy to defrost anything from the freezer. That left two choices—peanut butter and jelly on bread or peanut butter and jelly on a bagel. The bagel won out and dinner was served.

  Sunday seemed eons away and the thought of waiting to continue my so-called investigation made me edgy. I was positive I was missing something, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out what.

  For a millennial who prided herself on internet searches, I literally crashed and burned. So much for finding Hestherlee’s descendant or a race car driver who lived in close proximity to Seneca Lake, and more specifically, to Glen Foreign Motors.

  True, I had plenty of time to work on the never-ending Two Witches curse since next time around would be 2062, but Alex couldn’t wait. I brought my knife and plate to the sink and ran water over them. The sticky strawberry jelly was a pain in the neck to remove so I stood there for a while, letting the warm water trickle over my hands. My mind drifted as I absently reached for a sponge to wipe the knife.

  At least I’d be dining on gourmet food tomorrow night. Chilean sea bass and Malaysian tamarind prawn. I’d also have to listen to Madeline go on and on about having her porch extended. And then, in the instant I reached for a dish towel, something hit me—the conversation she had with her contractor.

  According to Cammy, who spoke with Madeline, the contractor said Vance had accepted all sorts of bribes to look the other way. What if one of them didn’t pan out and Vance double-crossed the homeowner? It was certainly a better motive for murder than getting into an argument with someone over interference with an insect study at Kashong Point.

  I caught my breath and grabbed the landline. Madeline’s number, along with all of the other winery numbers in our WOW group, was on speed dial.

  The words raced out of my mouth the second Madeline answered the phone. “Madeline. Hi. It’s Norrie. Can you give me the phone number for your contractor? The one who’s extending your porch.”

  “Oh, dear. What happened? A water leak? Dry rot?”

  “No, nothing happened, but I think your contractor might have an idea about who killed Vance Wexler.”

  “What? It’s Coby Construction. Out of Bellona. Bill Coby’s the owner. I don’t understand. How would he know who killed Vance?”

  “Um, I don’t think he knows in the actual sense of the word. More like having information that would lead to the killer.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “He may know who paid off Vance for approval from the historical society but got burned. It’s a hunch.”

  “Oh, goodness, Norrie. Please don’t tell him you heard that from me. I never should have mentioned it to your tasting room manager.”

  “Don’t worry. If what Vance did is common knowledge around here, Bill Coby won’t even ask.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right. Do you still need his number?”

  “Nah. It’ll be listed on the internet. Thanks, Madeline.”

  “Are you all set for tomorrow night? Cammy said someone will be bringing your wine over in the afternoon. Summer Magic, right?”

  “Uh-huh. A nice, breezy blend.”

  “I must say, this is one event I’m really looking forward to hosting. A manageable number of attendees, a renowned chef, and a weather forecast that can’t be beat. Not to mention the wines. Glorious summer wines. The perfect way to start the season.”

  “Um, this is my first winemakers dinner. I should have asked sooner. How dressy is it?”

  “Not formal or semi-formal, for that matter, but dressy enough. Like Easter Sunday at church. You do have something to wear, don’t you?”

  “Of course. Naturally.” Francine’s closet is a regular treasure trove of gauzy, frilly, flowery summer dresses. “I’m all set. Just didn’t want to overdress.” Like she’ll believe that.

  “Wonderful. See you tomorrow night.”

  I pulled up Coby Construction the second I ended the call with Madeline. It wasn’t quite seven so I took a chance and dialed Bill Coby’s number. He answered on the second ring.

  “Hi! This is Norrie Ellington,” I said, “from Two Witches Winery in Penn Yan. I hope I’m not calling you at an inconvenient time, but I really need to speak with you about time-sensitive information.”

  “Time-sensitive as in something’s falling down at your place?”

  “Um, no. This isn’t business-related. It’s personal. Well, not personal-personal, but not business.” Good grief. I’m rattling on like a teenager.

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  I took a breath and spoke slowly and succinctly. “Mr. Coby, a good friend of mine has been accused of a murder he didn’t commit. The murder of Vance Wexler from the Geneva Historical Society.”

  Bill Coby’s voice was calm and soft. “I’m familiar with Mr. Wexler. Go on.”

  “My friend is a noted entomologist at Cornell who happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. Well, not exactly. He was conducting a field study at Kashong Point when Vance showed up for some historical society arrowhead hunt and got into a verbal altercation with my friend. When Vance’s body was found, well, I guess you can figure the rest.”

  “That’s very unfortunate, Miss Ellington, but I don’t know how I can help you.”

  “First of all, I won’t tell anyone we had this conversation. Honest.” I took a breath and continued before I lost my nerve. “It’s no secret Vance took bribes from homeowners who wanted to remodel but needed approval from the historical society. I think one of them may have paid Vance but got stiffed in the end. Is there any way you would know who that could be?”

  “Okay. I know this isn’t client-patient confidentiality, but we have business ethics that we have to abide by as well.”

  “I understand. I really do. But we’re talking an innocent man who’s being framed or I wouldn’t ask.”

  There was a pause on the line and for a minute I was certain Bill Coby would end the call. I bit my lower lip and was about to put the phone down when he spoke.

  “I can give you the addresses of pending projects. Pending means prior approval from the historical society before a building permit can be issued. Then on to the village or city planning commission—Geneva, Canandaigua, Penn Yan . . . you get the idea.”

  “Um, if I understand you, there’s a possibility one of those pending projects was waiting for Vance’s stamp of approval.”

  “You understand correctly. Give me a few minutes and I can text you the information.”

  “Mr. Coby, I don’t know how to thank you. And I promise, I won’t breathe a word.”

  “You can relax. The information is not confidential. And please tell Madeline Martinez I said hello when you see her.”

  “Madeline. So you know?”

  “As soon as you said Two Witches Winery I knew Madeline must have spoken with you. Nice lady. And good luck, Miss Ellington. You’re doing a decent thing.”

  “Thanks. And call me Norrie.” It’s bad enough Deputy Hickman calls me Miss Ellington. “And if our winery or our house needs anything done, we’ll be sure to call you.”

  Bill Coby’s text message was on my phone a few minutes later. Three addresses with three separate projects. I figured if I couldn’t track down the Crackstones or snoop around at Watkins Glen International Raceway tomorrow, I could darn well pay a visit to those residences.

  Satisfied the day wasn’t a total disaster, I made myself some popcorn and scanned the DVR for a movie. That was the instant the landline rang. It read “private caller,” and I was half-tempted to ignore it.

  Too bad I didn’t. It was Zenora and she sounded as if she was in the m
idst of an allergy attack.

  Chapter 36

  “Norrie, is that you?”

  Of course it’s me. You just called here.

  “You sound terrible, Zenora. What’s going on?” And please don’t tell me you uncovered another branch on the ever-growing curse tree.

  “I had a spiritual reading this afternoon and my aura is dark. Darker than it’s ever been. My spiritualist believes it might have something to do with allowing the Crackstone family to enter my life.”

  Yikes. It’s not as if they’re entering her house unannounced with a passel of unruly kids.

  “Um, they’re dead, aren’t they? I mean, with the exception of the last descendant, and no one can figure out who that is, or if they’re even alive.”

  “It doesn’t matter. They’re linked to that curse and until we put an end to it, I’m afraid it’s too late. Once the forces of darkness take hold, it will take an act of epic proportions to set things right again.”

  My gosh. It’s beginning to sound like a Star Wars movie.

  “Sure. Fine. Is there anything you want me to do? I kind of reached a dead end tracking down the family.”

  “You might have reached a dead end but I didn’t. That’s why my aura is so dark and disturbing.”

  “You found them? You mean to tell me you found them?”

  “That’s the beauty and the curse of working in the library system. Someone always finds something. In this case, my friend from Boston got in touch with her, well, let’s just say her outreach circle of similar kindred spirits.”

  Kindred spirits my you-know-what.

  “Uh-huh. And then what?”

  Zenora wheezed a bit before she answered. And when she finally did answer my question, I almost started to wheeze as well.

  “There are Crackstones in our midst. From the original line. Hestherlee’s line.”

  “Who? Where?”

  “That part gets blurry. Toss in a few marriages and you’ve got name changes. I, for one, believe women should keep their maiden names.”