by J. C. Eaton
I took a step forward and nudged Stephanie a few inches to my left. Then I looked directly at Hortensia. “You must be referring to the Chocolate and Wine Competition. It’s the culminating event for the Seneca Lake Wine Trail’s Chocolate and Wine Extravaganza. Our winery, Two Witches, is also hosting.”
Hortensia didn’t as much as bat an eyelash. “Yes. I’ve had the pleasure of making the acquaintance with one of the chocolatiers who is also staying at my hotel. Fascinating profession, I must say.”
At that moment, the department chair who’d introduced Hortensia to the audience rushed onto the stage. “Ms. Vermeulen cannot be kept much longer. Please visit her website with your questions and comments.”
He took Hortensia by the elbow and ushered her off stage. I waited until they were out of sight and then mouthed the question, “Was it her?” to Stephanie.
“Look around, Norrie. Everyone’s left the lecture hall. They probably set a world’s record for fastest exit in history. And yes, it was her. It was absolutely her!”
“How can you be sure?”
“You can’t fake the shape of your ears and that’s something I noticed when I watched her break up the scuffle between Stanislav and that man. But there’s more.”
“What? What more?”
“Hortensia Vermeulen was wearing a wig.”
I gasped. “A wig? How do you know?”
“Oh, believe me, I know wigs. Sometimes there’s no cure for bad hair days. Anyway, Hortensia Vermeulen was most definitely wearing one. A decent synthetic one. When she bent down, I got a good look at it. The part was perfect. No one’s hair is parted that perfectly. And, there was no static. Absolutely no static in her hair. I noticed that when she was onstage.”
I instinctively lifted a palm and flattened my hair. “You notice static?”
“Uh-huh. I’m constantly battling static in the winter. The lack of moisture in the air makes it impossible for anyone’s style to look good. No wonder she traveled with a wig.”
“Forget the wig,” I said. “You should have seen the killer ring on her finger. The big question is, what the heck is Hortensia Vermeulen, horticulturalist extraordinaire, doing in our wineries and why wouldn’t she admit she’d already been to yours?”
“Same way people don’t want to admit to murder.”
Chapter 27
At least Stephanie and I cleared up one mystery. Hortensia Vermeulen knew, or at least was acquainted with, all three of the chocolatiers, not just the one she claimed to have met at Geneva on the Lake. And I certainly knew who that was—Allete. Godfrey and I interrupted their conversation in the bar. But Hortensia also had a little chitchat when Stanislav returned to the bar that same evening, and she didn’t admit to that. And if she didn’t own up to a cozy conversation, she certainly wasn’t about to confess her little scuffle with Earvin in my parking lot.
I kept mulling over her strange behavior when it came to the chocolatiers, but as far as pointing a finger at her for Jules’s demise and the bizarre events at the wine pairings, I really couldn’t. Stephanie told me she thought there was something suspicious about the woman, but until we could delve further, we were virtually stuck.
“Guess I’ll try to Google Hortensia this afternoon in between bouts of writing,” I said as Stephanie and I exited Albright Auditorium. “I’m kind of on a tight deadline.”
“I’ll see what I can do. The school bus doesn’t drop the boys off until three forty, so that gives me a bit of time as well.”
We agreed to call each other before the day was out. Then I literally grabbed her by the arm and raced her to the parking lot before another one of the campus Lotharios caught a glimpse of her. I dropped her off at Gable Hill Winery a few minutes later and then made a quick stop at home to change out of my nice slacks and sweater into some old jeans and a sweatshirt before making a beeline for our tasting room. My stomach was rumbling, and I desperately needed something to eat. I didn’t plan on hanging around the winery.
When I stepped inside the building, Glenda was at the cash register.
“Hey, Glenda! Where’s Lizzie?” I asked.
“She had to make a deposit at the bank. She’ll be back soon. Do you need her?”
“No. That’s the last thing I need. Not Lizzie or her constant nagging about how I’m tracking down information about Jules’s murder. If I hear the name Nancy Drew one more time, I’ll heave.”
Glenda adjusted the purple flower she’d placed behind her ear with a bobby pin. “I understand. Lizzie is from another generation, and she relies heavily on the wit and wisdom of their icons. Not that it’s necessarily a bad thing, but there are much more efficient ways and means to find out who’s responsible.”
Oh no. Did I just unleash the Kraken? “Glenda, I—”
“Before you say another word, let me tell you I’m here at your disposal. A simple séance set near the site where Jules’s body was discovered would, most assuredly, be your best bet. Provided, of course, that Jules hasn’t moved on. And I seriously doubt he has because, well, he was murdered and souls don’t move on when there’s unfinished business.”
“Um, uh, interesting thought. I’ll keep that in mind. But I have to move on. I have lots of unfinished business, including lunch.” And a screenplay. “Catch you later.”
I blew through the tasting room with only a wave of my hand. Cammy waved back but everyone else was otherwise occupied with customers. The demonstration table had been taken down, and I imagined Seneca Restaurant Supply had picked up their tempering machine, along with any of the other utensils they’d provided.
Emma confirmed my observation when I spotted her behind the Panini maker a few seconds later. I couldn’t order a chicken salad sandwich fast enough.
“Thank God that chocolate fiasco is over!” she said. “I would have carried the machinery to Seneca Restaurant Supply’s van myself, if it wasn’t so heavy.”
“Honestly, Emma. I really don’t know how to thank you. You’ve been amazing.”
A faint blush appeared on Emma’s cheeks and she grinned. “It really wasn’t all that bad. I mean, I learned a lot about making chocolate confections. But I could have lived without the drama. You have no idea what it was like working with Earvin. If everyone thought Jules was an egotistical lout, Earvin had him beat. I’ve never met anyone so demanding.”
“Well, the chocolate demonstrations may be over as far as our wineries are concerned, but tomorrow night’s the competition, and I think all three chocolatiers will be out for blood. Oops. Wrong choice of words, huh?”
Emma chuckled as she handed me the sandwich. “Fred’s trying a new recipe. This one has grapes and dill in it. Strange combination, but it tastes really good. By the way, have you heard anything about the official investigation into Jules’s death? All I hear and read are the words, ‘continuing or on-going investigation.”’
“That’s all I hear as well.”
I let Emma get back to work and wolfed down my sandwich. She was right. It was good. Then, as fast as I blew into the winery, I made my exit out. My to-do list had grown with the new task looming over my head—digging up dirt on Hortensia. I rationalized I could spend maybe an hour on that endeavor and then plunge back into my screenplay for the remainder of the afternoon.
Unfortunately, I didn’t count on a phone message from Franz. I saw the red light blinking the minute I set foot in the kitchen. Ignoring Charlie’s whining for more food, I walked to the machine and pushed the button.
“Norrie, it’s Franz. The gentleman from the Netherlands who’s staying at Geneva on the Lake is Daan Langbroek. He’s a well-known businessman, but you may be more interested in something else. He’s Allete’s ex-husband. I have this on the best authority. The sommelier at Geneva on the Lake is a friend of mine. I trust you’ll be discreet about my source. If I don’t see you later today or tomorrow, I’ll definitely see you
at the chocolate competition. Have a nice day.”
Oh my God! Allete’s ex-husband. That would certainly explain the chocolate spewing incident at Stephanie’s winery. But it wouldn’t explain Jules’s murder. It wasn’t as if Allete was cavorting with Jules. I picked up the receiver and dialed Gable Hill Winery. Stephanie’s boys were still at school, so I knew she’d be at work.
“Hold on a minute, please,” the voice at the other end of the line said, “she just went back to her office. I’ll buzz her.”
Two seconds later, I shared Franz’s newfound information without so much as pausing to take a breath.
“Holy cow! This is like a soap opera. What else did you find out about Daan Langbroek?”
“Uh, nothing yet. That’s all Franz’s message said.”
“Give me two seconds. I’m at my computer.”
Before I could answer, she said, “Crap. The whole thing is written in Dutch. Including his tweets. Give me another second.”
“I, um, er—”
“Ah-hah. LinkedIn’s got it in English, too. Holy moly! Daan Langbroek’s no slouch.”
“What do you mean? What are you looking at?”
“Well, it’s most definitely the well-built, light-haired man I saw getting into it with Stanislav, but I had no idea Allete’s ex-husband owned a digital transformation company.”
“A what?”
“Think paperless. My husband talks about this stuff all the time. Hmm. Allete must have gotten a raw deal on their divorce settlement because, according to what I’m seeing, Daan’s company has to be pulling in megabucks.”
“That must really be eating away at her. No wonder she and Stanislav are so driven about winning the competition.”
“Talk about driven,” Stephanie said, “Allete’s ex must still be pining for her. Otherwise, why fly overseas just to give her new beau a hard time?”
“Don’t ask me. I’m no expert on matters of the heart. I only write the stuff.”
“Well, you’ll have a lot to write about if you take notes. Tomorrow night’s competition could be uglier than we imagined if Daan and Stanislav get into it again.”
“Aargh. Hadn’t even considered that. I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to Google Hortensia yet, have you?”
“Typing in her name as we speak. Let’s compare notes later, okay?”
“Absolutely!”
No sooner did I get off the phone with Stephanie when Cammy called.
“Oh no!” I mumbled. “What now? What’s happened?”
“Sorry. I should have known you’d be on edge but guess who just walked into our winery?”
“Don’t tell me. Steven Trobert? Catherine finally got under his skin to the point of no return so he took a flight from Portland to Rochester? I don’t know why she insists on fixing us up. It’s not as if—”
“Norrie, quit babbling about Steven. I’m sure he’s safe and sound in Maine. Meanwhile, Robin Roberts, Hoda Kotb, and Rachael Ray tasted our Cabernet Sauvignon and loved it but left a few seconds ago in their limo. Get your butt down here! Zyra Baroody from CNN is here with Ilene Shannon, the Irish food maven. The place is teaming with cameras and the two of them are asking a zillion questions. Oh, and there are magazine editors here as well.”
I didn’t remember what I said to Cammy, but I charged to the nearest mirror and stared. I definitely looked like one of the two witches. The makeup I had carefully applied in the morning was now caked around my eyelids. In addition, my hair seemed to have flattened in the last hour. There wasn’t enough mousse in the world to save me.
At least the slacks and sweater I wore this morning were still hanging over a chair in my room. It took me all of ten seconds to swap out my comfy clothes for that more polished look. As for my hair, it was long enough for me to pull into a neat little bun-like ponytail. A swipe of a damp cotton ball across my eyes and I re-applied the liner.
To make the look complete, I grabbed one of Francine’s scarves, wrapped it around my neck, and shot out the door, not even bothering to zip up my jacket. My car started right up, and I made it to our tasting room in record time.
Sure enough, the New York entourage had arrived. I took a deep breath, walked over to the tasting room table where Jordaine Waverly from Food & Wine was seated, and introduced myself.
“This event has turned the culinary world upside down,” she said. “The murder, the trysts, and a nail-bitter of a competition. This is something none of us want to miss.”
I thought I might have misunderstood. “The trysts? Plural? I thought there was only one.”
Jordaine moistened her deep mauve lips and adjusted the thin gold chain around her neck. “Now that wouldn’t be much fun, would it? Allete and Stanislav are getting as hackneyed as Angelina and Brad were. But things are about to heat up now that Anika Schou has graced the Finger Lakes with her presence. She and the late Jules Leurant—”
“Jordaine, is that you?” The woman’s voice was distinctly British. I turned my head and recognized her at once. It was England’s most notable food writer and TV personality, Mary Berry. Francine adored her baking shows.
Mary rushed to where Jordaine stood and gave her a hug. “I’m so jet lagged from the flight across the pond I doubt I’ll ever recoup. I figured the best way around it was to hop in a limo and visit a few of the wineries. Are you staying at Geneva on the Lake as well?”
Dammit! Who the heck was Anika Schou and why did she matter? Now I’d never find out. Well, maybe later, when it was too late. I felt like I was intruding on a personal conversation, so I took a few steps back and collided with Cammy, who was setting out more wineglasses.
“It’s like we stepped into another world,” she said.
“Yeah. One that Henry Speltmore didn’t bother to put into his emails.”
Chapter 28
“Oh God no!” Cammy said. “Roger’s got Zyra Baroody and Ilene Shannon at his table. Any second now, one of them will make an offhand comment and that will give him all the excuse he needs to launch into one of his never-ending lectures about the French and Indian War.”
It was true. Roger, now retired from education, completed his dissertation on the French and Indian War. It wasn’t as much of an academic endeavor for him as a passion. I imagined the worst—gruesome descriptions of battle scenes, long-winded explanations about military strategies, and, gulp, geographical references that could put a seasoned insomniac to sleep in seconds.
I had to do something.
Without wasting a minute, I took off and all but skidded into his tasting room table. “Roger, I’m so sorry to interrupt, but Cammy needs you. Something about wineglasses. I’ll take over.”
“Excuse me, ladies,” he said to Zyra, Ilene, and the other few women who were at this table, “Duty calls. Much as it did for General Edward Braddock when King George II ordered him to go to Virginia and remove—”
Oh Lord! I actually know this. It’s the French. General Braddock had to get the French out of Fort Duquesne. This is one of Roger’s favorite stories.
“The French!” I shouted. “Now we can all relax and enjoy our wine.” I gave Roger a little nudge with my elbow and he got the message.
“Wineglasses. I’m on my way.”
Zyra and Ilene looked at each other and then at me.
“Sounds like all of you are really into American history,” Zyra said.
“History, art, wine…we’re kind of eclectic around here. I’m Norrie Ellington and I co-own this winery with my sister. She’s in Costa Rica, researching insects with her husband. Uh, not a hobby. He’s an entomologist with Cornell. Boy will they be sorry they missed meeting celebrities at our winery.”
I was babbling on and if I kept it up, they’d be wishing Roger would return. Unfortunately, I couldn’t seem to shut up. “You must be looking forward to the chocolate competition tomorrow night. I ho
pe the three remaining chocolatiers can make it through the event unscathed. They never did find Jules’s killer. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m not insinuating the other chocolatiers are in any danger, but it does put everyone on edge a bit, don’t you think?”
What the heck am I doing? Scaring the daylights out of TV personalities and chefs who could make or break our region? If Henry Speltmore gets wind of this, he’ll be writing a ten-page manifesto about proper winery conversation.
“Oh, I think we’ll be fine,” Ilene said. “It’s not as if any of us are in this competition and out for each other’s throats. I wonder what the competition organizers have decided regarding the latest fly in the ointment, so to speak. It’s been radio silence from their end, and, believe me, we’ve tried to get the skinny on what’s going on.”
Zyra nodded and took a sip of her wine. “If I knew, I could let my network know. You’d be surprised at how fast they can put a documentary together.”
Fly? Ointment? Documentary? This was worse than tuning into the middle of NCIS.
Rather than asking outright what they were referring to, I took another approach. One that worked well for me in the past when I had no clue about something one of my professors explained in class.
“Um, could you expound on that for a minute?”
Ilene laughed. “A minute? We’d need an hour and as much as we’re enjoying your hospitality at Two Witches, we wanted to check out a few of the other wineries. But here it is in a nutshell—the fourth chocolatier is on scene to claim her rightful place in the competition. Rumor has it she’s been in the area for over a week but no one can confirm it.”
“Fourth chocolatier?” I was dumbfounded.
Then a lady sitting next to Ilene turned toward me. “I write a blog on culinary arts and I’ve been following this competition as well. Anika Schou from Denmark was fourth on the list. She’s the one who should be competing against Allete and Stanislav, not Earvin. Up until this past week, Earvin was tucked away in his late uncle’s shadow. Now, all of sudden, he’s in the limelight with Allete and Stanislav. That’s not going over too well in the culinary world. You should see the tweets. Not to mention the diatribes on Facebook.”