Sauvigone for Good

by J. C. Eaton

  I was getting tired and everything seemed to blur. Still, I kept going and even forced myself to watch a video clip of her delivering a speech on acrid soil and its ramifications on small gardening plots. She sounded just like she did at Albright Auditorium. Same accent. Then I noticed something peculiar. In seconds, I was on the phone with Theo.

  “See for yourself,” I said. “Watch the clip. Hortensia’s left-handed. Watch how she turns the pages of her speech in that binder she’s got on the podium. She’s using her left hand, but when Stephanie and I saw her at the college, she was clearly right-handed.”

  “Maybe she had carpal tunnel surgery or something. Or maybe she’s ambidextrous. Doesn’t mean anything. Look, Norrie, I’ve been scanning the internet, too, and if ever there was a dead end, this is it. Now, Anika Schou…that’s a different story. Turns out she was at the chocolate festival in Munich last year when Jules and Stanislav had their verbal altercation.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I Googled her competition schedule and scoped out the candid shots taken at the festival. There’s actually a photo of someone stepping in between Jules and Stanislav, but off to the right is Anika. I’m positive it’s her. And she’s got a smirk on her face that makes the Cheshire Cat look like an amateur.”

  “You think she tried to get one of those men knocked out of the competition so she could move up a notch? The Munich festival was the qualifier for this one. Catherine told me the day she went over all those ridiculous demands from the chocolatiers.”

  Theo let out a sigh. “Well, it didn’t work because Jules, Stanislav, and Allete were the final three.”

  “All the more reason to add Anika to our suspect list.”

  “Speaking of suspects,” Theo said, “let me know what you find out from Gladys. If Anika winds up securing Stanislav’s place in the competition, there won’t be enough facial tissues in the world for Allete.”

  “I’ll keep you posted. I’m going to poke around the internet for another half hour or so and then call it a night.”

  “Yeah, it’s lights out here, too. Don’s already snoring.”

  I took my own advice and went to sleep twenty or so minutes later. Unfortunately, I didn’t stay asleep. I bolted awake shortly after three and, for the life of me, couldn’t get back to a decent night’s sleep. I was plagued by a series of dreams, complete with would-be assassins.

  First, Earvin, in a scenario that involved lacing someone’s tempered chocolate with antifreeze. Then Stanislav with a food marinator and whatever lethal concoction he’d come up with. Hortensia kept reappearing too, only, in her case, she was holding a silvery weapon of sorts and aiming it at someone’s face. Allete appeared in my hazy visions, too, only she was screaming her lungs out over a spider crawling on the table.

  The only suspect who didn’t appear in my foggy dreams was Anika. By four thirty-nine, I’d had it. I got up, made myself a cup of mint tea, and decided to peruse the program booklet Henry Speltmore had delivered to all of us in WOW. I hoped it would be a snoozer and I could get back to sleep. It wasn’t.

  I had to admit, the Seneca Lake Wine Association went all out on this one. The program booklet was spectacular. Full color photos of delectable chocolates in various stages of production coupled with panoramic vistas of the Finger Lakes. And that was only the introduction.

  Each chocolatier had a section devoted to his or her biography, including professional photos, family snapshots, and all sorts of candid pictures taken at the various events and competitions. Yep. Someone sure did their homework. With the exception of Allete, who grew up in the countryside of Le Blanc, France, all the contenders were born and raised in metropolitan cities—Moscow for Stanislav and Antwerp for Jules. Of the three, only Jules was born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth, but in his case, it was Flanders Royal, the premier chocolate company of Belgium. Jules was the great grandson of Maurice Flanders, a chocolatier who established the business in Antwerp after World War II.

  I think it was Don who told me Flanders’ stock plummeted in the past year and they were looking to re-brand. Maybe that was why Jules was in the competition. A little seed money never hurt.

  There was a separate stapled pamphlet on Earvin Roels that included some staged photos and a brief biography. Like his uncle Jules, he, too, was born and raised in Antwerp.

  Leaning my head against a pillow on the couch, I decided to read the program cover to cover. A half hour later, having digested everyone’s family background and absorbing the glossy photos, it was as if someone lifted a veil from my face. I knew with absolute certainty who Jules’s murderer was, but I had no way to prove it. Not yet. Then an idea popped into my head and I couldn’t get it out. It was a plan, in a vague sense of the word, but I wasn’t sure how I’d pull it off.

  Worst of all, it was the type of plan Theo and Don would never agree to. Not in a million years. That was why I didn’t clue them in. Same deal for Cammy. But it didn’t matter. The one person I really needed to convince was Godfrey Klein. Without his help, I’d never be able to catch a killer.

  By now, it was five thirty and every self-respecting winery owner was up and about. I figured it was time to join that club, at least for one morning. I washed out my mug of mint tea and filled it with a K-cup of my latest favorite—McCafe Medium Roast. Then I made myself some toast and refilled Charlie’s food dish.

  The sound of kibble being poured must have awakened him because he shook himself from where he was standing at the top of the stairs, ambled down, ate a few mouthfuls, and headed to his doggie door. I lifted the plastic screen and a cold gust of air blasted my legs before he went out.

  I turned on the Weather Channel and, with no impending disasters facing the Finger Lakes, I took a piping hot shower, got dressed, and rehearsed what I’d say to Godfrey when I got him on the phone. I knew he’d be in his office, even though it was Saturday because, like my brother-in-law Jason, Godfrey couldn’t seem to stay away from the Global Species Database for too long.

  Still, it was only seven ten and even Godfrey wasn’t that fanatical. That left Gladys at the public safety building. If my plan was going to work, I had to find out what happened with Stanislav—and who better than Gladys to let me know. With forty minutes to spare before she clocked in, I pulled up my screenplay and tried to focus on Beguiled into Love.

  That lasted all of twenty minutes when I slammed the lid on the laptop and made myself another cup of coffee. My recent epiphany about Jules’s murder, coupled with a shaky but hopeful plan, made it impossible for me to concentrate on anything else. So, I took a chance and dialed Godfrey at the Experiment Station. I figured my call to Gladys could wait a few more minutes.

  Godfrey answered on the first ring, and I was actually speechless for a second. “Norrie? Is that you?”

  “Uh, yeah. I really didn’t think I’d catch you this early but I took a chance.”

  “I was asked to assist the department with the new arthropod museum project and, believe it or not, this was a good time for me. What’s up?”

  “Cornell is planning on building a museum about bugs and spiders?”

  “More of a community outreach program.”

  “Good. Because that’s exactly what I wanted to talk with you about.”

  Godfrey laughed. “This I’ve got to hear. Usually the only words out of your mouth when it comes to arthropods are ‘kill it, kill it now.’”

  “Very funny. Well, this may sound a bit odd, but do you happen to have any harmless yet scary-looking species you could sort of loan out for the day? I have a hunch, well, actually more than a hunch about who murdered Jules and the only way I can prove it is by establishing a little scenario that involves an insect or two.”

  The line went quiet and I wasn’t sure if it was the phone company or Godfrey.

  “Are you still there?” I asked.

  “Oh,
I’m here all right. Astonished, maybe, but still on the line. Listen, Norrie, as much as I’d like to help you out, I can’t loan out or gift anyone with any of our species. First of all, we’re audited. Everything is accountable. Species arrive from other labs as well as their natural habitat. And while we certainly cannot count every single ant, let’s say, in a colony, we cannot take a risk and allow one of them to intermingle within another environment.”

  “One ant? Seriously? And I need something more substantial.”

  “I’m afraid to ask what you have in mind. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to be implicated in anything if your scenario or plan, or whatever it is you have in mind, goes haywire. Look, let those deputies do their jobs. Last thing you need is to put yourself in danger. Don’t do anything impulsive. Please?”

  “You have nothing to worry about. No danger involved. Honestly. Anyway, I’ll meet you tonight at Geneva on the Lake.”

  “Got my suit and tie all picked out. Remember, don’t do anything impulsive. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Technically, it wasn’t impulsive. It was planned. A bit sketchy, but planned.

  With Godfrey unwilling to secure the specimen I needed, I had no choice but to do it on my own. I had plenty of experience this past fall with overwintering pests, but thanks to the precautions I took around the house, we didn’t have any. However, I was positive we’d have an abundance of creepy looking spiders in our basement.

  Granted, I hadn’t noticed any when I went down there the other evening to grab a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon for the beef dinner with Theo and Don, but I wasn’t on spider patrol at the time. Without wasting a second, I took an empty bell jar from our pantry, and, even though our basement had at least four light bulbs overhead, grabbed the flashlight like I always did after watching too many horror movies. I walked down the wooden stairs and paused for a second to let my eyes adjust to the dim lighting. I glanced at the wine rack and looked above it at the wall. Our house was one of those old farmhouses, originally built in the late 1800s but modernized at least three or four times since. However, no one bothered to update the basement. The walls were the original stone walls and the perfect hiding spots for all sorts of arthropods. Godfrey would have a field day.

  It took me all of thirty seconds and God knows what kind of spiders I managed to wrangle from the wall with an old paint stirrer, but there were at least two that seemed to be alive. I flashed the light into the corner behind the wine rack and made a mental note to either call an exterminator or see if John Grishner could do something about the disgusting earwigs. Dead or alive, they looked the same. For good measure, I took an old wadded up tissue from the pocket in my sweatpants and used it to pick up three of those.

  With my mission accomplished, I went back upstairs and put the bell jar on the counter, making sure the lid was firmly in place. I wondered if there would be enough air for the spiders to survive. Not willing to take a chance, I found a metal meat skewer and poked a few teeny weeny holes in the lid.

  It was at that precise moment when Theo called my cell phone with a stunning revelation.

  Chapter 31

  “Turn on Channel 8 WROC if you haven’t done so already,” Theo said. “They’re doing a feature on tonight’s chocolate competition, and they’re running the footage from the opening reception.”

  “Oh no. Please don’t tell me they’re reliving that bonbon comment of Stephanie’s.”

  “Not yet. Hurry. Turn it on and stay on the line with me.”

  I clicked on the remote and plopped myself into the nearest chair. Sure enough, the anchors were babbling away about the chocolate competition as footage of the reception continued to unroll.

  “Oh look,” Theo said. “There’s Catherine grabbing you by the wrist.”

  “Aargh. To talk about Steven. Wait a sec. The camera just moved to Allete.”

  “If her neckline plunged by so much as a fraction of an inch more, the network would’ve been censored.”

  “No kidding.”

  I watched intently as bits and pieces of the reception I hadn’t noticed before were plastered in front of me. And then I homed in on something that made me gasp.

  “What happened Norrie? Did you spill your coffee or something?” Theo asked.

  “My God. That woman. The tall one with an oval tray of canapes. Take a good look. It’s Anika. She looks just like the photos I saw of her. I’d bet my life on it. Her hair’s pulled back and she’s wearing glasses, but it’s her all right. Those rumors are true. Anika’s been in the area. Been in the area and probably plotting to remove one of the chocolatiers from the competition so she can get in. Why else would she be pretending to be one of the wait staff?”

  I gulped. My original assumption about Jules’s murderer was pretty solid, but what if Cammy had been right all along about there being three separate killers? What was it she said? Something about the poisoned bonbon, the Ambien knock-out spray, and the person who rolled Jules over in the snow so he’d be face down. If my theory was correct, and this new revelation about Anika was also correct, then all I needed to do was find the third killer. Unless, of course, none of it was right.

  “I’m calling Deputy Hickman,” Theo said. “He needs to contact Channel 8 WROC and track down Anika and question her.”

  “Um, she might not be the only killer.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I may have found some evidence pointing to another suspect.”

  “Who?”

  A loud crash and I was literally off the hook. “Damn it,” Theo said. “Isolde just knocked over a lamp. She goes nuts when a fly gets into the house. We’ll talk later.”

  Anika and my suspect were the top contenders in the scenarios I had pieced together, but that still left Stanislav out there. Or, in there if he was still being held in the public safety building. Wasting no time, I called Gladys.

  After her usual introduction about hanging up and dialing nine-one-one if it was an emergency, Gladys finally said hello on behalf of the Yates County Public Safety Building.

  “Good morning, Gladys. It’s Norrie Ellington. Sorry to bother you so early in the morning but I absolutely need to know if Deputy Hickman released Stanislav Vetro last night or if he kept him in lock-up. Can you talk or is my favorite deputy breathing down your neck as we speak?”

  “He’s out on a call. Minor disturbance at a gas station. And yes, according to the information on my computer, Stanislav is still being held for questioning. They can keep him for twenty-four hours, but unless they charge him with something, he has to be released.”

  “Oh my gosh. That means that if he’s released, it can be as late as this evening.”

  “Or, I’m sorry to say, it might not be at all. He may be charged with the murder of that other chocolatier. The one from Belgium.”

  “Jules. Jules Leurant.”

  “Yes. Him.”

  “Gladys, I swear this conversation won’t go anywhere except between the two of us, but can you tell me if the evidence against Stanislav is really strong? I already know about some tip the deputies got and the fact that an Ambien spray bottle was found in Stanislav’s room, but that’s not enough to charge him. There’s got to be something else.”

  “I could lose my job, Norrie, if this leaks out.”

  “It won’t. I swear.”

  “The anonymous caller pointed out something else in Stanislav’s room. A flavor marinator. The caller insisted we’d find remnants of antifreeze in it. Deputy Hickman rushed it off to the lab and we’re waiting for the results.”

  The bonbon. Holy Crap!

  “Gladys, between you and me, this whole thing reeks of a set-up. It’s way too easy.”

  “I agree. Nevertheless, it’s up to Deputy Hickman to make that call. Is this going to ruin that big competition tonight? It’s been all over the news. In fact, you’ll never guess wh
o my sister-in-law saw at that new indoor Mennonite Market a few minutes ago. She called me right before you did. It was Hoda Kotb! There are TV and magazine celebrities all over the village.”

  “Um, yeah. They were at the wineries yesterday. I’m not sure about that competition, but there may be a replacement in the wings.” Or a murderess.

  “That’s good to know. I’ll have to catch it on TV. Way out of my price range to attend.”

  “Me, too, but it’s paid for by the wine association. Tell me, did anyone visit Stanislav late last night or at the crack of dawn?”

  “No. Even if they wanted to, he’s not allowed visitors. He hasn’t been charged yet.”

  The way in which Gladys said the word “yet” made me think Stanislav would be charged. I thanked Gladys and rushed off to check my email. I figured news about Stanislav’s detainment had to have reached Henry Speltmore by now and even if it hadn’t, Anika’s bid for that third spot certainly would have. The wine association had to make a decision about replacing Earvin with Anika by now.

  Sure enough, there was an email from Henry under the file name, “Chocolate Competition Update.” He began by thanking everyone for their commitment to the wine trail, their appreciation of tourism, and their willingness to spread goodwill throughout the region. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought it was a belated holiday greeting card. Then he finally got to the gist of his message—the fourth chocolatier.

  “After careful consideration,” the email read, “Earvin Roels will be replaced by the rightful contender to the competition, Anika Schou from Denmark.” It went on to say how appreciative the Seneca Lake Wine Association was for Mr. Roels’ willingness to step in and replace his uncle by giving demonstrations at the local wineries and that they “would certainly welcome him back should he ever decide to visit the region again.”

  I all but choked. “Should he ever decide to visit the region again?” We’d be lucky if he didn’t get his hands on a small nuclear device and make toast out of all of us.