A Riesling to Die

by J. C. Eaton

  “Certainly nothing here. Last I saw of my aunt was at dinner around six. After I washed and put away the dishes, I went back to my room to watch TV. Around nine, I took a shower and went to bed. I also took an Imitrex because I had a horrible migraine. The medicine knocked me right out. I didn’t hear any noises from our guests and I assumed my aunt was fast asleep when I got up the next day to make breakfast. I thought it was odd she wasn’t there for her usual tea and bran muffin, but sometimes she slept late and I wasn’t about to disturb her.”

  Yvonne sounded almost too docile and accommodating. A regular Cinderella without the fairy godmother.

  “When did you notice she was gone?” I asked.

  “Around ten. After our guests had eaten. I called out to her and when she didn’t answer, I knocked on her door. Then I opened it. The bed was made up and she was nowhere in sight. That’s when I went into the garage to see if her car was there and it wasn’t. I figured maybe she had gone out on a very early errand or had some sort of appointment she didn’t tell me about.”

  “Does the sheriff’s department know about her car?”

  “Yes. I gave them the make, model and license number. They’re on the lookout. It’s the only transportation I have. I thought it funny I never heard the car backing out of the garage in the morning. I guess that’s because everything happened while I was sleeping. Tomorrow, I plan to call Enterprise and rent a vehicle. I don’t have a choice. Like I said, I’ve got lots of legal matters to deal with.”

  She brushed some wisps of hair from the side of her face and I noticed something interesting—small pierced holes for earrings. At least three. Why was she trying to look like Little Miss Sunshine when her real persona was more Madonna? Maybe our mousey little girl is a rat in disguise.

  “Um, you mentioned blunt force trauma. Do you have any idea who could’ve done such a thing?”

  “Not a clue. My aunt didn’t endear herself to many people around here. Or her own relatives, for that matter. Of course they’ve all passed away, including my mother, her younger sister. When Aunt Elsbeth offered me the invitation to come live with her and work at the B & B, it came at a time when I needed a new start. She considered it an obligation, but it was forced labor if you ask me.”

  Hmm, Cinderella with a real grudge. “Will you continue to run Peaceful Pines?”

  “That’s a good question. My aunt had an offer from a major wine company looking to buy property on this side of the lake, but she declined. Our property runs to the middle of the hill where that other winery is, Gable Hill. We’ve got good drainage and slopes for vineyards. And our soil is topnotch. The well’s decent, too. I might take them up on it.”

  I cringed and bit my lip. “Don’t do anything hasty. Please. I know the loss of your aunt is a sudden shock, but give yourself some time.” And me, too. “You can always hire help to run your business and the tourist industry is strong year-round.”

  Yvonne didn’t say anything and I knew it was time for me to make my exit. “Well, I hope things work out. Have a good day.”

  “You as well.”

  As I started down the hill, I thought about Elsbeth’s car. Drat! I should’ve taken a better look when I ran into her in the parking lot. I remembered her slamming the door but not much else. It was too late to ask Yvonne what kind it was. Maybe Cammy would know. If the car was in the garage, the sheriff’s department would have a good reason to point a finger at Yvonne for her aunt’s murder. Of course, that still didn’t leave the niece off the hook as far as I was concerned.

  It was quite feasible Yvonne, with or without an accomplice, could’ve murdered her aunt, carried the body to the car, dumped it in our vineyard via the logging road in the woods and returned to the B & B. Then again, there were guests at the Peaceful Pines. Wouldn’t they have noticed? I was beginning to think maybe Glenda had the right idea all along. Conjure up the old witch and ask her.

  At least I left the place with a key piece of information—Yvonne’s last name—Finlay. It must be the mother’s married name and when Yvonne was born, she acquired the mother’s maiden name as well. A trend that was becoming more and more common. Yeesh. I’d be Norrie Wellington Ellington!

  I drove straight back to the house and immediately plunked the name into a Google search. Lots of profiles, image results and LinkedIn information appeared on the screen. I kept scrolling until an article caught my eye. It was from a Syracuse newspaper and it read: Local College Grad, Yvonne Finlay, Sentenced for Embezzlement.

  Insider trading, my foot. I went on to read that Yvonne Finlay was sentenced for six months in county jail and two years’ probation for something called “siphoning.” While working for a department store, Yvonne pocketed money from cash sales at the register. She didn’t enter the transactions on the computer and instead kept the moolah for herself. Until she got caught. They always did. No wonder a clean start with her aunt sounded good. Even if it meant child labor.

  There was really nothing to link Yvonne to her aunt’s death, except my imagination, but I’d only begun my sleuthing. Unfortunately, Grizzly Gary wanted to put a stop to it before it even got underway. He called me late that afternoon as I was reviewing my screenplay notes on the kitchen table.

  “Am I speaking with Miss Norrie Ellington? This is Deputy Hickman.”

  “Yes. Hello.”

  “Miss Ellington, it is my understanding, after a visit I paid today with the niece of the deceased, that you’ve been pestering her for information regarding her aunt’s death.”

  “I…I what? No I didn’t.” Okay, maybe a little and it wasn’t pestering. She offered up that information like a car salesman with a business card.

  “Regardless of your recollection, I am directing you to steer clear of this investigation. Do you understand? You are not a detective. Our department is highly qualified to handle this matter.”

  “I was only paying a condolence visit. Besides, how am I supposed to know with whom I may or may not speak?”

  “Speak all you like but do not discuss Elsbeth Waters’s suspicious death with anyone.”

  Yeah. Like that’s going to happen.

  “Miss Ellington, am I making myself clear?”

  “Yes. No talk about death. I mean, suspicious death. Elsbeth’s suspicious death.”

  “Fine. Now that we have an understanding, I’ll let you get on with your evening.”

  When I hung up the phone, I was more adamant than ever to find out who killed that woman. I opened a new file on my laptop and listed the names of those people I knew who had a possible motive.

  Francine would’ve gone ballistic. All but one of the names on that list were the ladies from the West Side Women of the Wineries. And while I seriously doubted any one of them could be the culprit, it was a good starting point for my sleuthing. I had to find out if Elsbeth had done anything, other than flap her mouth, to threaten them in any way.

  I had scratched Theo and Don off my list simply because…well, they were Theo and Don. Friends of ours. Other than a general annoyance they faced from Elsbeth, there really was no strong motive for murder. The last name was Lucas Stilton, the developer from Vanna Enterprises. Yvonne told me her aunt refused an offer and I assumed it came from him. Maybe he needed to get her out of the way.

  Francine had placed Lucas’s business card in a kitchen drawer somewhere. She mentioned it when the subject of that mega-winery was first broached. I got up and started rummaging through the drawers. Good to know my sister and brother-in-law had more kitchen gadgetry than IKEA. Drawer after drawer I found dishcloths, trivets, all sorts of jar and can openers, misplaced silverware and small piles of mailing address stickers.

  Finally, after what seemed like an inordinate amount of time, I located the card. It was rubber-banded with a few other cards–Pampered Chef, Walden’s Garage, The China Garden and Bristol’s Nail Salon. As I ran my fingers over the edge of th
e card, I wondered how I was going to approach this. As Deputy Hickman pointed out, “you are not a detective.”

  It was Sunday and it was doubtful anyone would be answering the phones at Vanna Enterprises. I decided to call them first thing in the morning and set up an appointment with Lucas Stilton. After all, I wouldn’t be discussing death, only winery business.

  I was about to get back to my screenplay when a nagging thought came out of nowhere. What did I really know about any of our employees? Francine and Jason hired them. They were the ones who did the background checks and all that. Maybe there was something they missed. Maybe the real killer was on our payroll.

  At that moment, I felt a nudge on my leg and looked down to see Charlie. Yikes! When was the last time that dog ate? I jumped up, poured out some kibble, changed his water and sat back down.

  Unless things had changed since our folks ran the winery, the employee records were kept in a locked file in the tasting room office and Francine made certain I had all the keys. I waited until seven, when I was positive everyone had gone home for the day, and then I coaxed Charlie into following me to the tasting room building. He could just as easily curl up on the floor of the office as our kitchen.

  Sunset was at least an hour and a half away when I turned off the alarm system, unlocked the front tasting room doors and locked them behind me. I reset the system to “Stay” mode, which meant I could move around the place without fear of walking into one of the motion-sensor lasers. Next, I walked into the office. Other than a few framed photos of the wine trail that hung on the walls and two ridiculously silly paperweight birds Francine bought when we were in high school, the room looked rather nondescript. I picked up one of the birds and laughed. It was a long-billed Dowitcher. Long-billed being an understatement. That bill could impale someone. The only reason she bought them was because of the word “witch.”

  The silence in the building was creepy and I was glad Charlie ambled along. I threw a small rug on the floor for the dog and told him he was a good boy.

  If I was certain of one thing, it was the fact Francine would have hard files of employee records even if Two Witches maintained computerized documents. Yep, the minute I slid the small key into the file cabinet, I patted myself on the back for knowing she would never deviate from the way our dad conducted the business.

  Alphabetized file folders in assorted colors were arranged in two sections—current and past employees. I decided to use my own system and start with function instead of alphabet. I pulled up the winemaker first. Franz Johannas had been employed for over four years. I read his references and looked over his education and work experience before declaring there was nothing that could remotely link him to Elsbeth Waters.

  I did the same for the other two members of his crew, Alan and Herbert. Alan was a graduate of Washington State University with an undergrad degree in horticulture and agronomy and a graduate degree in viticulture and enology. (What else?) Herbert had already told me he was an intern at Cornell and had gotten his Masters of Science degree there as well. Unless there was something about Elsbeth I didn’t know, I couldn’t possibly fathom a relationship, not even a passing one.

  It was on to the tasting room employees and not a single red flag waved. All clear in Cammy’s department. I tackled the vineyard workers last. Most of the crew were high school grads whose families owned farms at one time or another. And almost all of them were part-time workers attending community college. I imagined their files would be relegated to “past employees” by next summer.

  That brought me to the remaining two files—John’s and Peter’s. I already knew about Peter’s college education because Francine had made a point of drumming it into my head. And not because she wanted me to think they’d made a good hire by offering him the position of assistant vineyard manager. Oh no. It was never that easy with my sister. I truly believed, in the back of her mind, she was hoping he and I would hit it off. Sorry, the guy wasn’t my type.

  I perused the rest of his file and, other than noting he was a past president of the Tully Junior-Senior High School chapter of FFA, Future Farmers of America, nothing stood out. Same deal for John Grishner, who had been with our family for as long as I could remember.

  “Guess that’s it, Charlie boy,” I said. “Time to head home.”

  The dog arched his back then stretched for what seemed like forever until he got up from the rug. I made sure to put all the files in order, lock the cabinet and turn off the lights in the office. It had already gotten dark outside, but the small safety light above the front entrance to the building gave off enough illumination for me to lock the place and turn the alarm system on again.

  It was almost nine and I realized I hadn’t eaten anything since that bacon and avocado panini.

  “Come on, boy. What do you say I cook us up some eggs?”

  The dog’s ears perked up as if the word “egg” was part of his vocabulary. The glow from the tasting room porch lights made it easier for me to find my way up the driveway. In the distance, I saw the faint light coming from our kitchen. I had made it a point to leave the lights on when I left and it was a good thing. There was practically no moonlight and the few specks of illumination in the distance, although lovely for a postcard of the lake, offered no help whatsoever in terms of visibility.

  Charlie and I were only a few yards from the house when all of a sudden he bolted for the woods. Now what? A raccoon? Deer? Damn it. It better not be a deer. There are fines in this county for dogs that chase deer.

  “Charlie!” I yelled. “Charlie! Get back here! Come!” Other than a soft rustling sound in the distance, I didn’t hear a thing. I yelled again, but the words caught in my mouth the second I saw the beam of a flashlight in the woods. I knew Francine and Jason kept the dog inside at night and now I understood why. If there were poachers in there, they might mistake that Plott Hound for game and shoot him. I took a deep breath and screamed at the top of my lungs. “Charlie! Get back here now! We mean it.”

  I put extra emphasis on the word “we.” I knew I could call on Theo and Don to help me out, but honestly, what could they do that I couldn’t? Moreover, I didn’t want to take advantage of their friendship. Instead, I ran to my car, started it up, turned on my high beams and drove it to the edge of the woods. My heart was beating a mile a minute and I held my breath. No sign of a flashlight beam, but no sign of Charlie, either.

  If anything happened to that dog, I’d never forgive myself. I rolled down the window and shouted for him again. Then I waited. The good news was I didn’t hear any guns go off so that meant no one shot him. Not yet. I tried not to think about it, but that only made things worse. I called again and listened for any possible sounds. This time I got lucky. At first I thought it was my imagination, but I swore I heard a soft crunching sound. Charlie?

  My hands were shaking and I was too scared to get out of the car. I made sure the doors were locked and I kept the engine running. The clock on the dashboard read 9:44, but I had no idea what time it was when the dog first ran into the woods. The crunching sound got louder and I held my breath, telling myself over and over again that a car could outrun a human any day of the week.

  My eyes were fixed on the high beams and I held still. Two glowing orbs stared back at me and I froze. Whatever it was, it was approaching quickly. I revved the engine and started to make a three–point turn when I took another look. It was Charlie. At that moment, my senses returned and I remembered that dog and cat eyes reacted differently to light than humans.

  I leaned over and opened the passenger door. “Come on! Get in. You scared the crap out of me.”

  Charlie jumped up on the seat and I immediately detected a rancid smell of something that had quite possibly been dead for a while. I reached over to pet the dog and felt sticky moisture on his fur. Then the odor blasted at me with a vengeance. Skunk! The dog had an encounter with a skunk. We were only yards from the house so
I drove back as quickly as I could, got him out of there and dragged him to the garden hose.

  “Stay!” I commanded as I raced into the house. I knew tomato juice removed skunk odor from dogs, but I didn’t remember seeing any in the house. Then I remembered reading somewhere that Scope mouthwash did the same thing. I charged upstairs to the bathroom, snatched my only bottle from the medicine cabinet, grabbed a few towels and raced outside.

  Charlie hadn’t budged. In fact, he was grooming himself without a care in the world. I immediately turned on the hose, splashed the mouthwash and got to work. By the time he was clean enough to be let in the house, it was almost eleven.

  “So much for eggs, buddy.” I poured some kibble for him and filled a bowl of cereal for myself. Then it dawned on me. My car must stink to high heaven. I left the dog inside, took the remainder of the mouthwash and proceeded to wipe down the passenger seat and anything remotely near it. At that rate, I wasn’t sure I’d have any clean towels left for my own shower.

  Finally, when the car stopped smelling like a city dump, I gathered all the towels in my hand, including the ones that had dropped on the floor of the car and went back inside the house.

  Charlie was sleeping soundly in the kitchen as I loaded the pile of noxious laundry into the washer. Two light blue towels, one pink, one off-white, two beige and—the other towel wasn’t a towel at all. It was a scarf. One of those fringed summery scarves I wouldn’t be caught dead in. But someone else was. Well, not with the scarf on her, but it was hers all right. She was wearing it the first day I met her.

  The dog had found Elsbeth Waters’s plum-colored scarf in our woods.

  Chapter 11

  Wonderful. The only piece of tangible evidence proving Elsbeth’s body had been in our woods now had my fingerprints on it. I felt the shimmery material and wondered if those forensic guys in the sheriff’s department could really pull prints off silk or polyester or whatever this was. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to conceal what the dog had found. And what did that deputy expect me to do anyway? I had no idea it was even in the car until I found it with the towels.