by J. C. Eaton
I cleared my throat and spoke for the first time. “Actually, we were escorted by your deputy and—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Miss Ellington, you know what I’m getting at. And why does this not surprise me that you, of all people, would be here? I sincerely hope you’re not going to pull a stunt like the last time and think you can conduct an investigation better than the professionals.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Rosalee gave me a wink and I tried not to laugh. “I’m almost done with my list,” she said, “and the deputy will have someone drive me home.”
“I’ll drive you home,” Marilyn said. “We can stop at the diner for a bite to eat.”
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other and sighed. “Um, I guess everything’s okay here, so I might as well head back.”
Just then, the deputy’s phone rang and he picked up. “Are you serious? Her lawyer? Who sent for her lawyer? Sure, send him in. It’s a regular circus in here.”
I took a step closer to Marilyn and whispered, “You didn’t tell your lawyer to come here, did you?”
“I might have,” she whispered back.
Bradley Jamison wasn’t exactly Rosalee’s attorney. He was an attorney, all right, but not hers. Her attorney, Marvin Souza, was reading a will to a bereaving family and couldn’t very well drop everything and drive to Penn Yan from Geneva. So, the firm sent Bradley to find out whether or not a criminal attorney needed to be hired.
I was no stranger to good-looking guys, but the minute my eyes landed on Bradley Jamison, it was as if all the other men I’d ever seen were reduced to toads. That was how gorgeous this guy was. Sandy blond hair, cobalt blue eyes that matched his tie, and a physique that could put Chuck Norris to shame. He introduced himself to everyone, but I swore his gaze locked on mine for longer than usual. Then again, it was probably my imagination. I was wearing faded jeans with an equally old T-shirt with the word “Hodor” on it. Maybe the guy was into Game of Thrones and not me.
After an uncomfortable ten minutes or so, we all left Deputy Hickman’s office. When we got to the front of the building, Gladys opened her glass window and called us over.
“I told you it was a fishing expedition, didn’t I? If there’s something you need to worry about, I’ll let you know. Shh. I think someone’s coming.” Then, without warning, and with Bradley Jamison only a few feet from me, Gladys said, “I agree wholeheartedly with Catherine. You and Steven make a perfect couple.”
If my mouth opened any wider, every insect in the county would’ve had a new home.
Chapter 11
“Can you believe it?” I kept repeating over and over again to Cammy. “Okay, fine. It’s not as if I planned on dating anyone while I was stuck in Penn Yan babysitting the winery, but if I was to date someone, Bradley Jamison would certainly be top on the list. Oh hell. He would be the list! And now, thanks to big mouth Catherine, and even bigger mouth Gladys, Bradley thinks I’m seeing someone.”
It was a little after three and I was spewing off in the tasting room’s kitchen as Cammy hustled to put trays of glasses into the dishwasher. I had managed to grab a quick ham and cheese sandwich at the bistro before cornering Cammy.
She reached for an empty glass tray and looked up. “For all you know, he might be seeing someone. Or worse yet, he could be married.”
“No wedding ring. That was the second thing I looked for.”
Cammy let out a laugh. “I’m afraid to ask what the first was.”
“Teeth. His teeth. A guy’s got to have great teeth before I’ll even consider going out.”
“With dating criteria like that, I’m surprised you never sought out a career in dentistry. Hey, maybe you’ll run into Mr. Good Teeth again.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. It’s not as if Rosalee’s going to be arrested and, with my luck, even if she was, her regular counsel, Marvin Souza, would show up. Bushy eyebrows and all.”
Just then my cell phone vibrated.
“It’s Franz,” I said to Cammy. “I’d better take this. Catch you in a bit.”
She carried a full tray of clean glasses back to the tasting room and I pushed the green button on the phone.
“Hi, Franz. Is everything all right?”
“Do you have a moment to stop over here? I need to show you something.”
Franz never showed me anything so I became immediately concerned. “I’m on my way. I’m right next door in the tasting room.”
“Meet me outside by the Chardonnay barrel.”
I waved to the tasting room staff as I darted out the door. Franz was already outside standing by the Chardonnay barrel that housed our Federweisser wine.
“Look at this, would you?” He pointed to the side of the barrel. Someone had taken a magic marker and had written the words “Chardonnayed to Rest” in black ink. My hand flew over my mouth, and I stood there speechless. Franz paced back and forth in front of the barrel before speaking.
“This is not my idea of a joke. Alan, Herbert and I already checked the wine. It hasn’t been tampered with, thank goodness, but this is quite disturbing. Quite disturbing! And to think only a short while ago I told you we had nothing to worry about. I rescind my earlier statement.”
“It was probably one of the visitors. Some of them get tipsy from all the wine tasting on the trail and they do things they’d never consider on a normal day. Francine once told me we had a naked man run through the vineyards. They had to call the sheriff’s department because Jason refused to chase after him.”
“This isn’t a naked man. If someone could stoop to writing graffiti, I fear they might do something even worse, like putting sugar in the barrel.”
“I know we were going to see about having John put a camera back here. We talked about it yesterday. How’s that going?”
“He’ll have it installed by the end of the day, but I don’t think a camera is going to be enough.”
“We can’t put an alarm system here. What about a makeshift fence around the barrel?”
“Already taken care of. It’ll be temporary, but it’ll be a deterrent. John got the materials and will have his crew put it up when they install the camera.”
“Thanks, Franz. For being on top of things.”
“I have to say, this has been a first. I pondered having you call the sheriff’s office, but I’m afraid they’d dismiss it as a prank.”
“I think you’re right. Hey, I have another idea. We’ve got lots of those scarecrows all over the place to ward off critters and birds, what if we put one back here? In the dusk, it might look like a person.”
“It can’t hurt.”
“Fine. I’ll let John know. And please, call me if you see anything at all out of place.”
“Shall do.”
“Chardonnayed To Rest.” It had to be someone’s idea of a prank. The harvest season always seemed to bring out the kooks and nutcases. For years my parents moaned and groaned about it. My father in particular. He never liked the idea of college students hiring chartered buses so they could get inebriated and either pass out or throw-up. Winemaking was a skill. An art. And he wanted our customers to appreciate the nuances of our wines, not just the alcohol.
I took my time walking back to the house, pausing every now and then to look at our vineyards. The workers had already harvested one of the areas and had moved on to the next. I hoped I was right about the graffiti being someone’s idea of a joke and not some sort of sick warning. The last thing we needed was another murder on our property. When I got inside, I poured myself a huge glass of juice and took out a piece of computer paper. It was time I put my thoughts about Roy Wilkes’ murder in writing. Left alone in my head, they were way too scattered. And if there was some sort of connection between his dead body and those words on our Chardonnay barrel, I’d need to create a guide map to find it.
Wha
t I wound up with was actually more of a timeline with arrows that connected to stick figures. Above each figure I drew a bubble and filled it with pertinent information, or, in the case of the guy who had the altercation with Roy Wilkes at Rosinetti’s Bar, a question mark. It was depressing. I had more questions than information. And the information I had was scant at best. Maybe my luck would change at the Federweisser and Stephanie’s amateur spies would find someone wearing a blue windbreaker sans one of its hang-tabs.
I was about to call it quits and go back to my screenplay when the phone rang. Rosalee! As soon as she said hello, I held my breath, fearing the worst.
“Norrie, I thought you should know, I didn’t give that deputy all the names of people who walked across my front porch.”
“Didn’t because you couldn’t remember or something else?”
“Well, I might’ve forgotten a person or two but I deliberately left out Kelsey Payne, Cal’s brother. He’s a handyman and painter in Dresden, just down the road from here. This past spring he re-stained the porch deck for me. He had to move the plants as well as the doormat and my Adirondack chairs.”
“Why keep that information from the sheriff’s department?”
“Because Gary Hickman had Kelsey arrested for theft when Kelsey was in his teens. The matter was dismissed due to lack of evidence but, according to Cal, the Yates County Sheriff’s Department has always had it in for his brother. I didn’t need to pour salt into a wound. You get it, don’t you? Besides, Kelsey would never commit murder. He’s a nice guy.”
So was Ted Bundy. I didn’t say a word and waited for her to continue.
“I wanted you to have all the information so you wouldn’t be blindsided on your investigation.”
“Um, about that…I’m not an investigator. I’m more like an observer. An un-armed observer. Rosalee, we’re dealing with a killer, here.”
“All the more reason for you to have all the facts. What’s your e-mail address? Not the winery one. Yours. I’m sending you the list of people I gave to Deputy Hickman. And try not to sound shocked. I know how to use e-mail.”
“I, I, um…”
“Speak slowly and articulate. I want to be sure I get the right address.”
Without wasting a second, I complied. Rosalee told me to expect her e-mail within the next five minutes and if it didn’t arrive, to call her back. As I was about to hang up, I asked her if Terrace Wineries had experienced any graffiti on their property.
“Only once,” she said. “Last summer our tasting room crew discovered a rather graphic rendering of the male anatomy on one of our restroom stalls. Other than that, no. Why?”
“Uh, same thing around here, that’s all.”
“It’s those college students. They’re worse than kindergarteners.”
I told her I’d see her on Thursday for the WOW meeting and I’d check my e-mail for her message.
Sure enough, it arrived—a list of names and miscellaneous information. I printed out a copy and looked it over carefully. There were two sections, the first with her employees and the second for everyone else. I read the names over and over again. Along with Rosalee’s commentary.
Leandre Moreau, winemaker.
Cal Payne, vineyard manager.
Letty Grebbins, tasting room manager.
Mickey Haldon, vineyard worker (only came by once to shovel my deck off in the winter).
Unknown UPS man with a package from L.L.Bean (wicked warm slippers I ordered for myself).
Census lady from the county (I told her I had better things to do and besides, I didn’t want the government to get any more information than they already had).
My sister, Marilyn (on more than one occasion) and once with her obnoxious friend Erlene from the ladies’ club.
Roy Wilkes (only once, but that was enough. Besides, it wasn’t as if he stabbed himself with the darn flowerpot stake).
Howard the mailman with packages that didn’t fit in my box.
Rosalee had also added a short note that read, “The deputy asked for everyone in the past month, but I figured I’d give them the whole shooting match. See what they do with it. If anything.”
I laughed. Unfortunately, nothing whatsoever on that list stood out and, with the exception of Cal Payne, I’d be hard pressed to find anyone who might’ve had a connection with Roy Wilkes. However, two things gnawed at me. I e-mailed Rosalee about the first.
“What does Kelsey Payne look like?”
She replied, “Like his brother, only skinnier.”
The second thought was more like an itch than a thought. Marilyn Ansley was a talker. She was also the person who helped replant those geraniums of Rosalee’s. Surely she had to notice the heavy-duty repurposed insect-design flowerpot stakes. They were like miniature javelins. And what about her friend Erlene? What connections did that woman have?
I decided to forgo the e-mails and called Rosalee. “Rosalee, what do you know about Erlene? Marilyn’s friend from the ladies’ club?”
“Erlene Spencer. Bossy old bat. Always into something. Why? You don’t think she’s the killer? Besides, she wouldn’t have to stab someone. All she’d need to do is talk and in a few minutes, the oxygen would be gone from the room.”
“I wondered what connections she might have. That’s all.”
“Hmm, interesting point now that I think about it. Her husband used to be some big shot for a manufacturing company in Pennsylvania before they moved here. Heard he didn’t part company on favorable terms, but that’s scuttlebutt.”
“Is he still alive?”
“Indeed he is. That’s why she spends all her time with the ladies’ club.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know his name, would you?”
“Bertie? Benny? Something with a B. Or maybe it was a D. Yes, I think it was a D.”
“Never mind. Thanks, Rosalee. See you Thursday.”
“Oh, before you hang up, tell your cleaning crew to try those magic erasers on the graffiti. It’ll wipe stuff off a bathroom stall in no time.”
“Will do.” I didn’t bother to mention our graffiti wasn’t tucked away in the john.
* * * *
I didn’t see or speak with Rosalee again until our WOW meeting two days later. All of the women and our new addition from the Grey Egret gathered as usual at Madeline Martinez’s Billsburrow Winery. If Theo felt out of place, he didn’t show it. I figured he was probably in shock.
Madeline, Stephanie and Catherine all shoved different trays of cookies at him as if the guy had never tasted food before.
“Thanks, but the coffee I’m drinking is fine as is,” Theo said.
Then, to add insult to injury, Catherine asked if he was gluten or lactose intolerant or vegan.
“My cousin Arthur is gay and he’s a vegetarian. Are you allowed to eat everything?”
Theo all but choked laughing. “I checked the manual and last I knew, they hadn’t listed dietary restrictions for us.”
Meanwhile, Rosalee got fidgety in her chair and let out a loud moan. “Can we please get on with the meeting and let the poor man eat whatever he wants or doesn’t want?”
With that, Madeline began the proceedings. We talked briefly about Labor Day Weekend, which began the next day, assuming people took Friday off as well.
She reached for a folded newspaper on the end table by her chair. “According to the Finger Lakes Times, an even bigger crowd is expected this year. Word is out that it’s going to be a banner year for our wines. Good vintage and all that. They interviewed a number of hotel and resort owners, and those places are completely booked up. Long waiting lists as well. And that doesn’t include the locals or the college kids.”
“Remember to remind your tasting room managers about the bus and limo warnings.” Then, Stephanie turned to Theo. “If we get a bus or limousine with a number of inebriants w
ho are out of control, we phone the next winery on the trail and give them the heads-up. It’s up to them if they want to accept those patrons or send them on their way.”
Catherine, who was seated next to Theo, elbowed him. “We only had to do that once or twice last year, if I remember correctly, but who wants to put up with shenanigans with so many people?”
“I think it’s a great idea,” Theo said. “Can we expand it to include any sightings of someone in a blue windbreaker that’s missing its hang-tab on a front pocket? It may be a clue to the murder by Rosalee’s pumping station. I know it will be zany with a million wine tasters, but you never know what your employees might manage to spot.”
Stephanie all but jumped from her seat on the couch. “Did Norrie tell you about the brainstorm I had?”
Before he could open his mouth, Stephanie explained about the bowlers and quilters who were going to converge on Two Witches Winery during the Federweisser for the express purpose of “ferreting out” the killer. That was if the hang-tab came from his jacket.
“So you see,” she said, “I thought of Labor Day Weekend, but it just wasn’t feasible for such a covert operation. However, Theo’s idea is fine. Let’s tell everyone to be on the lookout. What do they call that? Putting out a BOLO? We’ll have a BOLO of our own.”
At that point, Madeline put her coffee cup on the end table and turned to Rosalee. “Any news so far?”
“That idiotic deputy in charge of the investigation thinks I might be involved. He hasn’t said as much, but that steely look he gave me the other day at the Public Safety Building was enough.”
“What were you doing at the Public Safety Building?” Catherine and Madeline asked at once.
It was a jumble of words—flowerpot, insect, repurposed metal…and then two words that really caught my attention—Bradley Jamison. Rosalee unraveled the entire scenario beginning with the night the intruder showed up on her porch and ended with the fact that “Marvin Souza sent over some pre-teen lawyer who hadn’t reached puberty yet.”
“The hot guy?” Theo mouthed to me when no one was looking.