Pinot Red or Dead?

by J. C. Eaton

  “I will.”

  I didn’t hear another thing that day. Other than the morning fiasco, “Deck the Halls around the Lake” continued without incident at Two Witches Winery. By five thirty, after the event closed and we locked our doors, I told everyone about what had happened earlier in the day. I mentioned our place, the Grey Egret, and Billsburrow Winery. Roger, our resident French and Indian War expert, was certain it was some sort of conspiracy. Had it not been for Cammy insisting we all “get a move on or we’ll be here until nine,” we might’ve been forced to listen to another one of Roger’s long-winded anecdotes about that war.

  To further muddy the waters, Glenda insisted we all partake in a ritual aura cleansing that involved burning sage sticks, which she just so happened to have on hand, and lavender oil.

  “The only cleansing I’m going to do is in my shower, in the privacy of my apartment,” Sam said. “I’ve had enough hoo-hah for the day. And to think, we get to do the same thing all over again tomorrow.”

  “Ditto that,” someone else said and the matter was dropped.

  “Hey, before you leave for the day, did anyone happen to notice a stout, elderly man with a chrome dome?” I asked.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Cammy said. “All I noticed were hands reaching out for wine or truffles. Why? Were you expecting someone?”

  “Yeah, Arnold Mowen, the owner of Lake-to-Lake Wine Distributors was alleged to have purchased a ticket.”

  “Well, my dear,” Lizzie said. “In the words of Scarlett O’Hara, ‘After all, tomorrow is another day!’”

  Whoa. No quotes from her favorite sleuth, Nancy Drew. Lizzie must be really tired.

  Sam smiled. “Whatever tickles your fancy. I will be on the lookout for knockout redheads, but if it’s a shiny bald head you’re after, well…I hope you find it.”

  Chapter 5

  Sam’s words couldn’t have been more prophetic.

  I did get to see Arnold Mowen’s chrome dome—but not the way I envisioned it. The sun reflected off his head as he lay face down in the hardened snow midway between our winery and the Grey Egret’s. His body rested in a small ditch a few yards from the driveway. I wondered how long he’d been there. We found his car, a new model silver Audi A4 all-road that must’ve set him back at least forty-five thousand, parked at the edge of the Grey Egret’s tasting room building. It teetered on the edge of a smaller ditch that bordered the adjacent property. The vehicle, obscured from sight by a row of mature pine trees, must’ve been there all night.

  It was dark when “Deck the Halls around the Lake” ended on Saturday. It was no wonder no one noticed it. Or him, for that matter. If it hadn’t been for Charlie, who was making the most of his last free days before deer season and the inevitable forced confinement in his dog run, I doubted anyone would’ve noticed the chrome dome until the spring thaw.

  I woke up with the sunrise: six forty-two to be precise. The glow of the digital clock in my room was hard to miss. It was the sound of hunters sighting in their rifles that woke me. I should’ve been used to it, having grown up here, but that was years ago. I was more accustomed to cars backfiring, sirens blaring, cats yowling, the general rumble of trucks and streetcars, and the occasional scream.

  Here, it was the pop-pop sound of a rifle that followed the hunter successfully bore-sighting it from twenty-five to a hundred yards. How did I know this? I dated hunters in high school. Opening day of deer season had the highest absence rate in the Penn Yan School District. At one point, they considered making it a mandatory teacher conference day, but the teachers objected. Most of them were hunters, too.

  Every gunshot meant someone was about to measure yardage or adjust the rifle’s scope. Even though hunters were not allowed in our woods, someone might ignore the ‘No Trespassing’ signs. It didn’t matter. Sunrise or gunshots, I was awake and ready for another day of “Deck the Halls around the Lake.” If I was lucky, maybe the forensics crew found a viable fingerprint during the investigation yesterday.

  With a hot cup of coffee in my hand and a day-old croissant from the bistro, I planned on doing a bit of writing before I donned my happy holiday sweatshirt and left for another day in the tasting room. It was a good plan and one that should’ve worked. But it didn’t. Charlie tromped through his doggie door and dumped a chewed-up piece of something at my feet.

  “Not another dead thing, Charlie. At least it’s a small one. A flattened mouse or vole maybe.” Ugh. I reached for a paper towel to dispose of the small animal and caught sight of something else—a credit card. Huh? I gingerly reached for the dog’s prize when I realized it wasn’t the remains of an animal. It was a brown leather wallet—complete with Charlie’s teeth marks. The credit card must’ve fallen out when Charlie started gnawing.

  “Some poor customer’s probably frantic.” I said. “Let’s see what the credit card says.”

  I turned it over and gasped. “This is a black card, Charlie! A black credit card from Citibank. They only issue these things to people who have so much money they don’t need credit cards. Then again, who wouldn’t want concierge services?” I was so fixated on the card itself, it took me a second or two to register the name embossed on the front—Arnold M. Mowen. Five years until the card expired, but Arnold didn’t have that luck.

  “Geez, dog, where did you find this? The parking lot?”

  I fumbled trying to pull his contact information from the wallet. His work number was on my computer, but it was Sunday. Even Scrooge took that day off. I found his driver’s license, Medicare card, and two other credit cards in the wallet, along with his list of medications—everything except his personal contact information—I guess most people don’t carry around their own cell phone numbers.

  My thumb rubbed against another card, a pink business card with small gold flowers around the edges. It read Lavettia Lawrence, Essential Oils for The Essential Life. Her phone number and email were on the card as well. I wasted no time placing the call, even if it meant waking her.

  After four rings, she answered. She sounded groggy, and I knew I’d woken her. “Arnie, is that you?” Then a “Shh,” but I didn’t think it was meant for the caller. “I got worried when you didn’t answer last night.”

  “Um, Miss Lawrence? Lavettia? This is Norrie Ellington from Two Witches Winery in Penn Yan. I’m calling because I found a wallet that belongs to Arnold Mowen and your business card was in it. The wallet has his license, credit cards—”

  “OH MY GOD! Where is he? He’d never leave his wallet anywhere!”

  “I don’t know where he is. The wallet was found on our property.” Exactly where, I have no clue. Nonetheless, it was found here.

  “You have to start looking. Searching. Scouring. My poor Arnie could be lying in a ditch somewhere, for all we know. And he’ll freeze to death with that all that snow underneath him.”

  “Okay, okay. Try to calm down. The wallet was found at our winery. Most likely he dropped it and didn’t notice. Were you with him yesterday at our event?”

  “No. He wanted me to go, but I needed to attend a company symposium on medicinal purposes for essential oils. I’m an area representative for The Essential Life Company out of San Francisco. It’s a mecca for new-age living.”

  San Francisco. And all this time I thought they were famous for the Golden Gate Bridge and Chinatown.

  As she was talking, I could swear I heard a man’s voice in the background. Something about a Corvette. Then again, it was probably the TV or her radio. “Um, I feel as if I’m interrupting you.”

  “Interrupting? How can you interrupt me? You woke me.”

  Hrrumph. Good cover.

  She continued, “With frightening news, too. You simply have to find my Arnie.”

  “I will. I mean, I’ll try. I’ll take a walk around the grounds, because God knows, I have nothing better to do, and call you back. You said you couldn�
�t reach him. Have you tried his other contacts?”

  “What other contacts? And what about his car? Where’s his car?”

  “I’ve no idea. What kind of a car is it?”

  “An Audi. It’s silver. An all-road vehicle. Brand new.”

  “That should be pretty easy to spot if it’s in our parking lot. Okay, I’ll start looking and I’ll call you.”

  “Yes, yes. Call me.”

  She hung up before I could say another word. So much for early morning screenwriting. I put on the warmest socks I could find, then the usual jeans and a grubby sweatshirt, followed by a fleece-lined jacket. Charlie must’ve thought we were going out for playtime or at the very least a good romp around the grounds. He was bouncing up and down at my heels until I opened the front door to begin my search.

  We started at the tasting room building. No Audi in sight. No cars whatsoever. From there I meandered down the road. Maybe he parked his car by the winery building, where our lab was. Maybe he’d gotten word about the sabotaged wines and wanted to check it out for himself. But who would’ve called him? I hadn’t planned on speaking with Miller Holtz until Monday. Twenty-four hours from now.

  Nothing at the winery building. Charlie and I moved farther down our driveway/road where our property ended, and the Grey Egret’s began. That was when Charlie decided to roll on his back off the side of the drive, where a small, deep ditch widened before ending at the state road and the edge of the Grey Egret’s parking lot. I watched the dog lift his legs in the air and dig his fur into the hardened snow At least the ground was frozen, and he wouldn’t be filthy from mud or worse.

  Lavettia’s words popped into my head. My poor Arnie could be lying in a ditch. Why a ditch? Why couldn’t he be two sheets to the wind under a porch or passed out behind the wheel of his car in a parking lot somewhere? Maybe it was just a figure of speech. I kept walking, eager to spot that car. Charlie got tired of rolling around and darted ahead of me. Talk about ditches. He took off to my left and, for a moment, he was out of sight. I scanned both sides of the road and didn’t see any vehicles, especially not a shiny new Audi.

  What I did see was Charlie tugging on something as he backed out of the ditch. I made a mental note to tell our vineyard manager to remove the debris and garbage from that spot. Unsightly trash didn’t mesh well with winery ambience.

  I took a few steps closer to see what had gotten Charlie’s attention. The sun’s reflection on Arnold Mowen’s shiny scalp was impossible to miss. So was the small dime-size hole in the back of his neck. Dark red with a thin line of dried blood. I knew it was Arnold Mowen, because who else could it be? The guy was missing. Plain and simple. Plus, I was holding his wallet, presumably removed by the dog during an earlier encounter with his body.

  He was lying face down. His arms were bent at the elbows, and his legs were splayed slightly apart. His black pants were only slightly dirty as was the long dark winter coat he was wearing. Oddly enough, the man was wearing shiny black dress shoes—not exactly the most appropriate attire for a winery event.

  My feet were like two concrete blocks, and I stood fixed at the side of the driveway, trying to ascertain if the body was on our property or the Grey Egret’s. As it turned out, we shared the prize.

  “Leave it alone! Leave him alone!” I yelled to the dog. Somehow, I managed to free myself from the temporary paralysis that anchored my legs to the ground. I inhaled the frosty morning air and ran toward Theo and Don’s house as if I was being chased by the zombie apocalypse and not our nosey Plott Hound.

  “Dead body! Dead man! Dead Arnold!” I yelled. I almost took a header when I raced up their porch. The early morning frost had turned the wood into a veritable skating rink, and I all but skidded into their front door. I don’t remember if I rang the bell, pounded on the door, or did both.

  Within seconds, Theo opened it. He was in desperate need of a shave and a comb. I wasn’t one to talk, considering I hadn’t used a hairbrush either. Or makeup.

  Not that it mattered. The words exploded out of mouth and the entire lake probably heard me. “We’ve got a dead man in our ditch and it’s our wine distributor.”

  “Our ditch?” I heard Don call out from the back of the house.

  Then Theo. “Our distributor? Arnold Mowen?”

  “Yes. I believe so. Face down. Did I mention there is a bullet wound on the back of his neck? I saw the blood. It’s a bullet wound, all right. It was either that or an arrow. You know, like a bow and arrow. Only, if it was an arrow and the killer pulled it out, the hole would be bigger, wouldn’t it?”

  Suddenly, I was the local forensics expert. The words kept babbling out of my mouth, making less and less sense as I talked.

  Don came down the hallway and ushered me into their kitchen. “Stay here. Theo and I will go check it out. Where’d you say the body was?”

  This time I pointed. It was as if I’d used up my vocabulary and was rendered mute. Nerves, I supposed. Not surprising. It was, after all, my third dead body in less than six months. Seasoned law officers didn’t come across that many bodies.

  “Help yourself to some coffee and there are some plain vanilla cookies if Charlie wants a treat,” he said. “You look as if you could use a cup.”

  What I could use was a one-way ticket back to my apartment in Manhattan. I hadn’t seen even one dead body there, and Manhattan has over a million and a half residents. Penn Yan has five thousand. Go figure.

  I took Don’s advice and made myself some coffee. I also nibbled on their cookies, along with Charlie, who had made himself at home under the chair where Isolde, their long-haired cat, was sleeping. It seemed like they’d been gone forever; but, according to the clock on their stove, it had only been fifteen minutes.

  “It’s Arnold Mowen, all right,” Theo announced when they opened the door. “We found his car, too. It was at the edge of our lot, past the pine trees. What do you suppose happened to him? And don’t you two start laughing. Other than the obvious, I mean. The bullet to the back of his neck. Blood and blackish soot. Couldn’t be a hunting accident. No one’s that stupid to sight in a rifle so close to our properties.”

  “Unless they wanted it to look that way.” I wiped some cookie crumbs from my lip. “I don’t suppose you called the sheriff while you were outside, did you?”

  The guys grunted and looked at each other.

  “Who wants the honors?” Theo asked.

  “Don’t make me call!” I shrieked. “Not after the Pinot Noir incident. I don’t want to be in Deputy Hickman’s line of fire. He takes one look at me and it translates to a heavier and heavier caseload for him. No wonder the guy despises me.”

  Don patted my shoulder. “He doesn’t despise you, Norrie. What irks him is your, well, meddling, for lack of a better word.”

  “I’ll have you know the word is sleuthing, and someone needs to do it.”

  Theo tapped his phone and dialed the number. “While the two of you play semantics, I might as well call the sheriff’s department.”

  Don and I sat quietly as we listened to Theo’s end of the conversation. “That’s right. A dead body. At the midway point in the driveway between the Grey Egret and Two Witches Winery.” Pause. “No, I have no idea how long it’s, I mean he’s been there, but I think it had to be overnight.” Pause. “Well, because the body was stiff. Really stiff. They don’t get that way in a few hours, do they?”

  “Ew,” I whispered to Don. “You touched the body?”

  “Sort of. If you count the tip of my boot on his leg. It was like kicking a steel beam. By the way, how did you know his body was in the ditch?”

  “I didn’t.” I handed him the wallet, complete with bite marks. “Charlie plopped this on the kitchen floor this morning and a credit card fell out with Arnold’s name on it. A black card, I might add. I went through the wallet to get a phone number and found a business card for Lavettia
Lawrence. That’s his gold digger girlfriend, according to Madeline Martinez.”

  Theo and Don exchanged glances.

  “Anyway, I called Lavettia and told her about the wallet. She was positive something awful happened to Arnold because she couldn’t reach him last night. Guess she was right, huh? Oh, no! Lavettia! I probably should call her, shouldn’t I?”

  Chapter 6

  “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Don said. “Better wait for the sheriff’s deputy to contact Arnold’s nearest and dearest. What kind of business card?”

  “Essential oils. Why?”

  “Curious, that’s all.”

  He handed the wallet back to me, and I thumbed through it again. There were business cards in it I hadn’t noticed. “Quick!” I said. “Turn on your printer. We should make a copy of everything that’s in this wallet before I have to turn it over to Deputy Hickman.”

  Don chortled. “And you wonder why the man thinks you meddle.”

  “Come on. We don’t have much time.”

  Theo held out his hand. “Give them to me. I’ll line them up on the printer and get a copy. They should all fit on a single sheet of paper. If Grizzly Gary gets to the door before I’m done, stall.”

  I walked over to their large picture window. “You don’t have to worry. I don’t see any flashers and I don’t—oh hell! Hurry up! He’s on Route 14 and about to turn on to our road.”

  The photocopies were done in no time. Arnold’s business cards, driver’s license, and medical insurance cards were back in place. I pocketed the wallet and waited for the inevitable knock on the door. Theo and Don motioned for Deputy Hickman to step inside, and the four of us stood in their foyer—uncomfortable as ever.

  Deputy Hickman clasped his hands together, gave his head a shake, and looked directly at me. “If I had my way, Miss Ellington, I’d have the entire Seneca Lake area from Route 54 in Dresden all the way up to Two Witches Hill designated to another county!”