Pinot Red or Dead?

by J. C. Eaton

  “So, you’re trying to find out what that knowledge is?”

  At first, I was hesitant to tell her the truth, but something about her demeanor told me I had nothing to worry about.

  “Uh-huh. In a roundabout sort of a way. I’m looking for blueprints. Architectural blueprints for your convent’s expansion. One of the entomologists saw them when they were checking for insects.”

  “Shh. We’ve got to keep our voices down. I didn’t know anyone else knew about it. It’s not common knowledge. I know this doesn’t bode well, what with Mr. Mowen’s unfortunate demise, but our convent stands to inherit a tremendous amount of money from his will. He was your wine distributor, I presume.”

  I nodded.

  “And our benefactor. The Holy Sepulcher Convent has been in dire financial straits. Without this major infusion of funds, we’d have been forced to shutter the place by next summer.”

  “I think I heard something like that.”

  “Now our prayers have been answered. Once the will is read and the arrangements are made, we’ll be able to proceed with that expansion. Sister Mary Katherine explained the entire process to us.”

  I’ll just bet she did.

  “That kind of money would offer us new investment opportunities as well as a chance to lure some of our students back. We weren’t very savvy with our prior investments, but we’ve learned from our mistakes.”

  “Um, you do realize that by standing to inherit Arnold Mowen’s money and/or business, you become prime suspects in his murder?”

  Sister Gloria Mae put a hand over her mouth and held it still.

  I wasn’t sure if she was about to gag or lose her lunch. “Are you all right?”

  She shook her head and looked as if she was about to cry. “Murder suspects? We’re having a hard time killing insects. We could never take a human life. No amount of money is worth losing one’s soul. Are you sure about that?”

  “I’m not making an accusation, just an observation. Usually, when someone stands to benefit from another person’s questionable death, they become suspects.”

  “Oh dear. I don’t think any of us considered how it would look. We were all so caught up with the possibility of restoring our convent to its original thriving place of worship and knowledge.”

  “Sister Gloria Mae, are you certain it’s money that’s going to be left to you or Arnold’s business?”

  “His business? The wine distribution business? That would be a disaster. We have our own problems running our little bakery operation. If he were to leave us his business, we’d undoubtedly sell it. We’re nuns, not business entrepreneurs, even though we try to make a profit from our cheesecakes.”

  “What about the blueprints? Are they in Sister Mary Katherine’s room? I really need to look at them.”

  “The only reading material you’ll find in her room is the Bible. You’ll be wasting your time. Come on, I’ll show you where they are. Walk softly.”

  I hadn’t done anything like this since summer camp on Keuka Lake when I was twelve and snuck off with Heidi Bunchmeyer to peek in the boys’ cabin. Sister Gloria Mae turned and glanced down the empty corridor before continuing. Then she motioned for me to follow her down the corridor. Thankfully, I could still hear the hum of Godfrey’s handheld vacuum. We took a few steps and she opened a door on the left. The room looked like the others—devoid of anything homey.

  “This is my room. I don’t mind if you sit on the bed. Or you can take the chair near the dresser.”

  “Um, I…”

  “Sit wherever you’re comfortable. Oh, and keep your voice low.”

  I opted for the chair by the dresser. Something about sitting on a nun’s bed gave me the creeps. I know it was ridiculous, but still…it was unsettling.

  Sister Gloria Mae closed the door to her room without making a sound. “The blueprints are in here. We should be all right for a few minutes. Sister Celeste is running the kitchen. She’ll be bossing everyone around for hours with that cleanup.”

  With that, she opened her dresser drawer and pulled out a ream of dark blue sheets.

  “The actual blueprints are on a flash drive. These were some earlier ones dating back to the nineteen eighties when the convent had its original expansion. They must’ve been the ones the entomologists came across when they were in this room.”

  “I, um, er…”

  “Did you think I was going to show you these old blueprints and leave it like that? You don’t have to answer. We’re not hiding anything. Not about the expansion and certainly not about poor Mr. Mowen’s death. The blueprints on the flash drive are recent. Within the past year. If you think they’ll help you in any way to figure out who might have killed him, I’ll email them to you. Fair enough?”

  I was so dumbfounded I couldn’t speak.

  “Whatever you do,” Sister Gloria Mae said, “please don’t breathe a word of it to Sister Mary Katherine and especially Sister Celeste. It’s not that they’re hiding anything, but everything around here requires a major decision and it gets very tedious.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t say a thing. But why do you have the blueprints?”

  “Because I handle the business end of things and that includes the expansion project.”

  I reached into my small bag and pulled out a Two Witches Winery business card. “The winery email is listed and, give me a second, I’ll write my personal email on the back of the card.”

  “So,” Sister Gloria Mae said, “do you think we’ll ever be rid of those nasty bugs? If it was up to me, I’d buy a can of Raid and call it a day, but you never heard me say that.”

  I was beginning to like her more and more. “Yeah, you’ve got two top-notch entomologists dealing with it, so I believe you’re in good hands.” I was about to say, “There’s always prayer,” but it would’ve come across way too sarcastic.

  “Tell me,” I asked. “What will happen to all of you if Arnold Mowen’s will doesn’t name the Holy Sepulcher Convent as a beneficiary?”

  Sister Gloria Mae paused and crinkled her nose. “Same as what happens to other small convents that dissolve. We’ll get absorbed into larger orders in Syracuse, Rochester, or maybe even Albany. Albany seems to have some thriving orders still.”

  “I hope that doesn’t happen,” I said. “And thanks. I appreciate what you’re doing.”

  “Miss Ellington, can you tell me why you’re so intent on finding out who killed Mr. Mowen? Even the most dedicated sleuths wouldn’t creep around an insect-infested convent for answers.”

  I chuckled. “His body was found on the adjoining property between our winery and our neighbors’. And it wasn’t the first time something like this happened. This sort of thing is never good for business.”

  She grimaced. “I suppose not.”

  “Sister Gloria,” I said, “do you mind answering one more question?” Before she could respond, I blurted out “What’s the real reason your convent is convinced Arnold Mowen left his fortune to you?”

  She paused and pressed her lips together. Finally, she spoke. “There is no delicate way to put this. Suffice it to say, some of us in the Triumvirate had colorful past lives before we became nuns. Thankfully the Lord forgives all.”

  I knew that little schoolboy tale about a letter Arnold wrote wouldn’t hold a can of beans. “You said Triumvirate. Not the other nuns in the order?”

  “Our other Sisters came to us as postulants directly from Catholic schools and seminaries.”

  Okay. I’ll cross them off my list.

  The screenwriter part of my brain went into overdrive and in a flash, I was conjuring up all kinds of sordid details regarding the past lives of Sisters Mary Katherine, Gloria Mae, and Celeste.

  “I see. I mean, I understand.”

  “Good.”

  She motioned for me that it was time to leave the room. We ste
pped back into the corridor and stood there for an uncomfortable second until Godfrey emerged from behind one of the doors. He and Sister Gloria locked gazes for a second.

  “Hi, Sister Gloria. It won’t be much longer, and you’ll be rid of these pests. Next year, please don’t put any pumpkins close to the building.”

  “You won’t have to worry about that. And thank you. I’d best be getting downstairs.”

  Sister Gloria and I exchanged nods and she mouthed, “I’ll send the email” when Godfrey turned his head.

  “I guess you must’ve met her on your first visit,” I said to Godfrey once Sister Gloria was out of earshot.

  “Uh-huh. She’s the fun one of the group. So, any luck with your sleuthing?”

  “More than you can imagine. And that’s the problem.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think Arnold Mowen’s death might’ve had something to do with one of the nun’s pasts.”

  “You’re not implying—”

  “Not them, but maybe someone else who had something to gain.”

  Godfrey put his hand on his chin and smiled. “Do you remember the scientific method?”

  “Vaguely. Why?”

  “Because you’ll need it. You’re already on step two—poised for a hypothesis.”

  “When Sister Gloria emails me the blueprints and I find out who the architects are, I might be able to make some headway.”

  “Why didn’t you ask her?”

  “Because I didn’t want her to know it was the architect information I needed. Right now, she thinks I want to see the scope of the project. Besides, when I contact those architects, she won’t take the fall for it. It’s the funding I’m curious about. It seems like there are so many little secrets hidden in these walls.”

  “Yeah. Along with the boxelders. At least we can tackle our problem with pheromones and a decent vacuum cleaner.”

  “Now what?” I asked.

  “Alex should be back here any minute. We’ll put the pheromone lures in the other rooms. The nuns understand that all they need to do at this point is vacuum up the pests, secure the bags, and dispose of them. Come on. Let’s check the progress in the kitchen.”

  Sister Gloria Mae was right. I heard a voice that had to be Sister Celeste’s bellowing all the way out into the foyer.

  “Point that nozzle away from you and give it a good spray. A little Clorox cleaner never hurt anyone!”

  “You go first,” I said to Godfrey. “She’s liable to hand me a soapy bucket and some rubber gloves.”

  The Holy Sepulcher’s industrial kitchen wasn’t much different from the one we had at the winery. Granted, it was larger and, instead of posters depicting wine bottles on the walls, there were crucifixes, along with a gigantic calendar and a whiteboard that listed the cheesecake and tart varieties. Three young nuns were scrubbing cabinets busily, and another two were on their hands and knees cleaning the baseboards.

  “This is so Dickensian,” I whispered to Godfrey. “Like something out of Hard Times.”

  He stifled a laugh and walked directly over to Sister Celeste.

  Her hands were on her hips and she was facing the interior of a large pantry. I imagined the scowl on her face. Suddenly, she spun around. She ignored Godfrey and me, and instead, directed her attention to the nuns in the kitchen. “All of the contents in this pantry need to be removed and put on the counters so we can wipe everything down before Vespers.”

  “Vespers? But that’s hours away, Sister,” one of the nuns said.

  “At the rate you’re all moving, we’ll be lucky if we finish by tomorrow’s Lauds.”

  “Oh, I think you’re moving along quite well,” Godfrey said.

  Sister Celeste glared at him. “We will after these cursed insects have been removed once and for all.”

  I’d never met Sister Celeste, but the minute I saw her face, I swore I recognized it. The trouble was, I couldn’t link it to a time, place, or distant memory. The fact that her hair was concealed by a plain beige head covering didn’t help. Her pale complexion made her look washed-out, a stark contrast from the black-rimmed glasses she wore.

  “Don’t worry,” Godfrey said. “That’s why we’re here.”

  Chapter 16

  “I’ve come across drill sergeants who were less intimidating than Sister Celeste,” I said to Godfrey and Alex once we were back in the car and on our way home.

  Alex turned around and gave me a nod. “I know what you mean. She gave me the willies, too. I was glad most of my work was in the chapel.”

  “You think they’re going to be okay with that infestation?” I asked.

  Godfrey answered immediately. “Absolutely. You know, the overwintering pests aren’t dangerous, they’re just well…pests. With the pheromone treatment and the vacuuming, the Sisters should be fine.”

  “Is anyone hungry?” Alex asked. “We can stop at a fast-food place and get a burger. Usually I’m famished at lunchtime, but I wanted to get the whole deal over with so I didn’t bother to see if either of you wanted to take a break.”

  “Same here,” Godfrey said. “Oh, I’m sorry, Norrie. I never even stopped to see if you were hungry.”

  “Don’t worry. I wasn’t. And if you don’t mind, we’re not that far from Geneva and Penn Yan. I’d just as soon go straight home.”

  Alex laughed. “I’ll tell my stomach to hold off and spare us the grumbling.”

  The men spent the rest of the ride home discussing various infestations and experimental treatments for tackling them. Neither Godfrey nor I mentioned the real reason for my impromptu visit. It was only when we reached the Experiment Station that Alex asked if I’d like to accompany them to a roach-infested apartment building in Ithaca’s Collegetown to observe the insects’ movement patterns.

  God no! Not on your life! “As fascinating as that sounds, I’ve got a full plate at the winery. Not to mention a strict deadline for my screenplay. I was lucky I could squeeze today’s venture into my schedule.”

  I swore I heard Godfrey choking under his breath, but I ignored it. I thanked them both and took off for my car before Alex offered up another equally disturbing fieldtrip.

  I snapped the Toyota’s seatbelt, started the engine, and headed to Tim Horton’s. I picked up dinner—a roast beef wrap and a chipotle chicken, in case I got hungry later. It was almost seven and a wet snow had begun to fall. At least it waited until I was back in my neck of the woods.

  Charlie almost knocked me over the second I walked in the door. Feeling guilty for leaving him all day, I shredded little pieces of my roast beef and put it in his kibble. I devoured my meal as if it was going to be my last. I seriously doubted Sister Gloria Mae had sent the email, but I was anxious to have a look.

  Sure enough, it was there. A brief sentence with an attachment. “Thank you for your interest in our convent.”

  Talk about covering one’s bases. I imagined Sister Gloria’s emails weren’t exactly private. I wrote back, “It was a pleasure learning about your order.”

  I tore into the attachment like a wild woman. It was eighteen pages long and consisted of detailed blueprints—none of which I could understand. I was, however, able to locate the architect’s information. An overlapping triangle logo on the lower left-hand corner had the initials AMA. Below the logo, I found the name Aiden McGovern Architects, with their address on Clinton Square in Syracuse. Bingo! I was home free.

  From email to Google search in record time, I had the firm’s phone number and fax. The only trouble was, I had no idea how I was going to get the information I needed. I couldn’t very well call them and say, “Do you mind telling me how the Sisters of the Holy Sepulcher paid for your in-depth architectural designs for a new school and residence when they can barely cough up the money to heat their existing one?”

  I shoved the laptop away and groaned. I wa
s overtired and overwired. Maybe I’d have an epiphany by morning. Outside, the wet snow had turned to real snow and the winds were kicking up. Charlie enjoyed his few moments outdoors before coming in for the night. I was frozen, but glad the house had a decent furnace and solid insulation. I put on warm pajamas and spent the rest of the night watching reruns and the Weather Channel.

  Calling it a night at a little before eleven, I drifted off into a mindless sleep. When the phone rang and jolted me awake, I had no idea if it was minutes or hours later. I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and read the digital numbers on the alarm clock by the bed—12:53. My brain had programmed itself to respond to late night calls with the only two options it knew—a winery emergency or the possibility that a jaguar had attacked Francine or Jason.

  “Hello?” I mumbled into the receiver. Francine and Jason really need to get an unlisted number for the house phone. And it’s still listed under my parents’ name—Ellington.

  “Someone’s trying to kill me and don’t tell me to call the county sheriff because I already did, and they won’t listen.”

  “Lavettia?” Dear God. Why the heck was Lavettia calling me? When did I win the prize?

  “It’s because they know I’m about to inherit a fortune and they want me out of the way.”

  “Lavettia, it’s almost one in the morning. Who wants you out of the way? Did something happen? And why on earth are you calling me?”

  “Too many questions. You’re asking too many questions. I’m positive Miller Holtz and that weasel of a secretary, Clayton LeVine, have teamed up to put me in an early grave.”

  Either Lavettia was really coming unhinged or she had reason to believe her life was in jeopardy.

  “Okay, tell me what brought you to that conclusion.” And be succinct, I’m already sleep deprived.

  “Tonight was the giant pre-holiday sale at the outlet mall in Waterloo. All the stores were open until midnight. Between Chico’s and Ann Taylor, I couldn’t fit another bag in my car. I left the mall a few minutes before midnight and drove straight home. At least I tried to. I swore someone was following me on Route 318 so I went south on Nine Foot Road. The headlights were practically on top of me. I was about a mile from State Route 96 when they ran me off the road. I careened into some bushes and they took off. Imagine if it was the highway. I would’ve hit a guardrail and who knows what could’ve happened.”