Roses, Wine & Murder: In the City of Steeples

by Rose Young

  Reggie turned around as fast as a bullet, grabbed the kid by the neck, and breathed strongly into his face. “I don't know what you're up to, but I don't want anything to do with it. Give me that sandwich.” He grabbed the bag from the kid and huffed off.

  “You crazy, old man,” the kid yelled.

  Reggie whipped about, “I'm not old, you stupid kid, I’m homeless, and one day you'll know the difference, you idiot, because you'll be just like me if you keep listening to stupid people making you deals and promises they can't fill. Now give me that fiver!”

  “What did you see?” the kid said holding the fiver in the air out of reach.

  “Some lady was jumping in and out of the shrubs. That’s all. Now leave me alone.” Reggie grabbed the five dollar bill and left. Roxanne slinked under the crime scene tape and returned to her truck. The kid spied her as she drove by, and then made a phone call.

  “Hey, Mr. Silver? Yeah, a lady in a black truck was there and just left. Yeah, she’s blonde. Sure, I’ll catch up with you later.”

  The kid stepped on his skateboard. That was the easiest hundred bucks ever. Reggie just did me a favor. Life is good. Kicking off on his board, he glided over the disjointed asphalt on Bank Street. His destination was the city boardwalk. And his next order of business, was carving the street, hanging out with the guys, and pulling moves or slides where ever he could.

  Chapter 45

  Morrison and Peabody were on their way to Stonington Vineyards. Peabody read from the laptop, “It says here the vineyard is situated on 58 pastoral acres and was established in 1987. The visionary owners were the founders of the Connecticut Wine Trail. Southeastern Connecticut offers a maritime microclimate for growing grapes, not unlike Bordeaux, France, due to the proximity of the Atlantic Ocean.

  “Okay, boss, they offer award-winning wines and seven days of tastings. Are we trying any?” Morrison gave him a raised eyebrow that meant, obviously not. Peabody added, “Who knew there are so many vineyards around here? This is my best day on the job; it’s like a trip into paradise.”

  “Jack, enjoy your momentary daydream of wine and roses, because it’s the murders you have to wrap your head around today.” Jack became somber as Morrison kept his focus on the three dead bodies in Dr. Storm’s morgue.

  After traversing the country roads, Stonington Vineyards appeared. It was a lovely modern building with patios and a gazebo view to the undulating vineyard. The men walked into a refined tasting room of contemporary architecture and met with the vintner and a few of the staff. They tried to determine the timeline of Stockman’s last day alive, if there were any signs of suspicious activity, and if a man with Silver’s description had been there. Having discovered only Stockman’s arrival and departure time, the men moved on to their next interview.

  The rural route took them to Jonathan Edwards Winery in North Stonington. As they turned a corner, a picturesque scene of bright white buildings with red roofs came into view. They were seamlessly interconnected in a traditional farmstead layout of New England architecture. Enveloping the buildings were broad lawns, graceful flower gardens, and sweeping vineyard fields.

  Even though it was work, the detectives were now getting used to this new experience of vineyard hopping. They entered the tasting room, asked for the manager, and questioned the staff.

  All had given the same impression of Stockman being an upstanding friendly individual, who was a wealth of information on wine and willing to help out the business in any way he could. They were not aware of Stockman’s private investments or any personal contacts.

  Lastly, the elusive Mr. Silver was not identified. The friendly staff assured they could not imagine it would be the last time they would see Mitch Stockman, as they helped him load his trunk with cases of their wine. The detectives, short of hard leads, made their way to Mitch’s supposed last stop, Saltwater Farm Vineyards.

  On the meandering drive, Morrison pondered aloud, “The vineyard business, Jack, seems to be a small world within a big world. The farming, growing, harvesting is an undertaking and then they transfer over to processing equipment, stainless-steel tanks and oak barrels before the wine ever hits a bottle! Then they reach out to the world to sell their wine. These folks are so busy and hardworking. I don’t see how they have time to be part of a murder.”

  Suddenly an odd form came into view. “Are you sure we are in the right place, Jack? I don’t think a hangar is what we are looking for.”

  “It is, actually,” Jack confirmed as he did more research online. “I’m reading a write-up in Ink Magazine.” Paraphrasing Jack says, “The Connerys converted the 1930s World War II hangar into a winery. The property had evolved from a 1600s farmstead to an airport, and then in 2003 to their vineyard. They have a hundred acres, six grape varieties, and a vista of Long Island Sound.

  “And look at this, boss,” jokingly Jack teased “it’s a destination for weddings. You can check it out for when you meet Mrs. Right!”

  Morrison wrinkled his face, “I certainly don’t see you jumping on that bandwagon. So leave me out of it, will you?” Jack smirked, enjoying a tug on his boss’s personal preference of bachelorhood. Morrison had revealed he had seen enough marriage destruction in his police work and didn’t know if it was worth the complications.

  Upon entering Saltwater Farm’s tasting room, they first noticed the impressive architecture of the hangar, a huge 30-foot ceiling arched overhead. The interior was a sleek construction of steel, wood, and stone. Its spacious layout had two levels and a large outdoor deck with a broad panoramic view of the vineyard and water. The detectives approached the tasting table and asked for the owner or persons who might have waited on Mitch Stockman. After many questions to the vintner and staff, and by showing the photos of the men in custody, a wine server realized he did see a man much like these in the photos.

  “He ordered a bottle wine and sat by that corner window,” the wine server explained. “I noticed him because he seemed to be watching the vintner. Now I realize he may have been keeping an eye on Mitch, who met with the vintner over there,” he pointed to a table.

  The men left the tranquil vista of Saltwater Farm Vineyard and sat in the SUV. “Jack, we’ve confirmed that Stockman was being watched. I wonder if Mr. Silver followed him all the way from Long Island. We have Stockman’s movements from 8:00 am to 12:30 pm. when he arrived at the Vinho Verde. There seems to be a half-hour or so missing in the timeline.”

  “Maybe he just drove around,” Jack offered.

  “I doubt that,” Morrison answered, “Stockman’s schedule is pretty tight. If he had something else on his agenda, we need to discover what it was.”

  Jack sifted through his notes with names, dates and time frames. “I’ll go over everything at headquarters boss, and add these timelines on the boards. We’ll keep narrowing it down. Someone knows this homicidal maniac; we just need a break.”

  As they drove away Jack lightened his mood, “Boss, most people on the vineyard circuit would have had a few glasses of wine by now and we haven’t tasted a drop.” He pretended to be disappointed and faked a frown.

  Morrison laughed and added with mocked sincerity, “You can return when you’re off-duty, and I highly recommend the Riesling with pepper jack cheese.”

  Jack tilted his head quizzically and chuckled, “You sound like Georgi!” They laughed knowing they were ignorant of both wine and cheese.

  Upon returning to police headquarters, they checked for any new leads and buried themselves in phone calls and research.

  Jack piped up, “Hey, boss, I have another lead. The computer forensic team in Long Island just called and found information on Stockman’s desktop. It looks like he had a vineyard partner on Long Island who died a year ago, a man named Lester Williamson. Stockman owned a percentage of Williamson’s vineyard, yet upon Stockman’s death, the ownership reverted back to Williamson’s wife.

  “And there is more! Another partner to this vineyard is a man named Morelli. He’s an int
ernational liquor distributor with local ties. He has a summer house on Long Island. So that’s two more on our list to interview, Morelli and the Williamson’s wife.”

  Relieved Morrison heralded, “Finally, something for us to go on!” He called Detective Jason Reuben at the Southhold police headquarters on Long Island. They had attended the Police Academy in Connecticut and had worked several years together before Reuben took a job on the force in Long Island.

  Keeping his official protocol intact, Morrison greeted his friend, “Hello Officer Reuben, it’s Detective Morrison, I’m hoping you can check on two people for me on this case we are trying to crack.”

  Reuben responded, “Of course, Dan, that’s what we’re here for. Give me the details.”

  “A guy by the name of Morelli, he’s an international business man with a home in East Hampton. Also, check on this woman who owns Williamson Wines, Madeline Williamson. Her deceased husband, Lester was partners with the deceased Stockman and this guy Morelli. I’ll send you the write up I have. Question her on their business dealings and relationship with her partners. If you sniff out any abnormalities, let me know.

  “I’ll interview them both in the afternoon,” Reuben responded, “after I take care of some other police business. I’ll contact you afterwards and we can catch up over a burger and a beer. It would be good to see you, buddy.”

  “Thanks, Jason, I’m happy to provide and upgrade it to a surf and turf.” Morrison, grateful for his comrades, found the priority of work always took over his friendship time.

  After a full day of work, Morrison turned to Jack. “How about we grab a beer down the street, Jack? We’ve done all we can today.”

  “Sure thing boss, after a day of visiting wineries, all I want is a beer.” Morrison chuckled. The off-duty detectives walked the two blocks to Bank Street.

  ***

  Since the 1700s, the bustling commerce of Bank Street had kept the bars open. Originally, they catered to sailors, whalers and dockhands during New London’s seafaring era, where legendary stories were layered upon each other like barnacles on a pier post in the Thames River. The ‘City of Steeples,’ now beckoned those to Bank Street for fine dining, bistros and beer gardens on decks overlooking the water.

  Morrison and Peabody entered the relaxing interior of the wings and beer establishment and sat at a long polished bar. The pair soon had their favorite brew in hand, a New London local beverage called Safe Harbor, created by the Thames River Greenery partners, Charlotte and Fred.

  “I love this beer,” declared Jack, as he took a slug of the hop heavy brew. “Aaah, I think I’m a beer snob.” He watched Morrison tip up his bottle, “Boss, the added bonus to this beer is the long-legged beauty on the bottle. We have something lovely to admire while we quench our thirst.” They both smiled.

  Dan finished his beer, “That tastes like another, Jack.” Music from the Lovin’ Spoonfuls, sang over the sound system, Hot Town Summer in the City, Back of my neck getting dirty and gritty…

  Clinking his refreshed brewski to Jacks, Dan offered a toast, “Before it gets any hotter in this city, here’s to catching our killer, Jack.”

  “Tomorrow boss, we’ll get him tomorrow.” Jack took a slug.

  Chapter 46

  THE PAST - East Hampton, New York

  Music by The Doors boomed over the speaker system of Arthur Morelli’s luxury home in East Hampton, New York. The lyrics echoed,

  Riders on the storm… Riders on the storm... Into this life were born…Into this world we’re thrown…Like a dog without a bone…An actor out on loan…Riders on the storm….

  There’s a killer on the road…

  Stationed atop the widow’s walk of his luxury summer home, Art Morelli stared out at the stormy sea. Dark clouds were looming on the horizon with a promise of heavy rains. He found the beat of the music and the strong winds exhilarating. His shirt tails flayed about. His bronzed weathered skin tingled, and his bushy gray hair stirred in the blustery weather.

  This feeling of being alive high above the widow’s tower was thrilling. He gripped the railing and rode the wind. The crashing sounds of the waves roared through him, surging into his heart of 68 years. He felt like master and commander of a tall ship, high on adrenaline and negative ions.

  Morelli, the son of a self-made wealthy international spirits distributor, sucked in the sea air like a great fish. But it was the briny mix of life and death that vitalized him. He had crafted yet another lethal method to add to his family empire. Morelli’s life-long dream of securing ownership of the world’s best wines was his constant end vision. Long Island’s terroir and vineyards excited his secret desire to dominate another region of wines in the world.

  The Morelli family was well-known as international distributors of wine and liquor since 1945. Working in his father’s business for decades, Art compulsively searched the world for the best of the best in wines. He invested in vineyards while his father watched proudly. As a matter of course, Art finally inherited the Morelli Distribution enterprise at the age of 42. But by then his greedy, crass behavior in the wine industry had him snubbed by the elite winemakers and connoisseurs.

  Wine is patience in a bottle. Art Morelli was like many powerful men, impatient for results. He reconciled that wine growers and vintners were not cut from the same cloth as he. It took years to grow a vineyard and create a fine wine aged to perfection. Morelli’s mindset was, ‘Let everyone do the work for him.’ He craved the power of an industrialist. So this mogul found another tactic: Buy, don’t grow. Reap, don’t sow.

  His plan was to acquire controlling interests in established award-winning vineyards, using ghost holding companies, assumed names and umbrella corporations. Owners in vineyards and wineries were not aware of his involvement. He targeted growers who had a successful wine but still struggled with the cost of growth and overhead. Many growers often sought investors. Morelli’s motive was to capture and grow his family business using this modus operandi. His spiel: To provide our discerning clientele with the finest of wines. His goal: invest then own. Now one investment was about to be fermented, from fruit into wine and vineyard.

  Morelli recalled with mirth his last conversation with Mitch Stockman. It was as clear as yesterday. He had made an overpriced offer to buy Mitch’s holdings in the famous Williamson Wines of North Fork.

  Mitch responded with disdain, “I will not have Lester and Madeline’s vineyard fall into your hands. For God’s sake, he’s only been dead for a year and you’re hovering over Madeline like a salivating wolf. Her vineyard is fine without your heavy hand.”

  By way of being absolutely clear, Mitch huffed, “Let me remind you, for one, I don’t like the way you do business, and no matter how high your offer goes, I will never agree to put my percentage of Williamson Wines with the likes of you. A silent partner is all you will ever be. I wish Lester had never responded to your investment offer. That is what put him in the grave, with a heart attack, God bless him.”

  “Now, now, Stockman, don’t disregard me so quickly,” Morelli cautioned, “eventually Madeline will tire of her duties as a business owner, and will have visions of relaxing on a beach in the south of France, instead of here in the Hamptons.

  Mitch pursed his lips in disgust, “Your vision of being the controlling mogul who manipulates with strong arm tactics will never see the light of day as long as I’m around.”

  Easily arranged, Morelli reflected with psychopathic fervor.

  Mitch criticized him and charged, “The way that I see it, you already have enough controlling advantage to unbalance wine distribution in New England. Your competitiveness is on the verge of becoming a monopoly.”

  Morelli starched his words, “Oh no, my friend, you misunderstand. My intent is a finer appreciation than you realize. I want to enhance the standards, upgrade the quality of wine across the board and eliminate these low priced wines. Of course, in the meantime, a fine profitable business venture doesn’t hurt.”

  “I d
on’t consider you my friend, Art,” Mitch retorted. “Your father was my friend and respected mentor, and he was grievously mistaken to give you control. I suggest you take a look at his business handbook. I must decline your lucrative offer.”

  Morelli scoffed, “Well, don’t let the bird in hand fly out the window. At least consider it.”

  Mitch stood strong, staring Morelli down, “I told Lester I would take care of Madeline. It is not just a business venture.” Mitch noticed the air had chilled and decided to throw Morelli a bone. “Before I do anything, I need to do more research on the Morelli Corporation holdings. And you need to give Madeline more time, Art. She is not ready to sell.”

  Mitch knew Art Morelli was bad news. He had a funk about him like a bad wine cork. Having seen his greed firsthand on several occasions, Mitch knew the man was blinded by power and could not care less of the vineyard workers, vintners and wine.

  Morelli comprehended Mitch Stockman was not about to let go of Lester’s award winning vineyard. He knew Mitch was devoted to the grape and the people of the vine. Morelli met many men and women with this passion that could not be bought. Williamson Wines would have to be acquired another way. Mitch Stockman would be taken out of the equation.

  An easy deed done by Silver, Morelli gloated thought, commending his advocate for a swift execution. He had the sense of sailing in the wind atop the widow’s walk of his home. He mused, Now Stockman is gone and I am free! Free to play among the women and wine! Free to dance in the moonlit vineyards! His wild imagination and adrenaline had him running naked through the undulating rows of Williamson Wines, soon to be in his full possession.

  ***

  The fresh news of Mitch’s death had Morelli slyly visiting Marissa Stockman in the guise of a sympathetic vineyard owner. Knowing she was unfamiliar with Mitch’s business affairs, he offered, “If there is anything I can do to relieve your stress, I will. I’m here for you. I can help you get through the harvest season. I’ll review Mitch’s books and files and assist you anyway I can. You can unburden yourself on me.”