She pulled out a cork and poured a glass of wine. “Would you like to taste it?” She put the glass to her lips. “It’s our entry in the competition and it’s excellent.” She gave me a sly smile, as if she had a secret.
“No, thanks. I’m here because I’m wondering why you tried to hire David away when Simon bought Pure with Ivy and why you’re trying to poach Gerald now.”
“That, chérie, is none of your business.”
“It is if you are hurting my friends, and Simon Lewis is one of my best friends, and if it’s connected to this murder.”
“But before, you were lovers, no? How do you make that transition, is what I’d like to know.”
“It wasn’t all that easy, but don’t try to change the subject. Why are you trying to nab Pure’s talent? Can’t you make it on your own?”
“Business is business.” She downed the rest of the glass. “Now I need to get back to work.”
“Camille, what I really want to know is this. Would you go as far as trying to kill David to get what you want? Was Amy Lord just collateral damage?”
Just then, Carter Crocker, in full cowboy mode, came out from the back. “Kill David?” He put his hands on his hips and frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m trying to solve Amy’s murder and stop the threats to David’s life. Someone threw him in a wine vat last night and he broke his arm in two places. You two were there last night.”
“Now wait a minute,” Carter said. “You are out of line, lady.”
“No, I don’t think so. I’m trying to get to the truth.”
“Then I have no idea why you’re here,” Carter said. “We don’t have time for this. We have a tasting tonight.”
“You’d better go,” Camille said. “I really thought you were better than this, Willow.”
“I feel the same way about you, Camille.”
• • •
Simon managed to take his eyes off his phone and got back on the road, and we headed to Greenport. I told him about the conversation with Camille while I snapped photos of the vineyard signs. I’d taken one of Crocker Cellars and Derek Mortimer’s St. Ives Estate Vineyards and a dozen others on both the North Road and Route 25. The Farmer vineyard would be coming up next.
“My talk with Camille really didn’t accomplish anything,” I said. “Except to make me pretty sure that she and her husband could be behind this. I don’t know how we were ever friends.”
“You bonded when she came to take that tour of the medicinal garden this summer, but you haven’t spent much time with her, between your book and the store and Jackson, and hanging with me, of course. You’re not friends. How much do you really know about her?”
“I guess you’re right. . . . Hey, slow down. I want to take a photo of the Farmer vineyard sign. Can you pull over?”
Once he stopped the car, I got out and went up to the sign, which was battered, faded, and worn and had a CLOSED placard tacked to the bottom. The vineyard had also seen better days—the house and the barn looked run-down, and no cars or trucks were in the driveway, but several wrecked vehicles had been pushed out into the field. Winning the $200,000 would give them a new lease on life, and a fighting chance to stay open. Stepping back, I took a few shots from both sides.
Before I left, and since no one was home, I circled the house and the barn, checking for poison hemlock. I found it behind the barn on the edge of the vineyard. I snapped a photo of it, too, and headed back to the car.
Simon wasn’t surfing sites, though; he was on the phone. “So how much is it?” He listened for a bit. “Fine, fine. Just let Rick know. He’ll take care of it.”
I mouthed, Shawn?
Simon nodded. “Okay, we’ll look for her release in the morning. Thank you, Shawn.” Simon put the phone down. “Lily can post bail. The judge asked for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, so we just need to come up with ten percent or twenty-five K, and as you heard, I’m taking care of it.”
“Thank you, Simon. I really appreciate it. You’re a good friend.”
“I know.” He laughed. “No, really, it’s okay. Glad to do it. Where to next?”
• • •
I needed to get back to Nature’s Way since tonight was Halloween and we usually had a good-size crowd of kids and their families for trick or treat. The kids got organic candy, and the adults got free samples of organic products we carried, so it was fun all around, not to mention the hot cocoa and cookies that Merrily provided.
That Tad Williams had agreed to come in was great, but they would need my help as well. So we headed back to Greenport, stopping to take a photo of Carla Olsen’s Sisterhood Wines sign on the North Road before switching back to Route 25.
But when we got to the Mill Creek Bridge, on the way into Greenport, it became obvious that something had gone terribly wrong there. Cop cars blocked the way, along with an ambulance, and a policeman put his hand up for us to stop.
“What’s going on here?”
“Pull down there,” I said, “so we can get out and take a look.”
Simon waved to the cop, quickly took a right, and turned down the road that ran past the seafood restaurants that were directly on the water. We got out and walked back to the bridge. That’s when we saw Gerald’s truck bobbing in the gray-blue water.
• • •
Fortunately, Gerald had survived and was being hoisted onto a rowboat that would head to shore. When he arrived there, the medics rushed to him with blankets and helped him into the ambulance. After they checked his vital signs, the ambulance took off for ELIH. Traffic had backed up, with drivers taking the same route we had, but circling back to Route 25 and taking a different way to Greenport village.
“David is a talented winemaker and there have now been four attempts on his life,” I said. “What are the odds that someone tried to bump Gerald off for the same reason?”
“Excellent point,” Simon said. “Who could we ask?”
I spotted a patrolman I knew, Matthew Hart, and waved to him. Tall and lanky, Matt had been born and raised on the East End and had dated my friend Allie, the masseuse, last year. After two months they had broken up when she couldn’t deal with his straitlaced ways and he couldn’t deal with her go-with-the-flow attitude. “Hey, Willow, you shouldn’t be here. Detective Koren will be here any minute. And you two do not mix.”
“I know, Matt. But what happened to Gerald Parker? Is he going to be okay?”
Matt ran his hand through his hair. “From what we can tell, someone ran him off the road at a very high rate of speed. He’s going to be okay, we think, but whoever did it took off. So we’ve got a lot of work to do.” Car doors slammed shut and Matt turned around. “He’s here. You’d better go. I’ll see ya.”
We took his advice and headed back to Simon’s car and took the long way back to Nature’s Way.
• • •
By eight o’clock Saturday night, Nature’s Way was buzzing with activity, like the rest of the town, since, yes, it was Halloween, but it was also the last night before the judges’ choice for the winner of the Wine Lovers magazine competition would be revealed. The Nature’s Way exterior looked fun and festive, and inside all the tables were full of kids and their families enjoying hot chocolate and organic cookies, along with the treats of organic sweets and free samples of organic soap, moisturizer, toothpaste, shampoo, and conditioner. Some of the adults even took the opportunity to pick up wants and needs from the shelves. Tad was a lifesaver, and between him, Merrily, and me, we managed to take care of everybody and everything in a timely manner.
Jackson arrived around eight thirty with Qigong, Rockford, Columbo, and Zeke, happy and frisky as ever, and I went over to the door to greet them all. “Hi, hon.” I gave Jackson a kiss and petted the dogs. “How did you get away? Who’s watching David?”
“I managed to get in touch with Tony, the cop we used to guard the garden last year, and he’s watching him. I knew that you wanted to do some investigating tonight,
especially about Gerald’s accident, and I didn’t want you to go alone.”
“Thank you, I do.” I’d already updated Jackson over the phone about the trip to Crocker Cellars, seeing Nora Evans, my confrontation with Camille and Carter, and Gerald’s accident. Jackson told me that Ivy had left right after Simon and I had gone to follow Gerald, and we both wondered if either she or perhaps Camille and/or Carter Crocker were responsible for Gerald’s accident.
I went back over to the counter and picked up the packet of photos I’d taken and had developed and the brochure of North Fork UnCorked! activities and handed both to Jackson, along with a small bone for each dog, which they eagerly gobbled up. “I thought you could look at these in my office while I change and take a look at what’s on for tonight. We need to decide where to focus our energy. I’ll be right back.”
By the time I’d changed from my Nature’s Way uniform into a gray wool sweater and gray jeans and boots—which matched Jackson’s outfit of a gray zip-up fleece and black jeans—and returned to the office, the dogs were asleep on the couch and Jackson had a plan.
“I think we should go to Harry’s Half Shell first because the Farmer wines are featured in a pairing and they’ll be there, then move on to the Oyster Bar because Gerald is doing a tasting for Pure, if he’s up to it. Have you checked on him?”
“Yes, he’s been released, and I checked on Wallace, too, of course, and he’s stable and feeling better.”
“That’s good news at least.”
“Sure is. Where else?”
“After that, we go to Whitman’s, for the Crocker Cellars tasting, and end up at Salt and check in with Simon, David, and Ivy. Of course, if we spot anyone doing something interesting as we walk around, we can check that out, too.”
I picked up the photos. “Did you spot anything interesting here?”
He shook his head as he zipped up his fleece. “I didn’t see any sign that matched the one in the photo that was sent to David.”
• • •
Harry’s Half Shell on Front Street, located a block before Main Street, had a big crowd inside, most of them with North Fork UnCorked! bracelets, so Jackson and I had to wait our turn to get to the tasting at the oversize mahogany bar.
The restaurant had no real seafood feel, but the food here rated four stars in the foodie guidebooks. At the bar, a smiling and clean-shaven Kurt Famer, dressed in a suit and tie, poured wine into glasses and passed them around. A menu in a laminated frame on top of the bar itemized the dishes that featured Farmer wines.
Jackson pointed to my bracelet. I’d bought one for each of us more to support the cause than to sample wines. “You want to taste the wine?”
“No, I want to stay sharp. There’s just too much at stake.”
“Look who’s here,” Jackson said, after surveying the crowd. “Nora Evans, and she’s talking to Walter Farmer.”
Nora and Walter sat at the end of the bar drinking wine and chatting amicably. “If we move in closer, we may be able to hear what they’re saying,” Jackson said, taking my hand and moving toward them. When we got next to them, Jackson picked up a glass of wine and handed it to me. “Cheers, McQuade.”
“Thanks, honey.”
Walter, also dressed in a suit, and Nora, who wore an autumn-orange-colored wool dress, a brown scarf around her throat, and thigh-high boots, continued to talk, but it was about his business and the Wine Lovers magazine contest. “I’m glad that you like the vintage,” Walter said. “Kurt worked really hard to get it right.”
“You must miss working with David, though,” Nora said. “He’s quite talented and, I’m sure you know, the front-runner in our little competition.”
“Yes, and I taught him everything he knows. I think you’re better off with the chicken rather than the egg. Don’t you, ma’am?”
She giggled and took a sip of wine. “You do have a point, Mr. Farmer.”
“Please call me Walter.” He waved Kurt over. “This is the genius behind the wine. Kurt, meet Ms. Evans. She likes your wine.”
“Thanks very much,” Kurt said, and noticing us, he turned so that his back blocked our view of them.
We moved down the bar a bit and reassessed. “Not much there,” Jackson said.
“No, nothing unexpected.”
“Hey,” Kurt said as he came over to us, “what are you two doing here? You’re the enemy.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Kurt,” I said. “We’re just checking out the various vintages around town.”
“Sure you are. I think you’d better leave.”
“Counterproposal—why don’t you step outside?” Jackson said. “We’ve got a few questions and then we’ll go.”
Kurt thought it over for a moment, then grabbed another glass of wine and followed us out. He closed the door behind us. “So what do you want?”
“Given your history with your brother, David,” I said. “We were wondering just how far you might go to win the competition tomorrow night.”
“What do you mean?”
“We mean that since you attacked David at his sister-in-law Amy’s wake, we’re wondering if you’re behind the repeated attempts on his life,” Jackson said. “So far he’s been almost poisoned, almost crushed, and almost frozen, and last night someone threw him into a wine vat and he broke his arm in two places.”
“No way. He’s my brother. We may not get along, but I wouldn’t do that.”
“He’s also been receiving threatening texts and e-mails telling him to withdraw from the competition. Know anything about that?”
“No.” But as Kurt said it, he averted his eyes.
“And we’re supposed to take your word for it?”
“I don’t care what you do.” Kurt reached for the door handle. “I wouldn’t hurt my brother.”
chapter twenty-one
We took the crosswalk to Main Street and walked toward the Oyster Bar, which was wedged between an insurance office and a clothing store. The place had started out as a gelato shop but had changed hands several times until its most recent incarnation, thanks to the owner of an apparel company in New York.
“So what did you think? Was Kurt telling the truth?” I said. “Did you notice how he wouldn’t look at us when he said he wouldn’t hurt David?”
“Yes, but it’s not an admission of guilt. In fact, there’s no benefit for him to admit anything. He’d have to be caught in a lie.”
“How do we do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Nora Evans and Walter Farmer seemed pretty cozy,” I said. “It’s a good thing that Simon wasn’t with us.”
“That’s for sure.”
We walked up to the Oyster Bar, a nondescript redbrick storefront with a neon sign and a poster in the window advertising pairings of Pure wine with signature dishes, and the wine tasting for Pure with Gerald Parker.
Inside, I spotted Gerald at the bar that ran the length of the place, talking to Derek Mortimer of St. Ives Estate Vineyards and pouring him a glass of wine. Once he was finished and Mortimer stepped away, we went over to him. The Oyster Bar wasn’t nearly as crowded as Harry’s Half Shell because it didn’t have the same reputation for fine seafood.
“Are you okay, Gerald?” I said. “Simon and I were on Route Twenty-Five this afternoon and we saw your truck in the water.”
“I really don’t have time to talk right now. I’m super-busy. Get you something?”
“No, thanks,” I said. “Did you get a look at who was in the car?”
He turned away to serve a new customer. Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder, and I turned to find Derek Mortimer. He wore his usual three-piece suit and held an unlit cigar. “I can fill you in.”
“I didn’t see you at the bridge,” I said.
“I saw the whole thing. I just didn’t stick around afterward because I had a meeting to go to.”
“So what happened?”
“When we passed the Seafood Barge, Gerald was two cars in front of me, and he
wasn’t going very fast. But then when we got to the straightaway, this black Jeep Grand Cherokee zoomed past me and the car in front of me and just managed to squeeze in behind Gerald’s truck. As they approached the bridge, he or she, I guess, hit the gas hard, but Gerald spotted him and sped up. But the Jeep caught up to him and rammed his bumper, really hard. The truck skidded off the road, flew into the air, and ended up in the water. It’s a miracle that he’s here tonight.”
“Any idea who was in the Jeep?” Jackson said.
“No,” Mortimer said. “Tinted windows.” The door to the Oyster Bar opened and he waved to someone he knew. “I need to say hello to someone, please excuse me.”
“That’s quite a story,” I said. “I wonder who was driving the Jeep?”
“I don’t know, but there’s no one else of interest here, and I just saw Ramsey Black walk by outside. Shall we follow him?”
“Definitely.”
• • •
We followed Ramsey Black to Whitman’s, a quaint new boutique hotel in Sterling Square, four blocks north of the harbor. The menu and accommodations had quickly won raves, and that Crocker Cellars was the featured vintner here tonight indicated the winery’s dominance in the market—besides Pure. We waited a few minutes after Ramsey went in before we followed.
When we did enter, the place was packed, and the bar was crowded with customers wanting a taste from Camille and Carter of Crocker Cellars’ entry in the Wine Lovers magazine contest, while others waited for tables to sample the wine pairings with various dishes.
The interior had the appeal of an English pub, with table groupings around a fireplace that blazed in the low light of the dining room. Bookshelves filled with the nineteenth-century poet Walt Whitman’s literary works lined the walls along with illustrations and photos of him, and his sister’s house on South Street in Greenport, where he often visited, along with other memorabilia.
Because it was so dark, though, it was difficult to see who exactly was here, including Ramsey, who seemed to have vanished. But then I spotted him heading back to the bar from Carla Olsen’s table in the dining room. She sat at a table with a woman I didn’t recognize.
Dandelion Dead Page 21