by J. C. Eaton
“I know I fed you this morning, dog, but I’ll refill your water.”
As soon as I placed the metal bowl in its usual kitchen corner, I checked my voicemails. Yep. Two of them from Renee and essentially the same message—the production team wants to wrap this up before any more unforeseen situations arise. Like an arrest? She went on to mention Gordon Wable and told me to call her.
Then I checked my emails. No surprise there but Renee put her voicemail message in print. I picked up my cell phone, tapped the number and waited for her to pick up.
No “Hello.” No “How are you?” Renee went right to the point. “Our crew’s passports may be under lock and key but they’re essentially free to work. I need to act fast. I promised Gordon Wable his pick of the movies we produce next year if he’d step in and finish that scene. You know who Gordon is, don’t you? He’s directed a number of movies for us. Anyway, he’s arriving in Rochester tonight on United Airlines. Believe it or not, it was cheaper to rent him a car than order up a shuttle to your neck of the woods.”
“I know. I talked to Skylar a few minutes ago. He and Mickey are in the vineyard preparing image shots for Gordon.”
“Good. No sense wasting time. Gordon will know exactly when the daytime lighting works best for that scene.”
It was almost as if Renee had blocked out the real situation, although producing a major film was, I suppose, her real situation.
Then, as if she’d read my mind, she added, “I had our solicitor reach out to some contacts he has in New York. In case we need to hire a criminal attorney. Of course no one’s been arrested but our company needs to be prepared. I can’t imagine any of our people doing such a heinous thing but I need to think objectively about this.”
“About Devora, have you gotten any word what’s going to happen with her body? I mean, who the next of kin are and what they plan to do with it?”
“According to the company’s solicitor, who’s been in contact with your local authorities, the autopsy was completed and her body will be shipped to a funeral home in Toronto. The cost is astronomical. They have to conceal her remains in metal. That’s apparently the law when bodies are shipped out of the country.”
“Who’s paying?” The words sort of jumped right out of my mouth and it was too late to be diplomatic.
“Her estranged husband is taking care of the arrangements but if, for some reason, our company is found culpable in any way, then we may be obligated for some of the debt. Aargh. This is too much to deal with. Right now I need to concentrate on getting Windswept Love finalized. Then I can think about burial costs.”
“Do you mind telling me who her estranged husband is?”
“It’s not a secret. It’s Gerard Dobrowski of Brouse Candies. Devora downplayed the legal battle that was going on between them but I’m sure once the press puts two and two together, it’ll be all over the tabloid news. All I can hope for at this point is that the film crew is exonerated in all of this and they can get back here. I’ve got them booked up for the next three months. Worse yet, Priscilla has another obligation for a major motion picture. Not a television romance. If she can’t meet that obligation, the understudy takes over and Priscilla’s chance for international stardom will have to wait.”
Renee may have moved on to Priscilla but I was still stuck on her prior statement—It’s not a secret. It’s Gerard Dobrowski.
“Norrie, are you still on the line?”
“What? Sorry. I was just thinking. Um, what about Gavin? Does he have any obligations after Windswept Love?”
“He signed on to film a cozy mystery right here in Toronto. We can be more flexible with his schedule. By the way, if you run into Stefan, tell him to call me. He hasn’t returned my calls or my texts. I even had the hotel ring his room but no go. That’s not like him at all. Then again, he might have decided to sleep in or use the hotel’s fitness facilities. Anyway, be sure to tell him to reach me when you see him.”
“Uh, sure thing.”
“I’ve got to run, Norrie. We’ll be in touch.”
I said goodbye but she ended the call at good.
I’ve been zonked out before too, but not to the point where I don’t hear the phone. And as for the fitness facilities, Stefan struck me as one of those guys who wouldn’t know an elliptical machine from a treadmill. Maybe Renee and Skylar thought Stefan was snoozing but I had another, more troubling thought.
Chapter 16
Like Renee, I called the Ramada and asked to be connected with Stefan Olinguard’s room. When there was no answer, I changed into a pair of jeans that didn’t look as if they’d been eaten by a colony of moths and selected a decent sweater to replace my old Penn Yan Academy sweatshirt. Then I drove there. Horrific thoughts of Stefan’s bludgeoned body concealed under a designer comforter refused to leave my head. And when they did, they were immediately replaced with even more terrifying thoughts of him facedown in his bathtub.
I was practically a basket case when I approached the front desk. I pleaded for the receptionist to call Housekeeping to open his room.
“The man is subject to going into insulin shock,” I lied. “Someone needs to check on him immediately.”
The girl behind the desk, who looked like she was still in middle school, picked up the phone and placed the call. “Should I call nine-one-one, too?” she asked me.
“Um, only if he’s in trouble. Your housekeeper will notify you.”
With that, I got the room number and thundered up the stairs. It’s been my experience that elevators can be unpredictable, especially when there’s an emergency. Or, worse yet, when there are people inside whom I’m trying to avoid. In this case, Deputy Hickman, who always seemed to catch me at the most inopportune times and places.
The housekeeper was already at Stefan’s door when I arrived. Her cart was filled with fresh linen and the usual bathroom amenities.
“Hi! I’m the person who requested you check this room. My friend might be inside with a medical problem.”
The middle-aged woman knocked on the door and then used her passkey to open it. She stepped back and waited for me to enter, refusing to budge from the doorway.
“Stefan!” I shouted. “Are you in here?”
The bed was unmade and rumpled. No bludgeoned body occupying it. No sign of blood, either. And no personal items on the nightstand or the dresser. The curtains were open and I got a quick glimpse of the lake before I pulled the closet door open to see assorted trousers and button-down shirts on hangers. My next stop was the bathroom and I took a deep breath.
By now, the housekeeper had entered the room but stood frozen by the side of the bed. The door to the bathroom was partially ajar and I kicked it open, careful not to get my fingerprints on anything in case Devora’s didn’t turn out to be the only body from the Windswept Love production.
My jaw felt as if it was locked in place as I peered into the room. The shower curtain had been pushed to the side and a few wet towels were on the floor. The soaker tub was empty and dry, with a decorative towel tossed over its edge and a cutesy rubber duck resting on top of the soft cotton material.
I walked to the shower and took a closer look. The walls were wet. That meant Stefan had used it recently.
“Is everything okay, miss?” the housekeeper asked. “No one is here. I can clean the room now. Okay?”
“Um, sure. Okay. Thanks for checking. My friend must have gotten up early and didn’t bother to tell me. Sorry for your trouble.” I reached in my pocket and handed her a five-dollar bill that I had in my wallet. “I’ll let the front desk know everything is fine.”
With that, I scurried down the staircase and back to the receptionist. “Everything’s fine,” I said. “When someone has a medical condition, it can be concerning.”
She nodded. “I understand. My father has a heart condition, and even though he has a pacemaker, we worry.”
I thanked her and walked straight out the door to the parking lot. No sooner had I started up my car
than I noticed a black Mercedes pulling up in front of the Ramada and dropping someone off. Must be nice to have money. At first, all I could see was the back of the passenger as he or she got out of the vehicle. Tall, thin, with wispy blond hair. Then, the passenger turned and leaned into the car.
It was a he and no doubt about it, it was Stefan Olinguard. I skooched below the steering wheel on the off chance he might notice me but I didn’t take my eyes off of him. The conversation between Stefan and the driver lasted a second or two and then Stefan headed directly into the hotel.
With only a horizontal view of the Mercedes, it was impossible to see the license plate, but not impossible to follow the driver once Stefan was no longer in sight. There was a rear exit from the parking lot that intersected with the main Ramada driveway. Without wasting a second, I hit the gas, got to the exit and waited until the Mercedes passed by. Then I followed it—close enough to read the six light blue letters against the white background. And close enough to read the word, Ontario above the letters. Ontario. I’d seen dozens of license plates like that. It was Canadian for sure, but whose was it and why was Stefan in the vehicle?
It certainly wasn’t one of the film company cars and it couldn’t possibly belong to Gordon Wable because he was flying in from Vancouver and renting a car. Then whose car was it? The easy fix would have been to confront Stefan, but if he was Devora’s killer and the Mercedes belonged to someone working in tandem with him, I didn’t need to rattle that cage. I had reached the point where I no longer trusted anyone on that film crew, especially the guy who had been virtually emasculated by Devora.
I rationalized Stefan wouldn’t tell me the truth anyway and would concoct some story so I saved both of us the bother and decided instead to see how I could find out who held the registration for the black Mercedes.
By now, the Mercedes was headed north on Route 14 and I continued to follow it, although I let another car pass in front of me. When the vehicles reached the New York State Thruway, I, too, picked up a ticket and followed the Mercedes west. I imagined the driver was headed to Buffalo or Niagara Falls and from there straight into Canada’s Ontario province.
Not wanting to make my donation to New York State’s highway department higher than needed, I got off one exit down in Manchester and took Route 5 and 20 back home.
My sister and brother-in-law had a number of friends in the area, but none of them were in law enforcement and I certainly couldn’t beg a favor from Deputy Hickman in order to track down that license. I doubted Bradley could help, and besides, I didn’t want to do anything that would become an issue with his boss. Marvin Souza was a terrific lawyer, but he was also a terrific stickler for playing by the rules. And when it came to tracking down license plate numbers, even I knew that only law enforcement could do that legally.
Instead, I headed back to the tasting room in hopes that someone on our staff would have a friend or relative willing and able to help. Unfortunately, my sister had managed to hire employees whose friends and relatives ran the gamut from educators to welders, chiropractors to stenographers, and physicians to bartenders—not a single person remotely related to law enforcement.
“Sorry, Norrie,” Cammy said when I explained what had happened. “No cops in my family. We’re a bunch of restaurateurs and a few firefighters. Oh, yeah, and my cousin Sofina who’s a seamstress in Cleveland.”
Glenda, Roger, Lizzie, and Sam all echoed Cammy’s words. Not so much the restaurateurs and firefighters but the fact that there were no relatives in law enforcement.
“I’ve got an uncle who’s a security guard for one of the banks in Canandaigua,” Sam said, “but I suppose that doesn’t count.”
I pinched the blades of my back so far they nearly touched. “You’re right. It doesn’t.”
“What about Fred and Emma?” Lizzie asked. “Did you speak with them?”
“Next on my list.”
With that, I rushed over to the bistro, only to be met with the same answer—zilch.
“Never mind,” I told Fred. “I’ll settle for a ham and Swiss panini while I try to figure something out.”’
A few seconds later, while I rested my elbows on one of the bistro tables, Glenda came over. Her hair was now a combination of deep purple and reds but it was shorter than it had been yesterday.
“It’s impossible to showcase my earrings with long hair,” she said. “I had to make some adjustments.”
The silver and gold earrings resembled two or three sea monsters wrapped around each other and I was at a loss for words.
“A friend of mine made these,” she said. “He’s with an artisan group in New Paltz. It’s called Scylla and Charybdis from Greek mythology.”
“They’re so, so . . .”
“Compelling. I know. Of course, they never got near each other in the myth, but on my ears, they’re choking the daylights out of each other.”
At that moment, Fred placed the panini in front of me and I immediately took a bite.
“Anyway,” Glenda went on, “I didn’t stop by here to interrupt your lunch about my earrings. I wanted to let you know about some biblical oils my friend Zenora came across during her recent trip to the Holy Land.”
The last time I had seen Glenda’s friend Zenora, it was in our tasting room and it resulted in such chaos that I’m still trying to get it out of my mind. I put down the panini and looked at Glenda. “I didn’t know Zenora was in the Holy Land.”
“It was rather sudden. One minute she was reading her tarot cards and the next she was booking a flight to Jerusalem.”
At least Jerusalem is an actual city and not one of her fabrications.
Glenda went on as I took another bite of my lunch. “Zenora brought back some biblical oils that can help you.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Norrie, you’re fraught with tension and that tension translates into negative energy. Tomorrow I’m going to bring you a small vial of biblical oil. Put it on your wrists and behind your ears and knees. The odor usually dissipates in a few hours. Trust me, you need this.”
Yep, like spreading Alvin’s goat manure on my elbows.
“Thanks, Glenda. I’m very appreciative.”
She drifted back to her tasting room table and I gobbled the rest of my panini before picking up my phone and calling Don and Theo at the Grey Egret. Maybe they knew someone in law enforcement.
“The closest we came to law enforcement was when Theo played Officer Krupke in his high school’s production of West Side Story,” Don said when I told him about Stefan’s peculiar disappearance and the black Mercedes that dropped him off before going west on the New York State Thruway.
“Have you thought about calling your producer?” he asked. “Maybe it was a company vehicle that they lease or own.”
“I doubt it. The crew drove here with two Buicks and a Dodge van. Nothing ostentatious. Plus, I’d really hate to upset Renee. She’s working on overdrive and freaked out as it is.”
“You could always ask the film crew what vehicles the company uses. Slip it into a conversation without being overt.”
“Thanks, Don. I’ll figure something out. Will you and Theo be ready to compare notes on Thursday after our WOW meeting? So far, I haven’t been able to pull up much on Priscilla or Devora but I’m working on it.”
“Same here. Excluding food, parties, and hockey, Mickey and Rikesh’s social media pages aren’t yielding a whole lot of info. And Stefan’s is . . . well, rather odd. Mostly posts about poets, some commentary about certain Canadian politicians, and recipes with whole grains. But Theo came up with an interesting idea.”
“What?”
“See who their friends are. That could be quite revealing.”
“Hmm, Theo may be on to something. Anyway, let’s meet back here after WOW and sift through it. I’ll let Stephanie know.”
I had every intention of working on my screenplays when I got off the phone with Don, but that was before Emma waved me over.
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br /> “Psst!” she whispered. “Cammy just buzzed us. One of the vineyard guys came in to use the restroom and said Deputy Hickman’s car is coming up the driveway.”
“Oh, geez, no. Now what?”
“Maybe they have a suspect. Or a decent lead.”
I wasn’t as optimistic as Emma. “He probably wants to remind me to have everyone at the ready tomorrow for those interviews. I don’t think the guy trusts me.”
Emma laughed. “I don’t think he trusts anyone.”
I grabbed a bottle of cranberry juice before leaving the bistro and went straight to my office. No sooner had I set the bottle on my desk than there was a rap on the door and Deputy Hickman let himself in.
“Good afternoon, Miss Ellington. Our office received a call from someone who attended your wine and cheese event on Saturday. They witnessed a verbal exchange that you had with the victim, Devora Dobrowski, and once the news of her death became public, they felt they needed to share that unsettling exchange with my office.”
“Who? Who needed to share that conversation?”
“I’m sorry but that information is confidential.”
“Is that what you came here to tell me?”
“In so many words, Miss Ellington, you are now a person of interest in the death of Devora Dobrowski.”
Chapter 17
“Person of interest? That’s insane. Who would ever think I’d murder that woman?”
“Apparently, one of the guests attending the event thought so. That’s all I can divulge at this juncture in time.”
“So are you telling me I need to hire an attorney?” Because I’m dating one. Although family law isn’t criminal law. And the only thing criminal was that person’s ridiculous accusation.
“You’re not under arrest, Miss Ellington. Hiring an attorney is entirely up to you. I will need you to tell me where you were between the hours of five p.m. and five a.m. on the night in question. Better yet, write it down and fax it to my office. Mark it confidential.”