From Port to Rigor Morte

by J. C. Eaton

  The drop-off car was a four-door silver sedan, and while Godfrey grabbed a pen from the console and jotted down the number on his mileage pad, I eyeballed the passengers. With Godfrey’s low beams on, I could make out a man and a woman but that was it. They could have been eighteen or eighty. But given the woman’s shoulder-length hair, I figured her to be on the younger side.

  In a matter of seconds, the silver sedan took off and the man and woman got into the white SUV.

  “I don’t suppose you feel like following them?” I asked.

  “In the dark? On a busy road? And then what? I got the SUV’s license. The silver car took off too fast. But I did one better for you. While you were looking at them, I grabbed my phone, used night mode and took a picture. I’ll forward it to you. That will have to do because I’m not about to tail them into Geneva or wherever they’re going. Look! They’re headed north. Besides, two cars are already behind them on the road.”

  “They could be the murderers, you know. Coming back to clean up loose ends.”

  “Or they could be two hikers who dropped something. The ice cream stands are open until nine and there’s a sundae with my name on it.”

  Needless to say, our next stop was for dessert and Godfrey drove us to a terrific ice cream stand on Pre-Emption Road in Geneva. As I licked the sprinkles off of my chocolate and vanilla swirl cone, I watched as he spooned strawberry syrup and whipped cream together.

  “You’re eating the good stuff before you get to the ice cream,” I said.

  “It’s all good stuff. Check your phone and I’ll take a look at mine. Maybe you’ll hit the jackpot and recognize that couple. You see lots of people on the wine trail.”

  I may have seen lots of people but the man and woman in Godfrey’s grainy photo weren’t any of them and their facial features were somewhat blurry.

  “Wonderful. Those two could be in one of those ads for prescription medicines. They look to be average height and weight with nothing whatsoever to distinguish them. Of course, I can always run a comparison.”

  Godfrey crinkled his nose. “Run a comparison? I’m not sure I follow.”

  “Emerson Boyd’s picture can’t be that hard to find. I mean, how many wine publicists are there in this area? Just because I didn’t have any luck with social media doesn’t mean anything. Maybe his business is under a different name.”

  “Wine publicist, huh? That’s not the same as a wine rep, is it?”

  I shook my head. “No. A wine rep is more like a distributor, going around to restaurants and businesses to get them to offer your wines. A publicist promotes your wines by courting writers and the media. They’ll do exclusive interviews about new releases and that sort of thing. Not to mention getting high-profile magazines to write articles about your winery. Two Witches is a family winery and we do quite well locally and with area distribution. Our family never felt the need to hire a publicist. In fact, my father was concerned it might result in the kind of notoriety that would ultimately force our winery to expand. Something he wasn’t prepared to do.”

  Godfrey spooned the last drop of his sundae into his mouth. “I can understand that. Especially since Jason’s studies have taken him out of the area.”

  “Yeah, well, Jason’s studies had better darn well bring him back in a few weeks.”

  “Uh-huh. Tell me, what do you intend to do with that bracelet and bungie cord? It is evidence, you know. We found it near the spot where Brewer’s body was dumped.”

  “Deputy Hickman pitched a fit the last time I held on to evidence. But honestly, they haven’t exactly ruled it a murder. All they said was suspicious death.”

  “Come on, Norrie, when people die of natural causes, no one dumps them in the woods. And from what you said, the body looked like it had been hit by a car. I can’t think of anything else that would result in that kind of bodily trauma. Can you?”

  “I suppose not. But before I turn the stuff over to Grizzly Gary, which will undoubtedly result in one of his tirades, I want to hold on to those things a bit longer. Maybe one of the women in WOW will recognize the bracelet. And I can run off the car photo for their tasting room staff. That’s a start, isn’t it?”

  “It’s better than nothing. But if you don’t get anywhere in a few days, please call the sheriff’s office. Deal?”

  “Fine.”

  I thanked Godfrey and told him I’d keep him posted when he dropped me off at home a little while later. And while Brewer’s death was deemed suspicious before Godfrey and I took off on our little jaunt, it was classified a homicide by the time I got home. I stashed the bracelet and bungie cord on a shelf in the pantry and turned the sound up on the TV.

  Charlie had made himself comfortable on the couch and it took a bit of prodding to get him to move over. It was a minute or two after nine and the local news had just come on.

  “You heard right, folks,” Kenneth from Channel 13’s nightly news said, “the recent discovery of a body in the wooded area across from Lake View Winery in Penn Yan has been officially deemed a homicide. The preliminary autopsy revealed a puncture wound to the base of the neck prior to the victim suffering a fatal accident.”

  “What about suffering a fatal puncture wound?” I asked the dog. “And it must have been on the side of his neck that faced the ground. Theo and I didn’t notice because we were too busy sifting through Brewer’s pockets. And apparently not all of them or we would have found that business card.”

  The dog didn’t budge. “This is like the chicken and egg thing,” I went on. Then I waited a few seconds to see if Kenneth had anything more to say about the subject, but other than telling viewers next of kin needed to be notified, there was nothing more.

  I’m one step ahead of you, buddy. I know who the guy is. It’s your job to tell us what kind of instrument would be consistent with that puncture wound.

  The dog lifted his head and then went back to his original position.

  “But why run the guy over if he was already dead? Or close to it. This makes no sense at all.”

  Just then the landline rang and it was Godfrey.

  “Did you catch the news? They said Brewer was stabbed in the neck. Did you or Theo notice that?”

  “No. It had to be on the side of him that faced down. Besides, we were kind of fixated with the guy’s pockets hoping to find an ID.”

  “Listen, you need to get that bracelet and bungie cord to Deputy Hickman.”

  “I will. I promise. As soon as the WOW meeting is over.”

  “Fine. Don’t forget. And by the way, make sure your doors and windows are locked.”

  “They are. Don’t worry.”

  It was nice to know Godfrey cared even if he did sound like my parents. I thought about calling Don and Theo but it was after nine and they’re up so early to get to their winery that I didn’t want to disturb them. I figured it could wait until morning. Along with my other call to Bradley.

  Too wired to sleep, I turned to HGTV and watched as Hilary and David battled it out on Love It or List It to see if the homeowners would stay or relocate. “They always stay,” I told Charlie. “It’s that whole neighborhood thing. And some people can become quite territorial about their property. Hmm, I wonder if that’s what got Brewer killed. Not the property exactly, but the territory. What if someone decided to encroach on his business and offer those seasonal workers a better deal?”

  Random thoughts piled up in my mind like leaves that needed to be raked. I got up from the couch, grabbed a notebook and wrote everything down. By this time, I should have been proficient with creating a murder board but I wasn’t. In the past I used cardboard paper, notebooks, and even the mirror in the guest bathroom. No doubt, the notebook was the easiest option, and within seconds I had drawn a stick figure of Davis Brewer in the center of a blank page and added spindles and speech bubbles, but instead of comic book dialogue, I wrote down possible suspects and questions for further review. The million-dollar one was most likely pure fabrication on my part, but sti
ll I wondered if there was any link between Boyd and Brewer. It was hard to fathom a connection between a wine publicist and a labor manager, but maybe the connection had nothing to do with their professions. Aragh. More digging around . . .

  To keep me motivated, I added a special graphic at the bottom of the page. It was a miniscule stick figure of Steven Trobert with a clock next to it and two words—tick tock.

  A half hour later I stared at my masterpiece. I’d managed to come up with some workable themes, including disgruntled seasonal workers, angry winery owners, and a possible ruthless competitor. I also added a line organizer on the right-hand side, where I listed all of the information I was able to glean so far about Davis Brewer.

  “Guess we’re done for the night, Charlie. Come on, one more stroll out your doggie door and it’s lights out.” I stood and motioned for him to do the same. After a lengthy yawn, the dog ambled out the door and was back inside a few seconds later. Then, with a sudden burst of energy, he flew up the stairs and jumped on the bed.

  Maybe that territorial thing isn’t so far-fetched.

  Chapter 12

  The phone rang at a little past seven the next morning. I had washed and brushed my teeth a few minutes ago and was about to throw on some clothes and let the dog out. Instead, I grabbed the landline and was surprised to hear John Grishner, our vineyard manager, on the line.

  “Hey, Norrie, hope I didn’t wake you but there’s a kid here in the barn who says he needs to talk to you right away.”

  “A skinny blond kid? Hair in need of a comb?”

  “That’s him. Refused to give me his name and invoked his Fifth Amendment rights.”

  “Oh, brother. It’s Eli Speltmore. Henry’s kid. He’s probably afraid you’ll call his parents. Tell him to walk up to the winery and wait out front. I’ll meet him there. Fred and Emma should already be at the bistro getting set up for the day.”

  “Eli Speltmore. Is that the graffiti artist from not too long ago?”

  “Oh, yeah. He already paid penance for that but the kid can’t seem to stay out of trouble. He was the one who pointed Theo and me in the direction of that dead body by Lake View Winery. Geez, he better not be offering up another corpse.”

  John laughed. “I’ll send him your way.”

  Like a flash, I got dressed, opened the doggie door to the fenced-in area, changed Charlie’s water and filled his food dish with the usual kibble. Then I did the twenty-yard dash to the winery. Only it wasn’t a dash and it was more than twenty yards.

  This better be important, Eli, because I haven’t had my morning coffee.

  Eli’s bike was resting on the side of the front entrance door and he sat on a large slab step by the entryway. As soon as he saw me, he charged over.

  His words were fast and garbled. But most of all they were chilling.

  “Someone’s going to kill my father. I couldn’t call you because my mom took my cell phone away on account of what happened so then I snuck out the window and biked over here.”

  “Okay. Okay. Slow down and let’s replay this. What makes you think someone is going to murder your father?”

  “Like I said, I don’t have my cell phone and I’m grounded.”

  “Grounded.”

  “Yeah. That’s why I had to go out the window.”

  “I get that. Skip to the murder part.”

  “Stuart is grounded too, but his mother sleeps late. His father doesn’t live with them.”

  I wasn’t sure I understood any of this but I motioned for Eli to keep talking.

  “The old-fart phone is the only phone I can use. So Stuart waits for me to call him first thing in the morning. We get up way before the old folks.”

  Finally. Something is beginning to make sense.

  “Did you pick up your parents’ phone and overhear a conversation when you were about to call Stuart?”

  “Uh-huh. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  “What did you hear?”

  “I picked up the phone in the hallway real quiet-like so I wouldn’t get caught. Then my father said, ‘That’s blackmail,’ so the other guy says, ‘For now it is. You wouldn’t want to wind up like Davis Brewer, would you? Awful thing. Wouldn’t you say?’”

  “You heard all that?”

  “Yeah. Is Davis Brewer the dead guy? The one Stuart and I found?”

  “Your parents didn’t speak with you about the man’s death?”

  “Cripes, no. My father wanted to, but every time he started to mention it, my mother would sob and start saying things like, ‘He’s only a boy, Henry,’ and ‘He doesn’t need to be traumatized any further. The less he knows, the better.’ Yeesh.”

  Eli Speltmore may have been eleven going on twelve, but he had the grit of a middle-aged adult.

  “What else did you overhear?” I asked.

  “So my father goes, ‘And what if I call the sheriff’s office?’ and the guy says, ‘That’ll be your last call. Make sure you take care of that little matter so I don’t have to take care of you.’”

  “Did you recognize the man’s voice? Maybe someone you heard around the winery or even at your house?”

  Eli shook his head. “Nope. And don’t tell me to speak with a deputy. First off, they’re not going to believe me, and second, I’ll wind up having to spend the rest of my summer at my aunt Doris’s in Pittsford with my two snotty cousins, Bella and Aria.”

  “I want to help you, Eli, really I do, but I’m not sure how— Hold on a minute. Does your landline, your house phone, have caller ID? Can you check? Sometimes it goes into an answering system and stays there until someone manually deletes it. But that would only help us out if your father wasn’t the one who placed the call. Did you hear the phone ring?”

  “It might have. I was in the bathroom first. Before I picked up the phone.”

  “All right. Check it out when you get home and call me. Try my house first and then the winery. Do you still have my phone numbers from last time?”

  Eli nodded. “Can you catch the guy before he kills my father?”

  “Not without involving the sheriff’s office, but first things first. We need to find out who was on the phone with your dad. And blackmailers usually don’t kill. All they want is money.”

  I looked around, and other than the few vineyard workers who were tying vines, the place was as empty and quiet as could be. I hoped the same could be said for the Speltmores’ winery.

  “Your bike might fit in my trunk. If not, I’ve got some cord to tie it down. I can’t believe I’m doing this but hurry up and I’ll drive you home. Meet me at my house over there and I’ll start my car. I’ll let you off by your family’s winery building. Don’t ride your bike on the road. I mean it. If you do it again, I will personally call your aunt Doris and tell her that you told me how much you wanted to see your cousins.”

  Eli’s eyes widened. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Try me.”

  Thank goodness the Speltmores’ winery was as quiet as ours at this early hour in the morning. I got the bike out of the trunk and dropped Eli off at the foot of his driveway. He swore he’d call me as soon as he could.

  “If I’m not available,” I said, “ask for Lizzie and leave a message. Our winery opens at ten.”

  “What if the guy shows up at our house?”

  “I doubt he’ll do anything to your father at your own house, or even in your family’s winery. There are too many people around. But if things get scary, call nine-one-one.”

  I watched as Eli got on his bike and headed up the hill to his house. Unlike Two Witches and Gable Hill, the one Eli had to navigate wasn’t quite as steep. Still, it was steep enough. Convinced he’d be safe, I did a three-point turn at the base of their drive and headed home.

  Once inside my house, I couldn’t get the K-Cup into the Keurig fast enough. Charlie had gobbled up all of his kibble and begged for more. Sucker that I am, I gave him another quarter of a cup before nuking a ready-made oatmeal for my own
breakfast. As I spooned the gloppy mixture into my mouth, I jotted down the latest development in my murder notebook. If what Eli told me was true, and I had no reason to doubt it, then maybe Henry Speltmore was the link that connected Brewer to Boyd. That is, if Boyd turned out to be the guy on the phone and not the result of my overworked imagination. Granted, he was near the scene and the time line sure fit, but without more information, there was no way to connect the dots.

  In lieu of torturing myself with wild speculation and fantasy-driven theories, I figured I’d torture my script analyst as I plodded along with Kisses on a Sandy Beach. At least Wellfleet on Cape Cod was a locale I adored, even though I hadn’t been there since I was a kid.

  Three hours later, having written a love scene with dialogue that wouldn’t make anyone gag, I flipped the cover of my laptop shut and left the house to go straight to the tasting room. Writing love scenes was an art in itself. One slight move to the left and it’s all sappy, or another move to the right and it’s too rigid. Too bad the firsthand experience I had was years ago and I washed it out of my mind along with that sophomoric relationship. I stood and took a breath. Eli’s early morning wake-up left me anxious and ravenous. A combination I was not fond of.

  Lizzie was on break when I got to the winery and Cammy had taken over the computer/cash register. She gave me a huge circular wave when I walked in.

  “Hey, stranger! What’ve you been up to? Did you just get up?”

  My hands immediately flew to my hair and I realized I hadn’t looked in a mirror since I met with Eli. “I’ve been up for hours thanks to the Speltmore kid, who biked over here at sunup. Seems he overheard a phone conversation and is convinced someone’s about to murder his father.”

  Cammy’s hand flew to her cheek. “Wow. That’s one hell of a wake-up call. What did you do? And more importantly, why did he come here?”