Death, Dismay and Rosé

by J. C. Eaton

  I rushed into my office, reviewed my notes, and took a breath. Nothing out of the ordinary. Since that winemaker dinner was taking place at Madeline’s Billsburrow Winery, I didn’t have to worry about hosting an event. My mind immediately circled back to each of our three areas.

  As far as the vineyards were concerned, June was a month for tying down vines. The only holdup would be rain and muddy soil. That would postpone the process, but as far as I knew, no major rainstorms were predicted. Good thing, too, because the vines have to be tied down before the buds swell. Those buds are so fragile, all it takes is one touch and a bud can be knocked off the vine, resulting in the loss of a cane that could produce up to four clusters of grapes or more.

  The tasting room was under control. Our summer college students were hired and a few of them had already started to work part-time, allowing our regulars like Roger, Sam, Glenda, and Lizzie to use vacation time. Gift shop inventory for the summer had arrived, and that included an additional design for our T-shirts and sweatshirts. Apparently Alvin was a big hit with kids and visitors wanted souvenirs with his likeness on them. Go figure.

  As for the winemaking, I didn’t expect any surprises. The summer is when we finish up with last year’s wines, so that means lots of bottling in order to prepare the tanks for the fall harvest. Franz, along with Alan and Herbert, the assistant winemakers, knew what they were doing, and as long as I could steer them away from any long dissertations about fermentation, maceration, and any of the other “ations,” I’d be okay.

  Or so I thought.

  Chapter 4

  Our meeting began a few minutes past eleven in the small banquet room, adjacent to our tasting room. Cammy set out a pitcher of iced tea and a plate of oatmeal raisin cookies that Emma in our bistro had baked.

  It was only the four of us and I didn’t expect the meeting to run more than an hour. However, in light of the fact that some people—Glenda mainly, and Deputy Hickman—were getting edgy about the summer solstice falling on the same day as the full moon, I thought I’d cut to the chase and get it over with.

  “Um, before we start with calendar events and reports from everyone, I thought I should bring up the subject of the summer solstice.”

  John took a sip of his iced tea and scratched the back of his head. “It’s not that big a deal. In fact, it’s like having our own Alexa or Google Echo, only in this case it’s Mother Nature reminding us of the time.”

  Mother Nature? What the heck is he talking about? “Huh?”

  “The summer solstice marks the end of the grape growing, or canopy growth, as we refer to it. Simple, really. The berries stop growing and they ripen. The ripening gives them their flavor. The date’s usually June twentieth or twenty-first, depending on the calendar. Not a concern. But if you want to know the concern I have, it’s heat spikes. Heat spikes result in less acid in the soil and that translates to concerns with balance and longevity for the grapes. Anyway, since we can’t do a darn thing about it, we’ll have to make adjustments should that situation arise.”

  “Uh, yeah. Grape ripening and all that,” I said. “But this year’s summer solstice falls on a full moon and we all know what that means.”

  Franz looked at John, who in turn shrugged.

  “The witch legend,” I said. “The stupid Two Witches legend about someone getting smothered in their sleep on the night of the solstice.”

  At that point, John’s eyes widened and he leaned forward. “If this means more crazed tourists tromping through our vineyards on the night of the solstice, we’ll have to rope off the rows like last time.”

  “I’m not worried about that,” I said. “I’m worried it will keep them away.”

  John laughed. “Not on your life. If anything, it will bring them out.”

  “If you say so. Anyway, we might as well get started with Cammy’s overview of the summer calendar.”

  Since we didn’t have any special events planned, Cammy was finished in less than thirty seconds and added a quick update about the tasting room. Then John went on to explain that they were working nonstop to tie down the vines and checking to be sure we had proper drainage in the likely event of summer storms.

  When he finished, Franz leaned back in his chair and said, “I’d like to introduce rosé.”

  He said it as if he was about to introduce some debutante at a cotillion and I blurted out, “Rosé? Rosé the wine?”

  Franz looked stunned. “Of course the wine. What else? Don’t any of you recall our meeting this past fall when I introduced the topic and gave a brief explanation about the four different methods for producing rosé wines? I distinctly remember explaining about limited skin maceration, direct pressing, blending, and the less popular, albeit effective, saignée method.”

  Oh, my gosh. Now that he mentions it . . . That was the same time I was working on those screenplay edits for Renee. I must have tuned him out.

  “So, as I was saying,” Franz went on, “Alan, Herbert, and I decided to use the limited skin maceration process where we allowed the juice to remain with the skins for eight hours. We felt six would be too short and certainly didn’t want to exceed the cutoff of forty-eight hours.”

  Nope. Wouldn’t want to exceed that . . .

  “We’re anxious for aromas of cherry and perhaps watermelon but it’s too early to tell, of course. And naturally we would want those aromas to carry over to the taste.”

  “Um, naturally,” I said.

  “Since this is a new wine for us, it’s being produced in a limited quantity. Dependent upon its success, we’ll decide what alterations, if any, we’ll need to make next year. Oh, and lest I forget, we’re awaiting label approval from the Alcohol and Tobacco Tax and Trade Bureau. Aargh! Bureaucracy! Nothing like the U.S. Treasury to take its time. You know, before 2011, label approval took a week. Now, it’s months.”

  “Rosé’s a good addition,” Cammy said. “So many of our visitors request Zinfandel and are disappointed when we tell them the grape can’t be grown in this region. A nice pink blush wine such as our new rosé is bound to be a hit.”

  The meeting ended with a reminder about the winemakers’ dinner and all three managers, plus the winemaker assistants, Herbert and Alan, planned to attend. Madeline told me they rented one of those enormous wedding tents for the occasion and planned to situate it on the top of their vineyard for a spectacular lake view.

  No one mentioned another word about the summer solstice but it still plagued me. When the meeting ended, I grabbed a panini at our bistro and walked home to accomplish two things: the screenplay I was working on and my research on Eldridge McCombs’s cause of death.

  I spent the rest of the day on my couch toggling back and forth on my laptop between Microsoft Office 2016, where I kept my screenplay, and Google, where I tried desperately to pull up information on Eldridge.

  At a little before five, Bradley called. He’d been in Syracuse for the past two days meeting with a prominent family regarding a complicated trust.

  “My brain feels like mush,” he said. “I can’t wait till Friday when we can relax at Port of Call. Maybe take in a late movie if something decent is playing. Then again, I’d probably fall asleep and snore through it, that’s how tired I am. By the way, I got a phone message from Madeline Martinez from that winery group of yours. She wanted to know if individuals could sue historical societies. Do you know anything about this? Figured I’d ask before I got back to her. I wasn’t sure if it was personal or pertained to your group.”

  “Personal,” I said, “but it could affect anyone in our group should we decide to make exterior alterations on our houses that don’t meet the historical standards.”

  I told him about Madeline’s dealings with Vance Wexler and how he brushed her off.

  “Okay, I’ll give her a buzz. Usually it’s the other way around. You know, historical societies suing individuals or entities. Anyway, I’m counting the days until Friday. Miss you.”

  “Same here. Oh, wait. Don’
t hang up yet. Any chance you can help me dig up information on Eldridge McComb? He died under suspicious circumstances in nineteen forty-eight. Right here in Kashong Point.”

  “Is that a relative of yours?”

  “Um, no, but he may have been murdered by the former occupants of our hill.”

  “Hold on. I need to grab a cup of coffee for this one.”

  By the time I was done, not only did Bradley agree to help me learn more about Eldridge, but told me he had relatives in Elmira, New York, who may have heard something over the years.

  “I’d sleep better,” I said, “if I knew the guy died of a heart attack or stroke as opposed to having the breath sucked out of him.”

  “Who wouldn’t? I’ll make some calls. Pick you up at seven on Friday, okay?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Apparently Bradley wasn’t the only one enamored with Port of Call, because not more than a minute or two later, I got another invite. This time from Theo at the Grey Egret, the winery just down from us on the same hill.

  “So what do you say, Norrie? Friday at Port of Call? Don’s been hankering for their parmesan-encrusted chicken wings in garlic butter. He won’t stop talking about it.”

  “I’ll be there but Bradley beat you to it. We’ve got a date. He’s picking me up at seven. But hey, it’s casual. I’m sure he won’t mind if we grab appetizers together at the bar.”

  “Sounds like a plan. See you there.”

  I returned to my screenplay and put Eldridge on hold. He was already dead, unlike my script, which faced a less-than-two-week deadline. In the back of my mind, I hoped Bradley would be able to dig up some dirt on the guy. For a young family lawyer in Geneva, Bradley seemed to have a zillion connections everywhere. Maybe that’s because he partnered with Marvin Souza, one of the most prominent attorneys in the Finger Lakes. And one of the orneriest.

  By seven fifteen I was starving, but it was slim pickings in the fridge. I scrambled up eggs with feta cheese and tried to convince myself it was a gourmet dinner. Then I made a run to Wegmans and stocked up on real food like fruits, fresh vegetables, sliced beef and chicken tenders—because I was too lazy to cut the meat myself for stir-frying—as well as assorted pastas, sauces, and cheeses. For good measure, I made sure to pick up the usual snack food and three small containers of ice cream. Charlie had more than enough kibble since I had gotten to the farm store the week before, but to be on the safe side, I bought him a giant box of organic, made-in-the-U.S.A. dog biscuits.

  The jaunt to Hamilton Street in Geneva would have taken me less than an hour if it wasn’t for one thing—the checkout fiasco. I was two customers down on the line when I spied Vance Wexler unloading his groceries onto the conveyer belt. He didn’t have that many items, but as soon as each item was scanned, he stopped the cashier to verify the price against some app he had on his phone.

  The man directly behind me could be heard uttering expletives I’d rather not mention, but when Vance accused the cashier of “price-gouging him to death” and a manager had to be called over, I figured Madeline may have had the right idea in the first place—legal action. I swear, the entire line probably felt like applauding when he finally left.

  “If I didn’t need this job,” the cashier told the woman ahead of me, “I’d poke a large hole in each of his grocery bags.”

  “Oh, honey,” she said, “I’d do more than that.”

  When I left Wegmans, I wondered how many people Vance Wexler managed to tick off in a given day. Heck, counting myself and Madeline, plus the people in the checkout line, he had already reached at least five. With those odds, I would have hated to see the full day’s tally.

  Chapter 5

  The next few days were pretty uneventful except for a Friday morning phone call from Godfrey Klein asking me if I wanted to visit the field study site on Kashong Point where Alex Bollinger set up shop with an assistant entomologist and some students.

  “It’s a fascinating study, really,” he said. “Are you aware that there are three population peaks from May to June? Of course, farther north in Ontario, the peaks are spread out and can last until September.”

  “Um, yeah. Fascinating. But why Kashong Point?”

  “It’s centrally located to all of those farms that produce broccoli, cauliflower, and cabbage.”

  “I see.”

  Godfrey’s voice was more animated than usual. “Alex is working in conjunction with the Center for Invasive Species at the University of Georgia. It’s a joint grant and the setup is amazing. They have the latest computer technology in their field station.”

  “You mean in tents? The setup is in a tent like in M.A.S.H.?”

  “Come to think of it, that’s a good way to describe it, only we’re in the twenty-first century now, not mid-twentieth. So what do you say? Are you interested?”

  I did a mental eye roll and was glad we were on a landline and not Facetime. “Uh, how can anyone not be interested? But I’m really stuck cranking out this screenplay. It’s due in less than two weeks so I’m kind of tethered to my laptop and the couch.”

  “No problem. Alex’s study will still be going on once you get that screenplay in. You can join us later this month.”

  Unless a tsunami wipes out Seneca Lake, I’m stuck. “Sounds good.”

  At noon I stopped by the winery to see how things were going. Other than Glenda mouthing “It’s not too late” when I passed by her tasting room table, everything was business as usual. I grabbed a chicken salad sandwich on rye and returned home to eat it while I reviewed my screenplay notes.

  By five thirty I was wiped out and called it quits for the day. I jumped in the shower and got ready for my dinner out with Bradley. I snagged an emerald green gauzy sheath dress from Francine’s closet, and grabbed a lightweight cardigan in case it got cooler on the deck.

  When Bradley and I arrived at Port of Call, Theo and Don were already at the bar and motioned for us to join them. A huge platter of mixed appetizers took up most of the bar space.

  “Looks like we may be here a while,” Theo said. “Even with reservations they’re backed up. Eat up. We can always order more.”

  Don looked around the room and moaned. “As long as they don’t run out of my parmesan-encrusted wings, I’ll be fine.”

  We spent the next few minutes talking about the looming summer solstice and some telescoping ladder that Theo just had to buy, when Bradley suddenly stopped nibbling on the Jamaican beef tender he was holding. “Eldridge McComb. I was so mired under at work today I completely forgot about it.”

  Don gave him a funny look. “Is that someone we’re supposed to know? Don’t tell me it’s some jerk from the Department of Agriculture about new winery regulations. What did they do? Send information out to all the local attorneys?”

  Bradley and I tripped over each other’s words. “No, he died in nineteen—suspicious death—found at Kashong Poi—happened on a full moon solstice—”

  “Will one of you stop talking and the other one explain? I feel like I’m watching a Ping-Pong match,” Don said.

  I took a deep breath and reiterated everything I knew about Eldridge McComb. Then Bradley added the proverbial icing on the cake.

  “My great aunt lives in Elmira and remembered hearing about Eldridge when she was a little girl. About five or six years old. Said her parents and all the neighbors talked about it for days on end. What she overheard scared the daylights out of her for years and she insisted on sleeping with the lights on.”

  I felt as if someone had punched me in the gut. “What story?”

  “The guy had gone camping with a few buddies of his, and when he didn’t get up for breakfast the next morning, they went to check on him. Dead as a doorknob. No sign of a struggle. And he was in perfectly good health. My aunt recalls hearing her mother say ‘the hand of death reached out and got him.’ Hell, that would have kept me up nights, too.”

  “Any chance you could track down a death certificate?”

  Bradley fl
ashed an enormous smile and took out his cell phone. “I can do better. I can show it to you. You can thank Marvin the next time you see him.”

  I took the phone from his hand and enlarged the photo. Under “Cause of Death” was one word—Undetermined. I handed the phone back to Bradley. “That means they didn’t find any reason for him to suddenly stop breathing. Right?”

  “It doesn’t mean there wasn’t one, Norrie. It just means they couldn’t determine a cause. It was nineteen forty-eight. They didn’t have the resources they do today. Look, I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. It’s just a coincidence, that’s all. Try to put it out of your mind.”

  “Bradley’s right,” Theo said. “All of this is poppycock. The full moon. The solstice. The witches’ curse. Hey, maybe you can put it in one of your screenplays.”

  “Nice try. I write romance, not horror.”

  “No,” Don said. “Horror is waiting for a table to open up. Will you look at that crowd?”

  I turned my head to face the double sliding doors that led out to the giant wraparound deck. “Yep, it’s packed all right. But something’s opening up. I see people moving away from a table. I see—Oh, hell no. Three times in one week? That’s Vance Wexler leaving the table and walking toward us. Oops. My mistake. He’s headed for the exit. It’s only a few feet away. Whew. I told all of you about him, didn’t I?”

  “And then some,” Theo said. “At least we’re in the Yates County Historical District, not Ontario.”

  Suddenly, a heavyset man with a ruddy complexion made a beeline for Vance. The man appeared to be in his late forties or perhaps early fifties, and his voice was so loud that he could be heard above the restaurant and bar chatter.

  “Mr. Wexler! Don’t try giving me the slip. My wife said she thought it was you at that table but I wasn’t about to interrupt anyone’s dinner. Now that you’re leaving, perhaps we can have a conversation about your denial for our backyard pool application.”