Death, Dismay and Rosé

by J. C. Eaton

Yes, yes. Fine. Keep their maiden names.

  “Zenora, was your friend able to get the names? The married names?”

  “Yes, but it was a very bad phone connection. Lots of static. I won’t be able to get back in touch with her until next week.”

  “Did she give you a name?”

  “Exner. I think she said Exner. Her voice kept cracking up on the line. Something about Abigail Crackstone Exner. Morton was the husband’s first name. I heard that loud and clear.”

  Terrific. The first name. That helps a lot.

  “Were you able to hear when?”

  “Late nineteen eighties.”

  “Where?”

  “Someplace in Pennsylvania. My friend started to tell me but the line went dead. I tried to call her back but she left for the weekend. A spiritual retreat in Salem.”

  Salem. Of course.

  “Well, can’t you call her tonight or tomorrow?”

  “It’s a spiritual retreat, not a holiday weekend. All worldly devices must be left behind.”

  Then send a damn smoke signal.

  I tried not to display any angst or tension. “I see. When you do hear something, please call me immediately. And, um, I hope your aura improves.”

  “I’m going to participate in a spiritual cleansing. That should help. And one more thing, Norrie, before I forget. Although I’m sure Glenda warned you. Make sure no one drinks any rosé at your winery. Or at that dinner. It’s especially dangerous after dusk.”

  “Not a problem. None of the wineries will be serving rosé. You can sleep easy on that one.”

  “I’ll try.”

  When I got off the phone with Zenora, my hands felt clammy and beads of sweat trickled down my cheeks and onto my neck. I was ecstatic she had gotten me closer to finding that Crackstone descendant, but equally eager to visit those residences Bill Coby sent me.

  The good news was that the three pending projects Bill sent me were all within close proximity of each other. One a bit north of Kashong Point on Armstrong Road and Route 14, another on the lakeside of Route 14 near Port of Call, and a third located a stone’s throw from Geneva on the Lake, where the Chocolate Extravaganza took place a few months ago.

  None of the projects listed had names associated with them so I figured it would be a bit tricky when I paid them a visit in the morning. I was up-front and honest with Bill but I wasn’t so sure that would be the best tactic with these folks. After all, one of them could be Vance’s killer, and the last thing he or she would want to do was help me exonerate someone else.

  I decided, instead, on a different approach. I would arrive, clipboard in hand, requesting their signature on a petition to do away with the historical district designation for lakefront and lake view properties along the west side of Seneca Lake. That way, I could easily get them into a conversation about Vance, and if I was lucky, find out which one of them he stiffed.

  For the first time since I got that awful call from Godfrey about Vance’s death, I slept through the night. Maybe it was because I had an actual plan for the following day, or maybe it was because I was dead tired. It didn’t matter. I woke up refreshed and eager to get started on what I hoped would turn out to be a solid lead.

  • • •

  Once Charlie was fed, I joined him for a brisk walk around the edge of the woods before returning home for a quick breakfast and a second cup of coffee. I left a short message on the winery phone explaining I’d be there to help out in the tasting room after one. I knew they were all set with workers, but still, I wanted to be a part of the everyday business whenever I could.

  My first stop was a Georgian-style home that faced Armstrong Road. Only the side of the house could be seen from Route 14, but that was enough to put it on the historical society register. Like all Georgian homes, it was about as symmetrical as any house could get. Two stories, two chimneys, rectangular with paneled front doors, and faded white brick that I imagined was done to give it that early colonial look.

  A silver Subaru Forester was parked in the driveway, and for an instant I wondered if there were any restrictions on the color of the owners’ cars. I parked behind it and walked directly to the front door before I lost my nerve.

  A man who resembled a slightly chunkier version of Zac Efron answered the door. His faded gray SUNY Cortland sweatshirt could have been left over from his college days. Behind him, two toddlers raced around the room.

  “Hi! What can I do for you?”

  Good. At least he didn’t slam the door in my face.

  I introduced myself, showed him the petition that I had carefully crafted and printed out last night and asked if he’d be willing to sign it.

  “Humph. Funny you should show up with one of these. My wife and I have been thinking about doing the same thing. We bought this house five years ago and have been pouring our blood and sweat, not to mention money, into it ever since. We wanted a great place for our kids to grow up and that included customizing it with a tree house out back. We own all of the wooded property behind us.”

  “And the tree house got nixed?” I asked.

  “Big-time. Hey, I know it’s really crass to speak ill of the dead, but that guy Vance from the historical society was a jerk if I ever met one. The way I designed the tree house, no one would even see it.”

  I reached for a pen and handed him the clipboard. “I don’t know why they’d put the kibosh on a kid’s playhouse.”

  “Oh, it’s more than that. It’s an actual structure that can sleep up to four people. That’s why we hired a contractor. But still, it wouldn’t take away from the historical charm this house has.”

  “I guess you must’ve been pretty upset, huh?”

  “Oh, yeah. But we submitted an appeal and maybe Vance’s successor will be a bit more lenient. Our contractor suggested greasing the wheels but my wife and I weren’t comfortable with that.”

  Nice guy. Has moral scruples. Got to cross him off the list.

  “Well, I hope things work out for you. Maybe this petition will help.”

  He smiled. “It can’t hurt.”

  The second I left his door I felt a pang of guilt. Talk about moral scruples. Here I was, pretending to take a stance on an unfair ruling, when in reality it was only a ruse. I bit my lip on the way back to the car and decided that, no matter what, I’d follow through with that petition once I found out who really killed Vance.

  Next, I drove to a house near Port of Call. It sat directly on Seneca Lake and reminded me of something one of the original homesteaders would build—a simple white clapboard house with a white picket fence. With pink and red rosebushes under the window, it all but screamed Snow White Lives Here.

  I felt a bit more confident since this was my second visit with the not-so-bogus-anymore petition. Again, I walked to the front door and rang the bell. This time, a woman answered. She appeared to be in her late fifties or early sixties with highlighted brown hair and hoop earrings. A silky multicolored tunic hung over khaki shorts.

  “If you’re selling anything,” she said, “we’re not interested.”

  “No, I’m here with a petition to have the historical home designation removed for lakefront and lake view properties in Ontario and Yates counties down to Bellona.”

  The woman all but snatched the clipboard from my hand. “Give me that thing. I can’t sign it fast enough.”

  Before I could say anything, she went on. “That idiotic ruling has made my life a hell during the winters. When we purchased this house we were told we could add a detached garage, but when we finally sought approval, it was after the historical designation and we were turned down. Do you have any idea how impossible it is to scrape your windshield and shovel the damn snow off your car every morning?”

  “Um, uh, yeah. I kind of do. I live on Two Witches Hill in Penn Yan and we don’t have a garage for our cars.”

  “Well, unless they change the ruling, you won’t be putting one in any time soon. Penn Yan, you said?”

  “Uh-huh.”
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  “At least you didn’t have to deal with that miserable Vance Wexler at the Geneva Historical Society. You know, other towns and cities use planning boards for that sort of thing. Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter. Mr. Wexler was killed not too long ago. That served him right for ticking off the wrong person.”

  Yeah, but who?

  “Um, where does your building request stand now?” I asked.

  “Good question. It was denied, which really surprised us since―”

  She stopped in her tracks and looked both ways, almost as if she expected someone to overhear our conversation.

  “Since what?”

  “I shouldn’t be telling you this. I don’t even know who you are.”

  “I’m Norrie Ellington. I’m one of the owners of Two Witches Winery.”

  “Ah. So that explains why you live on that hill.”

  I nodded. “I can wager a guess. Did you give Vance Wexler some sort of payoff to look the other way? I swear, I won’t tell a soul.”

  “Oh, we gave him a payoff, all right, and he stuck in right back in our noses. I’ll say that was a damn good reason to commit murder.”

  Chapter 37

  I couldn’t believe what I had just heard. Was this woman admitting to murder? My feet felt glued to the welcome mat on her concrete porch and my mouth had suddenly become as dry as the Sahara, but somehow I was able to respond. “Betrayal is a common motive for murder. And very understandable. Very, very understandable.” Good grief. What else can I possibly say to get her to admit to murder?

  “Tell me about it. For weeks I brooded over that denial notice even though my husband told me to let it go. I even found myself fantasizing about cutting Vance’s brake lines or slipping some powerful poison into his coffee. It got to the point where I had to do something.”

  “Oh, my gosh. You found out he was camping out at Kashong Point and smothered him?”

  “Huh? What? Of course not. I convinced my husband we needed to get out of here for a few days, and those few days turned out to be over a week. We went to the Poconos. We left three days before they found Vance’s body and didn’t get back until a few days later. Stayed at the Cozy Cove Love Nest. Highly recommended. Every casita has its own mini indoor swimming pool and hot tub. Not to mention the Jacuzzi spa adjacent to the gas fireplace. Once we got there, I completely forgot about that denial letter.”

  “Um, sounds wonderful. The Poconos, I mean. Not the denial.”

  “Oh, it was. Trust me, honey, it was. In fact, we’re booking another getaway for the fall. Please let me know how the petition turns out. Whoever came up with the idea should be congratulated. Along with the person who rid us of Vance Wexler.”

  “I don’t suppose you have any idea who that could have been?”

  She shook her head. “If I did, I’d buy them lunch.”

  I thanked her and trotted back to my car. In less than four minutes, I had gone from euphoria at the thought I’d found the killer to dismay when I learned I hadn’t. That left the final house near Geneva on the Lake.

  Like the Snow White house, this one was also on the lake side but situated farther back from the road. With its towering pine trees and mulberry bushes surrounding the place, the house’s features were definitely concealed from prying neighbors, or worse yet, authoritarian compliance volunteers from the historical society.

  Frankly, I failed to understand the big deal if the homeowner wanted to make a change that was not visible from the road. I pulled into the driveway, got out of the car and walked to the front door. The morning newspaper was still on the mat. Not a good sign. I picked it up and rang the bell in lieu of using the polished ring-style door knocker.

  No answer. Not a surprise, given the paper on the doorstep. I rang it a second time, and still nothing. Since it was a pleasant summer morning, I thought perhaps someone in the family was around back, maybe even on the lake if they had a dock.

  Determined to finish my three-house quest, I ambled around the side of the house and shouted, “Is anyone home?” Again, nothing. By now I was only a few steps from the backyard, so I continued on the concrete pathway that ran from the front door to the rear of the house.

  The lawn area had been scraped to bare ground and orange spray paint in the form of a kidney-shaped design encompassed the area. A large excavation truck stood a few feet away. So that’s what this project is—a pool. Usually, there’s a building permit posted somewhere on the site, but I knew better than to look for it. It was a pending project according to Bill Coby, and one that most likely had been nixed.

  My view of the lake was unobstructed and there was no sign of anyone on their dock or remotely near it. In fact, the place was about as quiet as could get. Since I’d told Cammy I’d be in the tasting room for the afternoon, I figured I’d swing by here sometime on Monday.

  I walked back to the car and was about to get in when I thought of something—the mailbox. With only the number visible on the outside of the box, I assumed the name would be written on the inside lid. Sure enough, I was right. It read “Russell Sweetly and Elysse Knight Sweetly.”

  Hmm, looks like Robert Kurtis Sherry isn’t the only R.S. I’ve managed to find.

  It struck me odd that while I seemed to pull up murder suspects at every turn, Deputy Hickman had latched on to poor Alex and wouldn’t let go. Maybe Russell Sweetly didn’t take his permit denial as well as the lady from the Snow White cottage or that nice family with the tree house. Then again, maybe the murder had to do with the Porsche engine theft after all. I had two viable theories going and was bound and determined to prove one of them.

  If Godfrey and I could pull off our little impersonation tomorrow, at least I’d be one step closer to getting an answer. I still didn’t have what I’d like to call a plan of action once we got to the raceway, but there was plenty of time between now and early morning.

  • • •

  Back at the tasting room, it was customer after customer with little to no time for chatter. The good news was that we made lots of sales on our summer wines. The bad news was that I couldn’t commiserate with Cammy until well after five, and by that time, all anyone wanted to do was go home.

  Besides, I had a winemakers dinner to get to and I needed to shower, fix my hair, and see which of Francine’s summer dresses I wanted to wear. When I got back to the house, the light on the landline was flashing and the caller ID indicated Bradley’s number. In my effort to get a Safe Driver Auto Discount from my insurance company, I made it a habit to turn off my cell phone when I drove. I’m sure that made my insurance agent happy, but I wasn’t so sure it had the same effect on the guy I was dating.

  I tossed a handful of kibble in Charlie’s dish, pulled up Bradley’s number, and pushed the Talk button. Only voicemail. I’d have to try later. I left a brief message and bounded up the stairs to the shower.

  The dinner was to begin at eight thirty but hors d’oeuvres would be served an hour prior. Since most wineries stayed open past five thirty in the summer months, it was customary to begin evening affairs much later.

  As I towel-dried my hair and snuggled into an old spa robe, I thought about what it would be like in a few weeks when I’d return to Manhattan and my former way of life. My friends in the city were already badgering me about all sorts of events that were getting underway, wanting to know if they should go ahead and include me in the reservations. It made me realize how much I missed the pulse and excitement of living in a place where someone is always wide awake at any time of the day.

  “What do you think, Charlie?” I held up one of Francine’s dresses but the dog was too busy cleaning his paws. “I know. I know. The vintage midi isn’t really my style, huh? How about this sleeveless sundress?” I waved a lovely print dress in front of him, and for a second he looked up. “Nah. The trouble with these sleeveless things is that it gets cold and then I’d have to cover up with an annoying shawl.”

  I reached into her closet and moved the hangers around until I spotted some
thing toward the back. The price tag still hung from the ocean blue round-neck maxi dress with a pleated flair bottom. It was elegant yet not over-the-top.

  “We’ve got a winner!” I shouted. Then I studied the dress. “Geez, I hope Francine wasn’t planning on taking this back. Oh, what the heck. I’m taking the tag off, and if she puts up a fuss, I’ll pay for it. I love this dress. It’s the first thing of hers that doesn’t have that dowdy factor going for it.”

  By twenty after seven, I was dressed and out the door. It was one of those perfect summer evenings with a mild breeze and low humidity.

  “Be a good boy,” I told Charlie. Then, to be sure, I closed his doggie door.

  At least a half dozen cars were already parked in Madeline’s lot when I arrived, including Don and Theo’s. A placard with teal and silver balloons read Winemakers Dinner and a large arrow pointed to the path that led to the event.

  Finger Lakes Awnings and Pavilions had really outdone themselves. The tent was spectacular—gauzy white with a subtle design element infused in the fabric. A few yards from the entrance, a string quartet played the kind of soft music that usually precedes a wedding.

  Thanks for not returning this dress, Francine.

  Once inside, a greeter handed me a card with my table number. Thankfully, Madeline had seated me with Don, Theo, Rosalee, and the Ipswiches. The winemakers occupied the place of honor, a dais at the front of the tent. Leandre, Rosalee’s winemaker, looked as if he was in a deep conversation with our winemaker, Franz, so I simply waved as I moved past them to the table.

  “Whoa,” Don said. “That didn’t come from your sister’s closet, did it?”

  I smiled. “Hard to believe, huh?”

  Don pulled out the chair and I sat down.

  “Madeline’s got an army of waitstaff coming around with appetizers, but there’s also a buffet off to your left. All sorts of summer salads, breads, and fruits. Theo and I scoped it out a few minutes ago. I wasn’t planning on ruining my appetite by filling up on hors d’oeuvres, but what the heck. It’s a long night. We probably won’t get to the main course until nine.”