Death, Dismay and Rosé

by J. C. Eaton

  With that, he stood, gave Theo a poke on the shoulder and walked directly to the buffet. Theo shrugged and motioned for me to join him. “Stephanie, Derek, and Rosalee can catch up when they get here. The Ipswiches are always notoriously late. Must come with the territory of having kids. Oh, look! Rosalee’s on her way over. Might as well wait for her.”

  Thirty seconds later, Rosalee put a white beaded purse on her chair and announced, “What are you two waiting for? If I’m not mistaken, there’s a buffet over there. At my age, I choose to eat when I can. For all anyone knows, I could be dead by morning.”

  Chapter 38

  The first time I heard Rosalee say that, I was shocked. Now, not so much. We moseyed to the buffet table, where I helped myself to crab salad and some mini quiches. From what I could tell, the waitstaff was serving hot appetizers like bacon-wrapped shrimp and stuffed pierogis. As I looked around, I noticed the tent had filled up considerably since I arrived.

  “I’ve got another theory,” I whispered to Theo.

  He and I stepped away from the buffet table to the back corner of the tent. He looked both ways and gave me a nod. “A theory or something more?”

  I told him about the payoffs and how I gleaned information from two out of the three names Bill had given me.

  “Holy cow. You don’t waste any time, do you?”

  “I can’t afford to. There are two people with the initials R.S. and one of them could very well be Vance’s killer. Too bad Russell Sweetly wasn’t home. I might have been able to wheedle a confession out of him. I mean, if it was him. Now that will have to wait until Monday.”

  “What’s wrong with tomorrow?”

  “Uh, yeah. About tomorrow . . . Look, don’t get freaked out, but Godfrey and I are going to snoop around one of the Porsche driver’s bay at the Watkins Glen Raceway. Sort of a follow-up to where you, Don, and I left off when that truck disappeared.”

  Theo groaned and rolled his eyes.

  “This isn’t a stab in the dark,” I said. “I did my homework and then some. There’s a race car driver named Robert Kurtis Sherry who lives in Tonawanda, Pennsylvania. A close enough distance to have pulled off that engine heist. Think about it—R.S. Like in Vance’s note we found.”

  “Norrie, I don’t like where this is going. You really should tell Deputy Hickman.”

  “I will. Once I’m sure Robert Kurtis Sherry is our guy.”

  “That may be too late if he’s dangerous. Think of all those toxic chemicals in those garages. Not to mention crowbars and―”

  “Vance was suffocated, not bludgeoned to death. Whoever the killer is, he or she, although I’m pretty sure it’s a he, prefers a less violent method to commit murder.”

  “Very comforting, I must say.”

  Just then, Stephanie and Derek arrived. One look at her sleeveless form-fitting dress and I knew she wouldn’t need a pashmina, shawl, or shrug if it got colder. Her body heat would make up for it. I waved and watched as they seated themselves at our table and studied the wine bottles that had been placed there.

  As I started back to our table, Theo took my elbow. “Norrie, if you do find incriminating evidence, don’t do anything rash. Think it through.”

  I nodded and returned to our table. Rosalee was right about not taking anything for granted. Her salad/hors d’oeuvre plate resembled a mini Leaning Tower of Pisa anchored by a sea of capers. I guess in her mind, every meal could be a last meal.

  “Quite the spread,” Derek said. “Madeline certainly raised the bar for this shindig. Good thing we hold them every other year. Hmm, I wonder who’s next?”

  Don furrowed his brow and then spoke. “Catherine, I think.” Then he looked at me. “You can pat yourself on the head, Norrie. You’ve made it through the year without having Steven Trobert show up.”

  “Shh! Bite your tongue! Bite it a dozen times! The year’s not up yet. Not until Francine and Jason get back. Catherine still has a few weeks to force her son to drop everything in Maine so we can get reacquainted. Yeesh! That’s the last thing I need.”

  Theo choked back a laugh. “It’s probably the last thing Steven needs, too. He’s probably doing just fine on the dating scene. The guy’s a lawyer, right? Trust me, he doesn’t need his mother to fix him up.”

  “Tell her that. And besides, I’m already dating a―Oh, my gosh. Bradley. I never got back in touch with him. Only voicemail. I don’t suppose anyone here will miss me for a few minutes. I really should try him again.”

  A chorus of “no problem,” “sure thing,” and “go for it” followed. The only exception was Rosalee, who said, “Make him wait. Men enjoy a certain amount of intrigue.”

  Don uncorked the bottle of Summer Magic that was on our table adjacent to the five other bottles from the different wineries. Then he turned to Rosalee. “Was that intrigue or indigestion? Because Norrie’s notorious for the latter.”

  “Cute. Very cute, guys. Enjoy the wine. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  By now, nearly all of the tables were full and a steady line could be seen by the buffet. The hot hors d’oeuvres continued to be served by the waitstaff as I serpentined around them in an effort to exit the tent gracefully.

  Once outside, I walked a few yards past the tent’s entrance and started to phone Bradley when a woman rushed past me. I turned for an instant, and when I got a good look at her face I gasped. It was Jerome’s mother. A stylish woman in her late sixties or maybe even early seventies. The very same woman I saw at Overlook Glen when Stephanie and I had lunch. This had to be more than coincidence.

  Sorry, Bradley. We’ll have to chat later.

  I followed her inside the tent and frantically began to search the crowd for Jerome. An event like the winemakers dinner usually draws a wealthy crowd. And if Jerome was one of the guests, why then did he need that extra cash to keep his mouth closed about the Karmann Ghia?

  Weaving in and out of the tables was easier said than done. I knew at least one attendee from each table, so when I passed by, it was inevitable I’d be dragged into a conversation or at the very least a brief greeting. By the time I got back to my own table, without ever spotting Jerome, Madeline stood from her seat at the dais and tapped on a wineglass with a fork to get everyone’s attention.

  “Good evening and welcome to our winemakers dinner. My husband, Richard, and I are so pleased you could join us this evening as we celebrate the skill and mastery of our winemakers. As you know, it takes three elements working in unison to produce quality wine—the soil, the weather, and the winemaker. Please welcome the president of the Seneca Lake Wine Association, Henry Speltmore, who will introduce the winemakers.”

  “God help us,” Don whispered in my ear. “Once Henry grabs that microphone, he’ll never stop. He once talked so much at a Kiwanis luncheon, it was dinnertime when he finished speaking.”

  I grabbed a small roll from the bread basket, tore off a piece, and began to chomp on it. Henry stood and puffed out his chest. He was a tall, formidable-looking man with wavy gray hair and deep-set lines on his brow. When he smiled, it was almost as if his mouth could reach the bottom lobes of his ears.

  “Thank you, Madeline. It’s my pleasure to . . .”

  And that’s all I heard. Don was right. The words wafted over me. Not only could Henry speak ad nauseum, but his soft monotone voice could put a room full of insomniacs to sleep in minutes. I caught bits and pieces of the winemakers’ backgrounds, coupled with anecdotal references that, for the life of me, I couldn’t associate with one winemaker or another.

  Finally, when Henry finished with his introduction and Madeline took the microphone from him, I returned to the land of the living and sighed. I wasn’t the only one. Rosalee let out a sigh that morphed into a groan. “I could have fallen over dead at the table and Henry would still be speaking.”

  All of us laughed and nodded in agreement. At that instant, one of the waitstaff placed a bowl of chowder in front of me.

  “It’s spicy shrimp chowder,” Derek s
aid. “With jalapeños and other peppers.”

  The combination of hot and savory spices hit my palate and I was in heaven. “Wow. The closest I get to this kind of thing is opening a can of Campbell’s clam chowder.”

  It seemed everyone must have felt the same way because no one spoke. They were all too busy tasting the chowder.

  “If the soup’s this good,” Theo said, “I can’t wait for the main course.”

  I watched as two of the waitstaff approached. “You’ll have to. They’re now serving the salads.”

  In a split second, my chowder bowl disappeared and was replaced by a stunning roasted pattypan squash salad with pomegranate, baby lettuces, and pecans. I knew I had to pace myself if I was going to enjoy the sea bass and tamarind prawn. I moved the pecans around on my plate when I thought of something.

  “Rosalee, you’ve been around this area for a long time, do you know anything about a woman named Agnes Merryweather? She’s on the board at the Geneva Historical Society.”

  Derek looked up from his plate. “Who’s Agnes Merryweather?”

  I leaned forward and kept my voice low. “She’s the miserable woman who helped frame Alex Bollinger.”

  Rosalee crinkled her nose. “At least you didn’t come right out and say I was long in the tooth. Anyway, I don’t know of anyone by that name and don’t ask me to call my sister, Marilyn. She’s got her nose into everything and I’ll be stuck with more scuttlebutt than ears of corn in Kansas. I suggest you get the gossip on Agnes firsthand at the Penn Yan Diner on Monday morning. Those old hens know everything here and in the surrounding counties.”

  I held back a laugh but made a mental note to add it to my list if things didn’t work out as planned tomorrow. I still had the Sweetly house to revisit as well. Too bad they were in opposite directions, and Alex’s time was running out.

  Chapter 39

  Refraining from gobbling up everything on my salad plate and reaching for another dinner roll paid off. The pan-seared Chilean sea bass in garlic and lemon sauce was unbelievable. Sure, everyone uses the expression melted in my mouth, but in this case, it really did.

  Don kept lifting his eyes to the sky as he ate, as if paying homage to the gods. As for the rest of us, the “oohs” and “ahhs” were enough. I expected to be served the Malaysian tamarind prawn next, but instead the waitstaff brought out champagne-flavored sherbet to cleanse our palates before continuing with the evening meal.

  It was almost ten and too late to try Bradley again. Sure, he’d probably be up, but who wants to be bothered late at night? As I let the crisp sherbet liquid roll around on my tongue, I scanned the tent again for Jerome. No dice. Maybe he was on the up-and-up after all, and maybe his mother’s presumed wealth had nothing to do with him.

  Then, just as I thought the waitstaff would begin serving our next main course, Madeline tapped a wineglass with a fork and introduced the string quartet from Ithaca College, who graciously agreed to delight us with a medley of classical favorites while we let our palates rest.

  “Forget my damn palate!” Rosalee announced. “It’s my butt that’s had too much of a rest. I wish Madeline would serve the rest of the meal already.”

  “No kidding,” Derek said. “Some of us have work tomorrow.”

  Stephanie nudged his shoulder. “I always have work with the kids. It never stops.”

  Derek leaned into her shoulder. He kept his voice low but it was pretty audible. “What never stops are the phone calls. Why are all these foreign car dealers asking if we’ve made up our minds about a Mercedes?”

  “Shh. Long story. I was helping Norrie.”

  Derek turned to me. “You’re buying a Mercedes?”

  “And now, Beethoven’s Ode to Joy.” Madeline ushered the quartet to the front of the dais and took a step back.

  “I’m not buying a Mercedes,” I mouthed to Derek. “I’m trying to find a murderer.”

  “Find your guy without Stephanie. She’s got enough problems,” he mouthed back.

  I did a mental eye roll, leaned back in my chair and listened to the music. Finally, after a few more odes and heaven knows what else, Madeline thanked the quartet and informed us the main course would continue to be served.

  “Finally!” Don exclaimed. “I’ve been dying to try the Malaysian tamarind shrimp.”

  Less than a minute later, steaming plates of large seared prawns in tamarind sauce appeared in front of us.

  Rosalee, who was seated next to Theo, poked him in the elbow. “What’s in this stuff?”

  He looked at his plate, then at her. “Tamarind pulp, from the tamarind pod, dark soy sauce and sugar for starters. I’m not sure what else. The spices can get really complicated.”

  Meanwhile, I stabbed one of the prawns with a fork and bit off a piece. It was beyond anything I’d tasted, and that included all sorts of amazing foods back in Manhattan. “Almost makes me want to hang around here for the next winemakers dinner,” I said. Then I quickly added, “Only kidding. But seriously, this is wild.”

  Funny how food can make people forget whatever else is on their minds, because for a brief respite, I found myself immersed in a whole other world that didn’t include Jerome, Jerome’s mother, the two R.S.’s, and the late Vance Wexler. I had reached that near-Nirvana state of mind when suddenly, without warning, I heard Theo say, “Isn’t that Glenda from your tasting room? It is Glenda. In that cascading muumuu with the paisley print. And good grief, don’t tell me the woman standing behind her in the purple caftan is Zenora?”

  I lifted myself from the chair so that I could peer over everyone’s head. Then I clasped my hands and prayed a giant sinkhole would take me straight down to the bottom of the earth.

  Please do NOT tell me this is happening. Not again. Not in public. This can’t be happening again.

  Zenora had made a dramatic entrance during the reading of a will a few months ago and I believe most of the attendees haven’t, as yet, gotten over it. Now, she appeared again. This time at a fancy winemakers dinner.

  I watched, mouth wide open, jaw jutting against my lower neck, as Glenda and Zenora flitted around the room like two possessed fireflies.

  “There you are, Norrie!” Glenda rushed to our table with Zenora hovering over her. “We had to see you before it was too late.”

  I dropped my fork and looked at the two of them. “Too late for what?” They both spoke at once, making it impossible to follow them with my eyes. It was like a Wimbledon tennis match that had gone awry.

  “Cowl-neck shawl in the tasting room―”

  “Winery lab was open and we saw them―”

  “Heard the winemakers first. Alan is really cute.”

  “Carboys, or was it carboxes?”

  “Alan said rosé.”

  “Stop!” I pleaded. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. One person at a time. Glenda, you start.”

  Glenda shook her entire body and took a few breaths. “I left my beautiful cowl-neck shawl in the tasting room and wanted to wear it later tonight for a little soiree Zenora and I planned to attend. Zenora and I drove back to Two Witches, but of course the tasting room was closed. Then we saw an open door at the winery lab and two cars parked in front. I figured the winemakers were working late and hoped one of them would have the key to the winery building.”

  By now, everyone at my table focused on Glenda as if she was about to issue a proclamation.

  “Go on,” I said. Before you lose your train of thought.

  “I overhead Alan tell Herbert what a wonderful surprise it was going to be when they delivered the first sampling of our new rosé to the winemakers dinner for dessert. That’s when I panicked and started shrieking.”

  “Yes,” Zenora said. “That’s exactly what she did. Alan thought Glenda saw a rat or a snake and said as much. Meanwhile, before we could do anything, the other winemaker loaded a glass jug-type thing into his car and drove off.”

  “A carboy,” Theo said. “It’s called a carboy. A glass bottle wit
h a narrow neck for pouring liquids. We use it for tastings sometimes in lieu of opening bottles. The rosé is in a carboy because it hasn’t been bottled yet. Right, Norrie?”

  I nodded, too stunned to say anything else.

  Glenda grabbed my shoulder and shook my upper torso. “You’ve got to stop them. They’re going to serve that wine and people will be falling over dead on the tables. Dead, I tell you. That curse has reached a powerful height. Isn’t that so, Zenora?”

  Zenora wrung her hands and started humming. “The closer it gets to midnight, the more forceful the curse becomes. What time is it?”

  Everyone except Rosalee reached for their cell phones.

  “Twenty after eleven,” Derek said.

  Glenda released the grip she had on my shoulder. “Good, it’s not too late.”

  Then Zenora looked at my plate. “Are those Malaysian tamarind prawns?”

  I held out the plate. “Um, did you want to try one?”

  Zenora shook her head. “I’m on a liquid cleanse this weekend. It goes hand in hand with the spiritual one. Then she turned to Derek. “What time did you say it was?”

  “Now it’s twenty-one minutes past eleven,” Derek replied.

  Zenora all but yanked me from my seat. “Find that wine and pour it on the ground. Hurry. The Two Witches curse isn’t going to wait while you dilly-dally around.”

  “Um, what happens after midnight?” I asked. “Won’t the rosé be safe to drink then?”

  “Yes, yes.” Zenora’s voice got shrill and loud. “Hide it until midnight, pour it on the ground, do whatever you have to, but make sure it doesn’t touch anyone’s lips before that time.”

  “And what will you and Glenda do?”

  “Our soiree can’t wait, Norrie,” Glenda said. “Zenora and I must leave. You can thank us later.”

  I turned to Theo and swallowed the salty saliva that had built up in my throat. “We’ve got to stall the servers and prevent them from pouring that rosé. I’ll hunt down the wine while you go up to the dais and talk about something. Anything!”