Sauvigone for Good

by J. C. Eaton

  “He did. Franz said we’ll be serving our Cabernet Sauvignon, and when I spoke to Rosalee last week, she mentioned something about Pinot Noir. At least her Pinot wasn’t tampered with by that lowdown crook a few months ago.”

  The color slowly returned to Catherine’s face. “Thank goodness. We’re serving Lemberger and I know for a fact Stephanie’s going to present their Cabernet Franc. That leaves Madeline. I know they produce Syrah so I’ll ask her if they’ll serve that. Oh my! Is that clock over there right?”

  Theo nodded as Catherine rattled on. “I can’t believe it’s a quarter to ten already. I really should get back to our winery. I promised I’d give a hand in the tasting room. Now remember, we only have three weeks before those chocolatiers arrive and I, for one, want things to go off without a hitch.”

  Theo’s phone buzzed with an alert and he mumbled, “Facebook or Twitter” as he picked it up from the table. None of us said a word as Catherine stood up to leave. No sooner did she push her chair into the table when Theo announced, “Without a hitch may be an impossibility.”

  Catherine froze. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s a news alert and it’s probably trending everywhere. It says, ‘New threats and old rivalries loom for famed chocolatiers.’”

  Chapter 2

  I don’t know who invented the term “train wreck” when it came to describing impending or ongoing disasters, but this chocolate fest had train wreck written all over it. Somehow it didn’t surprise me. I figured I’d go along with the plan, whatever the heck we come up with, and hope for the best. As far as I could tell, all I had to do was ensure our winery was prepared for the demonstrations and attend the bookended events that called for my presence.

  The not-so-casual but not-quite-formal opening reception was to take place at Geneva on the Lake the week preceding the grand competition. I figured it would be an introduction of sorts with lots of boring speeches from the wine association. Apparently, I was wrong. My tasting room manager, Cammy, set me straight as soon as I left the Grey Egret. I parked my car next to one of the three visitor cars in our lot so it would look as if more people were there and walked into our wine sampling room. I swore my lips were blue from the cold.

  “There you are!” Cammy held a duster and walked away from the gift shelf. “Did you get a chance to read that chocolatier article on Facebook? It might be from the Associated Press, but I’m not sure. Boy, talk about tabloid news. Guess this event is going to be a humdinger, huh?”

  “I only got the headline from Theo. Please tell me it’s nothing that’s going to do damage to our winery. We’ve already had enough media attention this year, not to mention I’m probably on Deputy Hickman’s speed dial.”

  “What part of the disaster do you want me to start with?”

  “The part that doesn’t involve us.”

  “Come on. Let’s chat in the kitchen for a few minutes. Besides, you look as if you could use a hot cup of coffee. Glenda and Sam have the tasting room tables covered.”

  Cammy pulled the maroon ribbon on her French bun tighter and opened the door to the kitchen for me. A robust brunette in her thirties, Cammy had a welcoming demeanor that put everyone at ease. “I’ll pour us some dark blend. Glenda just made it. Pray to the gods she didn’t put any weird essences of God-knows-what in it.”

  Glenda was a dear soul and our resident kook, for lack of a better word. She swore by séances and spirits, premonitions, and voices from the netherworld. Don’t ask.

  “Sit down. This could rival one of your screenplays.”

  Cammy was right. I did need more coffee. I figured there was no such thing as too much caffeine in one day, so I took a good gulp. “Go on.”

  “Stanislav Vetrov, who, by the way, gets my vote for hunk-of-the-year, had a short-lived affair with Allete Barrineau a few years back until her husband found out and threatened to cut off the guy’s you-know-what. Rumor has it, the affair got rekindled and Allete filed for divorce. She cited his erratic behavior and unrelenting insomnia as issues that destroyed the marriage. According to the article, the husband threatened to lob off Stanislav’s head this time.”

  “Ew. Please tell me the husband isn’t planning on attending the event.”

  Cammy shrugged. “Who knows? But I can tell you this much—all the major news networks are sending reporters. The backstories are almost as riveting as the event. Including the cannabis remedy Allete’s husband tried for his sleep deprivation.”

  “Oh brother.”

  “Anyway, I’ve got a friend who handles the reservations for Geneva on the Lake and, even though it’s confidential, she did name names.”

  By now I was chomping at the bit. “What names? Whose names?”

  “Robin Roberts from ABC and Hoda Kotb from NBC. There’s more, but she couldn’t tell me—and that’s not all. A few world-famous chefs have reservations, too.”

  “Like who?”

  “No idea, but my friend said that the resort beefed up security like nobody’s business.”

  “Holy cow. For chocolate and wine?”

  “I imagine it’s a bigger deal than any of us realize. Anyway, getting back to that article, the Stanislav and Allete situation is only the tip of the iceberg.”

  “Please don’t tell me we need to beef up security. The best I can do is move Alvin closer to the entrance. You know how he gets when he freaks out.”

  “Uh-huh. Your poor vineyard crew can probably rebuild fences in their sleep. Listen, someone sent Jules Leurant a death threat stating if he dared to participate in the competition it would be his last.”

  “Terrific.”

  “Wait. There’s more. The article also said Jules’s long-time assistant quit because he feared for his life,” Cammy said.

  “Oh no. I’d better tell Catherine. The wineries we assigned to Jules will need to do some jockeying around and get him a temporary helper.”

  “No, they won’t. He’s bringing his nephew, some wet-behind-the-ears kid by the name of Earvin Roels. That was all over the news, too.”

  I took a good whiff of the coffee before putting it to my lips. “Too bad Jules doesn’t have a relative who’s well-versed in martial arts and real familiar with using a handgun. Did the article say what was behind the death threat? I mean, other than the obvious thing of someone else not wanting him to win.”

  “Nope, but it does sound all Tanya Harding and Nancy Kerrigan to me.”

  “Who?”

  “Yeesh. I keep forgetting you’re only in your twenties. They were Olympic figure skaters. Nancy Kerrigan was attacked in an attempt to knock her out of the competition.”

  “Let’s hope no one knocks anyone out of this competition. Especially in our winery.”

  “Did your subcommittee work out the schedule?” Cammy asked.

  “Sort of. We left it to Catherine to finalize. If I’ve got things straight, the chocolatiers will be visiting each of the six wineries individually to sample the wine we plan to pair with their creation. They’ll be doing this the week following the opening reception.”

  “Uh-huh. So far so good,” Cammy said.

  I continued, “Monday of that week is for the chocolatiers to get acclimated. Nothing scheduled. Then the ticketed program begins on Tuesday. The full ticket includes the winery demos and the grand competition event on Saturday night. Visitors can choose to purchase grand event tickets only or demo tickets. The Seneca Lake Wine Trail Association is handling all of that.”

  “Good. They planned this shindig. They should be doing something.”

  “Judging from the internet attention, we should make doubly sure that when the chocolatiers arrive for their individual tastings with us, they don’t accidently bump into each other in our parking lot or, God forbid, our building. Sounds like it could be volatile.”

  “Nah, it’s probably a bunch of hype so we’ll sell mo
re tickets.”

  As things turned out, it wasn’t hype and, if anything, it was understated. It didn’t take one of Glenda’s premonitions to tell us we were in for a maelstrom.

  And while I wouldn’t quite use the word “maelstrom” to describe the WOW meeting I was forced to attend the following week, words like “nerve-racking” and “tense” certainly came to mind.

  A fast Alberta Clipper charged through the Finger Lakes and forced our already cold temperatures to a new level of misery. John Grishner, our vineyard manager, still managed to don his winter parka and, along with his crew, prune the grapevines and repair any falling or failing trellises. And while the landscape smacked of “dead of winter,” the vines only looked that way because dormant could easily be mistaken for deceased.

  I had the heat cranked so high in my Toyota that the interior of the vehicle actually condensed in the three or four miles it took me to get from Two Witches to the WOW meeting at Billsburrow Winery.

  “I’d offer to take your coat,” Madeline said, “but it’s still cold in here. We insulated the enclosed porch, but it’s not enough. That fireplace of ours could really use a new heating fan. Anyway, there’s hot cider on the console along with coffee and muffins.”

  Stephanie Ipswich and Rosalee Marbleton were already seated at the long rectangular table that overlooked Madeline’s vineyards. Both had steaming cups of liquid in their hands.

  “I’m here! I’m here. Don’t start the festivities without me,” Theo bellowed from the doorway.

  Madeline ushered him in and, within seconds, Catherine arrived. She was laden down with a stack of papers and literally plopped them on the table. “Updated schedules and information for everyone. I’ve been on the phone all morning with Henry Speltmore. Honestly, for the president of the wine association, the man was practically no help whatsoever. All he kept saying regarding the chocolatier schedules at our wineries was, ‘I’ll leave it in your capable hands.’ That’s a euphemism for ‘you do all the work.’”

  Stephanie reached across the table and gave Catherine’s arm a pat. “And we appreciate it. We really do.”

  The next half hour was grueling. We went over the event schedule ad nauseam, pausing every few seconds so someone could add a recent tidbit of tabloid gossip to the mix. Twenty minutes later I was ready to heave—either that or bolt out of there. The latest news was that one of the chocolatiers insisted we let them choose their block chocolate, rather than subjecting them to the “blind drawing” for blends like dark, semi-sweet, or milk chocolate. The end result, which probably came after ceaseless bickering, was that the three chocolatiers would select their preferred block chocolate for their creations.

  “Dear Lord!” Rosalee exclaimed. “Don’t tell me they’ll insist on a particular wine—because all they’re getting from us is Pinot Noir. Next thing you know, they’ll want us to plant a specific variety for them.”

  “You can relax, Rosalee,” Catherine said. “That’s not one of their demands.”

  “Demands? Are we being held hostage?” I was flabbergasted.

  Catherine cleared her throat. “Maybe I shouldn’t have used the word ‘demands.’ More like requests, only with a strong emphasis.”

  Theo kicked my ankle from under the table and mouthed “Oh brother.”

  I lowered my voice. “What kind of requests?”

  “Nothing that we really don’t expect of our own customers,” Catherine said, “only we don’t brow beat them. You know, like not wearing heavy perfume because it interferes with the ability to smell and taste our wines.”

  “What else?”

  “A consistent room temperature of sixty-five to seventy degrees and a humidity level not to exceed fifty percent.”

  Theo laughed. “Good luck with that. Especially in some of our tasting rooms. Whenever the doors are opened, the cold air rushes in. And who the hell checks the humidity levels?”

  Catherine took a deep breath and pulled out a piece of paper from the pile sitting in front of her. Her eyes scanned the sheet as if it was a train schedule. “Those are the workable expectations. I’ll get to the point. Jules insists all surfaces be sanitized prior to his arrival. Allete only uses one-hundred percent cotton towels. And here’s something new—Stanislav refuses to be in the same room as Jules. Apparently, they had words at a chocolate festival in Munich last year.”

  Madeline brought the muffin tray to the table and offered us second helpings. “Please don’t tell me there’s more.”

  Catherine looked at each of us and then fixed her stare on Madeline. “Only one. And oddly enough, it’s not coming from Jules. Stanislav and Allete insist on complete dossiers for the staff we assign to assist them.”

  I rolled my eyes at least a half dozen times. “Why? I mean, I can understand Jules’s concern considering he got a death threat, but the other two? What are they worried about?”

  This time it was Stephanie who answered. “Someone stealing their trade secrets.”

  “I doubt that’s going to be an issue at Two Witches. Cammy’s idea of fine chocolate is a Hershey bar, and I’m not even sure anyone else cares.”

  “Well, these folks do,” she said, “and I wouldn’t put anything past them. I mean it. Anything. We need to be on our toes.”

  Terrific. Who needed Glenda’s premonitions when Stephanie was doing just fine scaring the daylights out of us?

  Chapter 3

  I tried not to dwell on what could happen because inevitably whatever did happen made what could happen seem mild. Stumbling over dead bodies had a way of doing that to someone’s psyche. At any rate, the two weeks that followed the WOW meeting were uneventful, except for the constant reminders from Renee, the movie producer in Toronto, that my next screenplay was due the end of February. Beguiled into Love wouldn’t go into production for at least a year, and that was only if my script analyst didn’t reject it altogether. So far, I was doing all right, but I always anguished over my work. Now, with this chocolate fest hanging over my head, I had something else to anguish over.

  Cammy seemed to have everything under control in the tasting room and the same could be said for Franz and his assistant winemakers, Alan and Herbert. Yesterday, I ran into Herbert at Wegmans, of all places, and he informed me he’d just dropped off our bottles of Sauvignon at Geneva on the Lake for the casual opening reception.

  We were standing near their bakery’s little bistro and Herbert motioned me aside. If I didn’t know he was a graduate from Cornell with a degree in viticulture and enology, I would have easily mistaken him for a professional football or basketball player. He was tall, dark, and muscular. Not to mention good looking. Besides, those sports jerseys he always wore under his lab coat all but screamed “jock.” Oddly enough, he wasn’t and the only reason he wore them, according to Franz, was that the cotton blends were comfortable for long days in the winery.

  “The chocolatiers will be arriving in less than ten days,” Herbert said. “I’m not sure if they’ll all be flying in on the same day, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they pop by our wineries next weekend. Franz had me buy extra containers of Clorox wipes for our office area in case Jules wants a tour of our personal workspace as well as the lab.”

  “I thought their official tours begin on Monday, after the reception.”

  “The official tours, yes, but that doesn’t mean they won’t get a head start on Friday or Saturday. Alan volunteered to chat with them about the filtering and blending we do in the winter.”

  “Good, as long as I don’t need to say anything.”

  Herbert laughed. “You said enough at the last tour you gave when you told that group of visitors from Japan that ‘something happens when juice goes into the tanks.’”

  I cringed. “Yeah, well, maybe they’ll blame it on a poor translation. Francine’s the one who knows the ins and outs of the business. I’m simply babysitting.”

&nbs
p; “Relax. You’re doing a good job.”

  In the days leading up to the “grand arrival,” news of the chocolatiers’ exploits was everywhere—on the local TV stations, social media, and my personal favorite, “gossip media.” At one point, I even considered jotting down the scuttlebutt emanating from our tasting room in case I needed a plotline for my next screenplay. The customers regaled us with stories they heard and even our own workers, like Roger and Sam, who were usually quiet about those kinds of things, offered up enough scenarios to make all of us blush.

  “I can’t wait to get my eyes on Allete,” Sam said. “If she’s half as good-looking as she appears in all those photos, I may need to change my major to culinary arts and ask her for an internship.”

  Lizzie, our bookkeeper/cashier, pooh-poohed most of the conversations. “When you get to be my age, you focus more on character, not appearances.”

  To which Sam replied, “I’ll keep that in mind when I get to be your age.”

  Only Glenda held back and that was completely out of character for her.

  “Do you think she senses something ominous coming?” I asked Cammy the day before the first of the chocolatiers landed in Rochester.

  “Hard to say. If she did, she’d be insistent we douse the place with sage and lavender or something else. As long as the word ‘smudging’ doesn’t enter her vocabulary, I’d leave things alone.”

  So, we did. In retrospect, we should have doused ourselves with that stuff to ensure that our pores were clogged up for the next century. As far as the winery went, it was too bad we didn’t put in a bulk order for sage sticks.

  * * * *

  Jules Leurant was the first of the chocolatiers to arrive in the Finger Lakes. It was the Thursday before the program was to begin. Stephanie called me a little before eleven to tell me that, “The crazed germophobe from Belgium is making the rounds. He’s on his way to Rosalee’s and then to the Grey Egret. I’ve already warned them. You’re last on the list, Norrie. Pray he doesn’t stay long.”