by J. C. Eaton
Seconds later, Cammy called. “You owe me.”
“Give me a minute. Call back. I’ve got to get to the stairwell.”
Too late. The elevator door opened and again I was face-to-face with Deputy Hickman.
“Do I need to place you under arrest for interfering with a crime investigation, Miss Ellington?”
“Someone was in the restroom downstairs so I had to use the one right here on this mezzanine floor. If you want to investigate anything, find out why they use such crummy bathroom tissue.”
The deputy didn’t say a word but motioned for me to get into the elevator. I nodded, thanked him, and waited for the door to close. At that precise second, Cammy called back.
“Norrie, she’s not allowed to give out their names or she could lose her job, but she did tell me a woman arrived with a Belgium passport the day before Jules checked in. And later the same day, a gentleman from the Netherlands. She has no idea if they are part of the chocolate festival.”
“Did she mention if the sheriff’s deputies requested the reservation list?”
“Requested? More like strong-armed it, according to Barb. That’s my friend’s name. The only name I can give you without breaking the law.”
“Very funny. I don’t suppose Barb mentioned what kind of rooms they booked, did she?”
“Only that she wished she had expendable cash for a night in the whirlpool suite, wherever that’s located.”
“Did she say who? The man or the woman?”
“The woman. Geez, I was lucky she said anything. If she gets sacked, you’d better be prepared to hire a new person for our tasting room.”
“The whirlpool suite, huh?”
“Aargh. I’m sorry I said anything. Watch your back.”
Chapter 8
True, Geneva gets its fair share of international visitors, thanks to Hobart and William Smith Colleges, but I had a funny feeling the woman from Belgium wasn’t one of them. The timing of her visit was too coincidental.
The elevator door opened to the ground floor and I stepped out. A woman in a heavy winter coat, holding a bouquet of flowers, brushed past me into the elevator. “Winter snowstorms or not, we’ve got to make our deliveries.”
I stepped back into the elevator. “Are you familiar with this resort?”
“Blooming Bouquets makes deliveries here all the time.”
“Great. I hate to keep pestering the staff, but I can’t seem to find the Whirlpool Suite. I’m supposed to meet a client there.”
“Must be one heck of a wealthy client. That room is phenomenal. It’s nicknamed the ‘Chapel’ because of its ceilings. Add a double whirlpool bath and a canopied bed and you’ve got it made.”
“Um, do you know where it is? What floor?”
“You’re on it. It’s the first floor. The room is on your left. It has its own special entrance. You can’t miss it.”
I stepped out as the elevator door began to close. “Thanks. And by the way, that bouquet is lovely.”
I had to find out the identity of the Belgian woman in the high-priced suite and if there was any connection between her and Jules. Too bad I didn’t know how to hack into the reservations system at the hotel. In all honesty, I had absolutely no computer tech skills and my sleuthing skills were more dumb luck than anything else. Lizzie, our winery bookkeeper, kept telling me I needed to familiarize myself with the Nancy Drew Handbook. So what if the series took place in the 1930s. “Investigating is investigating,” according to Lizzie, “and timing is the staircase to success.”
She had a point about timing. I was in the right place, more or less, and I doubted I’d find a better time to get the answer I needed. Unfortunately, I had absolutely no idea how to go about it without winding up in the back seat of Deputy Hickman’s squad car. Still, I rationalized it wouldn’t hurt to meander down the hallway toward the Whirlpool Suite.
One of the few life skills I did learn came from middle school and not Nancy Drew. Always act as if you’re supposed to be doing whatever it is you’re doing. That skill came in particularly handy when cutting a class. I walked down the school corridor with determination written all over my face. I paused to look at my watch when an authority figure approached and then I quickened my steps. Today was no different.
I walked directly to the entrance of the Whirlpool Suite and stopped dead in my tracks. One of those housekeeping carts was in the private foyer. A few mops, a broom, lots of complimentary mini bottles of shampoo, lotions, and soaps. No linen cart in sight. I prayed my hunch was right and the maid was fast at work making the bed.
Without wasting a second, I leaned into the small trash receptacle in the suite. Whew! Nothing sticky. Nothing smelly. Nothing gross. Only papers. No time to sift through them. No time to think or I’d be tempted to change my mind. I froze for an instant to make sure I didn’t hear anyone approaching. Then I gathered as many papers as I could into a giant armload, crumpled them even more than they already were, and stuffed them into my bag.
A side exit was only a few yards away, and I hurried toward it. From there it was a quick jaunt to my car and an even quicker exit out of the parking lot.
Twenty minutes later, I was back home with Charlie whining for more food and the red light blinking on the landline. Calls could wait. Annoying Plott Hounds couldn’t. I grabbed a handful of kibble and put it in his bowl before clearing off the kitchen table and dumping the pile of papers from the Whirlpool Suite onto it. Francine would have had a conniption. I, on the other hand, planned to use a Clorox wipe on the surface once I was done scrutinizing the papers.
I fanned out my hands to move the papers so I could get a clearer look at them. Nothing earthshattering caught my eye—advertising flyers from local establishments, coupons for fast food restaurants, none of which I frequented, and a torn note written in what looked like Dutch or German.
With the palm of my hand, I moved the top layer away and kept looking. Squiggly lines on hotel stationary. Testing out a pen, maybe? A Walgreens receipt for Tylenol, lip balm, a bag of Lays potato chips, and a six pack of Coke. Hmm, a woman after my own heart, only she paid cash.
So as not to miss anything vital, I tossed all the ads and coupons in my trash. Then I spied the one piece of information Nancy Drew would have coveted. It was a boarding pass from Jet Blue Airlines. JFK to ROC. ROC! Rochester International Airport. It was the boarding pass from the connection that woman had made.
“Charlie!” I shrieked. “We might have hit pay dirt!”
The dog, who was intently licking his front paws, looked up and then resumed his licking.
“Hortensia Vermeulen. It’s right here on the boarding pass. She flew into Rochester two days ago. Oh my God! I’ve got to call Theo. And Cammy.”
I was so intent on rifling through those papers, I had momentarily forgotten I had a phone message. I tapped the button and listened. It was Stephanie Ipswich and she sounded hysterical.
“That swine from WROC recorded that comment I made. It was on the noon news. He knew that cameraman of his had the film rolling and he didn’t stop him. I can sue the station for slander, can’t I? Oh hell. It’s coming out right out of my mouth. ‘I hope he chokes on his own bonbons.’ I could be implicated in a murder. I’m calling Rosalee’s attorney right now.”
It was one of those moments I didn’t know what to do next. Call Stephanie back and reassure her she had nothing to worry about or tell Theo and Cammy about my discovery. I figured Stephanie was likely to go off the deep end so I pushed the redial button and waited for the call to go through.
Stephanie answered on the first ring. “Norrie. Thank goodness. I wasn’t going to pick up the phone but then I saw the caller ID. I’m terrified I’m going to be besieged with phone calls from the media. Or worse yet, that brutish deputy. I know they’ll be questioning all of us since we were the last people to see Jules alive.”
&
nbsp; “Take it easy. You can’t be held responsible for an off-the-cuff comment.” Can you? “All those reporters want to do is drum up interest in that murder investigation so they’ll get more viewers. They probably don’t have anything else to go on right now.”
“You sound just like Rosalee’s attorney.”
“You spoke to Marvin Souza?”
“Uh-huh. The secretary put me through right away. Of course, Marvin told me they’re a family law firm specializing in wills and that sort of thing, but he didn’t think I had any reason to be worried. Honestly, whatever happened to investigative reporting?”
“Oh, that’s still going on but not by the reporters.”
“What do you mean?”
I told her about the snooping I did at Geneva on the Lake, including my asking her if she knew German or Dutch.
“Sorry. Only one year of Spanish in high school. I can order tacos like the best of them. What about your winemaker? He speaks German. It’s better than using one of those internet translation sites. Way too literal.”
“I know. I know. I’d just have a hard time explaining to him how it wound up in my hands. You know how Franz is. Everything on the up-and-up. Still, I might not have a choice.”
“Did you get a chance to check your emails today?”
“No.” And there better not be one from Renee telling me they’re moving the date up for my script.
“Henry Speltmore sent out an official letter from the wine trail. The program is going on as planned. Including the competition. Jules’s nephew, Earvin, will be the third competitor. Can you believe they got all of that settled and it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours?”
“Yeah, I can believe it.”
“When it comes to money and the wine trail, Henry Speltmore knows how to move things along. Say, what’s your take on Earvin? I got an earful from Rosalee when I called her to get Marvin Souza’s number. She said Earvin struck her as a Casper Milquetoast kind of guy. I didn’t want to sound ignorant so I Googled the name.”
“And?”
“Casper Milquetoast was a 1950s cartoon character. I kept forgetting Rosalee’s in her seventies. She’s got a whole different set of references than the rest us. Anyway, she went on to say Earvin didn’t seem to have much style or flair. Not that it matters, I suppose, when you’re concocting chocolate delicacies, but face it, Stanislav and Allete are on top of their game.”
“Maybe Earvin knows more than we think he does.” And I’m not referring to chocolate.
“Do you think the sheriff’s murder investigation is going to interfere with the festival? Madeline’s all worked up over it and Catherine is her usual basket case.”
“Uh, I know we’re all referring to it as a murder investigation, but the official cause of death hasn’t been determined yet.”
“They said it was ‘suspicious’ on the news. That’s always synonymous with homicide. The noonday news anchor said they expected preliminary toxicology results by the end of the day.”
“Pray the guy died from an embolism or aneurysm or any of the isms that don’t involve wine,” I said.
“No kidding. And pray he didn’t choke on something or I’ll really need to find a good criminal lawyer.”
My stomach was grumbling by the time I got off the phone with Stephanie, so I rummaged through the fridge and made myself a bologna and cheese sandwich before taking a brisk walk to our tasting room. I didn’t expect the place to be brimming with activity, even though the roads were cleared. Mondays were usually slow, and a Monday following a storm was bound to be even slower.
Cammy, Glenda, and Sam were the only ones on the schedule for the day. Glenda was manning the cash register and Sam was busy with two customers when I came in. “If you’re looking for Cammy,” he said, “she’s in the back room putting price tags on a new shipment of sweatshirts.”
“Thanks. And here I thought Glenda was the only mind-reader.”
“Hey! I can hear you from over here!”
I gave Glenda a wave and walked into the back room, the catch-all for storage and deliveries.
“You’ve returned unscathed,” Cammy said. “I half expected another phone call telling me you were in lockup at the public safety building.”
“Nah. I did run into our favorite deputy twice, but I think he bought my very valid reason for being at Geneva on the Lake.”
“Good. I’ll get Sam to bring in the wine bottles.”
“Don’t bother. They confiscated everything for evidence. Most of it last night, but they were still going through stuff this morning.”
Cammy sighed. “Once they find out the guy died of natural causes, or stupidity maybe, for drinking too much and passing out in the snow, they’ll drop the investigation and move on to the usual stuff. Pilfering at the mini-mart and graffiti on the light poles.”
“You think that’s what happened? Jules overdid it and passed out in the snow?”
“He was probably overheated from all that wine, went outside to cool off, and tumbled into a nice soft bed of the white stuff. He wouldn’t be the first person to have done a thing like that. Every winter my aunts find some nutcase passed out in the snow behind their bar. Only those guys are usually holding beer bottles and none of them are dead. Only dead-drunk.”
“I hope you’re right, but I’m not banking on it. Those deputies are paying way too much attention to Jules’s death. I’m positive they know something they’re not sharing. Meanwhile, you can thank your friend Barb. The woman from Belgium is Hortensia Vermeulen and she took a flight from JFK to Rochester two days ago. I’ve got a hunch she didn’t come all that way for a tour of the wine trail.”
“Don’t tell me you broke into her room?”
“The room, no. Her garbage, yes. I found her boarding pass. And that’s not all. I’ve got a note written in Dutch or German and, for all we know, it could be the motive for Jules’s death.”
“Or it could be directions to the mall. Norrie, why on earth would you think this woman is connected to Jules Leurant? Other than the fact she’s also from Belgium.”
“Process of elimination. Look, we already know Stanislav, Allete, and Earvin have the same or similar motive for murder. But that doesn’t mean it’s the only motive. What we don’t know about Jules could be the very thing that got him killed. Including a possible connection with Hortensia.”
“You’ve been writing too many screenplays. Next thing I know you’ll be climbing up a trellis to get into that other visitor’s room. The man from the Netherlands.”
I shook my head. “There has to be a better way.”
Chapter 9
“Are you insane?” Theo asked when I called him from the winery office a few minutes later. “Routing through trash where anyone could have seen you?”
“I was careful. If natural causes are ruled out and that toxicology report shows that our Cabernet Sauvignon was the culprit, those deputies will be all over this place like ants at a picnic. And they won’t be looking elsewhere. That’s why I need to find out who those international guests are and if they were at last night’s function. For all I know, Jules Leurant could have been persona non grata all over Europe. And the most non grata of all as far as Hortensia was concerned. Darn. I absolutely have to learn more about that woman. And what she’s capable of doing.”
“Yikes. Talk about going to extremes. I’m surprised you didn’t launch a Google search.”
“Google and Facebook. I had no idea Hortensia was such a popular name. And Vermeulen? It’s like Smith or Jones. There’s like a zillion of them. Forget it.”
“You may have a point about the investigation focusing on the wineries. Two junior deputies from our county left here a few minutes ago after questioning Don and me about what we had observed last night and if we had heard any threats being made about Jules. They also had a chat with our winemaker.”
&nbs
p; “And?”
“We were no help whatsoever. I’m surprised they haven’t been to Two Witches yet.”
“Give them time. I’m antsy to find out who that other guest is, but I don’t want to risk running into any interference.”
“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said so far. Look, Don bought a gigantic brisket at Sam’s Club and we’ll never eat all of it. Come over for dinner and the three of us can strategize.”
“You sure it’s okay with Don?”
“I wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t. See you at seven-ish.”
“Sounds good. And thanks, Theo.”
I needed to head back to the house and tweak some of the dialogue from the screenplay I was working on, but I really wasn’t in the mood. If those deputies had already questioned the guys at the Grey Egret, we were probably next on their list. Unless, of course, they decided to pop over to Rosalee’s winery first. I picked up the phone and called her.
Rosalee didn’t waste any time with formalities. “The two deputies they sent over looked like they belonged to a Cub Scout Troop and not the Yates County Sheriff’s Department.”
“What did you tell them?”
“The truth. I got cornered by Catherine Trobert at the event and had to listen to her go on and on about her son until she found another sucker she could trap.”
“What about Leandre?”
“He didn’t know anything. He was too busy talking with your guy.”
That’s right. Vintages. “Rosalee, do you know if those deputies were at any other wineries before they saw you?”
“The one who looked as if he’d recently been weaned said they’d already met with the owners from Billsburrow and Lake View Wineries and they were planning on visiting the Grey Egret before calling it a day. Short day if you ask me.”
