by J. C. Eaton
“What woman?”
“I don’t know, but if I were to wager a guess, she’s an acquaintance of his from Belgium.”
“Tell me, how exactly do you know all of this?”
“Um, well, I don’t really know they know each other, but it makes sense.”
“And you’re certain this woman is from Belgium?”
“No, I think she is. Or she may be.”
“Miss Ellington, you’re making absolutely no sense. Our department cannot file a missing person’s report until someone has been missing for forty-eight hours. Unless, of course, it was a child or an elderly individual with a medical condition. According to my information, Mr. Roels is neither.”
“But doesn’t this smack of foul play? One minute he’s garnishing chocolate confections and the next he’s out of sight.”
“I’ll make a note of it for my deputies. If we hear anything, we’ll let you know. In the meantime, I suggest you concentrate on facts, not fabrication.”
“Earvin Roel’s uncle was found dead under suspicious circumstances. For all we know, the nephew could be next.”
“At this juncture in time, there’s nothing to substantiate that.”
Not yet, but who the heck knows? “Um, about the uncle, has there been any determination about the official cause of death?”
“Contributing factors led to suffocation. There. I’ve said enough. Now, if there’s nothing else, Miss Ellington, I’ve got work to do. Murders don’t solve themselves.”
“Ah-hah! You said it! Murder. Jules Leurant was murdered. It was no accident that he drank from a drug-sprayed wineglass after consuming heaven knows how much alcohol.”
“Miss Ellington, I must remind you that the case is under investigation. Not speculation. We don’t know if Mr. Leurant was the intended victim of the Ambien-laced wineglass.”
“No, but he was the victim of someone rolling him over in the snow.”
“Where did you hear that piece of information?”
Yeesh. I can’t very well tell him about my conversation with the receptionist at Geneva on the Lake. “Um, uh, er, it just made sense, that’s all.”
“Let me tell you something that does make sense. We will conduct our thorough investigation and you need to do whatever it is you do at that winery.”
“If the next body to turn up in the snow is Earvin Roels, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I hung up before he could answer and then I cringed. Last thing I needed was to tick him off, but I was afraid it was too late. If the sheriff’s department wasn’t about to take Earvin’s disappearance seriously, I had no choice but to continue with my own little bit of probing. Beginning with that note I found in Hortensia Vermeulen’s trash.
Our tasting room was still packed with customers as I walked to the door. Lizzie looked up from whatever she was doing at the cash register and adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses. “Are you leaving already? Must be that chocolatier finally showed up somewhere.”
“Not exactly. I sent Emma to the Grey Egret in his place.”
“I didn’t know Emma could make chocolate confections.”
“Long story. Neither did Emma. Listen, I’ve got to talk with Franz. When things slow down in the tasting room, tell Cammy to call me on my cell.”
“Certainly. And remember, if you ask the right questions, your investigation will move much smoother.”
“How did you know that’s what I was doing?”
“I saw the panicked look on your face when that chauffeur came in to find Earvin Roels. That is what you’re doing, isn’t it? Tracking him down?”
“To do that, I need to find out what business his uncle might have been involved in. It could be what got the guy killed.”
“And you think Franz knows something?”
“Yep—German, French, and hopefully, Dutch.”
Lizzie gave me a strange look when I exited the building, but at least that was all she gave me. Glenda, on the other hand, would have doused me with some healing or cleansing oils.
Alan was the only one in the winery lab when I knocked on their office door and stepped inside. Except for a difference in height, he and our master winemaker could pass as brothers. Red hair, horned-rimmed glasses, ruddy complexions, and nonstop babbling about things like botrytis, early fermentation, and acidity.
“Hey, Alan, please tell me Franz is in the lab. I need him to translate something for me.”
“A recipe in German?”
I laughed. “No, that would be more up Don’s alley next door. I may have a lead into Jules Leurant’s death.”
“Then you should share it with the sheriff’s department.”
“Trust me, they’re not interested.”
“Well, they were plenty interested in what Franz observed the night of the event when Jules was found in the snow.”
“What do you mean?”
“An assistant deputy sheriff left a few minutes ago after questioning him. According to Franz, ‘it wasn’t enough to be badgered at the time of the event, most likely they lost their notes and had to start all over.’ I must say, finding a master chocolatier dead in the snow wasn’t the best start to a wine trail event. At least the nephew was able to step in.”
“Uh, yeah. About that, the nephew is missing. And the note I’ve got may give us a clue as to who killed the uncle and where the heck the nephew is.”
“I want to hear this, too. Come on. Let’s pull Franz away from racking the wines. He and Herbert have been at it all day with the racking hose and tubes. Wine must be filtered. Still, when you move it from barrel to barrel so the tannins can soften, the process seems endless.”
And also like Greek to me.
At least I didn’t have to hear about fermentation. Herbert gave me that lecture every few months because my brain was kind of like a sieve when it came to understanding chemical processes. Now, apparently, there was another one, although it sounded more like grunt work than anything.
Sure enough, Franz and Herbert were both bent over two of our oak-aged barrels, and the hose system they had set up reminded me of the time I ran out of gas at a party on Keuka Lake. If it wasn’t for one of the boys who offered to siphon some gas from his car to mine, I would have really paid the price with my parents.
“Hi, Franz! Hi, Herbert!” I said. “I hate to pull you away from what looks like lots of fun, but I really need Franz to translate this note I came across. It may shed some light on Jules Leurant’s death and the whereabouts of Earvin Roels. That’s right, the whereabouts. Earvin left Two Witches as soon as his presentation was over and didn’t say a word to anyone. He never got into his limo. The driver is sort of freaked out. The Grey Egret is freaked out. And Henry Speltmore from the wine trail will be really freaked out. Anyway, I found the note at Geneva on the Lake.”
“Slow down. Catch a breath.” Franz stepped away from the barrels and walked toward me. “You’re going to have heart palpitations. Now, start from the beginning. Did you say you found the note during the night of the event?”
“Not exactly. I kind of did some snooping on my own the following day. Listen, can you translate it for me? It looks sort of like German but not quite.”
I handed him the note and he read it out loud.
“‘We hebben onafgemaakte zaken en ik durf niet langer te wachhten. Als je dacht dat deze kleine excursie van jou alles zou laten ver dwijnen, heb je het helaas verkeerd.’”
“Well? What does it mean? What does it say?”
“First of all, it’s written in Dutch, not German. It’s what you would call cryptic. It could mean anything.”
“Franz,” I whined. “Just translate the darn thing.”
Franz cleared his throat and took his time reading it.
“We have unfinished business and I dare not wait any longer. If you thought this little excursion of
yours would make everything go away, you are sadly mistaken.”
“That’s it?” I asked. “That’s all there is to it?”
Franz nodded. “That’s everything on this note. Where did you say you found it?”
I groaned. “In a Belgian woman’s trash receptacle at Geneva on the Lake. And before you ask any other questions, I know she was Belgian because I also found her boarding pass. Listen, it’s more information than those deputies have, but they refuse to widen their investigation. I think this woman might have something to do with Jules and Earvin.”
I expected Franz to chastise me for letting my imagination run like crazy but instead, he rubbed his chin and let out a sigh. “So do I.”
Chapter 13
Franz handed the torn note back to me. “Look closely at the top of the paper, where it was ripped. That’s not a decorative design from the stationery. Those little curly loops are the bottom of letters and they spell out ‘Puccini Zinest.’ That’s the chocolate manufacturer who provided their products for this event. And, if I’m not mistaken, and I know I’m not, Puccini Zinest is in the Netherlands, a stone’s throw from Belgium.”
I squinted to make sense of what I was reading. “So, you think the woman who wrote the note works for that company? And what would she have wanted with Jules Leurant and Earvin Roels?”
“You’re getting way ahead of yourself,” Franz said. “We don’t even know who she is.”
“We do! We do. I mean, I do.” I was all but jumping up and down. “It was on the boarding pass—Hortensia Vermeulen. And that’s not all. I found out from someone who works at Geneva on the Lake that Hortensia isn’t the only international guest. There’s a gentleman staying at the hotel as well, and his passport is from the Netherlands.”
Herbert shook his head. “I’m surprised the sheriff’s department isn’t taking this seriously.”
“They’re not taking it at all. Deputy Hickman blew me off as usual.”
Franz reached his hand out to me. “Let me see that note again.”
None of us said a word as he took his time rereading it. “I’ve got some contacts of my own at Geneva on the Lake. No promises but I’ll see what I can find out about our guest from the Netherlands.”
He handed the note back to me and clasped his hands in front of his chest. “The winner of this grand competition will be walking away with enough money to start their own company. Do you know who the contributors are?”
I thought back for a moment to one of our WOW meetings when Madeline Martinez went off on a tangent about how she and her husband had to scrimp and save for years, and borrow money from her mother-in-law, to open Billsburrow Winery. And I distinctly remembered hearing her say, “We didn’t have the luxury of being handed money by giant corporations and major publishers like the winner of our Chocolate and Wine event will be.”
“It has to be those chocolate manufacturing companies as well as the major media publications. The wine trail provides the resources and we were the ones who had to cough up money for that.”
Franz rubbed his chin for a moment. “Don’t repeat this verbatim but what I’m saying is maybe Jules and his nephew were being bribed by one of those companies and something went miserably wrong.”
“Bribed? What do you mean?”
“Like throwing the race?” Herbert chirped in.
By now Franz had chafed his chin to the extent his skin was pink. “It’s pure speculation but a definite possibility.”
I froze. “If you’re right, that could be what got Jules killed and could be why Earvin took a hike. Unless, Earvin’s face down somewhere, too.”
“I’ll do what I can, Norrie. Like I said, I have contacts at Geneva on the Lake. If there seems to be a connection between this Hortensia Vermeulen and the man from the Netherlands, they’ll know. Is the sheriff’s department looking for Mr. Roels?”
“No. It hasn’t been forty-eight hours.”
Franz groaned. “Keep us informed, will you?”
“Absolutely. And thanks.”
Franz and Herbert went back to whatever it was they were doing with the racking and Alan walked with me to their office.
“Franz always keeps his word. He won’t let you down,” Alan said. “By the way, how did the wine pairing go this morning? Were people the least bit hesitant about tasting the Cabernet Sauvignon, even though we were vindicated?”
“I saw a few people scrutinize their wineglass and one woman actually used her own bottled water to rinse off the lip edge, but other than that, we were fine. I’m not sure if I can say the same thing about what’s going on at the Grey Egret.”
“Oh, you’re right. The chocolatier is missing. Yeesh.”
“I sent Fred’s wife, Emma, in Earvin’s place. It’ll be a learning experience for her.” Or a disaster that I’ll never live down. “Um, come to think of it, I really should head over there. Thanks, Alan. Have a good afternoon.”
Cold stinging air bit my face as I slammed their office door shut and walked the quarter mile down our driveway to the Grey Egret. Like our parking lot, theirs was packed, too. I followed a few customers into their winery and went directly to their tasting room. The Grey Egret always reminded me of a classy lodge with its high-beamed ceiling and framed photos of waterfowl. It was a much smaller building than Two Witches, but what it lacked in space, it made up for in style. With its gray and teal color combination and just the perfect accent pieces, I would have sworn Don and Theo had HGTV’s Joanna Gaines design the place for them.
A crowd similar in size to the one that graced our winery this morning was out in full force, watching the afternoon’s chocolate confection demonstration. With a smaller space, the event holders didn’t have as much elbow room as the ones in our winery did, but their view was unobstructed with the same semicircle set-up.
Emma stood a few yards away at a large prep table, complete with the identical tempering machine and accoutrements. Don was standing to her right, and it looked as if he was poised and ready to catch her should she faint on the spot. He kept wiping his brow and taking deep breaths. Emma’s voice was tenuous, but she went through the motions of showing the audience how to dip chocolate as if she’d done it a hundred times instead of once.
At least they were preparing the exact same confection as earlier in the day—chocolate butter cream patties. I glanced around the room and saw that the tasting room tables were all manned by the Grey Egret’s staff. The only person I didn’t see was Theo. I figured he was either in the kitchen or their office.
I positioned myself off to the side so I could watch Emma and offer moral support should she suddenly have a major meltdown. My mind reeled with all sorts of unsettling scenarios, but never once did it conjure up the actual sequence of events that took place minutes later.
Like our winery on biting cold days, the Grey Egret’s entrance door sent an arctic blast through the place. I felt it immediately and rubbed my arms. Seconds later, I heard the thud of heavy footsteps and turned to see Earvin Roels charging toward the demonstration table. He tossed his outer coat over an empty chair and moved like nobody’s business. The tiny hairs on the nape of his neck looked as if they had been charged with electricity, and his pristine chef’s jacket was rumpled and splotched with dirt.
“Stop! Stop this instant!” Then he said something in Dutch or German before adding, “The chocolate is too hot. Too hot! I can see it running off the confection mixture. Stop! Immediately!”
Emma gasped and so did I. Running down his cheek was a thin line of blood. Don must have seen it, too.
Without wasting a second, he handed Earvin one of those fancy napkins that were on the demo table. “Your cheek. Your cheek is bleeding.”
Earvin took the napkin, patted his cheek, saw the blood, and patted it dry. “A paper cut, that’s all. I shall require a moment to freshen up.”
It was one of the rare
times I’d seen Don speechless. He pointed to the corridor where the restrooms were located and watched, along with the rest of us, as Earvin shot off to presumably wash his face.
Theo, who emerged from whatever he was doing in the kitchen, rushed over. “What was that all about?” he whispered.
Meanwhile, poor Emma was still standing, dipping fork in her hand, looking at the chocolate mixture. She took a deep breath, swallowed hard and spoke to the crowd. “I’m sure Mr. Roels is correct. About the temperature of the chocolate. I should have mentioned this earlier. Chocolate shouldn’t be tempered if it is going to be eaten immediately afterward. That’s why the chocolates you’re going to sample today with the Grey Egret’s Merlot were made earlier at Geneva on the Lake by master chocolatier Earvin Roels. Today’s demonstration is to show you the process, and, in a moment or two, you’ll be privy to a fascinating presentation. Mr. Roels was unfortunately detained but thank goodness he’s here in the building to dazzle you with one of his original creations in butter cream.”
The audience applauded and Emma gave a slight bow.
Then Theo addressed the guests. “While we wait for Mr. Roels to resume the set-up, please feel free to taste our other wine samples. Our staff is ready to assist you. Once Mr. Roels returns and prepares his demonstration table, we’ll invite you back to watch the program.”
I expected some grumbling, but there wasn’t any, only the sound of chairs being moved against the wooden floor as the event holders moved to the tasting tables.
Don, Theo, Emma, and I leaned toward each other, forming a tight circle that reminded me of a football huddle.
“What the hell do you suppose happened to him?” Don asked. “And that cut was no little scrape.”
Theo shrugged. “The face, forehead, and scalp bleed like crazy, even if it’s a nothing cut. My five-year-old nephew once fell on the concrete in front of his house and there was blood everywhere. Looked like a massacre. Turned out to be nothing. Except for the blood stains on the concrete. I think they’re still visible.”
“How would that explain the smeared dirt on his white jacket?” I asked.
