Sauvigone for Good

by J. C. Eaton

  Under ordinary circumstances, I would have burst out laughing, but given yesterday’s escapade with Earvin, not to mention Stephanie’s fiasco with Stanislav, and the most recent Allete spider catastrophe, I was in no mood for humor.

  “I take it Earvin did not handle the situation well,” I said.

  “Understatement of the year. He flew into the tasting room sputtering in tongues. Most likely German or Dutch, but who the hell knows. And here I thought it was his uncle Jules who was the germophobe. Anyway, it was Glenda, of all people, who got Earvin to take a breath and compose himself. Good thing, too, because the place has been packed. The regular tourists, who aren’t part of the chocolate event, have been coming and going all morning.”

  I rolled my eyes and waited while Cammy continued. By now, we were standing near the kitchen door, with a full view of the demonstration table.

  “Glenda happened to be holding a clean towel for wiping off the tasting room tables. She immediately handed it to Earvin and ushered him to the restroom. Then she made him a cup of that crazy herbal tea of hers and gave it to him the second he exited the restroom. Talk about poised and ready at the scene.”

  I thought back to the first and last time I’d tasted one of Glenda’s herbal tea concoctions. “That crazy herbal tea of hers is some sort of blend of chamomile and some other stuff that can knock out an elephant.”

  “Apparently, it worked. Not the knock-out part, but it certainly got him to calm down. Look, he’s at the demo table with Emma. I wouldn’t approach him if I were you. Best to leave things as is, if you know what I mean.”

  “Oh, I do. I sure do. It’s like walking on eggshells around these prima donnas.”

  Cammy laughed. “With all this tumult with Earvin, I forgot to ask. What’s with Gladys’s message about food tampering? Did you call her?”

  I gave Cammy the rundown about Jules succumbing to either a poisonous bonbon or an overly zealous murderer with a penchant for Ambien spray. “There might be two killers. The bonbon and the spray bottle.”

  “Or three. Bonbon, spray bottle, and shove-him-in-the-snow.”

  “Good grief. If this were a book, it would be Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express.”

  “Did Gladys mention if the deputies have any leads?”

  “No. We didn’t have much time on the phone. Come to think of it, the news media has been pretty quiet about it, too.”

  “Not once that bonbon news gets released. So, what was it? Arsenic? Cyanide?”

  “Gladys never got a chance to tell me. I don’t think it’s anything like that. I don’t even think you can get those poisons anywhere.”

  “Oh, before I forget, you got a fax from the entomology department at the Experiment Station.”

  “Put it in John Grishner’s box. They’re always faxing him about vineyard pests. Mealy bugs, leafhoppers, and what was that other one? Oh yeah, the glassy-winged sharpshooter. Godfrey went into a longwinded explanation about that thing. Called it a vineyard cancer.”

  “Okay. Will do.”

  “Uh, take a look at the demo table. Is it my imagination or is Earvin acting kind of woozy?”

  “Oh no. Oh God no. It’s that tea of Glenda’s. I think it’s making him a bit spacy. You’d better get over there, Norrie.”

  I edged my way to the side of the large semicircle we set up in front of the presentation area. All the seats were taken and the event attendees seemed intent on the demonstration. I tapped my teeth and watched, hoping Earvin’s skill as a chocolatier would compensate for any lightheadedness that might be an effect of the tea. I was wrong.

  Earvin swayed as he demonstrated how candied centers were added to chocolate molds. Then he started to explain how to infuse additional flavors into the chocolate centers by using what looked like a metal syringe.

  Cammy snuck up next to me and whispered, “Is that a hypodermic needle?”

  “Um, I don’t think so. It looks more like a small turkey marinade injector. Francine’s got one in her cutlery drawer. Yeah, it’s a marinade injector. Hypodermic needles don’t have three separate injector tips.”

  “Good to know.”

  Just then, Earvin leaned over the tray of small chocolate molds and all but fell on top of it, had it not been for Emma, who caught him as his head was about to land on top of the tray.

  “I’ve been poisoned!” he announced. “The room is spinning. That royal SOB Stanislav is responsible. He murdered my uncle and now I shall suffer the same fate.”

  With that, Earvin stumbled toward the kitchen, but not before managing to topple over the fifty or so wineglasses we had stacked on a nearby table. The crash was deafening and what followed was worse.

  “Call nine-one-one!” someone screamed.

  “Already did,” someone else in the crowd replied.

  A middle-aged woman wearing a teal cloche shouted, “Have we been poisoned, too?”

  “No!” I shouted back from the other side of the room. “No one’s been poisoned. It’s a reaction to some herbal tea. I’m certain of it.” Well, fairly certain. “Mr. Roels will be fine.”

  I knew from past experience, when they received a nine-one-one call, they didn’t turn around. Maybe it was just as well. At least the attendees would realize Earvin had an unfortunate reaction and not a near encounter with death. I hoped.

  Fortunately, Sam had gone into the kitchen to get some napkins and wound up with Earvin instead. With Sam’s stocky build and muscular arms, he caught Earvin before the poor chocolatier hit the ground. Literally. Then Roger rushed over from his table and the two of them got a chair underneath Earvin. That was probably the best way to describe it because Earvin wouldn’t have recognized a chair if it landed on his head. Meanwhile, Lizzie grabbed a broom and was frantically sweeping up the broken glass.

  “Poi…Poi…soned…” Earvin kept muttering. Finally, he closed his eyes and leaned back.

  Glenda, who had made him the tea in the first place, looked as if someone had drained the blood from her face. “It was only herbal tea. A lovely blend of chamomile, valerian root, passionfruit, lemongrass, and rosehips.”

  Sam winced. “Sounds like witch’s brew if you ask me.” Then he looked my way. “Uh, sorry, Norrie.”

  Meanwhile, a shell-shocked Emma stood motionless behind the demonstration table. It seemed everyone in the crowd was talking at once, and a few people took out their phones and started snapping pictures.

  I cringed. These better not wind up on Facebook or Instagram. “It’s all right.” I gave Emma a nudge. “Our presentation can continue.”

  Emma leaned into my ear and whispered, “How? I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  I looked at the chocolate molds and bit my lower lip. Earvin had filled all of them with a strawberry ganache that he had made earlier, and he had just finished demonstrating how the additional chocolate was poured over the mold to seal in the flavor center. Then what the hell was that marinade injector for?

  “Um, it seems we need a minute or two to re-organize,” I announced to our guests. “We’ll be right back.”

  I hustled Emma to my office and shut the door. “The EMTs are going to be here any second. It will be pandemonium. Are you sure you don’t know what to do? We’ve got to keep our audience’s attention or the only thing notable about the chocolate fest at Two Witches will be the chocolatier who might have been poisoned.”

  Emma widened her eyes and shook her head. “I watched him pour the chocolate into the molds and helped with the ganache, but I have no idea what he planned to infuse with that marinade injector.”

  “Hang on.”

  I charged to the computer and Googled, “infusing flavorings into chocolate molds.” In seconds, a zillion YouTube videos cropped up. Working as a screenwriter, I knew how to speedread my way through text, so I skipped the videos and went directly to the blogs.


  “According to this article, chocolate is sensitive to temperature. The damn flavoring must be the same temperature as the chocolate or the chocolate will seize. Go into shock or something. Can you believe it?”

  Emma nodded. “Mr. Roels…Earvin…filled that marinade injector from a pan in the kitchen. He must have heated up the oil.”

  “Wait a minute! Wait a gosh-darned minute. Our guests aren’t going to be tasting the stuff we demonstrate on the table. They’ll be sampling Earvin’s pre-made chocolates. Heck. So what if we shock and seize the stupid chocolate. Come on, Emma. We can wing it!”

  And just as Emma and I raced back to the demonstration table, the sound of sirens blasted through the winery. The kitchen door was wide open and, within seconds, four EMTs were hovering over Earvin.

  Chapter 21

  “Everything is fine,” I announced to our guests. “The paramedics are in the kitchen with Mr. Roels. No need to worry.” Unless you happen to be Mr. Roels…

  I pointed to the molds that Earvin created and, dredging up the information I had perused on the internet a few seconds ago, I gave what best could be called a haphazard explanation of filling chocolate molds and infusing additional flavorings.

  Emma was quick to point out the facts about temperature variations and the need to heat up the flavored oils. I wasn’t exactly sure of the precise timing for injecting the molds. Was it while the chocolate was still warm or when it cooled slightly? It didn’t matter. Before I could get into that part of my fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants explanation, one of the EMTs walked over to where I was standing.

  “Are you the winery owner?” Her dark brown hair was pulled into a tight ponytail and given the crow’s-feet around her eyes, I guessed her age to be fortyish.

  “Uh, yeah. I’m Norrie Ellington. Will Mr. Roels be okay?”

  “We should speak privately.”

  Oh no. Not the “we should speak privately.” Anytime anyone uses an expression like that, you know it means trouble. I immediately turned to Emma. “And now, our chocolatier’s assistant will explain how to enjoy your samples with our Cabernet Sauvignon.”

  Like the tasting room staff, Emma was conversant with the process for pairing wine with chocolate and, without missing a beat, she began to explain how to maximize the experience.

  I looked around the room and, except for Glenda, everyone was at their tasting table. When he thought no one was looking, Sam ran his finger across his neck and pointed to the kitchen, as if I wasn’t worried enough about the “speak privately” comment. Like a puppy running after its master, I followed the EMT into the kitchen and took a deep breath.

  One of the EMTs, another woman, slightly younger with brown chin-length hair, was on the phone. Another bad sign. The remaining EMTs, both men about my age, were taking Earvin’s vital signs.

  The EMT, who told me we needed to talk, walked over to the double stainless sink, picked up the cup of tea Earvin had been drinking, and waved it under my nose. “It doesn’t appear as if your friend has been poisoned, but if he drank from this cup, he most likely ingested marijuana. Here, you can smell it yourself.”

  “Marijuana! Let me smell that!”

  Sure enough, it was an aroma I recognized. Not because I used the stuff, but who on earth hadn’t smelled it wafting through a dormitory or, better yet, at a concert. Still…marijuana? At our winery? Glenda was into all sorts of herbal remedies, but I seriously doubted she’d add that particular herb or weed, or whatever it was, to her teas.

  Just then, I heard Earvin’s voice. “Is there anything to eat around here? I’m starving.”

  The EMT who took Earvin’s vitals joined his colleague and me. “Mr. Roels appears to be recovering from his episode. Of course, without a lab analysis of the substance he ingested, we won’t really know for sure what caused his reaction.”

  I can tell you what caused his reaction. The guy got stoned.

  “Does Mr. Roels carry a medical marijuana card?” the EMT asked.

  I shook my head. “I doubt it. He’s a visiting chocolatier from Belgium, not a New York State resident.”

  The second EMT who’d taken Earvin’s signs walked over to us. “Mr. Roels has refused further medical assistance and doesn’t wish to be taken to the hospital. That is, of course, his prerogative.”

  I looked past the EMTs to where Earvin was seated, and our merry chocolatier appeared to be more alert and responsive than he was a short while ago.

  The EMT continued. “Since we cannot say for certain what Mr. Roels drank, only that it altered his ability to function temporarily, we have no choice but to notify the Yates County Sheriff’s Department.”

  Oh Goody! Where’s my lawyer/boyfriend when I need him… “Um, are you really sure you need to do that?”

  The EMT gave a nod. “It’s protocol.”

  Throughout the entire question and answer process with the EMTs, I thought I heard someone sniveling. Short bursts of sobs or nasal congestion. I glanced around the kitchen and, sure enough, there was Glenda, wedged between the two stainless steel refrigerator/freezers. She gave me a wave and then proceeded to dab her eyes with a bright fuchsia handkerchief before approaching us.

  “I made that tea,” she said, “and there was absolutely no marijuana in it. I swear on my life! Only chamomile, valerian root, passionfruit, lemongrass, and rosehips. It’s my soothing, calming tea. I drink it all the time when I’m stressed.”

  Then Glenda walked to the sink, picked up the cup, and took a whiff. “This is NOT the tea I made. I can’t even smell the lovely rosehips.”

  “Is the cup the same?” I asked.

  Glenda held up the cup and grimaced. “Definitely. It’s the only Vincent Van Gogh cup we have. We’ve got a few Monets but only one Vincent. Some stinker must have added marijuana leaves to the tea or maybe even the oil after I handed it to Mr. Roels. No wonder I couldn’t smell my own ingredients. And that oil is potent. A friend of my mother’s uses it when her arthritis acts up. The oil is real easy to come by if you have a dispensary card.”

  The EMTs looked at each other and the woman with the ponytail spoke. “I’m sure that’s something the sheriff’s deputies will address.” Then one of the EMTs asked Earvin how he was feeling and Earvin responded in one word—hungry. With that, the EMTs packed their equipment and exited the winery.

  “I’ll have Fred make you a sandwich,” I said to Earvin. “You might as well wait here in the kitchen and unwind.” Unwind? The only one wound up is me. I need to unwind. I need to drink some of that tea. With or without the new ingredient.

  Glenda somehow pulled herself together and went out to the tasting room. Cammy, Sam, and Roger had taken the customers Glenda would have had, so Glenda wound up going from table to table assisting whoever needed her the most. From what I saw at the tasting tables, our guests weren’t too fazed about having Emma replace Earvin. They seemed to be enjoying their strawberry-filled chocolates and the wine that went with it. I only prayed my explanation of filling and infusing chocolates wouldn’t show up on anyone’s Facebook videos.

  Lizzie swept up the broken glass and informed me that a case of forty-eight wineglasses cost us between sixty and eighty dollars.

  “We can order from one of the discount glassware companies,” she said. “Since we don’t have our logo on the glasses, they’re not that expensive. About fifteen to nineteen dollars for a case of twelve.”

  “Might as well order four cases,” I said. “Maybe we can send the bill to Henry Speltmore at the wine association so they can pick up the tab.”

  Cammy must have overheard my comment because she called out, “That’ll be the day.”

  I hurried over to the bistro and returned to the kitchen with a turkey and cheese wrap for Earvin. He took it with barely a thank you and devoured it as if he’d been with the Donner party for the past few months, instead of at our winery for the last hour or so. />
  “Everything’s settled down here,” I said to him. “Do you think you’ll be all right to conduct your demonstration at the Grey Egret this afternoon?”

  Earvin dabbed the side of his lip with a napkin. “As long as the Grey Egret doesn’t obtain a goat or make herbal teas in the next few hours, I should be perfectly fine.”

  “Um, it wasn’t Glenda’s tea that rendered you, well, off-kilter. Someone tampered with it and added marijuana. Weren’t you listening to what those EMTs said?”

  “All they told me was my head would clear up and I’d be fine. They said if I felt worse, I should seek medical attention.”

  I thought about it for a moment and then realized the EMTs had been talking with me and not Earvin. Probably just as well.

  “Yeah, well, that makes sense. And you do seem to be doing much better.” Although, most people who smoke or ingest pot seem to be euphoric, not miserable. Then again, everyone reacts differently to recreational drugs. “Unfortunately, incidents like this get reported to the sheriff’s department, and they’re going to send a deputy over here to speak with you.” And grill me as if it was the Spanish Inquisition.

  “What can I tell them? A miserable goat spat on me and an eccentric employee of the winery gave me a calming tea that had been laced with marijuana?”

  At least I hope it was marijuana. Sure, smelled like it. Heaven help us if it was something really horrible. “Yes, that will suffice. Miserable goat and wacky tea.”

  “Can I get another one of these wraps?” Earvin asked.

  “Sure.”

  I headed for the bistro when I recognized a voice that I wish I hadn’t—Deputy Hickman. He had just come inside the winery and asked Lizzie, who was at the cash register, if she knew where I was.

  “Right here.” I walked up to the deputy.