Sauvigone for Good

by J. C. Eaton

  There was only one solution. Spill my guts to Don and Theo. I called the Grey Egret and invited the guys for dinner.

  “You actually cooked something?” Theo asked when I got him on the phone.

  “Not exactly. The Beef and Brew in Geneva will be doing the cooking. Doesn’t slow roasted beef and cheddar soup sound good? I hate ordering out for myself. Besides, I really need to unload, and you and Don are the best listeners.”

  “Does your takeout order include their apple pie?”

  “It will now.”

  “Then unload away.”

  “Great. Come up around seven. I don’t think you need to worry about Earvin this afternoon. He seemed fine.”

  “Actually, he’s here now. And not scowling.”

  “It’s the calming soap.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  Just knowing that relief, in the form of Don and Theo, would be here this evening, I was able to make decent progress with my screenplay. And not once did I substitute Bradley or Godfrey’s name for my characters’. I called my order in to the Beef and Brew and told them to have it ready by six. That gave me plenty of time for the drive.

  I set the table in advance and took out a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon from the wine rack in the basement. We were lucky our basement had the right humidity for storing wine—fifty to eighty percent, according to my father, who made it a point to impress upon us the proper way to store red wines. Unlike white wines, that should be enjoyed within a year or so, red wines could afford to hang around and age. Not indefinitely, but certainly for a few years. It was a no-brainer to store the wine on its side so the liquid would touch the cork and prevent it from drying out. As for the temperature in the basement, it had to be reasonable. Not arctic cold so it would freeze, but not warm either. My father hung a wall thermometer near the stairs and eyeballed the thing to make sure we were always in the forty-five to sixty range.

  When Theo and Don arrived at a little past seven, I had everything ready for us, starting with giant bowls of cheddar soup and the Beef and Brew’s mouthwatering biscuits. The steam from the soup hung in the air as the three of us spooned the creamy liquid into our mouths.

  “I could live on this stuff,” Don said. “Especially in the winter. It’s damn cold out there and getting worse.”

  Theo tore off a piece of a buttery biscuit and took a bite. “Yeah, but at least there’s no precipitation forecasted for the next two days.”

  “Hallelujah for small favors,” I said. “I suppose all the national reporters and magazine bigwigs will be arriving tomorrow, huh?”

  Don nodded and swallowed another spoonful of soup. “I understand the judges are going to be so closely guarded—it will be impossible to get near them.”

  “Okay, you can both beat me over the head for not reading every single email Henry Speltmore sent our way. Guess I missed that one. Who are the judges?”

  Theo and Don looked at me as if I’d asked who the president of the United States was. Then they looked at each other.

  “It’s not funny, guys,” I said. “I have lots of stuff on my mind. Deadlines, if you must know.”

  Theo laughed. “We’ll cut you a break. There are three judges. The editor-in-chief of Wine Spectator, the editor-in-chief of Food and Wine, and the president of the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park, New York. Big enough bigwigs for you?”

  “Oh yeah. Are they all staying at Geneva on the Lake?”

  “Actually, no. Two of them are staying at Cornell’s Statler Hotel in Ithaca and only the editor-in-chief from Food and Wine will be in Geneva. You really should read your emails, Norrie.”

  Don took another biscuit and bit into it. “Oh my gosh. I’m filling up on bread and I won’t have any room for the beef.”

  Theo shot him a look. “Then stop eating the biscuits.”

  Suddenly, Don looked around the room and bent under the table. “Where’s Charlie? He’s usually begging for food by now.”

  “Oh, he’s curled up in my bedroom,” I said. “That rotten Plott Hound has been passing gas all afternoon and last thing I need him to do is ruin our meal.”

  “The only thing that could ruin my meal,” Don replied, “is another incident with one of those chocolatiers. I’m surprised all of us aren’t on anxiety medicine by now.”

  I stood up, collected the soup bowls, and put them in the sink. “Allete should be, the way she falls apart over everything. It’s a wonder she can even get a night’s—oh good God. The Ambien. How much do you want to bet that spray bottle was hers?”

  Don handed the soup spoons to Theo, who, in turn, passed them to me. “Any chance you can get Gladys Pipp to spill the beans on that one? She seems awfully chummy with you.”

  “She just likes Francine’s jellies and jams. But maybe I can prod a bit to see what she knows. She was very forthcoming about the bonbon Jules ingested. Meanwhile, Stephanie and I are going to attend a very important lecture on soil maximization at Hobart and William Smith Colleges tomorrow.”

  I placed a huge sauterne on the table with the most mouth-watering roast beef I’d ever seen. “And before you ask why, I’ll tell you. I found out from Godfrey Klein that Hortensia Vermeulen, a Belgian horticulturalist, is the speaker. That’s right. The very Hortensia Vermeulen whose boarding pass I found in the trash at Geneva on the Lake. I’m totally convinced she’s the auburn-haired woman and Stephanie can ID her for sure. Stephanie was up front and personal when a woman fitting that description broke up the little chocolate-throwing incident between Stanislav and some foreign guy.”

  “Next thing you know, you’re going to tell us the foreign guy is the other guest at the hotel. The one you mentioned earlier,” Don said.

  “He might be. He might very well be, but no one has seen hide-nor-hare of him since that incident. At least no one that I know of. But until I can nail down Hortensia, I can’t get anywhere. Look, I hate to say this, but I think something awful is going to happen at that grand competition on Saturday. It’s a feeling I have that I can’t shake.”

  “We get it,” Theo said. “But don’t be impulsive. Especially if you do uncover a key piece of information. There’s a murderer out there, maybe even more than one, and if they can do it once, doing it a second time comes easy. At least according to the TV shows I watch.”

  “Stephanie and I will be careful. As far as I’m concerned, every one of those chocolatiers is a suspect. Along with the two international guests from the hotel. Geez, why do those sheriff’s departments have to take so darn long with the investigation?”

  “Because they do it systematically and methodically, not emotionally and randomly.”

  “Sure, because it’s not their winery’s name that was bantered around. Aargh. Come on, dig in. There is an onion and potato pie, as well as green beans with almonds. I always think better on a full stomach.”

  We spent the rest of the evening tossing theories around and, by the time we got to the apple pie, we had enough plots to take over the mystery section at the library.

  “It all comes back to motive,” Theo said as he and Don put on their coats and walked to the door. “Everyone wants that grand prize. Greed and ambition know no bounds.”

  “Unless it’s jealousy and revenge,” Don added. “Of course, if that were the case, it would have been Stanislav face down in the snow and not Jules.”

  I handed Theo his scarf that had fallen on the floor. “It’s what we don’t know about those three that may really hold the answers. Maybe Stephanie and I will get lucky tomorrow and find out that Hortensia holds a large chunk of the puzzle.”

  “Either that or a large slab of soil that’s up for analysis. Have fun.”

  The guys thanked me for the terrific meal and I, in turn, thanked them for being there whenever I needed them. I locked the door, finished tidying up the kitchen, and
went upstairs to see if Charlie wanted one last turn out the doggie door. He looked up from my bed and went back to sleep. The room smelled like a cheese factory that had lost its central air-conditioning. I opened a window to air it out. Somewhere around the lake, I thought I heard a siren, but it could have been anything.

  Chapter 26

  The next time I decided to take someone with me on a reconnaissance mission, it wouldn’t be Stephanie. She always reminded me of Christy Brinkley in her super model days—with the long blond hair and a smile that invited every male in a twenty-mile vicinity to drop everything and ogle her. Yep, I’d seen Chevy Chase’s Vacation and believe me, Stephanie would have brought the guy to his knees the same way Christy did. Unfortunately, that was exactly what happened when we got to Albright Auditorium the following morning. Nine thirty-seven, to be precise, with the program starting at ten.

  Usually visitors were smitten with Hobart and William Smith’s neoclassical buildings, but not one single guy took a second look at Albright Auditorium once Stephanie made her way to the entrance. One would think a winter coat and jeans would cover that figure of hers, but apparently, the men on campus took one look at those long locks of hers and knew instinctively that underneath layers of winter clothing was a figure worth pursuing. And pursue it they did. It started the minute we got to the door.

  Two guys who’d barely made it through puberty shoved me aside to hold the door open for her. I nearly tripped over myself and had to lean against the doorframe so I wouldn’t fall. Then, if that wasn’t bad enough, a sandy-haired man in a sports jacket and tie, who was chatting with a few coeds near the lecture hall door, walked over to us. Only, it wasn’t us. It was Stephanie. He walked over to where Stephanie stood. I had become totally invisible. Invisible and sulking.

  I’d always been told I was cute. Guys liked my soft freckles and one dimple. Same with my shoulder-length auburn hair. However, next to Stephanie, I resembled Shrek’s wife. I took a breath and waited for him to hit on her.

  “Welcome to our program,” he said to Stephanie. “I’m professor Mallory. Jacob Mallory. I teach environmental studies. You must be new to our lecture series because I haven’t seen you here before. And please don’t tell me you’re a vineyard manager.”

  Stephanie used the back of her palm to flip her hair. I mentally rolled my eyes. Didn’t we give that maneuver a rest after tenth grade?

  “Actually,” she said, “I’m Stephanie Ipswich and I own Gable Hill Winery in Penn Yan. I’m here with another winery owner, Norrie Ellington, from Two Witches.”

  Jacob turned his head slightly and gave me a nod. Then he returned his gaze to Stephanie. “Hmm, I must make it a point to do a bit of wine tasting. Needless to say, we’ve been trying to get Hortensia Vermeulen to speak at the college for years, but her schedule wouldn’t permit it. Then, out of the blue, someone on her staff contacted our board and, next thing we knew, she was available to speak. It’s not every day a world-renowned horticulturalist flies all the way from Belgium to deliver a lecture. Of course, she’ll be at Cornell as well, but still, it’s quite something.”

  “Interesting timing,” I said. “This is the weekend for the Finger Lakes’ Chocolate and Wine Extravaganza. You wouldn’t happen to know if Ms. Vermeulen has anything to do with that industry, do you? I mean, maybe her expertise extends to cocoa beans as well.”

  Professor Mallory shook his head. “I doubt it. Her focus is on global integration in order to combat hunger. That’s why soil maximization is paramount.”

  Terrific. This lecture is going to be as boring as hell. Stephanie better identify the woman right away.

  Before I could respond, Professor Mallory continued. “I suppose that’s why both of you are here. Anyway, I’m not sure if you’ve had a chance to read the email from our department. I know it was sent to the local vineyard managers. Unlike our other lecturers, Hortensia Vermeulen won’t be fielding questions at the end of her PowerPoint. She’ll make copies of the presentation available for anyone, but attendees are asked to submit their questions to her website. She will note the question and provide her response once she returns home.”

  “That’s rather odd, isn’t it?” Stephanie asked.

  Professor Mallory adjusted his tie and shrugged. “Some of our speakers are more comfortable handling a crowd than others. I don’t know Ms. Vermeulen, so I can’t answer for her. Anyway, we’re pleased as punch she’s at our college today, but I’m equally pleased to have met your acquaintance.”

  I may actually vomit. Right here. Right now, in Albright Auditorium. “Um, it looks like this place is filling up quick. We really need to get inside and grab some decent seats. Up front. We need to sit up front. Much better acoustics.” And a better look at the speaker.

  “You don’t have to worry about the acoustics. Everything in the lecture hall is state-of-the-art,” he replied. “Besides, no one wants to sit up front. I know for a fact that my students will have commandeered the last row so they can sneak out unobtrusively.”

  We started for the door to the lecture hall when another man, presumably a colleague of Professor Mallory, tapped him on the elbow. “Jake, I need a moment of your time. Got a quick question about Thursday’s student teacher visits.”

  Professor Mallory gave the guy a quick nod and then said to Stephanie, “I’ll definitely make it a point to do some wine tasting. Enjoy the lecture.”

  I grabbed Stephanie by the arm and hustled her into the lecture hall. “Hurry up. We’re here on a murder investigation not a flirt-a-thon.”

  Stephanie laughed. “When you’re stuck with first-grade twins and the only conversation you have revolves around SpongeBob SquarePants, a bit of innocent flirting is fun.”

  “Oh brother. Come on. I see some seats in the first row.”

  The curtain was open and a huge screen was directly in front of us. Off to our left, only a few yards from where we found our seats, was the podium.

  “If they don’t mess with the lighting,” I said, “you should get a really good look at her.”

  “Didn’t you see her, too, Norrie?”

  “I only caught a glimpse of her that day in the winery when she came in and spooked Earvin. I got a better look at her calf’s-length coat than her face.”

  “One thing for sure. She won’t be wearing a coat for this lecture.”

  Professor Mallory was right about the seating. Other than two students at the far end of the row, Stephanie and I had the whole area to ourselves. Even the row behind us was scantily filled. Beyond that, it was a packed house. Who would’ve thought soil maximization was such a hot topic.

  I made sure my cell phone was on mute and leaned back. A few seconds later, the chairperson of the environmental studies department approached the podium and read what seemed to be Hortensia’s vitae. Then he introduced her. The woman seemed to be the same height and weight of the woman I had observed a few days ago. And, she had the same auburn-colored hair. With her gray tailored suit and white top, she reminded me of Lana Lang.

  “Is that her?” I poked Stephanie in the elbow.

  “Shh. I can’t tell. She’s too far away. Looks like her.”

  “Damn. Francine owns a pair of opera glasses and I should have brought them. Take another look. Can’t you tell?”

  “Shh. No. I don’t think I’m going to be able to make a positive ID unless I’m up close and personal.”

  “Crap. We’re going to have to sit through this entire thing?”

  And sit through it, we did. I never wanted to hear the terms “geogrids,” “stabilization,” and “residue retention” in the same sentence again. And if hearing them wasn’t enough, I could see them on the gigantic screen in front of me.

  When the presentation was over, Hortensia received an enthusiastic applause. I think that was because everyone was glad it was over. She told the audience to visit her website and submit all questions to
an address she provided—exactly what Professor Mallory said she’d do.

  “Now what?” Stephanie whispered.

  “Now we charge up those steps to the right of the stage and thank her for the tremendous presentation before she bolts. I’ll talk. You take a good, hard look. Follow me.”

  With that, I jumped out of my seat and raced to the stage. Stephanie was a few feet behind me and moving as fast as she could in heels. Yep, heels. Who wore heels in the Finger Lakes in winter? What we didn’t count on was that the fastidious cleaning crew from the college had polished the stage floor. One step onto that slippery surface and Stephanie slid past me and into the podium.

  The narrow stand, complete with a built-in light, toppled over and literally trapped Hortensia Vermeulen in place. At least for a second, and that was all we needed.

  “Oh my God! I’m so sorry,” Stephanie said. “All I wanted to do was thank you for the marvelous presentation. And invite you to visit our winery during your stay. Gable Hill Winery on Route 14 in Penn Yan.”

  Stephanie offered Hortensia her hand so the famed horticulturalist could step over the obstruction we had managed to create. As Hortensia looked down to see where she was stepping, Stephanie inched in closer for a better look. And I caught a look at the ring Hortensia was wearing. If the stunning chocolate-colored gemstone was real, she could swap it for a piece of Dubai. Even one of those sharp gold prongs on the thing would be worth a fortune.

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Hortensia said. “I have a full schedule and a flight back to Belgium on Tuesday. Everyone has been so gracious. Including the management at my hotel, Geneva on the Lake. They insisted I attend a most coveted event Saturday night and secured a ticket for me. For once, it will be nice to be on the other side of the podium, if you know what I mean.”