Sauvigone for Good

by J. C. Eaton

  “That’s right,” Ilene said. “The organizational committee had better make a decision and make it quickly.”

  “Does Earvin know?” I asked. “He’s supposed to be at Geneva on the Lake preparing for tomorrow night’s event. He’ll be devastated.” Either that or he’ll go on some wild rampage in the kitchen. I hope they’ve locked up the knives.

  Then I remembered…What was it Jordaine said about Anika and Jules? It was right after she used the word “trysts.” Rats. If only Mary Berry had caught a later flight, I could have gotten Jordaine to tell me. I can’t very well march over there and reintroduce the subject.

  I was so engrossed in my latest rumination that it took me a moment to process Ilene’s answer. “He’s been living under a shell if he doesn’t. I’m glad I’m not part of that committee. It’s hard enough judging the contests my publisher and sponsors arrange, let alone interpreting the rules.”

  I hadn’t really thought about the fact that there could be more competitors higher up on the list than Earvin, but it certainly made sense. Too much sense. What if Earvin knocked off his uncle to get the position of third competitor? He’d guard that position like a junkyard dog, even if it meant doing to Anika what he’d done to Jules. That was, if he had done it at all. True, he had a prime motive, but he wasn’t the only one.

  At that moment, Zyra gave Shannon a pat on the wrist. “We’d better get a move on if we expect to hit a few more wineries.” Then she turned to me. “Your Cabernet Sauvignon is marvelous. I wish I were pairing it with a steak right now. Love that bold flavor. I can almost taste hints of bell peppers.”

  “She’s right,” the lady with the blog added. “Sometimes red wines are overaged in the oak and lose the intense fruity flavors they were meant to have. This one is perfect. Too bad the last taste on Jules’s lips was marred by a sleep-inducing drug. Did the authorities ever find out where it came from?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” I said. “We rely on the media like everyone else.”

  The lady took another sip of her wine and narrowed her eyes. “It’s the social media you should be following. And I’m not referring to the internet. In my experience, sometimes the most reliable sources come from the local scuttlebutt, to be blunt.”

  Oh my gosh. The local scuttlebutt. By now, Gladys Pipp must have some idea what Deputy Hickman is up to.

  Zyra and Ilene stood and buttoned their coats.

  Faux fur must be popular this season. “I look forward to seeing you at the competition. And thanks for visiting our winery.”

  The two celebs left the tasting room, along with the blog lady. I managed to catch Roger’s eye near Cammy’s table and gave him a wave with my wrist. He waved back and marched right over.

  “It’s all yours,” I said. “Thanks for switching gears.”

  Roger shrugged. “No big deal. Hey, I think Cammy’s getting really overworked. At first, she seemed to forget she needed my help but when I reminded her about the wineglasses, she immediately had me scrutinize them. No harm in being extra cautious. Can you believe it? A few customers mentioned Ambien and our Cab-Sav in the same breath.”

  “Ouch.”

  I stepped aside and let Roger take over the table. Then I went into my office and called the Grey Egret. One of the employees put Theo on the phone.

  “Norrie, I can’t talk now. Hoda Kotb and Rachael Ray are here. Don is bumbling all over the place. Next thing I know he’ll be yammering about old family recipes.”

  “Um, not with what I’m about to tell you. D’Artagnan just joined The Three Musketeers.”

  “What are you taking about?”

  “There’s a fourth chocolatier—Anika Schou from Denmark. She’s demanding to replace Earvin. And that’s not all. Something about a tryst involving Jules, but Mary Berry showed up and ruined it.”

  “The tryst? My God, you’re sounding as bad as Don when he gets anywhere near a celebrity. And what’s with Anika Schou?”

  “I don’t know. All I can tell you is listen to the gossip today. That prep kitchen at Geneva on the Lake must be a real hotbed by now with that crew. I wouldn’t be surprised if they tried to sabotage each other.”

  “All they’re doing is working on their recipes for tomorrow. Like studying for an exam. And they’re not all in the kitchen at once. There’s a separate timeframe for each of them. It was in Henry’s email marked, ‘Practice Schedule.’”

  “Who sends an email marked ‘Practice Schedule?’ I thought it was some boring article he forwarded. Three or four slots?”

  “Three.”

  “Then there will a bloodbath.”

  “Meet us tonight at Port of Call for drinks,” Theo said. “Around eight. We can commiserate.”

  “Won’t the place be packed?”

  “That’ll be half the fun. Besides, Don always finds a way to snag a table.”

  Chapter 29

  Port of Call, a fantastic lakeside restaurant with an enormous deck, was situated five miles from Geneva. Theo and Don introduced me to it when I first got here, and it fast became one of my favorite places to eat. In winter, with its enormous stone fireplace and cozy atmosphere, it made me forget about the dreariness that took over the area after the holidays. The food was exceptional, too, and the main reason, according to Theo, that Don insisted on eating there whenever they could.

  When I arrived at a little past eight and met up with Theo and Don in the foyer, the place was teeming with guests. We had no choice but to elbow our way to the bar, along with the sea of humanity that engulfed the place.

  “An hour and forty-five minutes for a table,” Don whined. “We might as well grab the first seats that become available.”

  I glanced around the restaurant and gave Theo a poke in the arm. “Looks like every foodie from Manhattan is here, not to mention all the culinary writers. Isn’t that—”

  “Yes. Yes. It’s Christina Tosi, baker extraordinaire. I can’t tell who she’s conversing with.”

  Don turned away from the bar and stretched his neck. “Rachael Ray. Are you satisfied?”

  “I’d be more satisfied if I could get another minute with Jordaine Waverly. She was about to dish the dirt on Jules when Mary Berry showed up.”

  Theo looked around. “Sorry, Norrie. I don’t see either of them here, but there’s always tomorrow at the competition.”

  Two seats at the bar opened up and Don motioned for Theo and me to take them. Seconds later, another chair was freed up and Don convinced three people to “skootch over by one seat so he could join us.”

  No sooner did I order a glass of chardonnay from another local winery than I spied Deputy Hickman walking in.

  “This can’t be good,” I whispered. “Port of Call doesn’t seem like the kind of place he’d frequent.”

  The three of us watched as he strode past the bar into the huge dining area.

  “I can’t see where he’s headed,” I said.

  Theo wasted no time standing and scanning the area. “Holy Crap. If I’m not mistaken, that’s Stanislav. And he’s with Allete. They’re seated by that greenery to the side of the fireplace. Don’t tell me that’s where Grizzly Gary’s going. Hold on. Hold on. That’s exactly where our boy’s headed.”

  I jumped from my seat and took a few steps forward. It was hard to get a good look because the bar area was so densely packed. “I need to get in closer. I’ll try to be inconspicuous.”

  Don blew enough air out of his mouth to resuscitate a rhino. “That’ll be the day.”

  Rather than making a beeline into the dining area, I skirted the perimeter of the restaurant, making sure I kept a wide enough berth between me and the packed tables, but not so wide that I couldn’t overhear a key tidbit of information.

  “That’s what I’ve been saying, Jeff. The man was found dead in his hotel bathtub and the issue of foul play was never resolved. I
ronic, too, huh? And during the holidays, no less. According to the hotel staff, he had just returned from attending an international chocolate exposition in their ballroom. You’d think the Dutch authorities would’ve put a rush on such a high-profile case. Too bad it’s turned cold.”

  “Yeah. That’s the question that’s been cropping up all over. Why would the CEO of Puccini Zinest have overdosed on a sleeping medication if he wasn’t being treated for a sleeping condition?”

  “You think the Ambassador Holland Hotel might have put a kibosh on the investigation to avoid bad press?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me. Money’s been known to pay for silence.”

  Puccini Zinest. Ambassador Holland Hotel. Chocolate exposition. That was around the time of Puccini Zinest’s merger talks. Only no one mentioned the other party. I looked closely at the table and recognized one of the men—Jeff Glor from CBS’s nightly news. Holy Cannoli! Who the heck wasn’t here?

  I pretended to read something on my cell phone so I could overhear more of the conversation, but they moved to another topic. Rats. It didn’t matter. I was on a mission to see what Deputy Hickman was up to and couldn’t afford to get waylaid with yet another “shiny thing,” even if that thing had something to do with the chocolate festival.

  All of a sudden, I got my answer. One second I was looking at the screen on my phone and the next I was staring at Stanislav being escorted out of Port of Call by Deputy Hickman. Not a major scene with handcuffs or anything like that, but a scene nonetheless.

  Allete was a few feet away from Stanislav and, even with the noisy chatter in the restaurant, I could hear her voice. “I’m calling your embassy at once. Mon dieu.”

  As tempting as it was for me to approach Deputy Hickman, I knew I’d be the one to wind up in handcuffs. Instead, I zeroed in on Allete and ushered her back to their table.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  I would have had better luck coaxing the information out of Alvin. Spit or no spit. Allete pulled a handkerchief from her bag and began to sob in it. “They think, they believe, mon dieu, he would never…”

  Never what? Never what?

  Allete reached for the water glass on her table and took a gulp. “A spray bottle of Ambien was found in Stanislav’s room. I think that dreadful deputy is about to arrest my beloved for the murder of Jules.”

  Okay, I might not be an investigator and maybe I never finished reading Nancy Drew’s handbook, but I knew one thing—no one could enter your premises without your permission or a search warrant.

  “I don’t understand, Allete. The authorities can’t simply walk into someone’s room, even if that someone is staying at a hotel.”

  “The deputy said their office received an anonymous phone call telling them they would find a spray bottle of Ambien with Stanislav’s fingerprints on it in his room. They had other information, too, but I don’t know what. It doesn’t matter. It was sufficient for them to secure that permit.”

  “The search warrant?”

  “Yes. That.”

  “Allete, does Stanislav have trouble sleeping?”

  “Not in the least. He sleeps like a bear in winter. Mon dieu. I must call the hotel to arrange for an earlier limousine back. I need to make some phone calls. This is an outrage. An outrage!”

  “The hotel isn’t very far from here. I could drive you. It’s no bother.”

  “Thank you, but I prefer to use the limousine service, if you don’t mind.”

  “I’m sure it was a misunderstanding. Everything will be sorted out.”

  “I wish that would be the case.”

  Allete tossed her rich ivory pashmina over her shoulders, picked up her bag, and walked to the reception area. I followed her movements before returning to the bar. That was when I caught sight of someone else. It was none other than Hortensia, and she made a beeline for Allete like nobody’s business.

  “Ten to one Hortensia was Allete’s limo service,” I said to Theo and Don when I got back to the bar and gave them the lowdown on everything I’d seen and heard in the past fifteen minutes.

  Theo rubbed his chin and sighed. “The Ambien bottle, huh? Those spray bottles are really small. In fact, if it had a green label on it, it would look like my generic Flonase. I Googled the Ambien image when we first found out that stuff was sprayed on the wineglass. If Stanislav did have it in his possession, it wouldn’t be something that was easily visible in his room.”

  “Are you saying you think he was set up?” I asked.

  “Big time. Maybe Allete was right with all her wailing. Maybe Earvin did kill his uncle and now he wants to remove the rest of the competition. Too bad he has another chocolatier to contend with.”

  I bit my lower lip and shook my head. “Unless she was responsible for the set-up. And for spooking the other chocolatiers. Ilene Shannon did mention something about Anika Schou being in the area for the past week. Of course, it was unconfirmed.”

  Don reached for a skewer of garlic shrimp the bartender had placed in front of him. Apparently, while I traipsed across the restaurant on my fact-finding mission, he and Theo ordered the appetizer medley. Two portions, no less. “Unconfirmed,” Don said. “Guess that’s the new term for rumor mill. Huh? So, what do you think Allete’s up to?”

  “Easy. Finding out who set up her boyfriend. But what Hortensia has to do with it is beyond me. Allete claimed they simply met as guests at the hotel, but I don’t believe it. Oh no. I was supposed to do some internet searching on Hortensia and compare notes with Stephanie. Then Cammy called about all the celebs in our winery and I kind of got sidetracked.”

  “Most likely Stephanie got sidetracked too, or she would have called you,” Theo said. “Look, if my eyelids are still open when we get home, I’ll see what I can dig up on Hortensia as well. How does that sound?”

  Before I could answer, Don cut in. “Much better than the two of you snooping around in places you shouldn’t. Just limit your internet searches to safe sites and you’ll be okay.”

  “Oh my God. Did my mother contact you all the way from Myrtle Beach? That’s something she would say.”

  Don gave me one of those self-satisfied grins and smiled. “Good.”

  “I don’t know about you guys, but I feel as if the proverbial you-know-what is going to hit the fan, the likes of which we’ve never seen. First thing tomorrow, I’m calling Gladys Pipp. If they’ve got Stanislav in lock-up, it’s going to be a disaster.”

  “Not for Anika Schou,” Don replied.

  I turned to Theo. “Anika Schou. We should add her name to our internet search, too.”

  The three of us filled up on the appetizer medley and topped it off with blueberry cheesecake crumble and flavored coffees. I had just put my spoon on the napkin when the bartender informed us there was an available table.

  “Maybe another time,” Don told him. “We need to brace ourselves for one more day of craziness at our wineries before the chocolate event is over.”

  The bartender nodded. “It’s been wild here, too. I haven’t seen so many celebrities since that big women’s rights convention in Seneca Falls, and they were mainly politicians who didn’t tip well.”

  We were still laughing about the guy’s comment when we exited the restaurant and walked to our cars. A light snow began to fall and dissipated by the time I made it home. Typical of the fickle Finger Lakes weather. I secretly prayed for a blizzard to engulf Yonkers so I would be spared the humiliation of having invited two men as my plus ones for tomorrow’s grand chocolate festival finale. But that was the least of my concerns. When I got in the door of my house, there was a priority mail envelope waiting for me.

  Oh hell no! Not an official letter from the production company cancelling my movies the same way they did to poor Conrad Blyth. I tore into that thing before I even pulled the key out from the door. My heart was pounding and it took me at leas
t ten or fifteen seconds to realize what I was staring at. It was an advance copy of tomorrow night’s chocolate festival program. Henry Speltmore sent it, complete with a photocopied note that read, “Thank you, participating wineries. I rushed these out as soon as they arrived in my office from the printer. Unfortunately, it was too late to redo the program. Hence, you will note an addendum on Earvin Roels. Looking forward to a delectable experience Saturday night. Henry.”

  Delectable? Nerve wracking maybe, but not delectable.

  Chapter 30

  Charlie bolted out the kitchen door and thirty seconds later pawed at it to be let back in. I forgot I’d closed his doggie door when I left earlier for Port of Call. A quick refill of his kibble and the Plott Hound was set for the night. I changed into sweats, turned on the TV, and booted up my laptop.

  It was only ten fifty-five, and, like Theo, I was chomping at the bit to do some serious internet searches. Anika Schou’s was easy. She was Denmark’s golden girl as far as chocolatiers were concerned. There wasn’t a single Danish culinary magazine within the past year that didn’t have her photo in it. Tall, lithe, and fair skinned, with hair that looked almost platinum, Anika was the poster child for chocolatey confections. Nothing in any of the articles I perused sent up a red flag, so I got down to the real business that was gnawing at me—Hortensia Vermeulen.

  My God! I had no idea how absolutely boring her scholarly articles on indigenous and urban horticulture were. Except, of course, for the one on organic horticulture. That one was so dull it made the others seem riveting. It was useless. I was mired under and getting nowhere. Then it dawned on me. Images! Why on earth didn’t I simply click the images line right below the Google search box? Duh.

  Granted, photos from lots of other women named Hortensia got into the mix, but I was certainly able to zero in on the lady in question. Same auburn hair with a slightly reddish hue. Wig or no wig.