by J. C. Eaton
Henry stood in front of the room looking like the images I had seen of General Lee surrendering to General Grant. “It is with great sadness and duress that I announce the Chocolate Extravaganza Competition has been cancelled. Our sincere apologies to our ticket holders, our sponsors, and, of course, our esteemed guests from the culinary magazines and institutions. The Seneca Lake Wine Trail Association thanks you for your unwavering support and promises to continue our fine partnerships.”
“That’s blatantly unfair!” Earvin bellowed. “I’ve had to put up with all sorts of trauma, including the death of my dear uncle Jules. I should be awarded that prize by default.”
The editor and chief of Wine Spectator stepped toward Earvin. “Please accept our apologies, but the rules clearly indicated no one would receive the prize via default. We wish you the very best in your endeavors.”
Earvin muttered something in Dutch, or perhaps German, and stormed out of the ballroom, colliding with Deputy Hickman, who had just gotten off the elevator.
“Someone in here called my office to tell them the killer is at large in the ballroom. Will someone please tell me what’s going on? If I’m not mistaken, we have the killer in custody. Daan Langbroek is sitting in the backseat of an official Ontario County van as we speak.”
“You can arrest two more people.” Earvin pointed to Allete, who was standing by the door, sobbing into a wadded-up handful of tissues and then to Anika, who was cornered by Theo, Don, Godfrey, Bradley, Cammy, and Margot.
“I’m afraid that’s true, Deputy Hickman,” Margot said. “Thanks to Norrie Ellington, we have recorded evidence that can implicate both women.”
Deputy Hickman walked toward me and held out his hand.
“It’s my only cell phone,” I said. “I can’t part with it.”
“It’s evidence, Miss Ellington. It will be returned to you once the case is closed.”
“Once the case is closed? There are cases in both counties that have been going on for over a decade!”
I handed him my cell phone and felt as if I severed my arm.
“Walmart’s open twenty-four hours,” the deputy said. “You can buy a pre-paid one for the time being.” With that, he slipped my phone into a plastic evidence bag and walked toward the elevator.
Chapter 36
“Are you all right, Norrie?” Bradley asked once Deputy Hickman left. “I can drive you to Walmart if you want.”
“And I’ve got an old flip phone you can use,” Cammy said.
“Nah. I’ll be okay. I’ll go tomorrow. I still have my laptop and my iPad at home. By the way, who called Deputy Hickman?”
Stephanie, who stood between Cammy and Godfrey, waved. “I get the blame for that one. Once I figured out what was going on, I didn’t want either of the murderesses to get away with anything.”
“Guess that’s it for the Chocolate & Wine Extravaganza,” I said. “No sense hanging around here. We can go downstairs, grab comfortable seats at the bar, and chalk this off to another great winery event.”
“I’m in!” Don said, followed by a chorus of “yeahs.”
Except for Rosalee, who said she’d had enough excitement for the day, the rest of us traipsed off to the bar, only to find it was jam packed with reporters who had followed Earvin Roels there.
“What do you suppose that’s all about?” Cammy asked.
“Earvin’s the ‘man of the hour,”’ I said. “He’s the only surviving chocolatier who won’t be indicted for murder.”
“And who will be going home with an empty pocket,” Theo added.
I looked at the growing crowd of reporters. “I’m not so sure about that. He’ll get interviews, press conferences, photo ops. Mark my words. Earvin Roels will be the next big thing.”
“What I’d like to know,” Godfrey said, “is how you and Stephanie thought you could lure out the killers with dead bugs and a carved message in the chocolate.”
I laughed. “My part’s easy. I knew Allete was bluffing, but I needed all of them to turn against each other until one of them lost it and confessed. It almost worked. Come on. Let’s grab those chairs near the corner before someone takes them.”
A few minutes later, when all of us were seated comfortably, Stephanie brushed a long strand of hair from her face. “When I found out about the alleged death threat in the block chocolate, I figured the same thing. Let them think one of the other chocolatiers knew what they were up to. Naturally, they’d suspect each other. Too bad I couldn’t come up with a more cryptic message.”
Don leaned back and poked me in the arm. “Hey, speaking of cryptic messages, what was that whole deal with the note you found in Hortensia’s, I mean, Margot’s trash?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “Not without asking Margot. But I think the note was written by her for Earvin. Remember, she’d been tailing him for information ever since she got here. And as for the stationery, well, it was no surprise. She was working for Puccini Zinest. She probably has scads of their notepaper.”
“And to think I missed all of this while I was stuck in Yonkers,” Bradley said. “I hate working on mergers.”
As soon as he said the word “merger,” I froze. “Yonkers. You were in Yonkers.”
“Norrie, are you okay? Of course I was in Yonkers.”
I took a slow breath and tapped my teeth. “Yonkers is the headquarters for Bomboni Americano Chocolates. Please don’t tell me that’s the merger you were working on. I thought you were dealing with a complex settlement case. And I thought you worked on family law.”
“It is. I mean, it was. A complex settlement case. And it was a family matter. Bomboni Zinest and Bomboni Americano are from the same family. Unfortunately, the family patriarch didn’t share the same philosophy as his progeny. When he was found dead over a year ago at that hotel in Amsterdam, the family became convinced, more than ever, that they needed to work together lest another one of them suffer the same fate. It never dawned on them that the death had more to do with outsider greed over a competition than a power struggle. Anyway, it looks as if the perpetrators will get their due. Too bad it all had to unfold in the Finger Lakes.”
“No kidding,” I said. “And too bad they had to pick a glass with our wine in it. At least we were vindicated and people can enjoy our Cabernet Sauvignon without worrying that it will be the last thing they taste.”
“Which reminds me,” Don said. “Where is that server? I could use a glass of something right now. We all could.”
Bradley gave my hand a squeeze and I looked over at Godfrey, wondering if he noticed. At some point, I needed to figure out how I felt about each of them, but right now, all I cared about was getting a good night’s sleep and putting the Chocolate and Wine Extravaganza behind me.
* * * *
I had no intention of getting up at the break of dawn, but apparently that didn’t matter to Deputy Hickman. A familiar pounding on my door a little before eight shook me out of bed like an earthquake.
Once again, I tossed an old sweatshirt over my pajamas and slipped into jeans. I don’t even remember if I bothered to comb my hair before answering the door. If I looked like hell, the deputy either didn’t notice or chose to ignore it. He gave me a nod and I motioned for him to come inside.
“Are you here to return my iPhone?” I asked.
“Not as yet. It’s evidence. I’m here because we had a confession regarding the marijuana incident at your winery. It happened late last night while we were interrogating Daan Langbroek, Allete Barrineau, and Anika Schou. True, it’s a rather minor and seemingly inconsequential matter, considering the three of them were involved in a murder, but still, I felt as if you deserved an answer.”
“Who did it? Which one of those scoundrels?”
“It was Allete’s plan. She smuggled in some marijuana oil, for lack of a better term, and her husband put it in Earvin’s tea dur
ing the demonstration at your winery. She knew there would be a huge crowd, so chances of him being caught were virtually nil. Naturally, she laced her own drink.”
“What about Stanislav’s coffee? It was in that, too. Wasn’t it?”
“Nope. Not at all. He pretended it was and dumped the coffee. Allete convinced him to be part of the ruse. She told him she paid someone to spike Earvin’s tea. Stanislav never suspected it was her husband. The whole premise was to rattle Earvin so he would be a bundle of nerves for the competition.”
“Oh brother. Talk about being burned. But he wasn’t the only one. Margot Jansen had us fooled, and I actually sat through her boring lecture on soil when she pretended to be Hortensia. I was positive she could have been the killer.”
“Perhaps that will be a lesson to you, Miss Ellington. To let law enforcement do its job. Unless, of course, the soil lecture was pertinent to the winery.”
I shrugged. “I still don’t understand why she couldn’t have investigated as herself and not used a fake identity.”
“She had to establish a persona that would allow the chocolatiers to be off-guard. Trust me when I tell you, her planning was meticulous.”
“Not that meticulous. Jules still wound up dead as a doornail.”
“But his legacy will live on, I imagine, through that nephew of his. Anyway, Miss Ellington, I must be on my way. Have a nice day.”
I thought about what Deputy Hickman said regarding Earvin and then dismissed it. In fact, I didn’t think about Earvin much at all—until a month later when the winery copy of Time magazine came in the mail. Cammy called me the minute it arrived.
“Norrie, you’re not going to believe this, but Earvin Roels is on the cover of Time magazine as chocolatier of the year!”
“Does the article make any mention of the fact that we solved those murders?” I asked.
“Um, no. In fact, it refers to our region as “Upstate New York.”
“That’s it? ‘Upstate New York?’ Upstate New York could be anywhere.”
And that was only the beginning. Earvin appeared on the covers of Saveur, Food & Wine, Wine Spectator, and a zillion other culinary and wine magazines. The man reached such celebrity status—it was as if he was responsible for discovering chocolate instead of the Aztecs.
Cammy told me I needed to move on. In fact, she was quite adamant. “Let it go, Norrie. We’ve got bigger fish to fry.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, in a few months, we’ll be celebrating the acclaimed Wine and Cheese Event. You’ll forget all about chocolate. I guarantee it.”
Suddenly, I felt that familiar pit in my stomach.
This better be a simple event. Grilled cheese, cheese balls, and cheese puffs. Most of all, it better not include the words “murder,” “dead body,” or “corpse.” I have enough on my plate.
Dressed Up For Murder
If you enjoyed SAUVIGONE FOR GOOD
be sure not to miss
the next book in
bestselling
J.C. Eaton’s series
A SOPHIE KIMBALL MYSTERY
DRESSED UP 4 MURDER
will be available
in March 2020
Turn the page for a peek at this exciting story!
Chapter 1
Harriet Plunkett’s House
Sun City West, Arizona
“Isn’t he the most adorable little dog you’ve ever seen?” my mother asked when I walked into her house on a late Wednesday afternoon in October. Signs of autumn were everywhere in Sun City West, including pumpkins on front patios, leaf wreaths on doorways, and someone’s large ceramic pig dressed like a witch. Of course, it was still over ninety degrees, but that wasn’t stopping anyone from welcoming the fall and winter holidays.
My mother begged me to stop by on my way home from work to look at Streetman’s costume for the “Precious Pooches Holiday Extravaganza” for dogs of all ages and breeds. And since her dog was a Chiweenie, part Chihuahua part Dachshund, he certainly qualified. The contest made no mention of neuroses.
I tried to be objective, but it was impossible. “He looks like an overstuffed grape or something, if you ask me. And what’s he doing? He’s scratching at your patio door. Does he need to go out?”
“He’s not a grape. He’s going as an acorn. He’ll look better once I get the hat on him. When he stops biting. And no, he doesn’t need to go out. We were just out a half hour ago.”
“Maybe he’s trying to escape because you’re about to put the hat on him.”
“Very funny. It’s not easy, you know. There are contests in three separate categories, and I’ve registered him for all of them—Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Hanukkah/Christmas. And just wait until it comes time for the St. Patrick’s Day Doggie Contest in March. The prize for that one is almost as good as a pot of gold.”
St. Patrick’s Day? That’s months away. And what’s next, dressing him up as “Yankee Doodle Dandy” for the Fourth of July?
“Like I was saying, Phee, Shirley Johnson is making the costumes. You’re looking at the Thanksgiving one. I can’t make up my mind if I want Streetman to go as a pumpkin for Halloween or a ghost. Goodness. I haven’t even given any thought to the winter costume. Maybe a snowflake…”
“Right now, I think he wants to go. Period. Look. He’s frantically pawing at your patio door.”
“He only wants to sniff around the Galbraiths’ grill. A coyote or something must’ve marked the tarp because, ever since yesterday, the dog has been beside himself to check it out. I certainly don’t need him peeing on their grill. They won’t be back until early November. I spoke to Janet a few days ago. She really appreciates Streetman and me checking out her place while they’re up in Alberta. You know how it is with the Canadian snowbirds. They can only stay here for five months or they lose their health insurance. Something like that.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Anyway, how are you and Marshall managing with your move? That’s coming up sometime soon, isn’t it?”
“Not soon enough. I feel as if I’m living out of cardboard boxes, and Marshall’s place is no different. We won’t be able to get in to the new rental until November first. That’s three weeks away and three weeks too long.”
Marshall and I worked for the same Mankato, Minnesota, police department for years before I moved out west to become the bookkeeper for retired Mankato detective, Nate Williams. Nate opened his own investigation firm and insisted I join him. A year later, and in dire need of a good investigator, he talked Marshall into making the move as well. I was ecstatic, considering I’d had a crush on the guy for years. Turned out it was reciprocal.
“Do you need any help with the move?” my mother asked. “Lucinda and Shirley offered to help you pack.”
Oh dear God. We’d never finish. They’d be arguing over everything.
Shirley Johnson and Lucinda Espinoza were two of my mother’s book club friends and as opposite as any two people could possibly be. Shirley was an elegant black woman and a former milliner while Lucinda, a retired housewife, looked as if she had recently escaped a windstorm.
“No, I’ll be fine. The hard part’s done. I can’t believe I actually sold my house in Mankato. Other than autumn strolls around Sibley Park, I really won’t miss Minnesota.”
“What about my granddaughter? Did she get all nostalgic?”
“Um, not really. In fact, she had me donate most of the stuff she had in storage to charity. She’s sharing a small apartment in St. Cloud with another teacher and they don’t have much room. Besides, Kalese was never the packrat type.”
My mother had turned away for a second and walked to the patio door. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe he does need to go out again. Hold on. I’ll grab his leash. We can both go out back.” Except for the people living next door to my mother and busybody Herb Garre
tt across the street, the other neighbors were all snowbirds. Michigan. South Dakota. Canada.
“Dear God. You’re not going to take him outside in that outfit, are you?” I asked.
“Fine. I’ll unsnap the Velcro. Shirley’s using Velcro for everything.”
At the instant in which the sliding glass door opened, Streetman yanked my mother across the patio and straight toward the Galbraiths’ backyard barbeque grill.
“I should never have taken the retractable leash,” she shouted. “He’s already yards ahead of me.”
“Can’t you push a button or something on that leash?”
“I haven’t learned how to use it yet. It’s new.”
I was a few feet behind her, running as fast as I could in wedge heels.
Her voice bellowed across the adjoining yards as she approached the Galbraiths’ grill. “Streetman, stop that! Stop that this instant!”
The dog zeroed in on the tarp and had gripped the edge of it with his teeth. My mother stood directly behind him and fiddled with the retractable leash.
“Now see what you’ve done,” she said to the dog. “You’ve gone ahead and uncovered the bottom of the grill. I’ll just shove those black boxes back a bit and put the tarp back down.”
“Don’t move, Mom!” I screamed. “Take a good look. They’re not boxes. They’re shoes.”
“What?” My mother flashed me a look. “Who puts shoes under a grill where snakes and scorpions can climb in them?”
I bent down to take a closer look and froze. Streetman was still tugging to get under the tarp and my mother seemed oblivious to what was really there.
“Um, it’s not shoes. I mean, yeah, those are shoes, all right, but they’re kind of attached to someone’s legs.”
“What??”
If I thought my mother’s voice was loud when she was yelling at the dog, it was a veritable explosion at that point. “A body? There’s a body under there? You’re telling me there’s a body under that tarp? Oh my God. Poor Streetman. This could really set him back.”
