A Riesling to Die

by J. C. Eaton

  “No need to whine, Miss Ellington, I’ll try to be succinct but, keep in mind, until a jury can prove him guilty, Peter Groff is innocent. Under arrest and behind bars, but innocent until proven guilty.”

  “I get it. I get it. Sit down. I’ll get you some coffee. And a muffin. Just tell me.”

  Deputy Hickman made himself comfortable at the kitchen table and took a breath while his K-cup brewed. Charlie sniffed at the guy’s boots for a few seconds and then ran out his doggie door.

  “Mr. Groff was adamant it was not a planned murder but nevertheless, he did admit to killing her.”

  I know. I know. Get on with it.

  “According to his statement, Elsbeth Waters had been particularly demanding of her niece, who, as you know, turned out to be Mr. Groff’s girlfriend. Until he could establish himself financially, Mr. Groff was resigned to working at your winery, with Yvonne doing the same at her aunt’s bed and breakfast.”

  I nodded once.

  “On the morning of her murder, Elsbeth had slapped her niece on the face for failing to use softener sheets in the dryer.”

  That woman really was a witch.

  “Yvonne told Peter about the incident and he, in turn, called Elsbeth, saying it was of dire importance that he speak with her but it would have to wait until late evening since he was working and had other obligations. He led her to believe he would notify the authorities about domestic abuse if she refused to meet him.”

  “Then what?” I asked.

  “Peter didn’t want to meet in anyone’s house or place of work so he arranged to speak with her after dark in row twenty-six at the Geneva Walmart Supercenter. He picked that row because he had parked there before and knew the pole light wasn’t working. He didn’t want anyone to see him confronting Elsbeth. What he didn’t realize was that someone had shot out the security camera at that location as well.”

  “So that’s how Elsbeth’s car wound up at Walmart and the forensic team was unable to find anyone else’s fingerprints in it except hers and Yvonne’s.”

  “Exactly. As per Mr. Groff’s confession, Elsbeth approached his truck and they began to argue. He said she was particularly vicious, pointing a finger in his face when she wasn’t jabbing it on his shoulder.”

  “Yeah. I can see that happening.”

  “The two of them were perpendicular to the truck bed. At one point, Elsbeth jabbed him so hard that it enraged him. He reached behind and snatched one of the round point shovels he had in his truck. She turned away and, in that moment of fury, he whacked her in the back of the head. He never expected it to kill her. But the blow did.”

  “Yikes.”

  “She fell over so that the upper half of her body was leaning into the truck bed. Panicking, Mr. Groff was able to wield his weight and shove her into the cab of his truck. He quickly threw a tarp over her and left the parking lot.”

  “I think I can figure out the rest. But why dump her body in our vineyard? Geez. Couldn’t he have found another place?”

  “It was dark. It was late. Mr. Groff didn’t have the leisure to scout around. He was familiar with the side road on Gable Hill. It was far enough away from the Ipswich house that no one would see him driving up to where the road ended and your property began.”

  “So that’s how he did it. He must’ve used his tarp and dragged her through the clump of bushes until she wound up where we were installing that new irrigation drip system. That’s how her chin got bloody.”

  I didn’t want to tell the deputy I had envisioned this scenario before, but with Stephanie as the killer. “Um, what about Elsbeth’s bag? And her cell phone? And her glasses?”

  “If you’d let me finish, Miss Ellington, I’m getting to that.”

  I got up and plunked another K-cup in the machine. “Have another muffin. More coffee’s on the way.”

  “Thank you. Now, as I was saying, Mr. Groff removed those items and stepped on her phone to put it out of commission. When he got back to his house, he put them in a trash bag. Didn’t even bother to see if her purse had money in it. The next morning was Transfer station day for Yates, Ontario and Seneca Counties. He arrived at work well before dawn and slipped that small trash bag in with the winery trash from Two Witches. He then drove it to the Tri-County Transfer and Recycling center on Pre-Emption Road, getting back in time to go up to the Riesling vineyard with John.”

  “Wow. That was kind of serendipitous for him, huh?”

  “The timing was in his favor. I’ll give you that much.”

  Deputy Hickman took a sip of his second cup of coffee and finished off another muffin. “By the time our investigation was underway, that evidence was already buried somewhere in the landfill. I trust this satisfies your curiosity.”

  “It does.”

  “Good. Because I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything to anyone until an official report is released.”

  “You have my word.”

  Lucky for me, I didn’t have to wait long. The next morning the entire story was plastered all over the front page of The Finger Lakes Times. The headline read, “Assistant Vineyard Manager Charged with Murder,” and the story must’ve mentioned Two Witches Winery at least half a dozen times. I felt like burrowing into a small hole and never coming out.

  Chapter 28

  The next few days were a blur. All of the winery women, except for Rosalee, who was still somewhere in Alaska, called to see how I was doing. At least that was what they said, but I knew better. They wanted the full scoop on the murder and went straight to the horse’s mouth–mine.

  John removed the temporary barrier Sam and Theo made for Alvin and repaired the giant gap in the goat’s pen. He also installed the new screen door Don had picked up. Poor John was still reeling from the fact his assistant killed someone.

  “It’s going to take me a long time to get over this one, Norrie.” He put the final bolt into the screen door to the tasting room.

  “Hey, Peter had all of us fooled. I missed so many clues. Like the fact he was always asking me if I’d heard anything about the investigation. Peter was almost too interested. Not to mention, one of the B & B guests told me how much they liked the couple who ran the place. I never figured the guy was our own employee. Listen, I don’t suppose I could talk you into staying on a bit longer until we find and train another vineyard manager, can I?”

  “You didn’t even have to ask. Of course I’ll stay. And I’ll get started right away with the search. By the way, do your sister and brother-in-law know about any of this?”

  “Nope. They’re still pretty much off the grid. Just as well. They’ll find out soon enough.”

  Although I called my parents with the news, I was relieved there was no phone service to reach my sister. I did, however, send her an e-mail on the off-chance she’d actually receive it. It was brief and to the point, without going overboard.

  “Everything’s great. We’re hiring a new assistant vineyard manager. There were issues with the last one and his littering in the Riesling section.”

  In spite of all the chaos, I was actually able to make headway on my screenplay and knew I’d meet Renee’s deadline. Only one thing gnawed at me and I had no alternative but to take care of it.

  I got up early on a Thursday morning, grabbed a quick cup of coffee and drove to Penfield. Declan’s office to be precise. I really owed him and his partner an apology. Of course, he owed me one, too, but, in fairness, he probably thought I was a murderess. Especially after my performance at Belhurst Castle.

  The receptionist recognized me and told me Mr. Roth would be with me in a few minutes. I wasn’t quite sure what I was going to say to him, exactly, but I had a general idea. He stepped out of his office and had a really sheepish look on his face.

  “Hi, Norrie. I guess we both kind of stepped in it, didn’t we? I’m really sorry if I—”

  “You
don’t have to be. I played a good role in this as well. Hey, at least the real killer was apprehended.”

  “Very true. So, I suppose that whole deal about you wanting to be our third partner was just a fabrication, right?”

  “Yeah. It was and I’m really sorry for leading you on. Listen, I know you and Lucas are looking for a spot for your mega-winery. Have you ever considered Waneta Lake? It’s virtually untapped. It borders Steuben and Schuyler counties, where lots of small wineries are just getting started. It’s worth a look.”

  “Hmm, that does sound promising. Thanks for the tip.”

  “Well, anyway, no hard feelings, I hope.” I reached out my hand and he did the same.

  “None whatsoever. Good luck, Norrie.”

  “Same to you.”

  * * * *

  The next day I got a call from Godfrey Klein, the entomologist at the Experiment Station. His voice was brimming over with enthusiasm.

  “Miss Ellington? Norrie? I have wonderful news. Amazing news. We’ve just gotten word from one of the field agents in Costa Rica that your brother-in-law came across a new sub-species of the Culex aegypti. You know what this means, don’t you?”

  Yep. Better buy another bottle of DEET. “Not really.”

  “It means Jason Keane’s grant may be extended past the original year.”

  “What? Extended?”

  “I know. I know. We’re all buzzing with the fantastic news. I can only imagine your reaction.”

  Seriously? In a million years, I don’t think you can.

  “Miss Ellington? Are you still on the line?”

  I wasn’t sure what I said because my mind had gone numb. The only thing I remembered was scooping out a gigantic bowl of triple-chocolate ice cream and shoving it into my mouth. I was so intent on inhaling the stuff I didn’t hear Charlie come inside.

  He plopped something at my feet and, for a minute or two, I struggled to figure out what it was. Flat. Hairy. Icky.

  “Oh yuck! A dried-up, dead thing. Geez, Charlie.” I stood, tore off a paper towel from the roll by the sink and scooped it up. “This better be the last dead thing that shows up for a long, long time.”

  The dog looked at me with those expressive brown eyes as if to say, “I wouldn’t bet on it.”

  If you enjoyed A RIESLING TO DIE

  don’t miss

  CHARDONNAYED TO REST by

  J.C. Eaton

  in September 2018

  Turn the page for a preview of J.C. Eaton’s other series,

  BOOKED 4 MURDER

  Book #1 of A Sophie Kimball Mystery

  Available at your favorite book stores and e-tailers.

  Chapter 1

  Office of Sophie Kimball, Mankato Police Department

  “I’m telling you, Phee, they were all murdered. Murdered by reading that book.”

  I tried to keep my voice low, even though I felt like screaming. I had gotten the full story last night, but apparently that wasn’t enough.

  “That’s insane, Mother. No one drops dead from reading a book. Look, can we talk about this later? I’m at work.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have answered your cell phone.”

  She was right. It was a bad habit. One I had gotten used to when my daughter was in college and had all sorts of would-be emergencies. Now it was my mother in Arizona who seemed to have a never-ending supply of issues—the plumbing in her bathroom, a squeaky garage door, the arthritis in her right hand, a bridge player from her group who was cheating, and trouble keeping her succulents alive. Today it was some bizarre story about her book club. I glanced at the bottom of my computer screen for the time and decided to let her speak for another minute or so.

  “Like I was saying, all of us in Booked 4 Murder are going to die from reading that book. There’s a curse on it or something.”

  “Honestly, Mother, you can’t be serious. We went through this last night. Minnie Bendelson was eighty-seven, overweight, diabetic, and had a heart condition! Not to mention the fact she was a chain-smoker. A chain-smoker! Edna Mae Langford fell, broke her hip, and died from complications of pneumonia. And she was in her eighties.”

  “What about Marilyn Scutt? She was only seventy.”

  “Her golf cart was hit by a car going in the wrong direction!”

  “That wouldn’t have happened if she wasn’t engrossed in that book. That’s what I’m telling you. She died from that darn book. And now I’m petrified. Of course, I’ve only read up until page twenty-four. I was in the middle of a paragraph when I got the call about Edna Mae. That’s when I stopped reading the book.”

  “Good. Read something else.”

  “I’m serious, Phee. You need to fly out here and find out how that curse works.”

  “How on earth would I know? And once and for all, there is no curse.”

  “You can’t say that for sure. You need to investigate. With your background, that shouldn’t be too hard.”

  “My background? What background?”

  “Well, you work for the police department, don’t you?”

  “In accounting and payroll! I have a civil service job. I’m not a detective.”

  As if to verify, I picked up the placard in front of my computer. It read, Sophie Kimball, accounts receivable.

  “You come in contact with those investigators every day. Something must have rubbed off by now. You’ve had that job for years.”

  “Look, Mother, I promise I’ll call the minute I get home from work, but I can’t stay on the phone. Do me a favor. Stop reading those books for a few days. Turn on the TV, listen to the radio, or find something other than murder mysteries to read. Maybe a good cookbook.”

  “Who cooks in Sun City West? This is a retirement community. I’m going out with friends for dinner. Call me after seven your time.”

  “Fine. And stop thinking about a cursed book.”

  My finger slid to the red End button just as Nate Williams approached my desk. He had been a detective in this small Minnesota city for close to two decades and was counting the days till his retirement. At sixty-five, he still looked youthful, even with his graying hair. Maybe it was his height or the way he sauntered about as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

  “What’s this about a cursed book? Some new case and they called your department by mistake?”

  I tried to ignore his grin.

  “No curse. Unless you consider wacky mothers a special variety. Come on, hand over your receipts for processing. I’ll make a quick copy for you. The machine’s right here.”

  “So, what’s with the cursed book? Sounds more interesting than the stuff I’ve got on my docket.”

  “Well, if you must know, my mother is convinced that she and her book club are going to drop dead from reading some ridiculous novel. She started in with me last night and wouldn’t quit. Now she’s calling me at work.”

  Nate took the receipt copies and let out a slow breath. “And you don’t believe her?”

  “Of course not. It’s just her overactive imagination. When my father was alive, he kept her in check, but he passed away when they moved out west years ago. Now it seems she and her friends have nothing better to do than speculate on all sorts of stuff—the government, health care, economics, immigration. . . . You know, the usual things that retired people talk about.”

  “Hey, I haven’t even turned in my retirement letter, so no, I’m not part of the geezer gossip group yet.”

  “Oh my gosh. I wasn’t referring to you.”

  My face started to flush, and I quickly turned toward my desk to hide my reaction.

  “Take it easy. I’m only kidding. So, what gives? What’s this book club death threat all about?”

  “Gee, Nate, you sound more and more like a detective each day. Quick, pull up a chair and I’ll fill you in. I’ve got a break c
oming in a few minutes. Might as well put it to good use.”

  Working in this department for so many years, one of the perks was having my own office. Granted, it was tiny, just a desk, computer, and copier, but it was fairly private if you weren’t bothered by the hallway traffic and constant interruptions. Nate had stopped by at a good time. Most of the workers were already making their way to the coffee machine for a fifteen-minute respite.

  “Want me to run and get you a cup of coffee before we start?” he asked.

  “Nah, I’m fine. You’re the one who’s going to need a cup of coffee or something stronger when you hear this lunacy.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “There are about fifteen or so members in my mother’s book club, and every year they give the librarian at Sun City West a list of their choices for murder-mystery reading. To avoid arguments, the librarian selects a different book from the list for each month and makes it a point to acquire some copies for the library.”

  “Hmm . . . he or she isn’t in the club, I presume?”

  “Correct. It’s a she, but that’s all I know.”

  “Okay, fine. So this book came as one of the suggestions from a book club member?”

  “Uh-huh. It was part of the original list for the year.”

  Nate rubbed the bottom of his chin and leaned in. “What makes your mother so sure the book has anything to do with these deaths? From what I overheard, and believe me, I wasn’t trying to snoop, it sounded like they were all unrelated.”

  “Three of the women died within days of each other and, according to my mother, each received a cryptic e-mail a few days before.”

  “What kind of e-mail? What did it say?”

  “‘Death lurks between the lines.’” I couldn’t tell if Nate was trying to stifle a laugh or clear his throat.