Chardonnayed to Rest

by J. C. Eaton

  The color was all but gone from her face. “The only one who knew about those stakes was my sister, Marilyn, who helped me transplant some of my geraniums.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” the taller deputy said. “Anyone who walked across your porch at one time or another was bound to notice them. And not to sound dismissive, but we have no idea if one of those stakes was the murder weapon.”

  Then the shorter deputy spoke. “Listen, we don’t want to disappoint you, but it’s pitch black outside and chances are your intruder is no longer in the vicinity. My partner and I will walk around the perimeter of your house and your garage. We’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Can you check the winery building while you’re at it? It’s a bit farther down the driveway. For all we know, the killer could be hiding out or trying to break in. These criminals are smart, you know. I read they can dismantle an alarm system like ours in a matter of seconds. And I also read they always return to the scene of the crime.”

  The taller deputy shook his head. “I seriously doubt we’re dealing with Harry Houdini. Besides, it really would be a stretch for someone to return to a crime scene late at night, in the dark.”

  The other deputy nudged him. “Wasn’t the crime scene by the pump house and not the house?”

  Rosalee narrowed her eyes and glared at them. “Close enough. Check the winery building, will you? I’d hate to phone your dispatch a second time tonight.”

  The deputies assured her they’d check everything and keep her informed. With that, they exited the house and I clasped my hands together and leaned into the table.

  I wasn’t so sure Rosalee’s nighttime visitor was returning to the scene of the crime. Or, to be more specific, the scene before the crime. “We don’t know if the intruder’s intent was to put the butterfly stake back in the flowerpot.”

  “What else could that person have been doing?” Rosalee’s voice was sharp, but the look on her face spelled out fear, not anger.

  “Can anyone stay with you for a few nights?” Don asked. “Not that you aren’t perfectly safe with your dogs and all, but still…”

  “He’s right,” I added. “What about Marilyn?”

  Rosalee sighed, rubbing her hands together. “I suppose I could give her a call.”

  “If you’d like, we could drive to Penn Yan and get her. The village is only a few miles away.”

  “It’s late and I’ll be fine tonight. I doubt the perpetrator will be back. I’ll call my sister first thing in the morning. God knows, I hope it doesn’t interfere with her breakfast brunches.”

  The deputies returned a few minutes later to inform us that everything was clear. “We’ll have someone from the forensics team stop by in the morning to look over those flowerpots. They’ll want to take one of those stakes with them to see if the stab wound matches up to the metal rod. If so, at least we’ll know what the weapon was, even if it’s not in our possession.”

  When the deputies left, the three of us theorized about what possibly could’ve ensued in the events leading up to Roy Wilkes’ murder. It seemed as if the more we talked, the more agitated Rosalee got.

  “I think we should call it a night,” Don said. “It’s really late and we’ll all be comatose tomorrow if we don’t get some sleep. Rosalee, you’ve got our number and Norrie’s. Call us if you need anything. And if it’s an emergency, call nine-one-one first. Okay?”

  Rosalee gave a nod and thanked us. I all but had to shake Charlie awake from his new sleeping spot. He ambled out to the car, followed by the four Corgis, who made their final pit stops for the night.

  “Think she’ll be all right?” Theo asked as he started the car.

  Don hummed to himself for a few seconds before answering. “Yeah. I doubt whoever it was on her porch stuck around once they saw the sheriff’s car. The question I have, the one we all have, other than who it was, was what they were doing and what did they want.”

  “That’s two questions,” I said. “Sorry. It’s late and I’m getting persnickety. I think it was the murderer and he or she came back to plant evidence incriminating Rosalee. Her dogs scared him off. That scream of hers didn’t help either.”

  “You mean to say you think the killer was putting the murder weapon back in the flowerpot when he heard her?”

  “Yep, I do. The pot with the missing flower stake was pulled out farther from the wall against her house. I noticed it when we first got there, but I didn’t think much about it. Now, in retrospect, I bet our murderer had pulled it from the wall and was about to stick the butterfly stake back in it when he heard Rosalee.”

  “Good news is,” Theo said. “It’s too late now. We’re on to him. Or her. If the killer decides to make another try at it, the sheriff’s deputies are already aware that the butterfly stake is missing. If it turns up, they’ll know why.”

  Theo drove to the top of the hill and let Charlie and me off in front of the house. He and Don waited until I was safely inside and the lights were on. I blinked the porch light to let them know all was well and they drove off.

  “Honestly, Charlie, I don’t know what I’d do without those two. Francine and Jason were right about having good neighbors who are also good friends.”

  The dog yawned and ran up the stairs to my bed. I was about to follow when I noticed the red light flashing on my answering machine.

  Now what?

  The screen on the phone indicated the call had come in earlier in the evening. About the time I had originally walked to Theo and Don’s. I pushed the button and replayed the message.

  “Call me if it’s not too late, Norrie. I’m up ’til all hours. It’s me, Glenda. I have a horrible premonition that something awful is going to befall the winery. I knew we should’ve given the place a good smudging with sage sticks. In the meantime, I’ll look into cleansing rituals. Bye.”

  Terrific. Of all the possible workers my sister and brother-in-law could have hired for the tasting room, we had to get our own personal psychic—Glenda. She was a sweet lady and meant well, but would drive all of us crazy if we let her. I deleted the message, made sure the door was locked and the downstairs windows were closed and then joined Charlie in my queen-size bed.

  Apparently there was a light rain that night because everything was damp and muddy when I got up the next morning. It didn’t matter. The ground would dry up by the time the tasting room opened for business and our tours began. In answer to the increasing crowds at the wineries, Two Witches decided to run hourly tours weekdays and weekends beginning in late August. Franz, who was terrified someone would get into the lab and winery, posted a giant “VERBOTEN” sign on the door. Of course, he was banking on the fact they understood German and didn’t think it was a new variety of wine.

  I breezed into the tasting room at a little past nine. Real early for me. I needed to touch base with Cammy when she arrived and Glenda as well. Instead, Roger was the first one to greet me.

  “I’m on the early shift this morning,” he said. “We were so exhausted yesterday we didn’t get a chance to refill the wine racks. I offered to do it before we opened. Cammy should be here any minute, and Glenda’s coming in early, too. What’s with her, anyway? She seems a little spooked.”

  I walked over to where Roger was standing and made myself useful by opening a carton of Pinot Noir for the wine rack. “You mean more than usual?”

  “She said she had a bad feeling that—”

  “Something awful was going to happen?”

  “How’d you know? Don’t tell me you’re psychic, too.”

  “Nope. Got her phone message last night. After responding to an intruder on Rosalee Marbleton’s front porch.”

  “What?”

  Roger listened intently while I spouted off my flowerpot stake theory. “Hmm, you may be on to something. From what you described, the tip of that plant stake sounds simi
lar to the tip of the French Halberd, a cunning little piece of weaponry in the French and Indian War.”

  Oh no! I’ve fallen into the rabbit hole! Phooey. And I’d been warned, too.

  Roger had a penchant for the French and Indian War. The slightest connection and he’d launch into a never-ending discourse on the subject. I started to say something, but I wasn’t quick enough. Miraculously, he managed to keep it brief.

  “Interesting thing about the Halberd. It was slender. Could slip under an infantryman’s arm and not be readily noticed until it was too late. That little flowerpot stake of yours could easily have been hugged under the killer’s armpit. Especially if that insect motif was flat.”

  I thought for a second. “It was. I mean, they are. Flat.”

  “You do realize something, don’t you?”

  He answered before I said a word.

  “If that was the murder weapon, then the murder was premeditated. Whoever orchestrated it must’ve known about a weapon no one would suspect. They also had to have known that Roy Wilkes would be at the pumping station. Hmm…”

  Roger rubbed his chin and clicked his tongue, making a strange clacking sound. “If you want my two cents, I’ll bet the killer lured Roy to that very spot. You can’t have a premeditated murder on the off chance someone will be strolling by.”

  “Good point.”

  I helped Roger fill the wine racks while I waited for Cammy and Glenda to walk in. I didn’t have to wait long. No sooner did we finish when Cammy appeared. She was sporting one of the new fuchsia T-shirts. The color could probably be seen from the nearest solar system.

  “Norrie might’ve come across the murder weapon used on Roy Wilkes,” Roger announced as Cammy walked toward us.

  “Long story,” I said. “I’ll fill you in while you get set up for the onslaught.”

  As Cammy hustled from table to table, making sure the wines were all in the small mini-fridges underneath for tastings, the glass racks easily accessible and the dump pitchers in place, I gave her the rundown in spurts. Rosalee’s shriek. The flowerpot theory. And, not to be missed, Stephanie’s brilliant idea to ferret out the person with the blue windbreaker.

  “Boy, you certainly don’t let any grass grow under your feet, do you?” she laughed.

  “The grass is the least of my worries. Glenda called last night and left me a message. She has a feeling something terrible is about to befall us. Her words, not mine.”

  “Oh brother. I don’t suppose she was specific.”

  “Nope. Apparently premonitions don’t present that way. Listen, I’ve got to get back to my own work. When she gets in, tell her I got her message and I’m taking it under advisement.”

  “Good deal. Catch you later.”

  While I knew Glenda was probably being overly dramatic, I didn’t want to take any chances. I left messages on John and Franz’s cell phones for them to call me. The last winery staff meeting I’d held was three weeks ago and everything had been topsy-turvy since then.

  According to Cammy, Francine used to hold one or two meetings a month but during the fall rush, it was down to one meeting with lots of individual conferencing with the managers. Our next meeting wasn’t for another two weeks, and I didn’t want to wait that long. Especially with the Federweisser coming up. I had to know that everything was copasetic as far as our winemaker and our vineyard manager were concerned.

  Knowing how the wineries are all interconnected on the Seneca Lake Wine Trail, I worried we’d feel the repercussions from the murder across the road as if it happened here. I knew it was silly, but until I got reassurances from John and Franz, I wasn’t about to take chances with our establishment. Especially if a lunatic killer was making the rounds.

  Chapter 9

  I knew the only way I was going to get the reassurances I needed from our winemaker and our vineyard manager was to chat with them face to face. It was much easier talking with John because, even though he felt compelled to spell out every nuance involved with planting and harvesting, at least I didn’t have to force my eyelids to stay open the way I did with Franz. Maybe it was the words Franz used. Like “malolactic process” and

  “botrytis.” Words I didn’t want to deal with early the next morning.

  After feeding the dog and forcing myself to try one of Francine’s homemade granola cereals, I threw a light sweater over my top and headed to the barn. I thought Charlie would chomp at the chance to tag along but instead, he went back to his dog bed and closed his eyes. Most likely he’d gone outside and run around while I was sleeping.

  When I approached the barn, I heard heated voices and recognized John’s immediately. I held my breath and listened. The second voice was familiar, too, even though I had only heard it once. It was Cal Payne, Rosalee’s vineyard manager. What on earth were he and John arguing about? On a Monday morning, no less.

  I backed up against the side of the barn and tilted my head so my ear rested close to the window. I doubted anyone could see me from the driveway and who would? It was way too early for the tasting room to open. From my vantage point, pressed against the barn, I didn’t need to guess what they were saying. I had a front row seat.

  “So why are you telling me this? Cripes. Go to the damn sheriff’s office and come clean.”

  Come clean? It was John speaking. Had Cal done something that he needed to confess? Like murdering Roy Wilkes? I held my breath until I thought my chest would burst.

  “That stupid oaf would have me behind bars in a second. Hell, what was I supposed to do? Sit back and wait for Roy Wilkes to put Terrace Wineries under the ground for good? He had it coming.”

  My God. He did kill Roy Wilkes.

  My heart was thumping and my hands were shaking. I pressed myself even closer to the building until the scratchy wood grains butted up against my jeans. Cal was still speaking and I didn’t want to miss a word.

  “I told him he was killing us with those jacked-up land prices, but all he did was smirk. I felt like backhanding him to wipe that smugness from his face, but I didn’t. And believe me, it took all the restraint I could muster. Instead, I called him an SOB, among other things, and told him he’d better watch his back.”

  “So you threatened him? Geez, Cal, how the hell do you know that nobody heard you? Like I’ve been telling you, you need to get this on record before someone pokes his or her head out of the woodwork and points a finger at you.”

  “I came to you, didn’t I?”

  “For what? To ignore my advice? Look, you said you got into it with Roy shortly before he turned up dead. I’m no detective, but what the hell? You’re keeping company with the big three–—motive, means and opportunity. Don’t wait until you become a suspect.”

  “Hey, I just wanted you to know, that’s all.”

  “So I can come to your defense later?”

  “Something like that, yeah.”

  There was a pause in the conversation, or maybe it ended. I wasn’t going to stand around and wait. Instead, I walked to the back of the barn, where I wouldn’t be spotted. Peering out from the corner of the building, I saw Cal walking toward the lineup of parked trucks. A second or two later, I heard an engine start and that was when I walked into the barn.

  John was standing in the middle of the room looking like a fish out of water. “Norrie. What’s up? Is everything all right?”

  I nodded. “Wasn’t that Rosalee’s vineyard manager I saw getting into his truck? He stopped by her house the day the body was discovered.”

  “Yeah, that was him. Winery stuff. That’s all. So, what can I do for you?”

  “With everything going on, I haven’t paid a lot of attention to our fall harvest and thought I should touch base with you.”

  “You can relax. As long as the rains hold off, we’ll be in good shape. A little rainfall won’t hurt, but a deluge certainly will. Forecast looks good so far.
Colder nights, warmer days. Especially important for the reds.”

  “What about the workers? Our guys and the seasonal staff. We’re not going to be shorthanded, are we?”

  “Got it covered. Robbie and Travis have really stepped up to the plate. I keep telling them they should get their degrees in viticulture from one of the local state colleges and work part-time. Like so many of the locals, they get a job at one of the wineries and never go beyond it. Heck, with all those online classes, they should be able to juggle both. I’ll keep pestering them. In the long run, we’re probably better off nurturing one of our own guys than recruiting.”

  “Hmm, got a point there. So, where are we exactly with the harvest?” I figured I really needed to show a genuine interest, even if I couldn’t care less what grape got picked first and whether or not it was by hand or with the help of the harvester. In my mind, once the stuff got smushed, it would become juice and eventually turn into wine by the time we got done.

  “We’re going fast and furious handpicking the whites. Started with Chardonnay.”

  In a flash, my father’s lessons came back to me. Harvesting follows the same pattern as tasting—white grapes first then reds.

  “Wouldn’t it be quicker with one of those harvesters?”

  “Quicker, sure, but the end product would suffer. The harvesters snatch up all the clusters, but our pickers know enough to remove any grapes that show the slightest hint of mold. The more we can hand pick, the better off we are. Of course, when everything ripens at once, we don’t have a choice but to use machinery. Aren’t enough workers in all of Yates and Ontario counties to get the job done by hand. And none of us can afford to lose even a half hour on the job. Which reminds me, I was on my way over to check on Travis and Robbie when you walked in.”

  “Oh, don’t let me hold you up. And thanks for the update. If you need anything, give a holler. By the way, what do you know about Cal Payne?”

  “Know? Well, for one thing he’s a capable vineyard manager, if that’s what you’re getting at. And extremely loyal to Rosalee Marbleton. Been with her for years.”