by J. C. Eaton
“Loyal enough to commit murder?”
I couldn’t believe those words came out of my mouth.
John clasped his hands together and took a breath. “Please don’t tell me you overheard our conversation.”
Now I was the one with hands clasped and my teeth tapping ever so slightly. “I may have caught some of it. I was right outside.”
“I’ve known Cal for years, Norrie. He’s no killer. But, I will admit, the circumstances don’t look good. That’s why I told him to be upfront about it. Look, not that I’m going to tell you what you should or should not be doing, but leave this to him, okay?”
“No worries there. I’m not about to go off and tell tales.”
Well, not to the sheriff’s deputy, anyway.
My next step was a jaunt to the winery lab. Technical vocabulary or not, I really needed to speak with Franz. If the tiniest thing went wrong due to my lack of oversight, I’d never forgive myself. Besides, I could almost see those WOW women shaking their heads and muttering things like, “Norrie was too self-absorbed in those screenplays of hers to manage that winery.” Nope, I wasn’t going to let that happen.
“It’s only me,” I called out when I opened the door to the winery building.
“Herbert and I are back here,” was Franz’s reply. “Alan is in the lab. Is everything all right?”
I imagined everyone was a bit jittery following the recent events. “Everything’s fine.” I walked into the little office. Franz and Herbert were both at their desks working on their computers. They immediately stopped and looked my way.
“I’m on my way back from the barn and thought I’d say hello. With the Federweisser coming up so soon, I figured I’d better make sure things are running smoothly on your end. I haven’t been too attentive, I’m afraid. That murder at Terrace Wineries set me back a bit.”
Franz pushed his chair back from the desk and ran a hand through his hair. “Leandre, their winemaker, told me he hasn’t had a good night’s sleep since the incident. He and I attended that winemakers luncheon a few days ago at Cornell. Poor man looked awful. Dark puffy circles under his eyes. I hardly knew what to say to him. To make matters worse, he’s concerned that some of their old irrigation pipes might burst. They’re in the process of replacing them, but you know how that goes. It’s always the ones you don’t replace that cause the problems.”
Oh no. Something else to worry about.
Herbert, who saw the look on my face, quickly jumped in. “You can relax. Our vineyard crew replaced all of our old water lines last year.”
My mind immediately jumped from water lines to wine barrels as I thought about Glenda’s premonition. “Franz, where are the barrels for our Federweisser? Are they in the building or outside?”
“With the exception of one barrel of Chardonnay, which we use for the festival, the others are inside the winery building. If you’re wondering what happens to the remaining wine in that barrel once the festival is over, it simply continues to ferment and will eventually be bottled.”
“Is the barrel safe outside? I mean, can anyone tamper with it?”
Franz didn’t answer at first and the silence was noticeable. “I suppose anyone can tamper with anything. I really never considered the possibility. Is there something you’re not sharing with me?”
“No, nothing of the kind. But it’s probably not such a bad idea to make sure we have a surveillance camera on that part of the building. I’ll leave a message for John.”
“Good idea. There’s no such thing as being overly cautious.”
I thanked Franz and Herbert and headed back up the hill. Long walks usually allowed me to clear my head but this one didn’t. I couldn’t help but relive the conversation I heard between John and Cal and, the more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that Cal Payne might not be the decent guy John thought he was.
True, I had told John I wouldn’t say anything, but I was pretty certain he was referring to Deputy Hickman and not Theo and Don. Still, I kept my word for the next eight hours before I finally broke down and phoned the guys from the Grey Egret. Don picked up on the second ring.
“I better not be interrupting your dinner, but this is really important,” I said.
“Juicy gossip or what?”
“Cal Payne lied to us when we met him at Rosalee’s. He had an argument with Roy Wilkes, and it wasn’t over the phone. Plus, it was shortly before Roy wound up dead.”
“What do you mean by ‘shortly’?”
“It was his word in a conversation with our vineyard manager, not mine. Cal wasn’t specific.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I overheard a schoolyard confession on my way to the barn to talk with John this morning. Cal was there and he told John that he and Roy got into a verbal altercation over the rate increase on the land rental. John wanted him to tell the sheriff but Cal refused. Why would anyone refuse if they were innocent?”
“Two reasons. Duh. Either they weren’t innocent or they were hiding something else.”
“Like?”
“Beats me. But I’m sure those little wheels of yours will keep spinning and find an answer.”
“Very funny. Tell Theo I said hi. Talk to you later.”
I tried to remember what Cal was wearing when he stopped by Rosalee’s house. Somehow he didn’t seem the Eddie Bauer blue windbreaker type. More the LL Bean canvas jacket or even a Carhartt, like the one Roy had on. Unfortunately, the only thing I recalled was his reddish hair and red stubble. If I was going to get anywhere with my so-called sleuthing, I’d have to be more observant.
Two pieces of buttered toast and an apple comprised my evening meal, while Charlie dove into his kibble as if I’d served him prime rib. I called it quits for the night and settled on the couch to channel surf, but it was useless. All I could think about was what Don had said about Cal. Either the guy was guilty or he was hiding something. I couldn’t do much about the guilty verdict but, thanks to confidential background checks on the Internet, I could certainly find out if he was hiding a criminal background.
Nineteen ninety-five wasn’t a whole lot of money for a year’s subscription to Truth Seekers, Inc. I entered what little data I had and hoped it would be enough. It was. Within minutes, I learned that Calvin Payne was a registered felon. I all but bit my tongue when I read the screen. An additional premium fee of fourteen ninety-five promised salient details. Like someone hooked on a slot machine, I opted for that service as well.
It seemed that Cal had committed perjury regarding someone’s divorce by lying under oath that the man had been unfaithful. It didn’t make sense. New York had a no-fault divorce law. Then it dawned on me. That law was put into effect less than a decade ago. Up until then, divorces were granted under fault-based criteria or separation. Poor Cal. He was probably helping someone and paid a hefty price. The felony classification meant he would be “soiled goods” as far as getting another job. No wonder he was pissed at Roy Wilkes.
The caveat to the evening came with the seven o’clock news. The reporter mentioned the Seneca Lake Wine Trail and its popularity during Labor Day Weekend. Then she elaborated about the recent murders as if she was casually talking about food and wine pairings. “I’m sure visitors won’t want to miss the action on Murderer’s Corner, where two neighboring vineyards have something more in common than wine—dead bodies showing up on their property.”
I bolted upright and reached for the phone.
“Rosalee,” I said as soon as she picked up. “There’s something you need to know.”
Chapter 10
As if we didn’t have enough tourists, tasters, and wine connoisseurs planning on spending their Labor Day Weekend on the wine trail, the commentator for that TV station virtually ensured we’d have every crackpot and curiosity seeker at our doorstep.
Rosalee took the news better tha
n expected and told me she already had a crackpot who’d be staying at her place—her sister. When I got off the phone with her, I was too edgy to watch anything on TV but way too tired to write. Since I was on a roll with Internet searches, I decided to see who owned that abandoned house where we found the hang-tab. The Yates County Assessor’s office had it all—property assessments and tax records.
Bold red letters immediately stood out for the past year and a half—DELINQUENT. Prior to that, the taxes had been paid in full. I scanned the top of the page to see who the owner was. Unlike the rest of the information, where the font was fairly large, the owner information appeared in a lower font. I squinted and took a closer look. Then I gasped.
Roy Wilkes. Roy Wilkes was the owner. It listed his home address in the village of Penn Yan but nothing else.
“Holy Crap, Charlie!” I shouted. “This is starting to get interesting.”
The next thing I did was pull up the real estate information on Zillow. Roy Wilkes had purchased the property four years ago. But why? What the heck did he need an old dilapidated house for? Especially when he couldn’t afford to fix it up. Heck, he couldn’t even afford to pay the taxes. At least not recently.
Maybe, at one point, he’d thought about turning it into a bed and breakfast or maybe even flipping it to get a good return on his investment. Still, it sat there for a few years with nothing to show, except for more cobwebs, rotting wood, and overgrown weeds. I imagined Roy had gotten his fair share of notices from the county regarding the condition of his lawn.
It was too late to call Theo and Don, so I sent them an e-mail and called it quits for the night. My grand designs of sleuthing ended when Cammy phoned me first thing the next morning and asked if I planned to man the relief table over the weekend.
“I know how you feel about working in the tasting room, Norrie, but we’re really going to be swamped. Inundated. Buried alive. We’ve got two tourist buses an hour lined up for all three days, and those are the ones that called in advance for reservations. We’ll be suffocating if we get a ton of drop-ins.”
“Uh, um…”
“The part-timers all plan to work full-time and overtime if needed. But it won’t be enough.”
“Fine. Fine. I’ll do it.”
“Great. We only use the relief table if our stations are so crowded we can’t move things along. Maybe you’ll be able to find some time during the day for your writing.”
Yeah. Like that’s going to happen. “Don’t worry. I’ll manage to meet my deadlines. I’d hate to have everyone all pissed at me for refusing to help during one of our busiest weekends. Besides, it gives me a chance to be on the lookout for that Eddie Bauer windbreaker.”
“Speaking of that, are you going ahead with the covert spies for the Federweisser? You know, those quilters and bowlers?”
“Uh-huh. I gave Stephanie Ipswich the go-ahead a few days ago.”
“Should be a real treat.”
“Don’t remind me.”
With a holiday weekend only three days away, and every winery employee stretched to the limit with work, it was no wonder Theo, Don, and I couldn’t find the time to meet. Heck, we couldn’t even find the time to talk. I shot out an e-mail to Theo and got the following response:
“Let’s sneak off and get a bite to eat after Thursday’s WOW meeting. Madeline pushed it up a week and I drew the short straw.”
I wrote back, “Lucky you. Madeline said the meeting would be brief.”
His reply came in the form of a grimacing face. I returned the sentiment and got back to work.
At precisely noon, a frantic Marilyn Ansley phoned me. “Rosalee left your number on the refrigerator for me. I’d better be speaking to Norrie.”
“Uh, yeah, you are.”
“Less than three minutes ago, my sister was snatched out of our house and taken to jail for questioning. They think she’s hiding the murder weapon. That moron of a deputy came storming over here after he read a forensic report.”
“Deputy Hickman?”
“Yes, the one from the other day with the personality of a mule.”
“All right. Slow down and tell me everything you know.”
Rosalee had told me Marilyn was somewhat of a drama queen, but she seemed to have reached full empress status by the time she placed the call to my number.
“Those flowerpot stakes. The sharp tips. They match the wound. Exactly. The circumference. It was exact. I said that, didn’t I? Not the weapon. The other ones they took. Ladybugs and beetles.”
“Okay, okay. Stay calm. You are telling me there’s a strong possibility the missing flowerpot stake was the one used to kill Roy Wilkes and the sheriff’s department brought your sister in for further questioning. Is that correct?”
“Yes! That’s what I’ve been saying.”
“Marilyn, how do you know they think she’s hiding the murder weapon?”
“Why else would they bring her in for questioning? Unless…Oh my God! They’re going to arrest her. I’m on my way over there now. Right after I call our attorney.”
“Hold on! Don’t call anyone until we know what’s going on. I’ll head over there and meet you. And, by the way, it’s the public safety building, not the jail. She hasn’t been arrested and charged.”
“Not yet.”
Marilyn hung the phone up before I could say another word. So much for the lunch I was going to have at our bistro. I grabbed one of Francine’s bland nutrition bars, tore off the wrapper, and chomped on it on my way out the door. Thankfully I had half a bottle of spring water in my car and gulped it down before I was even out of the driveway.
If there was good news to be had in all of this, it was the fact the weapon had been identified. Too bad it was missing. I was still ruminating about Rosalee’s theory that the killer intended to return the bug stake to the flowerpot. If her dogs hadn’t heard the noise and she hadn’t let out that banshee shriek, no one would’ve been the wiser.
When I got to the public safety building, Marilyn had just slammed her car door and was thundering toward the entrance. I tried not to think about how many red lights she must’ve run in order to beat me to the door. Truth of the matter was, I ran a few myself.
“Hold on!” I yelled. “We’ll walk in together.”
The public safety building looked exactly the same as it did the last time I was there. Only the last time I didn’t have to stop at the glass enclosed window to sign in and show identification. A hefty brunette with a bouffant hairdo and bedazzled glasses looked right at Marilyn and me. She squinted and leaned forward.
“They’ve got your sister in the back with Deputy Hickman and one of his underlings. Don’t have a cow, Marilyn. She’s not getting arrested.”
Before the woman could continue, I put my driver’s license in the tray and she slid it toward her.
“Norrie Ellington. Nice to meet you. I’m Gladys Pipp. Normally I’m at my desk in back, but Frieda’s at lunch so I’m covering the front.” She returned the license and kept talking. “Catherine Trobert told me all about you.”
I can only imagine.
“Nice meeting you as—”
“Enough about Catherine,” Marilyn broke in. “What’s going on with my sister?”
“Gary Hickman’s on a fishing expedition, that’s all. Hang on a minute. I’ll buzz his office and see if you can go in.”
Her voice suddenly became very businesslike. “Mrs. Marbleton’s sister and a friend are up front. Can I send them back to you?”
She put the phone down and looked up. “He’s sending someone to escort you.”
Good grief! It’s not as if we’re heavily armed and need to be frisked.
A second or two later a young deputy opened the door behind the reception window and motioned for us to follow him.
“Thanks, Gladys,” Marilyn said. “I’ll fill you in w
hen we’re done.”
The row of cubicles looked familiar as we walked past them to Deputy Hickman’s small office.
“I’d bring some chairs in,” the deputy said to us as we took a step inside, “but you’re not going to be here that long.”
Marilyn rushed over to her sister as if Rosalee had spent the day at the Bastille and not the Yates County Public Safety Building. “Are you all right? I hope you didn’t tell them anything without a lawyer. This is the United States. You’re a citizen. You have rights.”
I don’t know whose eyes were rolling more, mine or Deputy Hickman’s.
Finally, he spoke. “Mrs. Marbleton is not being charged with anything. Even though she does have a motive for murder.”
“I knew it,” Marilyn spouted. “I knew it. It’s only a matter of time.”
“Let me finish, will you?” he went on. “Motive, yes. And possibly means and opportunity. However, in this case, common sense has to prevail. Roy Wilkes was in excellent physical shape. I don’t know how to say this politely, so I’ll just spit it out. Your sister might’ve been able to stab Mr. Wilkes fifteen or twenty years ago, but at her age and in her physical condition, not only is it unlikely, it’s preposterous.”
I thought my jaw would drop and, from the look on Rosalee’s face, I seriously wondered if she wasn’t about to pick up the letter opener on Deputy Hickman’s desk and prove him wrong. Before any of us could say anything, the guy kept talking.
“Our forensics team is quite certain the missing flowerpot stake, or whatever you call those things, is the murder weapon. What I need to know from Mrs. Marbleton is—who walked across her porch to the front door in the past month? Anyone and everyone. What about mail and package delivery? Anything delivered that couldn’t be left in the box by the road? Who visited? When? What about the meter readers for gas and electricity? Did any of them come to the door? Mrs. Marbleton was putting together a list when the two of you came barging in.”
