Chardonnayed to Rest

by J. C. Eaton

“Yes,” I mouthed back.

  “Oh my gosh, Rosalee,” Catherine said, “to think the murder weapon might’ve come from one of your own flowerpots.”

  Trying to get off the subject of Roy Wilkes’ murder was like trying to take a lollipop away from a three-year-old. After a few attempts at shifting the conversation, I gave up and went along with the flow. Finally, we were able to move past the latest murder on the wine trail and get back to our regular business. By the time Theo and I left the WOW meeting, he had moved from shock to “dazed beyond belief.”

  “You can relax now,” I said as we walked to our cars. “Don can attend the next meeting.”

  “What? Are you kidding? This is a hoot and a holler. I’m going to tell Don he’s off the hook and I’ll be attending these meetings from now on. I haven’t laughed so much in I can’t begin to remember when. Dietary restrictions. Can you believe it?”

  Chapter 12

  When I returned to the house, Godfrey Klein, the entomologist in Jason’s office, had left a message on the answering machine. I wasn’t sure if it was good news or bad. In fact, I wasn’t sure what it meant.

  “Jason is fairly certain the Aedes bahamensis may have crossed into Costa Rica. Thought you’d like to know. Spoke with him on the satphone last night.”

  I figured, if another stupid bug crossed into Costa Rica, let it stay there. I had enough to worry about. Like eating. Rather than traipsing over to the bistro for lunch, I scrambled up some eggs and shared them with Charlie. I picked up Rosalee’s list for the umpteenth time and perused it again, in case I hadn’t done a thorough enough job before. Still nothing. Her managers had been on staff for years and even that vineyard worker, Mickey Haldon, was a recent high school graduate from Penn Yan who had worked part-time summers for the winery since he was sixteen. Not a likely killer in my book.

  As for Howard the mailman and the UPS guy, it was anyone’s guess. Same for the census lady. Only, in her case, Rosalee would’ve been the victim, not Roy Wilkes. Unless Rosalee was keeping something from me, I had reached a dead end as far as her list was concerned. To make matters worse, I didn’t think the Yates County Sheriff’s Department was making any headway either.

  True, Roy had only been dead for about a week, but I was getting impatient. Don’s online search revealed the guy had worked for Beecher Rand in Athens, Pennsylvania. All I managed to pull up on my online searches from the Chicago Tribune and the New York Times was boring information about mergers, bids, divestments and stockholders. It finally dawned on me I needed small town papers that might focus on the human interest stuff.

  Thanks to Google, I found three of them—The Morning Call out of Allentown, The Morning Times from Sayre and Scranton’s Times-Tribune. If I was lucky, maybe Roy had won an award, participated on a local softball team or had been involved in some scandal that ultimately cost him his job and, if there was a link, maybe even his life.

  By that time my brain had reached the point of muddling over and I traded my laptop search for a re-run on Masterpiece Theatre. The young Queen Victoria was being plagued by the palace to select a husband when my phone rang.

  Cammy all but screeched into my ear. “Norrie! Get over to Rosinetti’s Bar right now. Drop everything! My aunt just called. She recognized the guy who had the fight with Roy Wilkes. He’s there but I don’t know for how long. I’m on my way. Hurry up!”

  The jeans I was wearing were okay, but I tore off the ratty T-shirt I had on and opted for a plain black one. I ran a comb through my hair and raced out of there, making sure the door was locked and Charlie was inside with his doggie door closed. No time to even grab a bag. I shoved my cell phone in my pocket, along with my wallet.

  Rosinetti’s Bar was located on the corner of Seneca and Exchange Streets, with its main entrance on Exchange Street. It was a large brick building that had been there since the Second World War. According to Cammy, the building and the bar had been in her family since that war as well. I’d never been in there since I was too young to drink when I was in high school and, by the time I went to college, my visits home were brief. No time for bar hopping. Besides, I never was much of a drinker. Funny, considering my family’s livelihood.

  The green, white and red flashing sign in front of the place read, “Rosinetti’s Bar.” It was shaped like the Italian flag and could be seen two blocks away. I parked across the street in a small lot, rather than torture myself with parallel parking in front. Cammy must’ve had the same idea because her car was also in the small lot.

  I walked across the street and went directly inside. Like most bars, it was dimly lit but not so dark as to wonder about the goings on. The pungent aroma of beer permeated the room, but there was something else—the unmistakable whiff of pizza coming out of the oven. I remembered Cammy telling me they served pizza and hamburgers to their patrons, along with other bar foods.

  To my right was a long bar with the usual stools, most of them occupied. Two bartenders, both male, were busy serving drinks. On my left were rectangular tables with red, white, and green tablecloths. Hard to miss the Italian theme. The walls featured an assortment of beer posters and a few mirrors. I spotted a waitress taking orders from one of the tables as I looked around for Cammy.

  The crowd was a mix of college students and townies and the ambience was mellow. In the background, a Maroon 5 song was playing. I scanned the place, unsure of whether or not I should take a seat at the bar or stand there and wait for Cammy to appear. My eyes, now acclimated to the dark, darted all over the place. I prayed no one would approach me and ask if I wanted a drink. Then again, maybe I was overestimating my sex appeal.

  In a flash, the door behind the bar swung open and Cammy stood there. She spied me immediately and motioned for me to join her in the kitchen. I skirted the end of the long counter and rushed inside.

  A heavyset woman with dark curls, dangling earrings, and a red apron extended her hand to me. I guessed her to be in her early sixties. “Norrie, right?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m Luisa, Cammy’s aunt. This is better than a spy novel. He’s at the bar. The man who had the fight. Do you think he killed the other man?”

  Cammy took a step toward her aunt and shushed her. “Our voices can carry. We need to be inconspicuous.”

  Her aunt moved away from the door and we followed her. Behind us, another woman was making a pizza. She was younger, but not by much. Also dark curls but no earrings. At least none I could see.

  “You said he was the one at the far end of the bar,” Cammy whispered. “Did he come in with the guy sitting next to him or did he come alone?”

  Her aunt shrugged. “I don’t know. I was making my calzones with Teresa. When I brought an order to the bar, he was there. That’s when I called you. He’s in the second to the last stool next to a man I don’t recognize.”

  Cammy opened the door about an inch and looked out. “Our suspect’s still there. Older guy. Ruddy completion. Looks kind of weathered.”

  I crept behind her. “What’s the other guy look like?”

  She stepped back. “See for yourself. Skinny. Younger. Reddish hair. At least I think it’s red. Hard to tell in the dim light.”

  “Looks red to me,” I said. “We’ve got to figure out a way to find out who he is and, before you say another word, I’m not going to go over there and flirt with him.”

  “Ew! That’s the last thing I was going to suggest.”

  I stared through the narrow door opening and bit my lower lip. Why were these things always so easy in the movies? Because dunderheads like me write the stupid screenplays. Then it hit me. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. I’d read about something like this on the Internet and figured it was worth a try. “Is your cell phone handy?” I asked Cammy.

  “Handy? It’s part of my anatomy, but it’s too dark to get a decent photo of them.”

  “I have a plan. I’m
going to take the empty seat between the two guys and those college students. You go to the bar and tell the bartender you’re going to take a picture of me but need his help. He’s got to shine your cell phone’s flashlight above my head to give off enough light for the photo. Then, you take the picture. But not of me. Of those guys. Got it?”

  “Sure enough. What have we got to lose?”

  “A possible murderer if he leaves. Hurry up.”

  I walked out of the kitchen and as unobtrusively as I could, I plunked myself into the stool next to the suspect. Cammy grabbed the bartender by the elbow and whispered something to him.

  “Anything for you, Camilla,” he said.

  “Thanks, Tony.”

  Then, Cammy handed me a bottle of Corona and shouted, “Smile and look like you’re having fun. That should make Eduardo jealous.”

  Our plan went off like clockwork. The bartender used the flashlight beam to illuminate the area and Cammy snapped the photo using my phone. Not one, but three pictures, to be on the safe side.

  “That should do it,” she said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Looks like you’re partying with a group of good-looking college guys. That jerk of a boyfriend of yours is bound to get the message.” Then she turned and walked back into the kitchen.

  I got up from the stool, still holding the Corona, and followed her as if that had been our intent all along. She waved for me, phone in hand, to follow her into the storage room. Her aunt Luisa was also waving me over as well.

  “Remind me to bring out another jar of the minced garlic. I meant to do that earlier,” her aunt said. “Teresa’s going to run out if I don’t.”

  Cammy rolled her eyes. “Enough with the garlic. Let’s see if this worked.”

  She handed me the phone, and I immediately clicked on the photo app. Sure enough, there was our guy and part of my shoulder. The skinny red-haired man was in the photo as well. I slid my finger across the screen and looked at the other two shots. They were perfect. Absolutely perfect.

  “Now what?” Cammy asked. “Off to the sheriff’s department first thing in the morning to share them?”

  “With Deputy Hickman? Don’t be nuts. He’ll read me the riot act or, worse yet, find a way to lock me up for interfering with an official investigation. Nope. I plan to show these photos to our staff at the winery to see if anyone recognizes either of those men. I’m also going to e-mail it to all the other wineries on the west side. And Rosalee. She’ll be the first one on my e-mail list.”

  “And if someone recognizes the guy, then what?”

  “Then I’ll consider two possible options—throwing myself on the mercy of the sheriff’s department or becoming even more intimately acquainted with Google search.”

  “I wouldn’t hold off too long on sharing that information if I were you. If that man really is a killer, let the authorities deal with him.”

  “Oh, believe me, I intend to. But only when I’m positive. When I have real evidence that can connect him with Roy Wilkes. Until then, all I’ve got is speculation and, at this point, I’m not even sure I have that.”

  Then Cammy’s aunt broke in. “You girls need to be careful. Capisce?”

  “Don’t worry,” Cammy said. “We will.”

  The three of us stepped out of the storage room just as Tony came into the kitchen. “Don’t know what this is about, but I thought you’d want to know the two guys from the end of the bar just left. So, what’s with that? What’s going on?”

  Before anyone could say anything, Cammy made a quick introduction. “Norrie, meet my brother, Tony. He’s a firefighter in Geneva but has the night off. He’s helping out.”

  Who in this establishment isn’t related?

  “Hi! Nice to meet you,” I said.

  Tony looked to be a few years younger than Cammy. Much taller and extremely well built with dark hair and brown eyes. When he reached to shake my hand, I saw the wedding ring. Not that I was looking.

  “Likewise. Now, will someone please tell me what’s going on?”

  “You might’ve been serving beer to a murderer,” Luisa said. “The girls aren’t sure yet.”

  I took a deep breath and, as succinctly as possible, told Tony about Rosalee’s discovery by her pumping station and everything else leading up to this moment.

  “Holy cannoli. Can’t you two leave the investigation to the sheriff’s department?”

  Cammy gave her brother a look. “Really, Tony? The sheriff’s department?”

  “Then at least promise me you won’t do anything stupid. By the way, when you’re ready to leave, I’m walking you to your cars.”

  I hung around long enough to finish my Corona and taste Luisa’s pizza. It was, by far, the best pizza I’d had in I-don’t-remember-how long and I told her as much.

  “I’ve got to bring Don and Theo here,” I said to Cammy when we got ready to leave. “They’re not going to believe the pizza.”

  “Yeah, I keep forgetting you’ve never been here before.”

  “That’ll change.”

  It was almost midnight when I got home, but I pulled up my laptop and shot out those e-mails with the mystery men photos attached. If I was lucky, maybe someone at one of the wineries knew something and I’d find out first thing in the morning.

  Chapter 13

  I got up earlier than usual, took a quick shower, and put in a good three hours of work on my screenplay before venturing down to the tasting room. As if solving a murder wasn’t enough to deal with, the last thing I needed from the film production company was to wind up like Conrad Blyth.

  Conrad wrote wonderful Amish romance screenplays but, for some reason, he had gotten kicked to the curb, so to speak. Something about audience interest according to Renee, my producer. In this business, any excuse was excuse enough to drop a series, and turning in a screenplay that was even a day late would most certainly put me on the “We Might Axe Her Next” list. I wasn’t about to take any chances.

  Charlie had inhaled his kibble and exited the house via his doggie door at daybreak. I opened the windows to let in some fresh air when he left and made sure to close them on my way to the tasting room. It was a little past ten and we were already inundated with customers. I had promised Cammy I’d help out at the relief table, but I hoped they wouldn’t need me right away.

  Lizzie was at the cash register ringing up a sale when I arrived. Cammy, Glenda, Sam and Roger were all manning their stations.

  “It won’t get really crazy ’til noon,” Cammy said as eight or nine customers left her table to peruse the wine racks. “I got your e-mail with the photo and passed it around before we opened. Terrific background lighting by the way.”

  I laughed.

  “You need to talk with Lizzie. She thinks she recognizes one of the men.”

  “What?” I raced to the cash register, all but bumping into our clientele.

  “Lizzie! Quick! Before any customers get over here, tell me. Can you identify those men in that photo?”

  Lizzie adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses and spoke softly, even though no one was near us. “I can’t be a hundred percent sure, but the older man looks like David Whitaker.”

  “David Whitaker? Who’s that?”

  “He was on the school board a few years ago. Made a big stink about changing the mascot. You don’t think he could be the killer, do you?”

  “I’m not sure.” And I’m not sure if the man in the photo is really David Whitaker.

  “Are you following the guidelines I gave you from the Nancy Drew Handbook?”

  “Absolutely.” Especially the ones that include wearing white gloves, training a carrier pigeon, and foiling a purse snatcher.

  Lizzie meant well, but I was no Nancy Drew.

  “Listen,” I told her, “don’t say anything to anyone until I can be sure. Okay? Maybe someone else around here also re
cognized the man in the photo.”

  Unfortunately, no one else did. Sam thought he might’ve seen the younger guy around town but couldn’t be sure. I wasn’t banking on getting any calls from the other wineries right away because everyone would be drowning in tourists by early afternoon. And, as things turned out, so were we.

  I manned the relief station from noon until five and thought I had seriously lost my mind. It was a blur of customers. Taste after taste. Wine after wine. By two, the line at the cash register had gotten so long we had to call Fred’s wife, Emma, and ask her to step away from the bistro in order to handle all of the cash sales until things slowed down. Thankfully, we had hired a part-time college student to give Fred a hand with the food.

  I tried unsuccessfully to do a Google search on David Whitaker while my customers were tasting wine, but it was futile. I gave up and stuck the iPhone back in my pocket. When the doors finally closed at five thirty, I all but collapsed. The tastings ended at five, but the winery remained open until five thirty for customers to purchase wine or gifts.

  “I don’t think I can think straight,” Glenda announced after locking the front door. “I’ll need to create a haven of repose the minute I get home.”

  Sam, who was busy stacking more wine bottles on the racks, paused for a second. “You mean burn incense and take a shower?”

  Glenda gave her head a slight shake. “I mean, attending to my ablutions with essential oils and soft music.”

  “I’m going out for a hamburger and a brew,” he said. “Enjoy your ablutions.”

  Cammy put her hands on her hips and rolled her neck. “If we think we’re tired now, just wait until tomorrow and the next two days. This was only the precursor.”

  All of us left the building together, and I walked Cammy to her car. “Lizzie thinks she knows who that guy is. The one who had the fight with Roy Wilkes. He may or may not be David Whitaker, a former school board member. Sound familiar?”

  She shook her head. “Sorry. It’s hard enough keeping up with the Geneva City School Board where I live. I’m not at all familiar with Penn Yan’s. If you find out anything, let me know.”