Chardonnayed to Rest

by J. C. Eaton

  “Sure thing. This may be the first break we’ve had, thanks to you. By the way, your aunt and brother are really sweet.”

  “The aunt, yes, but no one’s described Tony as sweet. He’ll get a good laugh out of it. See you tomorrow.”

  Charlie was waiting by his food dish when I walked into the house. Too tired to even crack an egg, I poured him some kibble and made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Then I plopped down on the couch and closed my eyes for what I thought was ten or fifteen minutes. When I reached for my iPhone to try that Google search again, I couldn’t believe it. I had slept for over an hour.

  “At this rate, your mistress will be like the living dead by Monday,” I said to the dog. I knew Theo and Don would be equally whipped, but I was dying to find out if either of them recognized David Whitaker. No word from the other wineries, but I figured they might not have had a chance to check their e-mails. The fall rush consumed everything and Labor Day Weekend was a real eye-opener.

  The Grey Egret and Theo and Don’s landline were both on speed dial. I made one click and waited for someone to pick up at the house.

  “Hey, Norrie,” Theo said. “We were about to call you. Are you as wiped out as we are? Don’s idea of dinner tonight is an English muffin with cheese and a tomato slice. That should tell you something.”

  “I’m putting oregano on it,” Don yelled from the background.

  I snickered. “Ugh, I know. I can barely move from the couch to the kitchen without feeling like I’m a hundred years old. That crowd today was relentless. It would’ve been impossible to be on the lookout for that blue windbreaker. Good thing we’ve got it covered during the Federweisser. Unless, of course, the sheriff’s department solves Roy Wilkes’ murder before then.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it. If you think today was a bear, wait until tomorrow. Listen, we got your photo and the younger guy, the skinny one with the reddish hair, looks like Rosalee’s vineyard manager, Cal Payne, only it’s not. Cal’s older and not as thin.”

  “He has a brother who was arrested for theft when he was a kid. Rosalee told me about it, but she’s adamant he’s not the killer. According to her, the brothers bear a resemblance.”

  “Did she give you a name?”

  “Yeah. Kelsey. Kelsey Payne. And get this, the guy does handyman work for her. He even stained her porch.”

  “Hmm, that would give him means, if he snatched that flowerpot stake, and opportunity, if he knew when and where Roy would be, but what about motive?”

  “I’ll try to dig up any info I can on him, but frankly all I want to do is nap.”

  “Don’t push yourself. Once the weekend’s over, all of us will have more time for sleuthing. Hang in there, okay?”

  “As always. Say hi to Don.”

  In spite of it being early evening, I could barely keep my eyelids open. I went back to the couch and dozed off again. This time it lasted for two hours. At nine thirty I awoke thirsty and ravenous. Charlie was fast asleep in his dog bed but immediately jumped to attention when he heard me rustling around in the fridge.

  We shared some turkey salad I had brought back from the bistro, along with taco chips, some broken pretzel rods and string cheese. Not my finest culinary moment.

  “Okay, dog,” I said. “I’m going to rinse off in the shower and then get down to some serious Internet searching. I can’t believe I showered this morning. Every bit of me reeks from sweat.”

  He followed me upstairs, jumped on the bed, and performed his own cleansing ritual, which was too graphic to discuss. I thought of Glenda and her essential oil bath and almost considered doing something similar. However, the only oils we had were olive and motor.

  By ten fifteen I was wide awake and on the laptop. I started my search by Googling the Penn Yan Board of Education. Sure enough, David Whitaker’s picture appeared in some archived photos. And while he looked like the man in Rosinetti’s Bar, I really wasn’t sure it was him. The face wasn’t as angular and something about the jawline didn’t look right. Still, the archived photo was a few years old and as people aged, they began to look different.

  I was able to glean some information about David Whitaker, but nothing that grabbed me by the throat screaming, “He’s the killer! He’s the killer!” The guy was married with two grown children. Lived in Penn Yan for the past five years. Member of the Kiwanis Club and the Elks. Boring. I didn’t press it any further.

  Next, I turned my sights on Kelsey Payne and put my recently purchased subscription to Truth Seekers, Inc., to good use. Sure enough I located Kelsey G. Payne, age thirty-seven, one city of residence—Penn Yan. An old driver’s license photo appeared next to Kelsey’s name, and I was positive the guy at the bar was him.

  What if Kelsey owed an outrageous amount of money to the other man and made a deal to get Roy Wilkes over to the pumping station in exchange for the loan to be dropped? I was singing my own praises until Cammy ruined everything the next day.

  “What do you mean it’s not him?” I whined when she insisted the guy wasn’t Kelsey. “How can you be sure?”

  “Because I sent that e-mail photo to everyone at Rosinetti’s and asked them to keep an ear out if the guy comes in again. As it turned out, he was there last night with a woman. The bartender, no relation this time, said the woman kept calling him Richie.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything. Richie could be a nickname.”

  “For Kelsey? That’s a stretch. Anyway, you said that Kelsey Payne lived in Penn Yan. The bartender overheard the guy saying to the woman, ‘Come on back to my place. It’s only a few blocks from here. Great apartment overlooking the lake. I was lucky to nab it a few years ago.”’

  “Oh crap.”

  While I crossed Kelsey Payne off my list, his brother popped back up like one of those Jack-in-the-box toys for kids. I knew Cal had a decent motive and he admitted to having it out with Roy Wilkes shortly before the guy turned up dead. Shortly. How on earth was I ever going to narrow that time frame down?

  I put my potential murderers list to the back of my mind and set up the relief table in preparation for the blitzkrieg. Good thing I did. Customer after customer, taste after taste, it never stopped. If I wasn’t serving samples, I was rushing into the kitchen with trays of dirty glasses for the dishwasher and returning with clean ones. I was going faster than that chocolate factory conveyer belt from I Love Lucy.

  It would’ve been a real disaster if we didn’t have the part-time college students working for us. A thin blonde with full lips and pinkish hair relieved me at a little past noon so I could get something to eat and hopefully regain my sanity.

  I leaned back in one of our kitchen chairs and was about to chomp on a portabella mushroom sandwich when the winery phone rang. I got it on the second ring.

  “Norrie? Is that you? It’s Stephanie. Listen, we just turned away a Diamond Johnny’s tour bus out of Ithaca. Those students are wild. We wouldn’t even let them into our winery. They must’ve been drinking from the moment they got on the bus. Catherine gave us the heads-up first. Apparently they all but trashed her tasting room and someone actually heaved into one of their potted plants.”

  “Oh yuck! I’ll head outside right now and ward them off. Thanks for the warning.”

  “Oh, by the way, got your e-mail. Sorry, but none of us can identify the men in that photo. One of our vineyard guys thought he’d seen the younger one around town but wasn’t sure. And no luck with the blue windbreaker either. All I saw yesterday were wineglasses being thrust at me. I couldn’t pour the stuff quick enough. I know I should be thankful my mother-in-law’s up here watching the boys, but you have no idea how that woman can talk. On and on. My God, I’m ready to throw myself off a cliff! Um, sorry to get rattling. You’d better hurry if you’re going to catch that bus.”

  “Thanks, Stephanie.”

  The busload of crazies was the least of my wo
rries. The toilets backed up at a little past three and I all but had to offer Roto-Rooter a year’s supply of my blood to get them to come over. Sam had a friend at the Porta Potty company in Rochester, but it took them over two hours to arrive and get set up.

  “We should’ve thought of this ahead of time,” he said as we watched the men unload those blue monstrosities from their truck. “And to think we’ve got to do it all over again for the Federweisser.”

  The only place we could put the Porta Potties was next to Alvin’s pen, and he wasn’t too happy about it. Any time anyone went to relieve themselves, Alvin kicked up dust, dirt, and a fair share of hay. By late afternoon, I was ready to join Stephanie at that cliff. And by early evening, when we closed the doors for good that day, I felt as if I had already taken that jump.

  “You look terrible,” Glenda said to me. “Here. Try this.” She handed me a small lavender pouch with crushed flower petals.

  “Is that some kind of herbal poultice? Because, if it is, I’m not wounded.”

  “No, it’s aromatherapy. Open it up, breathe deeply, and think calming thoughts. Go on, inhale and let your body relax.”

  I undid the small ribbon on the pouch and took a whiff. It was a strange mix of roses, petunias, cloves and something with an odd cloying smell. I inhaled again.

  “See?” she said. “You’re starting to unwind already. The universe always rewards with its own natural scents.”

  Just then, Sam came tearing out of the kitchen and shouted, “Damn sink drain’s backed-up. The stench is enough to gag a maggot.”

  I handed Glenda the pouch and smiled. “Guess the universe is rewarding us after all.”

  Chapter 14

  Roto-Rooter returned and snaked out the kitchen sink. I sent everyone home and hung out in the office until they were finished. Most of the time was spent with my elbows on the desk and my head cradled in the palms of my hands. Occasionally I groaned. It was Saturday night and, according to everyone, the “worst two days were yet to come.” I secretly prayed for a rainstorm, but the forecast called for bright sunshine and seasonable temperatures. I was beginning to despise the weather anchors every time I switched on the news.

  I staggered up the hill and into the house, more exhausted than David Copperfield when he walked from London to Dover. At least I had had the foresight to have Fred make me two cold-cut sandwiches that I quickly scarfed down with a large Coke before turning my attention to the slew of unread e-mails I had received sometime between yesterday morning and now.

  The script analyst Renee had assigned to the screenplay I submitted sent me a few of his thoughts. At least that was what his e-mail said—“a few thoughts.” They turned out to be a four-page attachment that made my stomach roil. He gave me a three-week window to address them and resubmit. That would mean putting my current screenplay on hold and focusing on this one. Good thing I knew how to juggle.

  Godfrey Klein sent me an image of the Aedes bahamensis because he didn’t want me to confuse it with the albopictus. His words, not mine. I wouldn’t confuse it. I’d swat it, step on it or fumigate it.

  Catherine Trobert sent everyone in our WOW group a recipe for her apple tarts because, heaven knows, we didn’t have enough to do.

  Then there were the spam e-mails I couldn’t delete fast enough. Bank offers. Clothing deals. Coupons for places in the city I wouldn’t see for at least nine or ten months.

  At the bottom of the list, there was an e-mail from Rosalee. Sent late last night. It read, “The skinny one looks an awful lot like Kelsey Payne, but it can’t be him. He’s in AA. The other one looks vaguely familiar. Which one had the fight with Roy Wilkes?”

  I e-mailed back, “The vaguely familiar one,” and called it quits for the night.

  The next day, Sunday, turned out to be a repeat of yesterday, minus the stopped-up sink and toilets. Huge crowds and boisterous people, two things that meant booming sales. Who was I to complain? Everything in the tasting room was moving at breakneck speed, including me. All of that, however, came to an immediate halt the moment Lizzie waved me over to the cash register.

  In addition to ringing up sales, she also answered the phone. Mainly because the winery’s relic of a wall phone was right behind the counter where she worked.

  “Norrie! It’s urgent. Really urgent!” Her voice sounded even more shrill than usual. Fortunately, I had just finished a tasting for ten or eleven people and was on my way to the kitchen with a tray of dirty glasses.

  “Be right there.” I rushed into the kitchen and put the tray on the sink counter. No time to load it into the dishwasher.

  Lizzie thrust the phone’s receiver at me. “I think it’s Rosalee Marbleton. Something about murdering a butterfly.”

  I faced the wall as I took the call. “Rosalee, what’s up? What’s going on?”

  “I know he’s in here. The murderer. She handed me the monarch butterfly.”

  “Who? Who’s she? You said ‘he’s in here.’ What are you talking about? Where are you?”

  “A customer. In the tasting room. I’m here. She had the flowerpot stake in her hand. That means the murderer is here.”

  “Did you call the sheriff’s office?”

  “No. You need to get here first.”

  “Okay, fine. Stay calm. I’m on my way.”

  The second I hung up the phone, I told Lizzie to call the Yates County Sheriff’s Office and tell them there’s a problem at Terrace Wineries. Ask them to send someone.

  “What if they want me to be specific?”

  “Tell them we got an emergency call and if they want specifics, they need to send a deputy to Rosalee’s tasting room.”

  Before Lizzie had a chance to say another word, I elbowed my way out of the building and ran up the hill. My hand tremored slightly as I reached into my pocket and pulled out my keychain. Minutes later I was in my car at the bottom of our driveway, waiting for the road traffic to slow down so I could get across Route 14 and pull into Terrace Wineries. The wait time was enough for me to clear my head.

  If I decoded Rosalee’s ramblings correctly, someone found the murder weapon in her tasting room. No wonder that woman was hysterical. Finally, the traffic started moving and I was able to get going with what I hoped was a break in this case.

  Judging from Terrace Wineries’ parking lot, they were having a banner day, too. I grabbed the first spot I could find, slammed the door, and raced into her tasting room. The building resembled a Swiss chalet, complete with a huge deck and white balcony that circled the entire structure. Winery barrels with potted geraniums, snapdragons, pansies, petunias, and coleus framed the entranceway.

  I rushed inside, not knowing what to expect. Then, in a moment of clarity, I did something that ordinarily I wouldn’t think of. That was because when I was dealing with someone else’s catastrophe, I was levelheaded, unlike the scatterbrain I tend to be when faced with my own disasters.

  Standing perfectly still at the inside entrance, I began to take photos of the tasting room with my iPhone. The large windows, with their curtains pulled to the sides, gave off enough lighting to ensure my pictures would be clear. I zoomed in on tables, counters and everything in between.

  Suddenly, someone tapped my shoulder, and I spun around. It was Rosalee.

  “Don’t stand there like one of the tourists, do something!”

  “I’m trying,” I said, keeping my voice deliberately low. “I’m photographing evidence. One of these people might be the killer.”

  Rosalee took me by the arm and ushered me into a small foyer near the office. “The butterfly garden stake…the one that was missing…it turned up. A customer wanted to buy it. When she got to the cash register, Tiffany, our salesclerk, sent her to me since there was no price tag.”

  “And that’s when you called me?”

  “More or less. I think I scared the poor woman.”

&nb
sp; “What makes you say that?”

  “Because I gasped and may have said something about a murder weapon.”

  I tried to stay focused. “Then what?”

  “Then she dropped the thing on the counter and left without saying a word.”

  “Look around, is she still in the tasting room?”

  Rosalee patted herself on the chest, took a breath and spun her head around. “Yes. Yes. That’s her! Over by the souvenirs. Middle-aged woman with frosted hair. She’s wearing a floral blouse.”

  I didn’t know how Rosalee was able to spot the woman so quickly because I was struggling to find someone with frosted hair and a floral blouse.

  Rosalee gave me a nudge. “Now she’s moving to the wall with the jewelry.”

  “I see her. Look, you stay here and I’ll have a word with her. Even better, wait out front. The sheriff’s office will be sending a deputy. You might be better off talking to him or her while you’re outside.”

  “I didn’t call the sheriff. Didn’t want to make a scene. You’re the only one who knows about this.”

  “Not anymore. I called them.” I didn’t want to get into the fact it was actually Lizzie who placed the call because then Rosalee would want to know what Lizzie knew and I didn’t have time for all that nonsense.

  Before she could say a thing, I sprinted across the room and tapped the frosted-haired lady on the arm.

  “Pardon me, I hate to bother you, but it’s really important.”

  She stared at my Two Witches T-shirt but didn’t say a word.

  I went on, “It’s about that flowerpot stake you wanted to buy.”

  “Not anymore. That woman in charge was really rude. She insinuated I was going to use it as a murder weapon. Can you imagine that?”

  Oh yeah. At this point I can imagine anything.

  “Um, yeah, well, about that…um, where did you find it? Was it with the other little souvenirs?”