by J. C. Eaton
“No. That’s the funny thing. I found it on one of the windowsill ledges on the side of the building. The side that faces the lake. I had stepped outside to check out the view. I figured someone might’ve taken the cute little butterfly stake outside to look at it in the light and then changed their mind about buying it. So, they left it out there instead of bringing it back inside. Maybe they thought about shoplifting it, who knows? With all these crowds, it’s easy to do. Some people have no morals these days.”
“I’m really sorry about what happened. I’m a friend of the owner. I know she didn’t mean to disrespect you. Anyway, if you decide to buy anything, tell the cashier you’re entitled to a fifteen percent discount and if they have any questions, tell them to speak with the owner.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
I knew Rosalee wouldn’t want to lose a customer, and if people think they’re being treated badly at one establishment, they’ll simply go to another. The Seneca Lake Wine Trail had a fabulous reputation, and I intended to keep it that way.
Rosalee was standing outside scanning the area when I approached. The sheriff’s deputy hadn’t arrived yet, and I prayed to the gods it wouldn’t be Deputy Hickman.
So much for prayer.
I knew it was him the minute the car pulled into the lot. It all but skidded to a stop. At least I had time to let Rosalee know about the arrangement I had made with the frosted-haired lady.
No sooner had Deputy Hickman exited the official vehicle than I found myself standing directly in front of him. Rosalee trailed me by a few feet.
“Miss Ellington,” the deputy said in a most condescending voice, “why, why, why am I not surprised to see you here? Do you intentionally look for trouble or are you drawn to it like a moth to a flame?”
“Um, more like a wrong place at the right time kind of thing, or right place and wrong time maybe?”
He brushed me aside and strode toward Rosalee. “Perhaps you can enlighten me. Our dispatch said there was a problem at your winery.”
Rosalee cleared her throat, exaggerating each annoying sound. “The problem is, the murder weapon turned up in our tasting room. And if that turned up, then the murderer might be in there as well.”
I waved my hands at both of them. “Um, if I could say something, um, the murder weapon wasn’t exactly found in the tasting room, but it did wind up there. I spoke to the customer who wanted to buy it. She found it on one of the windowsill ledges that face the lake.”
I paused and pointed in the general direction of the building. Deputy Hickman strode over there like a cowboy about to inspect cattle. “This the spot?” he asked.
“Uh-huh. That’s what the customer said.”
He continued to look around as Rosalee and I stood there. Finally, he spoke. “I see there’s another set of stairs here leading off the balcony. It goes straight down to the lake. Quite possibly our killer darted up those stairs, stashed the murder weapon on that windowsill, where no one would see it right away, and took off. I’m calling my team to dust for prints.”
I took a step closer to him and clicked my teeth. Not a terrific habit to have. “I thought the forensics team checked the area.”
“The immediate area,” he said. “I doubt they went as far as the tasting room balcony.”
Yep, that’s a real confidence builder.
Rosalee, who had been pretty quiet up until now, looked directly at the deputy and spoke. “Must you send that team this minute? It’s going to disrupt business.”
“Mrs. Marbleton, I must remind you, so does murder. I’ll ask them to be discreet.”
“It’ll be all right,” I said to Rosalee. “Most of the customers are up front.” What I said next was meant for Deputy Hickman. “Maybe the forensics team could park around back. Much easier to get to the stairs.”
He didn’t say anything, but he certainly groaned loud enough before changing the subject. “The alleged murder weapon. Where, may I ask, is it?”
Rosalee put her hands over her heart as if she was about to swoon. “I left it at the cash register when I called Norrie. It’s got to be there. My employees won’t sell anything without a price tag. Unless someone stole it. Unless someone—”
“Let’s check it out. I’ll run in and you can follow.” Leaving no time for either of them to object, I darted around the side of the building and walked directly to the counter, where I spied the garden stake laying next to the computer monitor, its red and black butterfly wings pointing up. I stood off to the side, keeping my eye on it until Rosalee and Deputy Hickman entered the building.
“It’s right here,” I said as they approached.
The deputy unfolded a substantial plastic evidence bag from his pocket and, using a tissue, picked up the garden stake and put it in the bag.
“The monarch butterfly was my favorite,” Rosalee said. “But if it really turns out to be the murder weapon, I don’t want it back.”
“Understood,” Deputy Hickman said.
Then she crossed her arms and tapped her foot. “How do you propose we isolate the killer? It could be anyone in this crowd.”
“I seriously doubt our killer is in here sampling wine. My take is that he or she stashed the weapon on the day of the murder or maybe even the night someone was on your porch. Just stay alert for anything out of the ordinary.” With that, he gave us a nod and proceeded out the door.
“Guess I should be going, too, Rosalee. My tasting room crew’s probably going berserk with all the customers.”
She thanked me and I charged out the door, making a beeline for the deputy’s car. He had already opened the driver side door and was about to get in when I shouted to him.
“Wait! I need to ask you something.”
“Make it quick, Miss Ellington.”
“Did anyone come for Roy Wilkes’ body? You know, family…friends, maybe? For funeral arrangements. That sort of thing.”
“He left a trust and explicit directions for his burial. And that’s all I’m at liberty to tell you. Humrph. I’m not even sure I should be telling you that much.”
I shrugged. “The local papers will get that information eventually, but thanks.”
“Let us do our job. All right?”
“Absolutely.”
I made a mental note to call Gladys Pipp first thing Tuesday morning to find out what bank held Roy Wilkes’ trust. I figured if I knew where he did his banking, I might be able to enlist Marilyn Ansley’s coffee klatch crew for some help. One of those women was bound to work for the bank or know someone who did. All I really needed to see were Roy’s bank statements for the past few years.
As I started the engine to my car, I wondered what the penalty was for unauthorized access to bank records. A misdemeanor maybe? It couldn’t possibly be a felony. Then again, it might very well be a felony. I was way out of my league, but I wasn’t without resources.
Chapter 15
“Are you sure, Theo?” I asked that night when I phoned him and Don. Theo was pre-law in undergraduate school and, even though he never made a career of it, his background was pretty solid. Or so I thought.
“Geez, Norrie. I’d have to look into it. Those things are pretty tricky. Why do you need to know?”
I told him about one of Rosalee’s customers finding the alleged murder weapon and proceeded to fill him in on my ever-so-brief conversation with Deputy Hickman.
“So you see,” I said, “no one’s come forth to claim Roy Wilkes’ body. It’s been days since he was murdered. Shouldn’t some family member or friend show some interest? And get this, Grizzly Gary told me Roy had a trust with the burial plans all lain out, so to speak. It was filed at his bank.”
“I’m not sure where you’re going with this.”
“It’s simple. No one can be that much of a loner. There’s always some distant relative lurking in the woodwork
or, at the very least, a friend. I figured if I could track down Roy’s banking records, I might be able to see where his money was coming from and, in this case, more importantly, where it was going.”
“If you do that, I’ll tell you where you’ll be going—to jail. I’m not one hundred percent sure, but it has felony written all over it.”
“It’s not like I’m going to take any of the money. I’m only going to have a little ‘look-see.’ Besides, I thought you said it was tricky.”
“It is. There are zillions of felonies, but they all have something in common—a criminal record for the perpetrator. Listen, once this crazy weekend is over with, we can sit down and talk. Work our way around the sleuthing. Promise me you won’t do anything rash before we get together.”
“Don’t worry. After today, I hardly have the energy. If I did, I’d backtrack our steps when we took that walk the other day behind the vacant house. Now more than ever I’m certain Roy’s killer parked his vehicle on the Route 14 pullover. He didn’t say it in so many words, but Deputy Hickman thought our suspect might’ve stashed the murder weapon on Terrace Wineries’ deck as he or she was making a run for it back to the car. There’s a path that goes directly to that winery building from the lakefront.”
“If that’s true, then even more reason for us to believe that hang-tab came from our guy. So, when do you want to break down and share that tidbit with the sheriff’s department?”
“I don’t, but if we’re correct, I really could be withholding evidence. Terrific. Isn’t that a felony, too? The hang-tab’s in a safe spot, though. I put it in the kitchen drawer where we keep the potholders.”
“Norrie, I really think—”
“Don’t worry. I thought it, too, but I’ve got to give ‘Operation Quilters and Bowlers’ a chance to work the crowd at the Federweisser. If none of them can spot our suspect in the blue Eddie Bauer windbreaker, then I’ll confess all to Grizzly Gary.”
“I wasn’t going to suggest that. All I was going to say is that you might want to put that hang-tab in a place where it’s not likely to be removed by anyone.”
“Trust me. The potholder drawer is the last place I go and the few visitors I do have don’t cook.”
Theo laughed. “Get some sleep. You’ll need it tomorrow.”
It turned out Theo was right. Labor Day was horrific. All morning long I kept asking myself, “Where do these people come from?” And when I wasn’t doing that, I was muttering awful things about my sister and brother-in-law for talking me into this situation. Things that could not be said in polite company. Or any company, for that matter.
I knew it was bad when I couldn’t even catch a break for a cup of coffee. Fred actually had to deliver the coffee to all of us at the tasting room stations. By quarter to two, my brain was fried. I was certain of it. Like a robot, all I did was pour wine samples, put the dirty glasses on the rack, take out clean ones, and repeat the process.
My right hand, aka my pouring arm, worked automatically. No matter what was thrust at me, I poured wine. That’s why I did a double take when someone shoved a “Missing Persons” flyer at me. It was a middle-aged woman who somehow managed to elbow her way to my table.
“I’m going to all of the wineries,” she said. “My friend’s husband is missing. Please call the number listed if you see him. I thought maybe someone at a wine tasting station might’ve recognized him. Lots of people going through the wineries this weekend.”
Yep, understatement of the year.
The picture was blurry but it did bear a resemblance to the man at Rosinetti’s Bar. The one who Lizzie thought was David Whitaker when I showed her the snapshot I took on my phone. Then again, I was probably mistaken. I’d seen so many faces in the past thirty-six hours, I couldn’t be counted on to identify my own mother.
I took a cursory look at the flyer and said “sure,” not bothering to read the text. Then I told her to: “Give a copy to the lady at the cash register, too.”
The woman disappeared into the crowd and I resumed the tastings. With the exception of one restroom break, and thank God we had a private restroom attached to the office, I was at that relief station all day. Cammy had had the foresight to hire a cleaning crew for afterhours during the busy holiday weekends. Normally it was something the regular tasting room crew did, but as she pointed out, it would cost the same, considering the overtime. Plus, I wouldn’t wish that extra work on anyone. Especially our workers.
It was an eight-hour day that felt like eighty. When the last customer left the building and we locked the front door, I collapsed in the first bistro chair I could find. Lizzie was cashing out, but everyone else had the same idea I did.
“I’ll be pouring wine in my sleep,” Sam said.
Glenda glanced at him, leaned back, and stretched. “At least one part of your body will be moving. I don’t think I can feel my legs. I’ll need to surround myself with soft music and pleasant fragrances. I must get some sleep before I’ll even consider a warm bath. I’d hate to drown in my own tub from sheer exhaustion. That’s really my worst nightmare, you know, being found dead in my bathroom. If any of you find me dead in my bathroom, for the love of the universe, please move my body to the bed.”
“At the rate we’re going, we’re more likely to be found keeled over in the vineyard,” he replied. “But hey, good news! The next sideshow is two weeks away. We can all recuperate until then.”
“No one’s recuperating any time soon!” Lizzie shouted as she walked toward us. “Did you read the flyer? A former school board member is missing!”
Glenda’s legs miraculously regained feeling. “I sense foul play in the air. We simply must smudge this tasting room with lavender and sage.”
Sam burst out laughing. “Why not save the trouble and invite the Penn Yan Royal Order of the Moose to meet here? They all smoke cigars and pipes. That’ll clean out any malevolent spirits.”
“That’s not funny,” Cammy said. “It’ll also clean out our customers.”
I stood and walked to Lizzie. “Let me see that flyer for a minute. I must’ve left mine in the kitchen when I was cleaning up.”
She handed me the paper and I took out my phone. “Okay, folks, these might not be the best photos, but they look like the same man. David Whitaker, right, Lizzie?”
She nodded. “That’s him. But the flyer doesn’t give a name. Only a hazy photo. The text says ‘Have you seen this man? Missing since last night.’ There’s a phone number to call. A Penn Yan exchange. Look, I’m positive it’s David Whitaker from the school board and I’m doubly convinced his family reported it to the sheriff’s office. Unfortunately, the authorities have to wait forty-eight hours before they can do anything. Stupid, if you ask me. Heavens, the humane society begins to track down a dog immediately but as far as the rest of us are concerned, forget it.”
She had a point. Unless it was a child or an incapacitated adult, the forty-eight-hour rule applied. I knew. I used it myself in some of my screenplays.
My eyes darted back and forth from the flyer to my phone. “If it is the same man from Rosinetti’s Bar, then his disappearance might have something to do with Roy Wilkes’ murder. The two of them had some sort of altercation at the bar. Pushing and shoving. They got tossed out before it could escalate.”
“If you ask me,” Sam said, “it makes this David Whitaker guy a prime suspect in the murder.”
Yeah, a prime suspect that the sheriff’s department knows nothing about because I never shared that information.
I was getting deeper and deeper into that hole of knowing enough stuff to get me in trouble but not enough to solve a murder. I wondered if that was how most amateur sleuths felt. At least none of them were at odds with the local law enforcement. Oh, what was I saying? None of them were real. I knew I was desperately sleep deprived and totally worn out because I couldn’t even separate fictional detectives from the re
al ones.
“Norrie, are you all right? You look as if you spaced out for a moment.”
I rubbed my eyes and stared at Roger. He’d been on the listening end of the conversation and I prayed it would stay that way. Last thing I needed was another discourse on the French and Indian War.
“I’m fine. Just tired, that’s all. Well, I suppose we should lock up and get out of here while we’re still mobile.”
Like a defeated army, we exited the tasting room building. I watched the crew walk to their cars, turning once or twice to see what Alvin was up to. I imagined that obnoxious goat was exhausted as well, considering the ongoing attention he got all day from the customers. Glancing at his pen, I saw his grain bucket had been filled, his hay replaced, and the large water buckets filled to the rim. Nothing like room service for a goat. Too bad the vineyard guys didn’t make house calls.
In spite of the fact it was Labor Day Weekend, the vineyard crew kept working and the winemakers never left their lab and winery unattended. I knew Franz, Alan, and Herbert had all taken turns monitoring the initial fermentation process for the Chardonnay. Once the grapes had been crushed—or was it pressed?—they had to check sugar and acidity levels. Not once, but lots of times. Then the mad scientist process of adding things like yeast and enzymes. Essentially, while all of us in the tasting room were busy getting customers to try the wine, those three men were working their tails off trying to make it. And holidays like Labor Day didn’t translate into time off.
That was why it didn’t surprise me to see Franz’s and Alan’s cars still parked on the side of the winery building when I started up the road. For a brief second I thought about turning around and checking in with them. Needless to say, I changed my mind. I figured they didn’t need the interruption and I needed to throw myself onto the couch until the fog in my brain lifted.
I was so tired I literally went from the couch to my bed without even eating dinner or scanning my e-mails. I did remember, however, to feed Charlie. But that was only because he kept bumping my head as I tried to sleep. It was then that I realized the frightening truth about myself—I would make a terrible mother. Probably the kind that forgot to pick her kids up from soccer practice.
