Chardonnayed to Rest

by J. C. Eaton

  I awoke as the sun was coming up and made myself coffee, toast and a microwaved egg. A regular gourmet start to the day. The fog in my brain had lifted and oddly enough I felt energized. I put on my sneakers and went for a brisk walk around the vineyards, winding up at the winery lab. Franz and Alan were already there, and Herbert was pulling in. I stood on the gravel lot and waited for him to get out of his car.

  “How’s it going?” I asked.

  “I should be the one to ask you that. The tasting room parking lot looked like Times Square on New Year’s Eve.”

  “I think I poured wine in my sleep. Does that tell you something?”

  He laughed and took a step toward me. “You’ll be pleased to know I was able to take a steel wool pad and remove that graffiti from the wine barrel. Then I coated it with a bit of deck stain. It looks fine. Probably some foolish college prank.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “I’d be lying to you if I said yes. Franz is as nervous as hell and it’s rubbing off on Alan. Leandre from Terrace Wineries called him yesterday. The sheriff’s department has been questioning everyone over there about that murder. Not a one-time deal. They keep coming back with what they call ‘follow-up’ questions. Leandre told Franz they intend to broaden the search.”

  “Broaden the search?”

  “According to him, those deputies think Roy Wilkes might’ve had some connections with area winemakers. That’s what’s gotten Franz in such a tizzy.”

  “Connections? Area winemakers? How? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “It does if someone plans to start their own winery.”

  “Roy Wilkes? He was planning on starting his own winery?”

  Herbert nodded. “Leandre overheard two deputies talking. Roy bought an old house with lakefront property less than a mile from Terrace Wineries. It’s zoned commercial as well as residential, being lake property and all.”

  Drat! And I thought Theo and I were one step ahead of those deputies.

  “Go on.”

  “There’s not much to say. The deputies think Roy was making offers to the local winemakers and maybe one of the owners got wind of it and did the guy in.”

  “That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard. Even when that mega-winery tried to commandeer the local winemakers, the winery owners sought other means to deal with it. Besides, why should Franz be nervous?”

  “Because Roy made Franz an offer.”

  “But he didn’t accept.” Or he would have said something.

  “That’s because Roy was found dead the next day.”

  “And he thinks I might have had something to do with it?”

  “He saw your car pulling into Terrace Wineries just as the sun was coming up that morning.”

  “That’s because Rosalee had already found the body!” Dear God. And all this time Franz has been tiptoeing around me. “And, for your information, I wasn’t alone. Theo Buchman from the Grey Egret was with me. I wasn’t about to check out a dead body on my own.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “You can say that again. I don’t know how you’re going to do this, Herbert, but, for heaven’s sake, find a way to let your boss know I’m not the killer.”

  “Yes, indeed. Not the killer.”

  I shook my head and shuddered as Herbert turned and headed for the winery lab door. I don’t know what bothered me more, the fact that one of my employees thought me capable of murder or the fact the sheriff’s department seemed to be getting ahead of me when it came to tracking down who really murdered Roy Wilkes.

  Chapter 16

  Three days into the week and I was back to my normal schedule, if anything around here could be considered normal. With the huge Labor Day crowds gone, the regular tasting room staff would be able to handle the usual fall scene. I agreed to help out on the weekends but was adamant the weekdays were for my “real” job.

  It took some convincing, but Cammy had finally accepted the fact that my screenwriting actually translated into a paycheck. That said, I secretly felt as if I dangled precariously over a cliff, wondering if, or God forbid when, the axe would fall.

  Rosalee got a phone call from Deputy Hickman informing her that indeed, the butterfly flowerpot stake was the murder weapon. Whoever used it didn’t bother to wipe it off completely before sticking it on that windowsill.

  “What about fingerprints?” I asked when she called me on Wednesday. “Were they able to lift any prints?”

  “You sound like one of those crime show people. No, the deputy said they couldn’t find any viable ones. That was the word he used—viable. Now, the blood, that’s a different story. It definitely came from Roy Wilkes. I’m never going to be able to enjoy looking at those cute flowerpot stakes again.”

  “Yeah, it is kind of creepy. Is Marilyn still staying with you?”

  “God no! One night with my sister was enough. She’s back at her own place. Erlene Spencer’s husband took a powder and everyone’s going hog-wild looking for him.”

  “Took a powder? Cocaine?”

  “Don’t you know English? It means he took off. Gone. Erlene has no idea where he could be and she thinks the sheriff’s department is giving her the brush-off.”

  “Wow. That’s the second missing person in Penn Yan this past week. Have you ever met Erlene’s husband?”

  “Nope, but being married to her, I can understand why the man got up and left. I did mention how bossy she is, didn’t I?”

  On at least two other occasions. “Um, yeah. I think so.”

  “Maybe he got fed up and left the state. Marilyn told me he walked out of his last job pretty well set for life. Hurrmph. Until Erlene tracks him down and takes her share of his money. Or clobbers him to death. Whichever comes first. Heck, she’d give a Visigoth warrior a run for his money.”

  I tried not to laugh. “I know it was a crazy weekend, but did someone come around with a flyer for that other missing person?”

  “They must have because we found a few of those things in our tasting room. Posted one on the bulletin board near our front door. Posted it right next to the travel brochures. Why?”

  “Uh, I can’t really be sure, but that missing man looks like a man who was seen having a not-so-verbal altercation at Rosinetti’s Bar with Roy Wilkes. Happened a few days before your Corgis found Roy’s body. The only reason I know is because my tasting room manager is related to the owners of the bar.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me. The altercation, that is. Roy had a way of getting under people’s skin better than a tick. Still, not a reason to kill him.”

  “Did Deputy Hickman give you any indication of how far along they were with the case?”

  “His lips were sealed tighter than his ass. Pardon my French.”

  Rosalee certainly had a way of getting her point across. I told her I’d let her know if I heard anything, but I wasn’t being a hundred percent truthful. I needed to guard what little information I had and only share it with my confidants. In this case, Don, Theo, and Cammy. And while I really felt Rosalee could be trusted, I wasn’t so sure about her sister or her sister’s bosom buddy, Erlene.

  In an odd sort of a way, I felt badly for Erlene Spencer. Even if she was a bossy know-it-all who could wield a mean punch, according to Rosalee. No one deserved to have their life shattered by someone’s disappearance. Especially a spouse. Maybe it was what Rosalee thought—the husband wanting to end the relationship. It wouldn’t be the first time for something like that to happen. What surprised me the most was that there was no mention of her husband’s disappearance on TV. Or that other guy, either. The one Lizzie thought might be David Whitaker after seeing the blurry photo on that flyer. Then again, the Rochester and Syracuse stations had enough crime to deal with in their own cities.

  By Friday morning, nobody was any closer to solving the murder, or finding the missing persons,
for that matter. My gut feeling told me I needed to get my hands on Roy Wilkes’ bank statements if I was going to get anywhere with the case. In order to do that, I needed a plan. A plan that hopefully wouldn’t land me in jail. Then again, there’d be a bright side—I’d hire Bradley Jamison as my attorney.

  That night, over pizza and wings at Don and Theo’s place, I told them what I had in mind.

  “You want to WHAT? Impersonate a bank examiner? Are you insane?” Theo could hardly keep his voice down and Don wasn’t much help either.

  “Of the million and one things that could go wrong, let me begin with the most obvious—everyone in Penn Yan knows you. And the same could be said for Geneva.”

  Then Theo cut in. “You don’t even know what a bank examiner does. What to look for. What to ask for. And I don’t think they do it in person anymore. It’s all computer records that get sent to one place or another. Heck, I don’t even know.”

  “Are you two done? Because I really think I can pull this off.”

  The men looked at me and didn’t say a word.

  I clasped my hands together, propped my elbows on their kitchen table and grinned like the Cheshire Cat. “Roy Wilkes’ savings and checking accounts are at Union Star Bank. That’s where his trust is filed. Gladys Pipp told me. I really should send her a case of wine. Anyway, Union Star is a national bank, not a community bank, not a credit union. It’s a big conglomerate national bank, like Chase, Bank of America, or Wells Fargo. That means if I were to walk into a branch, say, in Rochester or Syracuse, no one would know me from a hole in the wall.”

  Theo glared. “Until you opened your mouth. Norrie, this is dangerous. Worse than your little scheme two months ago to trick those developers from Vanna Enterprises.”

  It was a reckless scheme and I had put everyone in our winery at risk. Still, I got results. Pretending to be a bank examiner seemed mild compared to what I had already done.

  “Like I said before, it’s not as if I’m stealing the money, or even embezzling it. I’m simply—”

  “Going to need a lawyer on retainer?”

  “Theo’s right,” Don said. “And here’s news for you—the minute Catherine Trobert gets wind of what you did, you can forget Bradley Jamison. She’ll have her son, Steven, fly or drive here faster than any one of us can say ‘Chardonnay.’”

  I felt a sudden cramp in my stomach and knew it wasn’t from the pizza. “So what do I do? There’s got to be a way to find out what Roy Wilkes was up to that got him killed.”

  Theo wiped some sauce off his chin and reached for another slice. “Try the real estate angle. We already know the guy bought that vacant house. And, thanks to the conversation you had with Herbert, we now know he was planning on starting his own winery.”

  “Guys, this doesn’t look good for Rosalee. I wonder what she’s not telling us. What if he made her an offer for Terrace Wineries and the sheriff’s department found out about it?”

  Don turned to Theo and then back to me. “So?”

  “They might put two and two together and come up with five. They might jump to the conclusion that Rosalee had him killed so he wouldn’t force her to sell by cutting off their water access. And it really doesn’t help that the murder weapon belonged to her.”

  “Hmm,” Theo said. “When you looked into the tax records from the assessor’s office, the taxes on that lakefront house were delinquent for a year and a half. Up until that point, everything was paid. Including the house. It was a cash sale. He didn’t have a mortgage on it.”

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “I did a little sleuthing on my own.”

  Don let out a slow breath that sounded more like a moan. “Don’t let him fool you into thinking he put a whole lot of effort into this. He made one phone call to the real estate agent who sold us the winery.”

  “It got results, didn’t it? Up until a year and a half ago, Roy Wilkes had money. And prior to that, he was able to buy property outright, including the Baxters’ land and that house. Something must’ve happened that made everything change. If we can figure out what it was, it might bring us a step closer to finding out what got him killed.”

  “I’ll tell you what I’d like to figure out,” Don said. “How come no one heard that motorcycle of Roy’s on the morning of his murder. Those things make some serious road noise.”

  It was the first time anyone had mentioned the motorcycle, other than Deputy Hickman, who informed us it was found near the crime scene. I figured everyone already knew the answer.

  “Oh my gosh. I can’t believe I can actually answer this, but I can. CSX. The train. You know, Conrail. The trains run up and down Seneca Lake. Heck, the railway tracks are just a few yards from where the pumping station is, and I know for a fact, very long and loud trains run past there every morning. They would most definitely drown out a motorcycle.”

  Or a murder.

  “Guess that would explain it,” Theo said. “Too bad it wasn’t a passenger train. No early morning witnesses. Only corrugated shipping containers from UPS to Walmart. Well, one mystery solved for the night. What do you say we move to the living room and make ourselves comfortable on the couch and recliners? If no one minds, I’ll turn on the TV and see what we’ve missed today.”

  All of us cleared the table, grabbed our drinks, and moved to the other room. Isolde, their large, long-haired cat was sprawled out across the three-cushion couch and was indignant when Don picked her up and plunked her in a chair. “Hurry up if you want the couch, she’ll circle right back if we don’t move quickly. I’m grabbing the recliner.”

  I settled in and leaned my elbow on the armrest. Theo took the other side and turned on the remote. Blue Bloods had ended and the news was next.

  “Shoot me if I have to watch another commercial for blood pressure,” Theo said.

  Don leaned back and sighed. “Just mute the damn thing.”

  We watched the endless stream of advertisements for cars, diarrhea, credit scores, and male performance-enhancing drugs before we heard the words, “This just in from our newsroom—no word yet on the disappearance of former Penn Yan School Board Member, David Whitaker.”

  “Lizzie was right! It was him!” I yelled. “The guy who had the fight with Roy Wilkes.”

  Theo gave my ankle a nudge. “Shh, let’s hear what they’re saying.”

  A photo of David Whitaker, that must’ve been taken when he was on the school board, flashed across the screen. It had the school district emblem on the wall in the background. The official orange and blue colors.

  The news anchor indicated that he had been missing from his home in Penn Yan since Labor Day Weekend and if anyone had any information, they were to call the Penn Yan Sheriff’s Department or Silent Witness. Two phone numbers appeared at the bottom of the screen.

  Other than the dates when David Whitaker served on the school board, nothing else was mentioned. The news quickly switched to a traffic accident on Jefferson Road in Rochester and Theo lowered the sound on the TV.

  “Coincidence or what?” he asked.

  Don shook his head. “The ‘or what’ depends on whether or not the guy had a relationship with Roy Wilkes. I mean, for all we know, they could’ve been complete strangers who argued over something at the bar. A sports team. Politics. It doesn’t take much for some people to get all worked up over that stuff.”

  Isolde left her spot on the chair, and made her way to my lap. I stroked her long fur and thought about what Theo and Don had said. “I Googled David Whitaker and came up with zilch. Family man, blah, blah. I suppose I could delve deeper.”

  “What about Roy? What did you unearth about him?” Theo looked straight at me and, for a second, I felt as if I was a little kid with my hand caught in the cookie jar. I remembered looking up the local newspapers for human interest stories that might include him, but I never got any further.”

&
nbsp; “Oh geez, I kind of got sidetracked.”

  Theo was relentless. “Where’d you leave off?”

  “I tracked down the local newspapers, hoping his name might appear. Especially since they do stories about Beecher Rand employees. That’s as far as I got.”

  “What papers?”

  “Um, Scranton’s Time-Tribune, The Morning Call out of Allentown and, uh, um… oh yeah, The Morning Times from Sayre.”

  Don chuckled. “No night owls in that part of Pennsylvania, huh?”

  “I don’t think they deliver evening papers anymore,” I said. “This is awful. I really dropped the ball.”

  Theo reached over and patted me on the shoulder. “Relax. You’re doing more than anyone. Three newspapers you said? Right? I’ve got an idea. We’ll divvy them up. You can have the one in Scranton and Don and I will fight over who gets Sayre and who gets Allentown.”

  “I’m doing what?” Don asked.

  “You’re helping Norrie. Each of us will do an archival search from one of those papers. See what we come up with. If we’re lucky, maybe we’ll find something that links those two men. True, it’s a longshot. We don’t have forensics or access to bank accounts or any of the manpower the sheriff’s department does, but we do have one thing.”

  I opened my eyes really wide. “What’s that? Perseverance? Determination?”

  “Boring social lives.”

  Chapter 17

  I had just put my cereal bowl in the sink and was reaching in the cabinet below for a new bottle of dish soap when the phone rang. The call wasn’t unusual for a Saturday morning, but the time was. It was only seven fifteen. I wiped my hands and picked up the receiver.

  This better not be toilets overflowing, Alvin breaking loose and running down the driveway, or the return of the seventeen-year locusts.

  “Hello?”

  “Norrie! Thank God you’re home.” Rosalee sounded more stressed than ever. “Kelsey Payne’s been arrested for murder. Those idiotic deputies think he killed Roy Wilkes. Poor Kelsey got hauled into the sheriff’s office a few minutes ago. His brother, Cal, called me from there. He won’t even be able to post bail until Monday. You’ve got to do something.”