Chardonnayed to Rest

by J. C. Eaton

  Not wanting to have a mess the next day, I bent down to toss the stuff back in his pen and saw a cell phone in the hay. An Android. Someone was probably going nuts without it. I flipped the thing over and read the name scrawled on the cover—Travis O’Neil, one of our vineyard workers and apparently the lucky one who got to feed Alvin. That ornery goat probably spat at him and Travis dropped the phone in a hurry to get out of there.

  Maybe I’d be in luck and Travis would still be working. I took off for the barn, sprinting as fast as I could. Only one truck was parked on the side of the building, and it belonged to the winery. Travis would have to make do without his phone until morning. Maybe his family had a landline and I could leave a message.

  No sense walking any farther. I turned and started up the hill when I heard a rustling noise coming from the back of the barn. Maybe the guys hadn’t left yet and had parked their cars out back. I skirted around the side of building and shouted. “Travis? Robbie?”

  No answer.

  Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a kid who was lurking around our wine barrel. So much for a makeshift fence. “Hey! What are you doing?”

  Before I could finish shouting, he got on one of those BMX street/dirt bikes and blew past me as if I wasn’t there.

  “Not on my watch, you don’t.” I screamed. “I know who you are and, boy, are you going to be in for it! I’ve got Deputy Hickman’s personal phone number on speed dial.”

  Suddenly, the bike skidded a full one hundred eighty degrees and a skinny blond kid, who didn’t look much older than ten or eleven, looked at me eye-to-eye. Without wasting a second, I took out Travis’ phone and made like I was about to place a call.

  “Wait!” he shouted. “Don’t! I’ll be grounded forever! I’m in enough sh—”

  He let the bike drop to the ground and came running over. “My dad’s gonna crucify me! He may act all nice to you guys at the wineries, but that’s because he has to, being the head of the association.”

  The head of the association. My God! This has to be Henry Speltmore’s kid.

  “Talk fast and tell me what you were up to behind our barn. And you better not lie about it.”

  The kid shrugged and let out a sigh. “Tagging, that’s all. Some of my buddies and me thought it would be funny to write stuff on the wine barrels.”

  “You? You’re the one who wrote ‘Chardonnayed To Rest’?”

  He swallowed and nodded. “Yeah. I kind of play around with wine names and see what I can come up with. Sometimes I write other stuff, too.”

  “Don’t! You can be arrested for that.” Damn. Pretty clever for a kid his age.

  He stood there for a minute and dug his hands in his pockets. “If you want, I can get a Brillo pad and scrub it off. I didn’t write anything today. I hadn’t even gotten to your barrels when I heard you.”

  “It’s already been taken care of. Forget it. Just don’t mess with our barrels again, okay?”

  “Geez, you’re sure a hell of a lot nicer than that crazy lunatic woman from across the road.”

  I figured he was referring to Rosalee. “What do you mean?”

  “Remember when that dead body showed up? I ditched school that day so my buddy and I could catch some sunnies and rock bass in the lake. We kinda pulled a switcheroo on my folks and his. I told my parents I was staying at Todd’s house and Todd told his parents he was staying at mine.”

  This kid was turning out to be a regular Tom Sawyer. My eyes widened and I kept listening.

  “Anyway, we cut through the woods to get to this neat fishing spot. Both of us had flashlights, but we turned them off once we got out of the woods and near the shore. That’s when that nutcase lady started yelling at us. Out of nowhere. What the hell, I mean, what the heck was she doing there? She started yelling we were trespassing and to go back where we came. I swear, that woman was louder than the train.”

  “Then what?” I asked.

  “Todd got all weirded out and was afraid she’d call the sheriff, so we cut back through the woods and found another fishing spot about a half mile farther down.”

  “Did that lady have any dogs with her?”

  “Hard to say. It was dark. She could’ve. No dogs barked, but that doesn’t mean anything. Sometimes they don’t bark and, all of a sudden, they take a piece out of your thigh. Maybe they killed that guy.”

  I laughed. “That lady was right. You shouldn’t’ve been there in the first place.”

  “You’re not going to call my dad, are you?”

  “No. By the way, I’m Norrie Ellington. I’m one of the owners of Two Witches Winery.”

  The kid held out his hand. “I’m Eli. Eli Speltmore.”

  Boy are you going to keep your father on his toes!

  “Nice to meet you, Eli. And if I were you, I’d write those puns in a notebook, not on our wine barrels.”

  He gave me a wink and dashed toward his bike. “Deal.”

  As I watched him take off down the driveway, I wondered why Rosalee never mentioned it. Then again, that encounter probably left her mind once Victoria spotted Roy Wilkes’ body. Too bad Eli and his buddy didn’t see anything.

  * * * *

  Once I got in the house, I made myself a ham sandwich, downed a Coke, and pulled up my laptop. As much as I wanted to get back to my screenplay, I had to get into Scranton’s Times-Tribune if I was going to get anywhere with my search.

  The entire process was worse than the first time when I centered on the Chicago Tribune and the New York Times, hoping to eyeball something earthshattering about Beecher Rand. I didn’t. The only thing I found was an article about a patent infringement. The writer insinuated that someone working for the company provided another company with classified information about one of their inventions. However, Beecher Rand was unable to track down the culprit, and, worse yet, the other company wasn’t located in the United States so the patent rights didn’t apply. The end result appeared to be a financial loss for Roy’s former employer.

  I kept hoping I’d run into human interest stories about the company and its employees. No such luck. By ten after eight, I was ready to stick a fork in my eye. I opted instead for a giant bowl of ice cream and some microwaved popcorn. The kind with the artificial butter Francine would never allow in her house.

  It was still early so I called Theo and Don to see if they were having any better luck.

  “We’re just getting started,” Theo said. “It was an exhausting day. How long are you planning on staying up?”

  “Ten, ten forty-five, maybe.”

  “Okay. If we run into anything worth noting, we’ll call you before ten thirty. How’s that?”

  “Sounds good.”

  The popcorn had made me thirsty, so back to the fridge I went. Regrettably, I’d posted some personalized inspiration posters there and, instead of inspiring me, they made my stomach churn. Especially the one of Conrad Blyth getting kicked in the rump with the header, “Will Your Screenplay Get Rejected Next?”

  After a fruitless hour and a half on my laptop, I reached the conclusion that Roy Wilkes was a ghost. Not a specter or spirit, but someone who simply made no mark on the industry he was in or the community he lived in. At least as far as the media was concerned.

  I threw myself on the couch and stared at the ceiling. That was the moment the phone rang with Theo’s exuberant voice at the other end. “We hit the motherlode!”

  Don was shouting in the background. “What do you mean we? I hit the motherlode. You found bupkis.”

  “What? What did you find out about Roy Wilkes?” I asked.

  Theo shushed Don. “Not Roy. David Whitaker. Were you aware he worked for Beecher Rand, too?”

  I tried to think back, but I was tired and my mind wasn’t cooperating. “Are you sure it’s the same guy?”

  “I’d bet money on it. There’
s a photo of him with the Kiwanis Club and it sure looks like the one floating around that says ‘Missing Person.’ He was getting some sort of an award and it mentioned he was a manager at Beecher Rand. Said he was married with two kids. Didn’t you find that out as well?”

  “Come to think of it, I did. On a Google search. But I can’t tell you which site. I looked at so many. But yes, married with two grown children. I think it was part of a description about him when he served on the board of education in Penn Yan.”

  “You know what this means, don’t you?”

  “Other than the fact the guy has a predictable and boring life?”

  “You must be tired. The guy worked at Beecher Rand the same time Roy Wilkes did. Duh! There’s got to be a connection. That would explain the altercation at Rosinetti’s Bar. Maybe this David Whitaker killed Roy Wilkes for whatever reason and took off before anyone got any the wiser.”

  “I’d better pull up Scranton’s Times-Tribune again and start looking under a new archival search. This time with David Whitaker’s name.”

  “Uh, you sound kind of tired and foggy. You know, it can wait until tomorrow.”

  “Actually, it can’t. My mind would be bouncing all over the place and I’d never get any sleep. Might as well finish what I started. Do you want me to—”

  “Call us? No offense, but even if you find out the guy was wanted for murder across the contiguous United States, wait until the morning. After seven.”

  “You got it. Oh my gosh, I can’t believe what you found out. I wonder what other secrets are lurking around Beecher Rand.”

  Chapter 20

  If ever there was a Horatio Alger story, it was David Whitaker’s. From a low level entry position to the apex of the corporate ladder, this guy catapulted to the top like nobody’s business. Why then, did he trade it all for early retirement in Penn Yan?

  My eyes were glued shut the next morning, and Charlie’s smelly tongue on my face didn’t help matters. I got up, poured him his kibble, grabbed some juice, and staggered back to bed, where I remained until nine fifteen, an hour considered late by winery worker standards, but the crack of dawn as far as I was concerned. Besides, I told Cammy I’d help out in the afternoon if they really needed me.

  “I don’t get it,” I said to Don, when I called him after getting up the second time. “David Whitaker seemed hell-bent to rise to the top of the food chain and then, poof! All of a sudden, early retirement in a village that pulls up the sidewalks at eight. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Maybe he got burnt out. It happens, you know. You said his children were grown. Maybe once he became an empty nester he no longer needed to prove anything.”

  “Maybe so, but there’s something off. Darn it. I wish I knew the Roy Wilkes connection.”

  “Are you thinking maybe Roy had something to do with David’s decision to retire?”

  “I don’t know what to think. Tomorrow I’ll make a call to their human resources department. Prospective employers are allowed to ask for employment dates.”

  “So now you’re their prospective employer? A missing guy and a dead man?”

  “Beecher Rand won’t know the difference. I can sound professional.”

  Don let out an annoying moan. “And to think the Academy Awards are wasted on actors.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Hey, how about joining us for dinner tomorrow night? Potluck.”

  “Great! I’ll unearth one of Francine’s vegetable casseroles for a side dish.”

  “Good idea. See you then.”

  Conrad’s face on the refrigerator haunted me worse than the Ghost of Christmas Past. I made myself a cup of coffee, toasted a frozen bagel, and got to work on my screenplay revisions. The “few thoughts” my script analyst sent my way had meant some serious plot changes.

  By quarter to one I was ready for a break and for something more substantial than a bagel. I rinsed off, put on clean clothes, and darted down the driveway to the tasting room and bistro. It was Sunday and Fred made amazing tomato and veggie frittatas on Sundays.

  I managed to sneak in the tasting room without anyone noticing me. Something to be said for the crowd of post Labor Day tourists. The bistro wasn’t too overwhelmed with orders but enough to keep Fred and his wife, Emma, busy.

  “Hey, Norrie,” Emma said. “I keep missing you. How’s it going?”

  Her long dark hair was pulled into a French knot that looked as if it was professionally styled.

  Instinctively, I gathered my shoulder-length hair back behind my ears and gave it a pouf. “I’m doing okay. Better than the folks at Terrace Wineries, I suppose.”

  “I heard they made an arrest. I overheard some people talking about it this morning. By the way, what would you like?”

  “The Sunday frittata, of course.”

  Emma gave a nod and walked over to her husband, who was at the grill. In a second, she returned. “I don’t know the details or even if it’s true, for that matter, but if they did arrest someone, that should make Mrs. Marbleton feel a whole lot better.”

  I didn’t want to get the gossip train moving about Kelsey’s arrest, so I simply nodded and grabbed a seat at one of the tables.

  A few minutes later, Fred brought over my frittata. “I’ve got all the food orders set for the Federweisser. In addition to the canapes, we’ll be selling sausage on rolls with sauerkraut or onions. The two college kids we have working for us on the weekends are really doing a decent job. We should be fine for that event.”

  “Make sure you’ve got enough of those sausage sandwiches. Remember, the WOW group is comping lunches for the bowlers and quilters.”

  “Don’t worry. I already factored it in when I placed the order. Sure you’re going to need that crew? I mean, if what Emma overheard is true, then the killer was arrested.”

  “Someone might’ve been arrested, but until we know for sure, the bowlers and quilters will be on the lookout for a blue windbreaker without a hang-tab in the front.”

  “You got it! Oh goodness. I turned my back for a minute and there’s a lineup at the counter. I’d better get back to work.”

  “Thanks, Fred! Have a good day!”

  The warm juices from the small cherry tomatoes gave a sweet taste to the egg and cheese mixture and I took my time savoring it. Then I glanced at the tasting room and got a knot in my stomach. I’d told Cammy I’d help out if they needed me, but I really wanted to get back to my screenplay. I walked into the tasting room as slowly as I possibly could without coming to a complete halt.

  She spied me immediately. “You’re off the hook! We’re doing great. No need for the relief table today. Next weekend may be another story, but we’re fine this afternoon.”

  “Yay! I’ve got a zillion changes to make on my screenplay and lots of back writing.”

  “Huh?”

  “More changes, only earlier in the script.”

  “What about your other paperwork? The Roy Wilkes investigation? Were you able to find out anything else last night?”

  “Not me, but Don did. It turns out Roy Wilkes and David Whitaker both worked for Beecher Rand. One guy turns up dead, the other disappears. It can’t be a coincidence. Tomorrow morning I’m going to call the company and find out their dates of employment.”

  Cammy furrowed her brow. “Beecher Rand isn’t about to give you that information.”

  “They will if I sort of stretch the truth and tell them I’m the owner of a winery and I’m conducting background checks for future employees.”

  “That’s not stretching the truth. That’s fabricating it!”

  “Stretching. Fabricating. I really need to start somewhere.”

  “You better hope whoever you speak with hasn’t read the papers lately. Especially the crime section and the obituaries.”

  “True, true, but for all they know, those guys co
uld’ve applied for the job weeks ago and maybe we’re just slow around here. If they say anything, I’d act shocked.”

  “Now you’re beginning to sound like Lizzie.”Cammy lowered her voice. “Are you aware she ran off little ‘sightings’ sheets for all of us in case we see anyone with that blue windbreaker? But Glenda’s really topped the cake.”

  “Oh no. I’m almost afraid to ask. Not another séance?”

  “Nope. That would be too easy. She believes we can channel the negative energy from the murderer if he or she sets foot in our winery.”

  “Please don’t tell me it involves lighting anything on fire.”

  “It doesn’t. She wants everyone to dose themselves in some sort of spiritual oil. Something about putting it behind our ears and on our wrists.”

  “That doesn’t sound too bad.”

  “The stuff smells like rotten herring. She gave me a whiff from her little vial.”

  “If it smells that bad, then what’s it supposed to do when confronted with negative energy?”

  “It will turn black on the skin.”

  “Oh hell no. Absolutely hell no. We’ll stick to the bowlers and quilters.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Honestly, none of my friends back in Manhattan would believe any of this. What was I saying? I couldn’t believe it either. I left the tasting room and went back home to finish what I had started this morning—addressing the “few thoughts” my script analyst sent. Thoughts that took me over three hours to rework into the script.

  At least I felt productive, but it was short-lived. My cell phone rang and I picked up. I didn’t think it was a winery problem because they usually called the house first or, in the case of the vineyard guys, pounded on the door and yelled.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi. Is this Nomie?”

  “Nomie?”

  “That’s what my note says—Nomie. It’s written in pencil on the back of a gas receipt and it says Two Witches.”

  The back of a gas receipt. My brain flipped back to the conversation Theo and I had had well over a week ago with the petite blonde who was renting the blue ranch house on the lake. I had jotted off my name and number in case she or her housemates remembered anything about the morning of Roy’s murder or about the night before. Maybe one of them had seen something suspicious.