Chardonnayed to Rest

by J. C. Eaton

  My message was short and to the point. “Gladys, it’s Norrie. I need to know more. Call me on my cell.”

  I recited my number and took a breath. Not that this news was a particular game changer, but it was important. It meant that someone, other than me, knew Kelsey Payne was innocent. And that someone was David Whitaker’s son, of all people. I remembered reading that David Whitaker had two grown sons, but couldn’t remember if they lived at home or not.

  Again, I tore through the pages of the Penn Yan phone book but came up empty.

  What did I expect? It’s the twenty-first century. Everyone has a cell phone.

  With less than two hours left of the Federweisser, I figured I’d better get back there. At least I could find Theo and tell him about the call. I gave Charlie a few biscuit treats and locked the door behind me.

  Once I was back in the tasting room, I looked all over for Theo. I couldn’t believe it was possible, but the crowd seemed to have swelled. Cammy, Glenda, Roger, and Sam were all swamped, not to mention the part-time college students, who were also assisting with the tastings.

  Lizzie and her helper were also mired under with customers. That, at least, was the good news for the day. No blue windbreaker sightings, but a red banner day as far as sales were concerned.

  I blew past the tasting room tables on my way to the tent when, all of sudden, Godfrey Klein raced toward me. He was carrying a small cooler meant for a six-pack.

  “Norrie! I’ve been looking all around for you! Can I please put this cooler in your kitchen or another safe place?”

  “Uh, sure. Don’t tell me you brought your own drinks?”

  “Drinks? No. These are the ladybird beetles I need to release in the evening. They have to remain dormant, so they’re in this cooler with the appropriate cooling element. I didn’t want to trouble you by asking if I could put them in your refrigerator.”

  Oh thank God! “Come on. You can put them in my office. They’ll be safe there. They won’t escape, will they?”

  “Not unless someone opens the chest. Still, it would take a few minutes for them to adjust to the temperature and become active.”

  When Godfrey set the small chest under my desk, I noticed the warning label affixed to the top. It read, “Caution—Live Insects, property of Cornell Entomology Department.”

  Thank goodness he told me it was ladybird beetles. The cutesy factor outweighed everything gross I’d come to expect of insects.

  “Have you eaten yet?” I asked. “Or tasted the wines?”

  He shook his head.

  “Come on. You’d better taste the sausage and try the Federweisser before we run out. The crowd’s much bigger than we expected. Oh, I should’ve asked. Are you with other people from your department? Or friends?”

  “No. I spent most of the day working and when I stood up to stretch, I noticed the time and figured I’d better get over here before the event closes.”

  “You’ve still got plenty of time.”

  “Er, uh, look, I don’t mean to pry, but I sure hope you informed the authorities about that fudge.”

  I nodded and mumbled, hoping he’d let it go. Then I tapped him on the elbow and motioned for him to follow me. “Come on, it’s shorter to get to the barrel tasting and sausages if we go outside and walk past the parking lot.”

  Godfrey surveyed the area as we walked downhill. “Impressive. Absolutely impressive. I’d love to see your winery’s plan for dealing with agricultural pests.”

  “Pests? Huh?”

  “Sure. You’ve got your chewing insects like the cutworm or the berry moth. Oh, and let’s not forget the root borer.”

  Naturally. Better not forget that one.

  “And then there’s the sucking insects like mites and leafhoppers.”

  “Yeah, leafhoppers. I’m sure our vineyard manager has a plan.” Spray it, fumigate it, burn it, whatever. “I’ll, uh, look into it and get back to you. Well, here we are! Federweisser today and then after more fermentation, Chardonnay.”

  “I imagine you know quite a bit about winemaking, considering you grew up here.”

  I grimaced. “I should, shouldn’t I? But I don’t. I mean, I do have a general background but truthfully, I was never into winemaking or growing grapes. Not like Francine. I was always too busy holed up somewhere reading.”

  Godfrey laughed. “Now I don’t feel so bad. I come from a long line of dentists. That’s right. Prosthodontists, endodontists, you name it. And the family members who aren’t dentists are oral hygienists. Growing up, I had more toys that consisted of those silly false teeth than anyone I knew. And every Halloween I got a new toothbrush kit. Can you imagine? My parents still haven’t gotten over the disappointment that I chose entomology as my career and passion. But honestly, think about it—would you want to stick your hands into someone’s mouth? It gives me the creeps.”

  “And the bugs don’t?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t enjoy getting bitten, but I’ve always been fascinated by them. And please don’t get me wrong. I certainly don’t want them infiltrating my house, but studying them is a different story entirely.”

  I didn’t know what it was about Godfrey Klein, but for some inexplicable reason, it was really easy talking with him. He was close to my age and not full of himself, like so many of the guys I’d dated. Then again, he was into bugs.

  “I left your name with our bistro and tasting room crews. All meals and drinks are on us. I really should get back to work. The grill is straight ahead, and you can’t miss the polka tent.”

  “Thanks, Norrie. I’ll pick up my cooler when the event closes. Plenty of time for me to get to the community gardens by dusk.”

  “Great! Lizzie or Cammy will let you into the office. They have the key. Have fun!”

  I had to find Theo and let him know about Gladys Pipp’s phone message. And why David Whitaker’s son? Shouldn’t he be more concerned about his missing father? And speaking of missing people, Erlene Spencer practically had a meltdown at the sheriff’s office from what I heard, but then again, she didn’t seem all that broken up when she was flitting around with Rosalee’s sister, Marilyn. Maybe her anguish comes and goes in spurts.

  Then I had the strangest thought. Something that should have occurred to me days ago. Something only Gladys Pipp could answer.

  I took the short walk back to the tasting room via the parking lot. Alvin was in his glory, getting petted by two little boys, and I was glad John had made a large sign that read, “Please do not feed the goat. We are not responsible if he throws up on your clothes.” Nothing like getting right to the point.

  The tasting room was buzzing with customers, and the energy was palpable. I wove in and out of the crowd, focused on finding Theo. The noise level took some getting used to, but no one seemed to mind. In fact, they all seemed to be chatting at once. That was why I didn’t hear my cell phone right away. Or at all, for that matter.

  A man standing next to me gave me a quick pat on the arm. “I think your phone’s ringing.”

  Oh my gosh. It has to be Gladys Pipp. “Hello! Hello! Hold on a second! Give me a second to get out of this crowd!” I elbowed my way through the customers until I was outside the building. It had gotten cloudier but no wind or rain. I looked at the screen on my phone and shouted, “Hi, Gladys! Thanks for calling me back.”

  “Of course. So, what do you think? David Whitaker’s son. Why would he be concerned about Kelsey Payne?”

  “That’s why I wanted you to call me back. Did you hear anything else? Did Deputy Hickman say anything after Richard left?”

  “Not to me, he didn’t. But I did hear him telling one of the deputies that he thought the kid, meaning Richard, knew where his father was.”

  “Knew where he was or is actually hiding him? The possibility exists that David Whitaker killed Roy Wilkes.”

  “What are you s
aying?”

  “This is kind of third-hand knowledge, but Roy Wilkes might’ve been sleeping with David Whitaker’s wife. Richard’s mother. There’s a motive for you—jealously. Or revenge. Take your pick.”

  “Or lunacy. Roy Wilkes doing the nasty with the wife? Have you ever met her?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Honey, I don’t like to speak ill of people, but any one of those mules my uncle Ralston has on his farm in Dundee would’ve been a better choice. And much more personable. The only interest Deputy Hickman has regarding the Whitaker family is a missing person, not a possible jealous husband and murderer.”

  Strange thought, hell. I think I’ve pieced something together.

  “Gladys, is David Whitaker’s disappearance the only one that’s been reported?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Oh my gosh. Is his wife Erlene Spencer?”

  “In the flesh. Erlene Spencer Whitaker, but she kept her maiden name.”

  “That explains it. That’s why I thought, well, quite frankly, everyone thought there were two missing people.”

  “Only one.”

  “Thanks, Gladys, for cluing me in. I really appreciate it.”

  “No problem. Sorry I couldn’t make your event today, but by the time I got out of work, my feet were killing me, and all I wanted to do was throw myself on the couch. Hope you understand.”

  “Absolutely. Have a good weekend.”

  Deputy Hickman might get more than he bargained for if he was tracking down a missing person who turned out to be Yates County’s only killer in what? The past God-knows-how-many years. Well, aside from the other murder on my property this summer. Where would the kid hide his dad? Especially if they all lived under the same roof with Erlene breathing down their necks.

  A few yards away from where I was standing, the crowd sang along with the band. It was a mishmash of words but I did hear “roll, barrel and fun.” I pictured Franz pouring wine from our barrel, but I doubted he was having fun. We had a little more than an hour left, and I was resigned to the fact that my plan was a total bust.

  Miserable, I walked directly to the entertainment tent, hoping the music would cheer me up. When I stepped inside the tent, the “Beer Barrel Polka” had ended and one of the MCs announced a new line dance for the occasion—the “Picnic Polka.” As soon as I heard the first few notes, I recognized the song from my nephew Shane’s wedding. (At least we referred to him as our nephew even though he was Jason’s relation.) Right toe, left toe, shuffle, shuffle, whatever.

  I took a seat at one of the tables, propped my elbows up, and watched. At first only a few brave souls took to the platform stage, but within minutes, that number had doubled. For the most part, people danced along to the music with light, lively steps. Except for two women who all but stepped on everyone’s toes. And that was no easy feat, considering it was a line dance. I leaned forward to get a better look at them when I realized it was none other than Marilyn Ansley and Erlene Spencer.

  Granted, Erlene’s husband was AWOL and not dead, but should she really be having that much fun? Most people I knew went nuts if their cat went missing, and here’s this woman acting like what? The Merry Widow one day and Ophelia the next? She ran hot and cold like a faucet.

  I was about to leave the tent when, all of a sudden, a man I thought I recognized strode across the platform and yanked Erlene off to the side. If his voice was any louder, it would’ve loosened the tent fasteners.

  “You, you Jezebel! You made Dad take the fall for you!”

  Dad! So this kid is Erlene’s son.

  Suddenly, everyone stopped dancing and turned their attention to Erlene Spencer, who told the guy to “hush up.”

  The Polka Meisters, not sure of where this was going, decided to switch tunes and began to play the “Chicken Dance.” And not only play it, but play it in such a way as to drown out Erlene and her son. Unfortunately, it had the opposite effect. The two of them got louder and the dancers more energized. It was like watching some bizarre competition, but what? It was anyone’s guess.

  Chapter 29

  “He had to get the hell out of town, thanks to you,” the son said. “Were you going to sit back and wait while they arrested him?”

  Erlene, who was still on the platform, only off to the side, threw her hands in the air. “If you haven’t noticed, your father wasn’t arrested, that handyman of Rosalee’s was.”

  Meanwhile, the “Chicken Dance” got louder and louder. People were clucking, snapping fingers, and shaking their collective booties. It seemed, with each verbal assault coming from Erlene or her son, the clicks, snaps and shakes intensified.

  “We both know he didn’t kill Roy Wilkes,” the kid shouted.

  More clucking music. Amplified this time.

  The music made my head spin as I tried to process what was being said. I felt as if I had walked into a feature film an hour late.

  Erlene pointed her forefinger and poked it into her son’s chest. “How did you know I’d be here?”

  Now clicking music. I thought my eardrums would explode with each click, click, click.

  “I didn’t! The only thing I knew was that you’d be within a four-foot radius of wherever your friend Marilyn was. And since I knew her sister was Rosalee Marbleton from Terrace Wineries, I called and asked her. That’s when I found out how close Norrie Ellington was to catching the real killer. That’s right, Norrie Ellington, the owner of this winery. That’s her, right over there. She looks exactly like the description Rosalee gave me.” He pointed to me, and I thought I’d retch.

  And then, in a flash, the shake, shake, shake of chicken “booties” from the dancers as Erlene Spencer shoved her son away with the push of a hand and charged toward me.

  “You tell me what you know right now, missy, or someone’s going to be sorry.”

  Again, my mind was total sludge. I had no idea why Erlene Spencer was going after me.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

  By now, she and her son were only a few feet from me and I got a good look at the guy. For a split second, I thought I was seeing things. It was the same guy whose photo I took at Rosinetti’s bar that night. The night Cammy called me insisting I rush over there because she was sure she had seen David Whitaker. At the time, Cammy and I thought the skinny kid might’ve been Kelsey Payne because he resembled Cal, but a few nights later, one of the bartenders overheard him talking to a girl and she called him Richie. My brain was now on fast-forward and, oddly enough, things were beginning to make sense.

  “Oh my God!” I shrieked. “You’re Richie—Richard Whitaker. David Whitaker’s son. You’re the one who went to the sheriff’s office!”

  And then, a thunderous crescendo as the “Chicken Dance” reached its frenetic conclusion. The band immediately began playing a more traditional polka song, but no one was dancing. Instead, they were all gathered around a more interesting spectacle—the Two Witches Winery version of the Family Feud.

  Richard ignored my outburst and took a step forward, effectively blocking his mother from lunging at me. I leaned to the side so I could see the expression on Erlene’s face as her son continued with his diatribe. “You were having an affair with Roy Wilkes and Dad found out. How could you?”

  “Is that what you think? An affair?”

  “I don’t think it, I damn well know it. Why else would you sneak off to meet him?”

  We were suddenly interrupted by the MC’s voice. “Grab your polka partners, everyone, for the ‘Polka Twirl Around.’ And if you don’t have a partner, grab the nearest person.”

  The music started up but, instead of partners pairing up, the crowd was vying for a decent spot near us. I bit my lower lip, moved forward and bumped Richard so I was face-to-face with Erlene. “Not here! Not in the middle of the entertainment. You need to take this family squabble out
side.”

  Preferably in the next county.

  Marilyn, who had been pretty quiet up until that point, tapped Erlene on her shoulder and said, “Maybe it’s best if we go outside. You don’t need to make a spectacle over some rumor your son heard.”

  “Rumor my butt!” Richard yelled. Then he turned to me. “According to Rosalee Marbleton, you’ve got the whole thing figured out. Well, I’ve got news for you. My dad’s not about to take the blame for something he didn’t do.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but it was too late.

  Erlene slapped Richard across the side of his face with such a wallop I swore I could feel the sting. “You blithering moron. We’ve got a patsy sitting in the jail. Why couldn’t you leave well enough alone? And where’s your father, by the way? Hiding out until the coast is clear? Like he did when he delivered that classified information to one of Beecher Rand’s competitors? I was the one who had to clean up that mess for him.”

  Holy cannoli, the patent infringement or whatever it was called. Yikes—our beloved school board member was a real bottom feeder.

  Erlene’s voice had reached a fever pitch. “You tell me right now where that lowlife scoundrel is hiding. Do you hear me? The whole county’s out looking for him. Tell me now!”

  “Like hell I will.”

  With those words, Richard bolted out of the tent, followed by Erlene, Marilyn, and a few onlookers.

  Meanwhile, I fumbled for my cell phone and pushed speed dial for Theo. “Up the hill. They’re heading up the hill. Hurry. Get to the front of the tasting room building.”

  “Norrie? Who’s running? Who are you talking about? What’s going on? The blue windbreaker?”

  “Erlene, that’s who. And Marilyn. Only I think she’s innocent. And Richard.”

  “Who?”

  “Long story. Possible killers. Hurry. I’m moving as fast as I can.”