Botched 4 Murder

by J. C. Eaton

  I hung up the phone and realized something—a new headache had started.

  Don’t miss the next Sophie Kimball Mystery!

  MOLDED 4 MURDER

  by J.C. Eaton

  is coming to your favorite bookstores and e-retailers

  in September 2019.

  And don’t miss

  A RIESLING TO DIE

  by J.C. Eaton,

  the first of the Wine Trail Mysteries,

  available from Lyrical Press

  and your favorite e-retailers.

  Turn the page for a sneak peek

  of this delightful mystery!

  Upstate New York

  The sign off to my right read Welcome to the Seneca Lake Wine Trail, and I knew in that instant I had lost my mind. What the hell was I thinking? I slowed the car for a split second and then picked up speed. It wasn’t that I minded doing favors for people, but they were always on the easy side. Picking up someone’s mail while they were gone, feeding a friend’s cat or taking a colleague to an appointment because their car broke down. But this? This bordered on insanity.

  My older, by one and a half years, sister, Francine, pleaded with me to “oversee” our family winery in Penn Yan, New York, for a year so she and her husband, Jason, who worked for Cornell University’s Experiment Station in nearby Geneva, could spend that time researching some godforsaken bug in Costa Rica.

  I wished I had never said yes, but Francine could be downright persuasive. Annoying, really. She called me three months ago as I was headed out the door of my tiny Manhattan apartment wedged between Nolita and Little Italy. An apartment I inherited from a great aunt because no one in our family wanted to live in “the city.” They equated it with drugs, sex, robberies and lunatics. Unfortunately, they were sort of right. But the advantages to living in a place that didn’t shut down at eight o’clock could be mind-blowing. Too bad my sister didn’t share my opinion. Her life revolved around that winery and now she wanted mine to do the same.

  “Come on, Norrie, you’re the only one I trust. It’s not as if you have to live in New York City. You’re a screenwriter. All you need is a laptop and a phone line. We’ve got those. Besides, it’s only for a year. One year.”

  “A year? A full year? That’s the life span for some species. Can’t Mom and Dad do it?”

  “You have got to be kidding me. The last thing Jason and I want is for them to come back from Myrtle Beach and undo everything we’ve done in the past five years. I thought Dad would never retire.”

  “The winery has staff. The winemaker, the vineyard manager, the tasting room manager, the bistro chef, the—”

  “Norrie, you don’t have to tell me who works for us. That’s just the point. They’re staff. You’re family. And, you’re part owner of the winery.”

  “A silent partner. I like it that way. You know as well as I do I’ve never been interested in the winery business. Not like you. You have a degree in hospitality and hotel management. Big surprise. Even as a kid you were the one who would go out in the winter to help prune the vines, or badger the winemakers to figure out how they made wine out of grapes. I’m the one who sat in my room writing. Remember?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “For your information, I’ve made a great career out of it.”

  “You can still do that. Only from Two Witches Winery instead of Great Aunt Tessie’s apartment.”

  That was another thing. The name. Two Witches Winery. It was located on Two Witches Hill in Penn Yan overlooking Seneca Lake. The hill was named after, you guessed it, two women in the eighteenth century who were thought to be witches. Unfortunately, Francine and I had to go through school with that moniker. Boys teased us relentlessly. “Which witch are you?” “Are you the good witch or the bad witch?” We begged our parents to change the winery name, but they refused. My dad said it reflected the history of the hill.

  As far as Francine and I were concerned, it reflected the prior owner’s refusal to think up something original and when my parents bought the place when Francine was born, the name stayed. But that didn’t mean I had to.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I really can’t do this.”

  “Can’t or won’t? If it’s because you think you’re not qualified, don’t worry. I’ll walk you through everything. Come on, you’ll still be able to write those screenplays and maybe living in the Finger Lakes will give you some new ideas.”

  “I’ve had twenty-nine years of Finger Lakes living already.”

  “Great. You can make it thirty. Please, Norrie? Please?”

  “I really, really can’t.”

  “Pleeze . . . pleeze, Norrieee.”

  The “eez” sounded like the worst whine I’d ever heard and, in a moment of sheer weakness, lunacy, really, I said yes. Now I was less than fifteen miles from Two Witches Winery and it was too late to turn around and go back to the city. I had sublet my apartment for a year and crammed all of my personal belongings into my small Toyota sedan. I took a deep breath and looked off to the right.

  Seneca Lake was in its glory. It was early evening in mid-June and its sapphire water, set against the deep green hills, was magnificent. A few sailboats dotted the shore. Time for happy hour at the lake’s numerous bars. It was idyllic all right, if a Norman Rockwell painting was what someone had in mind. For me, it was simply the place where I grew up. I picked up speed and continued to drive north, chastising myself for ever agreeing to do such a lamebrain thing.

  I was so deep in thought I was halfway up the lake before I knew it and almost missed the turnoff to our winery. A giant sign on the road read “Grey Egret Winery and Two Witches Winery to the right.”

  Grey Egret sat at the bottom of the hill. It was a small winery owned by the Martinelli family. I wondered which one of their kids got stuck continuing the legacy. Their parking lot was emptying and I glanced at the clock. Five fifteen. Most wineries closed at five. That meant I was spared making an entrance at Two Witches. I’d just head to the house.

  The vineyards on either side of the road seemed to stretch on for miles. Some belonged to us, others to Grey Egret. Other than the cars coming down the hill, it was one of those quintessential postcard scenes. I pressed on. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw what looked like a llama. Nope. Too fat. What the heck? It was on our property, too. Fenced in with the winery behind it.

  I don’t care what it is, I’m not taking care of it.

  The house was about a half mile past the winery, set back near the woods. I pulled into the long driveway and looked at the vineyards again. I had to admit, based on eyesight alone, Francine and Jason were doing a great job. Last thing they needed was for me to muck it up.

  A quick slam of the car door and I walked to the house. Francine must’ve glanced out the window or, worse yet, had sat there waiting. She hurried toward me. Tall, slender, with ash-colored hair, she had the look of a professional model without all the effort.

  “Norrie! Thank goodness. I was beginning to think you had second thoughts.”

  “I had third and fourth thoughts. Give me a day and the number will exceed ten.”

  She looked at me doubtfully.

  I gave her a hug and smiled. “I sublet the apartment. Even if I wanted to escape out of here, I’d have to wait out the year.”

  “Good. You won’t be sorry. Think of it as an adventure. Something new every day.”

  “Uh, yeah. Speaking of new, what’s that animal in front of the winery? Please don’t tell me it belongs to us.”

  “That’s Alvin. He’s a Nigerian Dwarf Goat.”

  “My God! He’s a dwarf goat? What do the regular ones look like? Camels?”

  “Don’t be silly. He’s really quite small for his breed. We got him two years ago. Jason thought it might be entertaining for the visitors, and he was right. When word gets out that a winery has great wine and is also a fun place for kids, people are more likely to visit.”

  “You’d better not tell me I have to feed him and clean ou
t his ... his what? A stall? A barn?”

  “He has a small house, but the vineyard guys take care of him. You can cross that off your list.”

  “Whew.”

  “Come on, you must be hungry. Jason threw a few steaks on the grill and I made some rice and ratatouille. He’s got an evening meeting with his colleagues at the station, so we’ll have lots of time to chat. Hold on. Let me get him. He can help you with your bags.” Francine took one look at my car and winced. “Pioneers crossing the plains didn’t take as much stuff. We have blankets and ... what’s that? Don’t tell me you packed a coffeemaker?”

  “It’s a Keurig. I don’t know how to use a real coffeemaker.”

  “You can relax. We own a Keurig, too. And we have a microwave and Wi-Fi and all sorts of twenty-first century stuff. It’s not like when Mom and Dad lived here. We even have satellite TV. No more antenna and three stations.”

  “Francine Ellington Keane, that’s blasphemous.”

  We both laughed and, for the first time, I didn’t feel as if I had made the mistake of a lifetime. Francine shouted for Jason and, after more hugs, the three of us carted my stuff into the house.

  “Hope you don’t mind,” Jason said, “we sort of took down the dorky daisy wallpaper from your old bedroom, removed the furniture, well, sold it, actually, and set up a new, modern guest room. Hey, there’s a queen-size bed in there now. That’s got to be a plus.”

  “Uh, sure. I haven’t slept in that room in what? Seven? Eight years? It’ll be fine.”

  It wasn’t as if I hadn’t seen my sister or brother-in-law in all that time. It was just I’d seen them at other locations. Or, to be precise, other events. Our cousin Marianne’s wedding in Pennsylvania, our nephew Shane’s wedding on Long Island and our uncle Phil’s funeral in Ohio.

  The one thing that stayed the same was the view from my bedroom window. Since the room was upstairs and at the front of the house, I could see clear across the lake. When I was little and we’d had a blizzard, I used to pretend I was living in the ice house from Doctor Zhivago.

  Francine and Jason did more than modernize my old bedroom. They totally remodeled the old farm kitchen and re-did the downstairs bathroom. They also added a small en suite to their room but left the old claw tub and turn-of-the- (gasp) twentieth-century bathroom; the one I was to use, as is. At least there was hot and cold running water.

  My sister tossed my goose-down pillow on the bed and shrugged. “We’ve got these, too, but I understand people like to sleep with their own. You can unpack later. Dinner’s been ready. What do you say?”

  * * *

  I scarfed down a perfectly grilled steak and dove into the fixings she had prepared. It was still warm outside, so we ate on the small deck behind the house. Nothing but woods and the edge of the vineyard. Jason had to rush off to a meeting so that left my sister and me alone to get caught up.

  Francine brushed a strand of hair from her forehead and leaned back. “First thing tomorrow, I’ll walk you through the winery. I made arrangements with all of the area managers to show you the ropes. Tomorrow you get to work with Cammy in the tasting room.”

  “Cammy? What happened to Tim McCauley, the prior tasting room manager?”

  “He retired over a year ago and moved down south to be near his kids. Cammy Rosinetti’s been with us ever since. Her family’s from Geneva and she knows the wine business in an indirect way. Her parents used to own Rosinetti’s Bar on Exchange Street.”

  “I thought that name sounded familiar.”

  “Listen, Norrie, I know things are moving fast and I hope you don’t get overwhelmed. Jason and I fly out of Rochester on Friday. That’s less than a week.”

  My voice sounded as if it would crack. “That’s three days. Not counting tonight and Friday.”

  “You’re a quick study. You’ll have this all under control by the time we head to the airport. Oh, hope you don’t mind, but you’ll need to drive us. In our car. The Subaru. Four-wheel drive and all. Use it this winter. Walden’s Garage will get the snow tires and studs on for you. You remember where that is, don’t you?”

  “Of course. On Pre-Emption Road. I may have been gone for a while but my memory’s still working.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound—”

  “Like Mom?”

  “Yeesh. There’s more, too, Norrie. I couldn’t get into all of it on the phone with you and tonight’s not the best time. We’ll talk about it tomorrow, okay?”

  “Is everything all right? Are you and Jason all right?”

  “We’re fine. Nothing like that. It’s business stuff. The winery. I’ll clean up and you should unpack. We’ve got the whole day tomorrow to talk.”

  I helped bring the dishes to the kitchen and wiped off the picnic table. “You can tell me anything, you know.”

  “That’s why I needed you to be the one to look after the place.”

  photo credit: Florine Duffield Photography

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  J.C. Eaton is the wife-and-husband team

  of Ann I. Goldfarb and James E. Clapp.

  Ann has published eight YA time travel mysteries.

  Visit their website at www.jceatonauthor.com.