Pinot Red or Dead?

by J. C. Eaton

  “I see. Hang on. I’ll get your lunch.”

  A few minutes later I pulled up the zipper of my ski jacket and walked outside. We might not have snow yet, but as far as I was concerned, it was cold enough to rival the North Pole.

  Chapter 2

  The stunning array of autumn foliage disappeared overnight. Instead of a breathtaking view of reds, golds, and greens, I saw barren trees jutting up between the pines. Yep, it was November all right. Unlike Manhattan, where I had to rely on storefront windows to distinguish the seasons, in the Finger Lakes everything was left to nature. I rubbed my hands together and took long strides from the tasting room parking lot to the winery building, where Franz Johannas and his crew worked. Charlie, the winery Plott Hound, must’ve seen me. All of sudden, he was at my heels.

  “You can wait outside,” I said to the dog when I got to the door, “because Franz will have a conniption if I let you inside. Heck, I don’t even think he wants me to go inside. They’re really fussy about contamination.”

  The dog stared at me with his enormous brown eyes until something got his attention and he raced back up the hill toward our house. I rapped on the winery door a few times and Alan, the assistant winemaker, opened it. I swore, except for his height, he looked more and more like his boss each time I saw him—red hair and horned-rimmed glasses.

  “Hi, Alan! How’s it going?”

  “Everything’s good from our end. Come on in. We’re almost done bottling the barrel-aged Pinot Noir. Boy, what a process it’s been to age the wine. Of course, Franz likes to do a few things old school and that’s one of them. It took all of us in the winery, plus a few of John’s vineyard guys, to tip the barrel up so it could be charred for a minute. A regular pyrotechnic event if you ask me. The end-product was worth it, though. Not to say our stainless steel with oak-charred chips doesn’t do the trick for most of our vintage. We still get the nuances in the flavors without all the drama.”

  “So, we wind up with two different Pinot Noirs?”

  “Uh-huh. The really expensive ones with our specialty label are designated for upscale restaurants in New York and Pennsylvania. Some are under exclusive contract. The rest are sold to retail outlets and modest restaurants and chains.”

  Just then Franz appeared from the lab and gave me a nod. “That was quick. You didn’t have to drive down from the house. It could’ve waited.”

  “What?” I wondered why he thought I drove. “What could’ve waited?”

  Franz gave me a funny look. “I thought you were here because of the message I left you a few minutes ago.”

  “No. I’m coming from the tasting room. What message?”

  Franz moaned dramatically. “I got a disturbing phone call from Gustav Geisler, the winemaker at the Red Salamander across the lake. Their shipment of Pinot Noir was stolen this morning outside of Waterloo. A truck hijacking. How utterly barbaric. And the Red Salamander wasn’t the only winery whose wines were taken. Three others had cases stolen too. All red wines, according to him, but mostly Pinot Noir. Hooligans. That’s what it was—hooligans.”

  “Guess those state troopers didn’t waste any time tallying up the losses. That’s why I came over here. Theo Buchman called me with the information. It was on the news, but I missed it. Franz, do you know who owns the wine distribution company we use and who our rep is?”

  “The same owner since the late eighties—Arnold Mowen. The joke around here is he’s the only man who can squeeze a nickel and get six cents. Undoubtedly, you’ve heard he lowered the rates he’s paying us for our wines.”

  “Um, yeah. Theo said something about that. Market fluctuation, I think.”

  Franz let out a dry cough and patted his neck. “Not market fluctuation. Greed. Anyway, you asked about our rep. It’s Miller Holtz. He’s been with the company for a few years. Strikes me as a real hustler but, then again, I suppose that’s the nature of the position. Alan’s met him, too.”

  I turned to Alan and waited for his response.

  He had just put his glasses back on, having wiped the lenses clean on his lab coat. “The guy’s high energy and a real talker, but I’m not sure if that qualifies him as a wheeler-dealer. He’s also a bit cavalier about things.”

  “Cavalier? I’m not sure I follow.”

  “I guess I’m referring to his attitude in general about wines. As far as he’s concerned, we might as well be selling grape juice to the local school cafeterias. Don’t get me wrong, he knows his wines. What he doesn’t get is what a tremendously detailed and difficult process it is to create stellar varieties. It’s all money as far as he and his boss are concerned.”

  “Hmm, do you think he would have an idea as to who might’ve hijacked their truck? Maybe he stiffed someone and they got even. Only they took everyone else along for the ride. Or should I say, the loss.”

  Franz gave a sharp stomp on the floor with his foot. “If he does, those troopers will grill it out of him.”

  “Listen, I need his contact information. I want to get in touch with him to see what precautions his company plans to take so something like this doesn’t happen again. We’ve had enough excitement at Two Witches since I arrived. Last thing I need is for our wine to go missing. Say, speaking of missing, where’s Herbert?”

  “Mandatory meeting with his advisor at Cornell,” Franz replied. “All of the interns have them. Something about job placements, from what he told us.”

  “Oh. I hope he doesn’t plan on taking a position elsewhere.”

  Alan shook his head. “Herbert has no intention of leaving us. He was tickled pink when he was offered a full-time position upon graduation.”

  “We’re the lucky ones to have him. He’s the first intern I’ve seen who was interested in producing great wines, not a great ego,” Franz said. “Hold on a moment and I’ll get you Miller Holtz’s information.”

  He walked into the small room that housed the winemaker desks and file cabinets. I hoped he’d be quick before Alan launched into some long-winded explanation about wine making. I was wrong.

  “So, as I was saying before Franz walked in, during the aging process, we use medium toast chips in our stainless steel barrels. We soak them in fabric sacks and allow their woody aroma and vanilla tones to permeate the wine.”

  Hurry up, Franz, before I go brain dead. “Um, that’s very interesting.”

  “Notwithstanding, the desired effect is much better achieved with our French oak barrels. We’ve got two of those. When your father and the former winemaker started out, they were undecided about using American oak or French. I’m glad they chose French. American oak tends to produce wine that’s so bold as to be considered overpowering. Of course, that’s only my opinion.”

  “Um, uh, well…Oh, here comes Franz.” I charged over to our short, stocky winemaker and took a business card from his hand.

  “Miller left us a few of these,” he said. “It’s got all the information you need.”

  “Thanks. I’ll give him a call tomorrow. I imagine he’s besieged right now by the east side wineries. At least the businesses are insured, but still…”

  “I know,” Franz said. “It’s disturbing.”

  I was about to say goodbye and head for the door, when I thought of something. “When are they planning on picking up our cases for distribution?”

  “According to the calendar, it’s scheduled for next week. That’s why we’re going nonstop on bottling the reds. Listen, this was most likely a one-time thing. I seriously doubt the thieves will try again. Besides, I’m certain our distribution company will ratchet up its safety precautions. Plus, the state troopers will also be on the lookout. If you ask me, those hooligans plan on selling it on the black market to pay for their drug habits.”

  “Don’t you find it odd that the only cases they took were red wines?”

  “Maybe those were easier to reach. It was a theft, r
emember? Not a lot of time to peruse wine cases.”

  “I suppose. Anyway, I’ll call Miller Holtz. If I learn anything more this week, I’ll let you know. Thanks, Franz. You too, Alan. Have a good afternoon.”

  I closed the door behind me and started up the hill. In retrospect, I should’ve taken off my jacket in the winery building because I was freezing by the time I got to the house. Even Charlie must’ve been cold outside because he was snuggled up in his bed in the corner of the kitchen when I walked in.

  “You’ve only got one more week of freedom, dog, because after ‘Deck the Halls around the Lake,’ deer season starts. Well, it officially started with bows, so maybe I should’ve clarified.”

  The dog got up and ambled over to his food dish. I automatically poured out some kibble. “What I mean is, when hunting season starts, I have to lock the fence to your doggie area, so you won’t be able to run through the woods.”

  With the zillion reminders and instructions Francine had left for me, deer season was ingrained in my head. True, we didn’t allow hunters on our property, and our woods were marked clearly with no trespassing signs, but that didn’t stop crazed enthusiasts in the past. I wasn’t about to take any chances. Besides, half the time Charlie was sleeping in his bed or mine.

  “So,” I asked. “What do you think about that truck hijacking?”

  The dog let out a burp and went back to his bed. I moved Miller Holtz’s business card around in my hand for a few seconds and made myself a cup of tea. Frankly, if it wasn’t for our Keurig and the microwave, I would’ve moved out months ago. Favors or no favors.

  I wanted to get back to my real job of screenwriting with a draft that was far from completion, but instead I called Stephanie Ipswich from Gable Hill Winery. I knew she’d be stuck in the house with her twin boys.

  She answered on the second ring. “Norrie! I was going to call you later. Did you hear about the truck hijacking and wine thefts this morning? Check your winery email. Henry Speltmore from the wine association sent all of us a nebulous, and I might add, ridiculous letter about it. All he said was that the authorities were looking into the matter and that it would be prudent for winery owners to review their business insurance policies. Now there’s a vote of confidence if I ever heard one.”

  “I guess there’s not much he can really say. I know Lake-to-Lake Wine Distributors is the big company around here and everyone’s used them for years, but maybe things have changed.”

  “You mean in addition to them lowering our wine compensation rates? My husband was irate when he got that letter from the company. He and the owner got into it over the phone and, from the language that came out of my husband’s mouth, I was only too glad they weren’t face-to-face.”

  I took a breath, but it was more of a wheeze into the phone. “Whoa. That’s the third time today I’ve heard about this rate lowering thing. Francine and Jason must’ve known but didn’t say anything to me. Anyway, getting back to the truck hijacking…Could it have been an inside job? I mean, other than the winery workers who loaded the cases, who else would know what was on that truck? It wasn’t happenstance that it got hijacked. It had to be planned. Geez, I wish we knew more.”

  Stephanie let out a little hum before she spoke. “As soon as the news comes on at five, I’m going to watch it. Our pickup for twenty cases of reds is a week from today. Maybe the state police will have the thieves in custody by then. I’d hate to think this could happen again. Especially with our wines. Bad enough we’re losing money on the deal.”

  “Stephanie, is Lake-to-Lake the only distributor in this area?”

  “It’s the only one that goes into Buffalo and New York City. It’s an either-or with the other smaller distributors. Why? Don’t tell me you’re thinking of switching. Besides, Two Witches has a signed contract with them. We all do.”

  “No, it’s not that, but, well, okay, it’s two things: maybe we should be thinking about having multiple distributors for a broader outreach into other states. If our wines are spread out and something happens to one company, the other will continue selling and delivering our stuff.”

  “Hmm, that’s interesting. What’s the other thing?”

  “Aside from my thinking it could be a disgruntled employee or more than one, maybe another company wants to put Lake-to-Lake Wine Distributors out of business. What better way than to go after their goods?”

  “You may be on to something, but again, isn’t that what the state police will investigate? They don’t just man the roads. They’re involved in all sorts of criminal investigations. Uh-oh. Don’t tell me you’re thinking of getting involved with this. It’s not like tracking down a little clue like we did two months ago at your Federweisser event. This could be an organized crime thing, for all we know.”

  “Don’t worry. I wasn’t planning on sticking my nose into this one—unless it lands on my front porch.”

  “Yeesh.”

  I told Stephanie I’d see her at the next Winery of the West meeting, which was scheduled a week from Thursday. We chatted briefly about “Deck the Halls around the Lake” and how wiped out we were all going to be afterward.

  When I first arrived in June and discovered her neighbor dead in my Riesling vineyard, I had actually believed Stephanie might be a killer. Since then, we’d become good winery friends. She was the closest to my age, approaching-thirty-but-not-there-yet. So far, Stephanie hadn’t tried to fix me up with anyone, unlike Catherine Trobert who did so every time she mentioned her son.

  The news about the hijacking spread faster on the rumor mill and social media than in the newspapers and on television. It seemed as if everyone speculated about the incident, whether they were in the wine industry or not. Only one piece of information remained constant—the state police were working diligently to see where the wine had been fenced. Unfortunately, there were no leads by the week’s end. What we had instead was four inches of snow, which began to fall Friday morning and ended late in the day.

  “You think this is going to scare away festival goers?” I called out to Cammy as I opened the door to my office, adjacent to the tasting room. It was a little past ten, and I had broken my own rule of not leaving the house until I put in a decent amount of time on my latest screenplay. I had a good excuse. I was finally able to reach Miller Holtz from Lake-to-Lake Wine Distribution and he agreed to meet with me at ten-thirty.

  “If this was Washington, D.C., it might,” she said, “but not upstate New York. Stop worrying. This is nothing.”

  She was right. Even the schools would remain open. They only closed if it was a blizzard or an ice storm.

  “Our winery looks amazing. If our decorations don’t put customers into the holiday spirit, nothing will. I’m meeting with our new wine distributor any minute now, so if someone comes in looking for me, point to the office.”

  “You got it.”

  I booted up the office computer and, thanks to Lizzie’s help a few days ago, pulled up the spreadsheets detailing our wine inventory and distribution records for the past two years. Lizzie was a retired accountant who did the taxes for Two Witches. She also managed other money matters when she wasn’t working the cash register. When I met with her, she showed me the agreed-upon prices for each bottle of wine, per variety. The blends were notably cheaper, while the single varietals were pricier.

  It was up to the distributor to establish the retail cost, thus jockeying up the price tag. Not surprisingly, an eighteen-dollar bottle of Merlot might go for as much as ninety-five dollars in a fancy restaurant once everyone got their cut.

  Leaning back, I glanced at the light dusting of snow in our parking lot. At this rate, it would simply coat the ground. I was so engrossed in my thoughts, I didn’t hear Miller Holtz come in until he announced himself and I all but jumped.

  “Sorry. I thought you heard me walk in. One of your workers said I could come right in. I’m Miller Holtz and yo
u must be Norrie Ellington.”

  I stood and reached across the desk to shake his hand. He was tall, at least six feet, and looked to be in his mid-forties. Well-built, short brown hair, with absolutely no hints of grey, and a decent smile. Not bad looking, but not what I’d call a heartthrob. Good. I’ve had enough of those. He was wearing a Lands’ End navy-blue stadium jacket and grey slacks.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” I said. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

  His smile got wider. “Thanks, but no. If I wasn’t working and driving on these roads, I’d go for your wine. As far as coffee is concerned, I’ve already had more than two cups of java this morning.”

  He unzipped his coat and put it over the chair. Nice blue shirt that matched the ensemble.

  “I’ll give you a raincheck on the wine. Um, I really appreciate you driving over here today, especially in the snow. As I said when I spoke with you a few days ago, I’m managing the winery for my sister and brother-in-law this year. After that incident with your company’s hijacked truck, I want to be assured that additional precautions are in place so something like that doesn’t happen again.”

  “You and me, both. That incident took us all for a loop. I’ve been in the wine distribution business for nineteen years, and it was a first for me. Who’d imagine a van running the truck off the road and then threatening the driver with a gun? On TV maybe, but not on a small state road. Anyway, to answer your question, the company is no longer sending out single drivers. Not until the thieves are apprehended. We need to know if it was a one-shot deal or part of an ongoing operation.”

  “An additional driver isn’t going to stop armed thieves,” I said. And it was a van, after all.

  “True, but he or she may be able to call for help inconspicuously. Lake-to-Lake Wine Distributors is also considering self-defense training for drivers.”

  “Guess it’s a start. Tell me, who suffers the loss when something like that happens? The winery whose wines were stolen or the distributor?”