Pinot Red or Dead?

by J. C. Eaton

  I groaned and went back to work on the screenplay, stopping a few times to stretch and to make sure Charlie was doing okay in his doggie run since hunting season officially started this morning. Now the poor Plott Hound was relegated to being under house arrest. He could go from inside to a fenced-in area but couldn’t roam freely, the way he did the rest of the year.

  Alvin’s pen was located adjacent to the winery’s tasting room building and our parking lot, so I knew he’d be safe. Still, our vineyard manager posted bright orange warning signs around the fence, so it would be visible from a distance. They read, “Caution—Farm Animals.” I was half tempted to cross off the “s” and add the word “spits” instead, although it seemed like I was the only one afforded that treatment by the goat.

  It was almost dark when I emerged from my writing to answer the landline. It felt like every muscle in my body was tight, and my stomach was grumbling because the last thing I’d eaten was a snickerdoodle.

  “Hello, this is Norrie.”

  “Did you catch News at Five on Channel 13?” It was Stephanie—and she was talking a mile a minute.

  “Um, no. I was working. What happened?”

  “They made it official. Our wine distributor’s death was ruled a homicide. The news anchor went on and on about why the sheriff’s department made that determination. Honestly, I don’t have a degree in forensics, but I could’ve put two and two together.”

  “What was it?”

  “Common sense. Duh. They explained about the powdery marks on the victim’s neck and went on to say that someone fired a twenty-two from a close distance—close enough that the shooter clearly knew he was aiming at an individual and not a clump of trees or something.”

  “That’s what we’ve been saying all along.”

  “I know. I know. Now maybe they’ll start investigating. Frankly, I’m getting un-nerved with all these dead bodies showing up. I keep having horrible nightmares that my boys are going to go out to play and wind up crawling over a corpse in our backyard.”

  “Yeesh.”

  “Anyway, thought you should know. I already spoke with Madeline and she watched the news. She also said she was going to call Rosalee and Catherine. I told her I’d ask you to let Theo and Don know.”

  “No problem. Thanks, Stephanie. I’ll catch you later.”

  “Don’s got the six o’clock news on now,” Theo said when I called him seconds after hanging up with Stephanie. “Hold on a sec, will you?”

  He asked Don if they’d reported it yet.

  “So,” I said when Theo got back to the phone, “what’s the verdict?”

  “They mentioned it as a teaser when the news first came on. According to Don, they said there was new information about the man found in our winery ditch. If we all hurry, we can catch it at the same time.”

  “On my way. Talk to you later.”

  Sure enough, Stephanie was right. They gave Arnold’s name, occupation, and cause of death. The news anchor followed up by directing the audience to call Silent Witness if they had any information. Then they showed an aerial photo of Two Witches Hill, probably archived on Google Maps. To make matters worse, they zoomed in on the Grey Egret and then Two Witches. I’ve heard that even bad publicity is good publicity but in this case, I wasn’t too sure.

  Chapter 10

  Unfortunately, I had to wait until Friday night to get the dirt from Bradley. If he’d say anything—client confidentiality and all that. Of course, Bradley wasn’t the only means I had of securing information. Gladys Pipp, secretary at the Yates County Public Safety Building, would toss little tidbits of information my way on occasion, and I always thanked her by dropping off jars of Francine’s jams and jellies.

  Thanksgiving was only a week and a half away, so I figured Gladys might enjoy some currant jam. Besides, I needed to drive into Penn Yan anyway to pick up Charlie’s bulk food from the Grain and Feed Farm Store. Our vineyard manager offered to send one of the guys, but they had enough to do with winter pruning. At least the early snowfalls had stopped, and we were back to normal Finger Lakes November weather—cold and dreary.

  Gladys was at the front window when I walked in at noon the following day. She looked up from the computer monitor and adjusted her rhinestone eyeglasses. “Norrie, what brings you here? Is that jam I see?”

  “Uh-huh. Thought you might enjoy it at Thanksgiving. I had to pick up dog food at the grain store and I knew I’d be right down the block from you.”

  Gladys laughed. “You don’t fool me, but I can never turn down your sister’s jams. So, does this have anything to do with that wine distributor’s death? I’m wagering it does, since the guy was found on your hill. I’m not sure if I can tell you anything you don’t already know from watching the news or reading the paper.” Then she looked at me for a second. “Or on whatever device it is you millennials carry around with you. See, I’m up on things, too.”

  I chuckled. “It’s a long story, but I’ll speak fast.”

  “Relax. Your favorite deputy’s not in the office.”

  “Whew. Here goes—and you cannot repeat this. Promise?”

  Gladys moved her index finger across her lips and leaned closer to the window.

  We were the only ones in the front office, but I still looked around before I spoke. “Arnold Mowen’s attorney is Marvin Souza in Geneva. I found out that Arnold left specific instructions not to have his will read for twenty-nine days, during which time certain people were to be contacted.”

  I left out the part about the man’s demand for memorialization because it was way too weird, and anyone could walk in at any time. “So,” I continued, “I want to know if you know who Deputy Hickman is interviewing. Suspects? Persons of interest? Names on Arnold’s contact list?”

  “I don’t know who he’s interviewing,” Gladys said, “but I do have his weekly schedule in front of me.” Then she gave me a wink.

  “Just tell me, other than Lavettia Lawrence, Clayton LeVine, and Miller Holtz, who else is he grilling?”

  “You should quit your day job and come work for us. There’s only one more entry, but I don’t show a name. All it says is Penn Yan Airport—private plane.”

  “When?”

  “This afternoon. Three fifty-one. Flight out of Buffalo. Not as exciting as when Congresswoman Nancy Pelosi’s plane landed here a few years ago. We were the closest airport to Seneca Falls, where she was inducted into the National Women’s Hall of Fame.”

  I tried not to roll my eyes. “Is there any other information about the plane? The recent one, not Nancy’s.”

  “None that I see. Oh, wait, there is a small note. It reads ‘per Marvin Souza.’ Hmm, that’s the name you mentioned. The attorney. Interesting, huh?”

  “I’ll say! Anyway, I’d better get a move on. If I don’t see you, have a happy Thanksgiving!”

  “You, too, dear. And I hope they catch whoever murdered your nice wine distributor.”

  Nice wasn’t exactly the word I’d use for Arnold Mowen, but go figure. Gladys was bound to learn all about him soon enough. Meanwhile, I couldn’t exactly go traipsing off to the small, private airport, especially if Deputy Hickman was there. There was only one thing I could do—tell Bradley I knew all about the private plane’s passenger and see if he would fill in the blanks. Ugh. It was only Wednesday. A long wait.

  At least Gladys didn’t mention the winery owners. We all had motive, too, and some of us, like Theo, Don, and me, had means and opportunity. I tried not to think about it, but I knew eventually, it would cross Deputy Hickman’s mind as he probed further and further into Arnold Mowen’s murder.

  I was particularly antsy the next two days as I anticipated my conversation with Bradley. It was business as usual at the winery. The tasting room crowds slowed until the next “Deck the Halls around the Lake.” Cammy and the crew didn’t need my help, and it was just as
well. I had deadlines looming over me, and I wasn’t about to miss them.

  On Thursday I touched base with Franz, and he told me they had finished bottling the reds. Labeling would wait until winter. He also mentioned running into Leandre, Rosalee Marbleton’s winemaker, who was losing his mind over the possibility of something happening to his wines.

  Leandre discovered that two other wineries at the upper end of the lake had compromised Pinot Noir barrels as well. Those wineries were in the Seneca County jurisdiction. A different sheriff’s department but the same distributor.

  “Whoever is behind this wants to ruin us all!” he lamented to Franz.

  I had to admit, Leandre probably wasn’t too far off. In fact, his take bordered on that short-lived theory of Theo’s the other day.

  “By the way,” Franz said, “Leandre liked that idea of yours. They’ve made the swap already, just in case. With treated water.”

  “Will they be able to tell if it’s tampered with?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “It’s a start. Not that I want more trouble to find its way to Rosalee’s, but maybe if someone does mess with that barrel, they’ll be dumb enough to leave prints.”

  “We can only hope.”

  It felt as if Friday would never get here, but sure enough it did—with a spring-like break in the weather that had every hunter royally annoyed. Apparently, the hardened snow afforded them the opportunity to follow deer tracks. The ground was now a mushy, muddy mess strewn with leaves. Charlie reveled in it. He rolled, dug, and even snorted the stuff, leaving his messy paw prints all over the kitchen floor.

  After running the mop over it for a third time, I gave up and turned my attention to picking out a decent outfit for my dinner with Bradley. Between Francine’s closet and the small wardrobe I’d brought, I finally settled on a cream cowl-neck top over black leggings. My favorite mid-calf boots pulled the ensemble together. Now all I needed to do was gather the information Bradley had and compare it to what I already knew.

  I’d only been to Port of Call a few times with Theo and Don, and it was always during the summer when we sat on the huge wrap-around deck. The interior, as I discovered that night, was equally impressive in an elegant, homey way. Cushioned captain’s chairs in groups of four, six, and eight surrounded the round tables. A giant gas fireplace, not too different from the one we had at Two Witches, stood against the only wall that didn’t have a picture window.

  Bradley picked me up at a little past seven, hoping we’d avoid the usual dinner crowd that arrived after eight. We sat across from the fireplace, and had a gorgeous view of the lake and an even more stunning view of the lit-up airport runway. It was the perfect opportunity for me to get right to business.

  “Wow,” I said. “The airport’s got the runway lights on. Must be they’re expecting a corporate jet. They don’t do that for little old Piper Cubs. You know, I found out Deputy Hickman was over there the other day. You wouldn’t happen to know which VIP he was meeting, would you?”

  “Boy, you don’t miss a beat, do you? It’s like sleuthing is in your blood or something. If you must know, he was meeting with one of our clients.”

  “Client or murder suspect?”

  “Client for now. And no, I’m not at liberty to divulge a name. Come on, check out the winter menu. It’s spectacular.”

  “Fine. I’m more interested in Arnold’s will anyway. You got off the phone in such a hurry, I never did find out who else thought they were going to inherit the business. And before you answer, I’ll spare you the breath. It was Miller Holtz, wasn’t it?”

  Bradley looked dumbfounded. “What? No. At least not as far as I know. But if he’s on the list, that’ll make three. Well, five actually, if you want to get technical.”

  “How do you figure that? And who?”

  “More like what—A triumvirate of nuns from the Holy Sepulcher Convent in Lodi.”

  “Nuns? Did he distribute holy wine to them?”

  “No. He was their former student. Went to school there until he was ten. Then who knows where. Anyway, dear little Arnold wrote them a letter before he left telling them that, when he grew up and had a business of his own, he would leave it to the convent in his will.”

  “You have got to be kidding me. That can’t possibly hold up in court, can it?”

  “Not in my book, but according to Sisters Mary Katherine, Gloria Mae, and Celeste, it does and it will. No pun intended.”

  “Holy cow! I’ll have the rosemary chicken with new potatoes.”

  “So, why did you think it was Miller Holtz?” he asked.

  “Because Miller made it a point to call the Seneca Lake wineries to tell them he was ‘next in line.’”

  “Not if Lavettia has anything to say about it.”

  “How do you think she’ll stand up to those nuns?”

  “Sister Celeste can be quite feisty, but her claws don’t scratch like Lavettia’s. All I can say is I’m going to have a good supply of Tums and aspirin when we read that damn will. And, by the way, that rosemary chicken sounds good. Think I’ll order it, too.”

  “All of those people are tearing into Arnold’s will like some families do with the Thanksgiving turkey. What about his funeral? Did anyone even hold a funeral? I haven’t heard anything. Not that I expected to.”

  “It’s only been five days, but Lavettia informed our office it would be a private burial with a public celebration of his life to be scheduled following the reading of the will.”

  I all but choked. “She wants to make sure she’s inheriting the whole lock, stock, and barrel before she commits to celebrating anything. Yikes, if the business goes to those nuns, or, worse yet, to Miller Holtz, Lavettia won’t be grieving over the grave, she’ll be spitting on it.”

  “Yeah, I had the same thought.”

  The rest of the evening was the date Bradley probably intended it to be. We talked about ourselves and our interests. Like me, he grew up in the Finger Lakes, so winter skiing was on his to-do list. We agreed to go to Bristol Mountain when the season officially opened. No doubt the guy could get my pulse racing with a mere touch, so why, of all things, did Godfrey Klein keep popping into my head? It wasn’t as if we needed to identify an insect in our food.

  When I got home that night, I realized the juicy tidbit about the nuns more than made up for not getting the information I wanted about the mysterious plane passenger. Two seconds after tossing my bag on the couch, I got on my laptop and Googled the Holy Sepulcher Convent. The results nearly knocked me out of my chair. Whatever happened to vows of poverty?

  The Holy Sepulcher had a thriving bakery business—cheesecakes and specialty tarts. They sold their goods in boutique restaurants in all five boroughs in New York City. But that wasn’t what grabbed my attention. A small article appeared in The Villager, an online news source for locals in the city. Apparently, the Sisters were excellent bakers, but they were lousy investors. Their business was on the verge of going under unless they received a substantial boost in revenue.

  What better way to avoid losing their business, I thought, than to inherit Arnold Mowen’s business and the monies that went with it. Would those God-loving women really commit murder? Especially if their claim to the will was written by an underage kid who probably wanted to avoid being held back?

  The tangled web seemed to get bigger and bigger, but no one was any closer to solving it.

  * * * *

  “Nuns,” I said to Theo and Don the next night when we got together for pizza at their place. “Nuns! Of all people!”

  “It’s like a soap opera leading up to the reading of the will,” Theo said. “I’ll laugh if more people claim to be Arnold’s beneficiary. By the way, what did you make of that thread on the Seneca Lake news forum? The one entitled ‘Pinot No-more?’ Is that supposed to be a take on Pinot Noir? Very funny. Someone’s digging into the win
e sabotage, and I’m not all that sure it’s a reporter.”

  “Of course it’s not a reporter,” Don said. “The forum is for every kook and nutcase on the lake to voice his or her opinion about something. If I want the real news, I’ll read it on their website, or any other news agency’s site.”

  Theo looked at me and then back at Don. “Nutcases or not, whoever wrote that opinion piece knew what’s going on. They claim none of this is coincidence or the result of disgruntled individuals, thieves, or vandals. They believe it’s a covert operation meant to drive up the price of next fall’s Pinot Noir, since it won’t be on the market until then. Let’s be honest, the Pinot Noir we’ve bottled was outstanding. No, even more than that, it was spectacular for all of us on this side of the lake. All of the elements were in place—climate, soil, grapes, and winemaker skill.”

  “But there’s still plenty more of that wine,” I said. “Those rats didn’t get everything.”

  Theo plopped his elbows on the table and leaned forward, his head barely resting on his hands. “Don’t you see what’s happening? Articles and opinions like this are going to crop up all over social media. When the buzz starts, there’ll be no stopping it. Restaurants, hotels, fancy liquor stores…all of them will be jacking up the price on that wine. They’ll create the illusion of a major shortage, even if it means they hold back some bottles for sale.”

  I opened my eyes as wide as I could. “You’re kidding?”

  “Wish I was. Everyone will make a profit except us. Dammit! We need to find out who’s behind it. My first thought was Arnold, but we can rule that out.”

  “I’ll tell you who it is,” I said. “After listening to the two of you, it’s pretty clear cut. It’s got to be the person who put a bullet in Arnold’s neck. Get Arnold out of the way, inherit his business, monkey with the supply and demand for a particular wine, and watch your profits multiply.”

  “Whoa, Norrie,” Don said. “What business school did you graduate from?”