by J. C. Eaton
When the man left, Cammy whispered, “You’re holding out. You know more about this stuff than you let on.”
“Not really. I just get stuck listening to Alan and Herbert all the time.”
We were in the final twenty-minute stretch when a woman with short curly hair in shades of brown and honey approached me at the cash register. She was wearing a black mid-calf winter coat and had one of those tan, black, and red tartan scarfs around her neck. Cammy had already closed everything down, so we could make a quick exit at precisely five-thirty.
The woman started to say something when her phone buzzed, and she stepped to the side. “Sorry, I really need to take this.”
I could hear her end of the conversation, even though I tried to be discreet.
“I know, I know. Why do you think I’m making the rounds? I’ll be home as soon as I can.”
“Sorry about that,” she said to me. “My husband insists that I buy up as much Pinot Noir as possible. You do sell it by the case, don’t you?”
For a second, I was stunned. “That would be over three hundred dollars. Are you sure?”
“Oh, I’m sure all right. Make it two cases. Red wines keep for years, unlike whites. Everyone in these parts knows what’s going on. The prices for next year’s vintage will skyrocket and none of us will be able to afford it. Pinot Noir is a staple for our Sunday dinners, not to mention Christmas and Easter.”
“Is this because of the wine hijacking a couple of weeks ago?”
“That, and the fact there’s a conspiracy in the works to limit the number of bottles on the market.”
Cammy, who was standing a few feet away from me, moved in closer as the woman went on.
“I know this for a fact. The woman who sits next to me in church has a son who happens to work in the industry. Let’s just say, he gave her the heads-up. If anyone would know, he would. Oh, do you have a way of getting those cartons into my SUV? I can move it to the front of the building.”
“Um…uh…sure.” I was so taken aback by what came out of the woman’s mouth, I stood there like a blithering idiot.
“No problem,” Cammy said. “I’ll get the dolly and load the cartons. See you out front.”
The woman handed me a credit card and, as I processed her purchase, I asked, “What part of the wine industry does this woman’s son work in?”
“Wine distribution. To listen to her speak, you’d think her son was about to own one of those companies.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know his name, would you?”
“I only see the woman at church, but she refers to her son as Scottie. It could be a nickname though. Oh my goodness. It really is getting late, isn’t it? I’d best be going. Thank you for all your help and have a happy turkey day!”
“What a terrific last-minute sale!” Cammy walked back through the doorway. “But maybe we shouldn’t be that ecstatic. That woman used the word ‘conspiracy,’ didn’t she? Even if there’s really no major shortage of the Pinot Noir, a perceived shortage will be enough to drive prices up. You know as well as I do, we can’t very well undercut the commercial businesses and restaurants that sell our wine.”
“It’s not our fault this is happening. I mean, sure, people are used to paying more for a bottle of wine in a restaurant than at our winery, but the distributor’s the one who works that deal out. The individual establishments set their own prices.”
“Arnold must’ve worked it out, all right, and look where it got him. Maybe the winery owners weren’t the only ones gunning for him.”
“Are you saying you think he was the mastermind behind all of this and that’s what got him killed?”
“If the Florsheim shoe fits…”
“But the wine sabotage continued, long after he was found dead.”
“Honey, didn’t you ever hear of the word ‘accomplice’?” Cammy asked.
I paused for a minute and bit my lower lip. “Looks like the trail of bread crumbs surrounding Arnold’s death gets more and more complicated. First, his murderer…now, his accomplice…unless…”
“Yeah,” Cammy said. “I thought about that, too.”
“Is the door set to lock?” I asked.
“Uh-huh. I did it as soon as I came in from loading the wine into that woman’s SUV.”
“Good. I’ll be quick. I need to write down the name on that credit card. Tracking down that woman’s source of information might not be a bad idea.”
“You’re going to find out what church she belongs to and attend one of their services?”
“Good Grief! No. I intend to show the name to Lizzie. She’s on the ecumenical council for the Tri-County area. She’ll be able to come up with something, I’m sure.”
“You never cease to amaze me, Norrie.”
We locked up and wished each other a happy Thanksgiving. “Eat hearty and hit the sack early,” Cammy told me. “Black Friday makes ‘Deck the Halls around the Lake’ look like a cake walk. You are coming to help, aren’t you?”
“Seriously? You think we’ll get that many people? The only thing we discount are our gift items and clothing.”
“Trust me. They’re not coming for our discounts, they’re coming to reward themselves after doing battle at the big box stores.”
* * * *
Thanksgiving dinner with Theo and Don looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting, beginning with the ginormous herb-seasoned turkey Don prepared, complete with chestnut dressing, fingerling potatoes, sweet potatoes, and a medley of vegetables, each in its own savory sauce. We paired it all with our semi-dry Riesling and their Chardonnay.
Charlie was invited to enjoy his own version as well—turkey juices poured over the kibble I brought. The guys felt bad that the dog had to be cooped up for hunting season, so they indulged him with gourmet food to compensate. Isolde was pampered, too—tiny morsels of turkey blended into her regular feline diet.
It was after five when we got to the Dutch apple pie and the French silk chocolate one. I told Theo and Don about the woman who bought two cases of Pinot Noir from us, and they said they’d had similar requests all week.
“Talk about panic mode,” Theo said. “The odd thing is, right now it’s giving us some income, but I think we’re in for a dramatic shift pretty soon. Lower comp rates and less inventory.”
I cut myself a small slice of the Dutch apple pie and spooned on some whipped cream. “Did either of you hear anything from Deputy Hickman?”
“No viable prints,” Don said. “Or we would’ve called you.”
“Same here. I figured as much. Listen, since we’ve crossed Lavettia off our list, we really should concentrate on Miller Holtz.”
Don groaned. “What a cocky son-of-a-gun, huh?”
Theo looked up from his dessert plate. “That doesn’t make him a killer. A jerk maybe, but not a killer.”
“Miller’s kind of a hard guy to miss,” I said, “but given that huge crowd for ‘Deck the Halls around the Lake,’ he could’ve slipped into our tasting rooms unnoticed. In fact, he could’ve been the other person in Arnold Mowen’s car. I was dead set on it being Lavettia, but maybe Arnold brought Miller along for the ride instead. Maybe Miller was the one who killed him. They never found the gun, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t take it with him. It was late in the day, so if he timed things right, no one would’ve noticed Arnold falling into that ditch. Too shadowy. Everything on the landscape blends together.”
“And then what?” Theo asked. “Miller’s going to stand around in the parking lot twiddling his thumbs?”
“Of course not. Same scenario as before, only with a different suspect. Miller would’ve taken one of the wine shuttles back to Geneva or wherever. I should have thought of this before. Those buses accept major credit cards and debit cards as well as cash. Most people don’t carry around that much cash. If Miller hopped on that s
huttle and paid for his ride with plastic, the bus company should have a record of it.”
I caught myself in mid-thought and paused. “Oh no. That means I’ll need to run this by Deputy Hickman. The bus company certainly isn’t about to share its information with me.”
“Got to admit,” Don said, “it’s a thought.”
“First thing tomorrow, like it or not, I’ll call him.”
As things turned out, I didn’t like it and neither did Deputy Hickman. I phoned the public safety building at a little past nine the following morning and asked to be connected to him.
“I hope you had a nice Thanksgiving,” I said, trying to pave the way for a smooth conversation.
“I didn’t. Combat duty would’ve been preferable to a full day with my relatives. Anyway, how can I assist you, Miss Ellington?”
I took a quick breath. “I may have a lead…well, actually, more like a hunch about Arnold Mowen’s killer. It may be his wine rep, Miller Holtz. Miller could’ve driven over with Arnold to the ‘Deck the Halls around the Lake’ event and killed him. Then he could’ve hopped on one of those wine shuttle buses and gone back to Geneva or Seneca Falls. If you could get the bus company to check its credit card transactions for that day, you’d be able to see if Miller Holtz was on that bus.”
“Let me see if I understand you correctly, Miss Ellington. Out of the clear blue sky, you’ve determined Miller Holtz to be a suspect. Or should I say the suspect?”
My mouth suddenly felt scratchy, which made my voice sound raspy. “Miller thinks he’s about to inherit Arnold Mowen’s wine distribution business. He said that to everyone on the wine trail. If that doesn’t spell out motive, I don’t know what does.”
“Miss Ellington, people bequeath property and businesses all the time. They write wills. They write trusts. They write letters. If that were the case, our county would be swarming with homicides. Just because someone stands to inherit something does not automatically make them a murder suspect.”
“Not everyone. No. But why take a chance on letting Miller Holtz slip through your fingers when you could easily place a call to the wine shuttle company and demand to see their credit card transactions?”
“Based on what evidence? Your hunch? Our department will need something stronger than that, I’m afraid.”
“Okay. Okay. What about a pistol permit? You can check to see if Miller Holtz has a pistol permit. Unless the news stations got it wrong, Arnold was shot with a .22. That could be a rifle or a pistol. No way to tell from the bullet. Miller could’ve concealed his gun easily. Holsters… pockets…heck, he could’ve been wearing it around his ankle for all we know.”
“Miss Ellington, we don’t know.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. If Miller Holtz owned a gun and if he was on that late day wine shuttle, it would be a no-brainer.”
“It would be circumstantial and a bit far-fetched.”
At this point, my voice had gone from raspy to whiny. “So, you’re not going to do anything?”
“I didn’t say that. Your call will be taken under advisement. Now, please go about your business and let the trained professionals go about theirs. Good day, Miss Ellington.”
Click. The call ended before I could eke a syllable out of my mouth. That man had to be the most pig-headed, obtuse, obstinate sheriff in the history of the county. I grumbled for over twenty minutes before making myself a second cup of coffee and booting up my laptop.
My producer, Renee, had emailed me requesting a status report on the screenplay. I sent her back three words: “It’s coming along.” And it was, albeit slower than usual. I found myself sidetracked with thoughts of wine sabotage and murder instead of budding romance and deceit. At a little past eleven, I took a break and nuked some of the leftover turkey and dressing from yesterday. Don had made sure I’d have at least four meals before I had to fend for myself. I devoured the fixings as if I’d never eaten a holiday meal before. I’d promised Cammy I’d be in the tasting room to help with the late day Black Friday crowd, and I figured I’d be better off going on a full stomach. Unlike the retail stores, our crowds intensified after lunch.
“I put some leftover manicotti and lasagna in the freezer for you,” she said when I walked in. “When you leave tonight, don’t forget it. My aunt Luisa says hi and told me you are way too skinny.”
“I knew I liked that woman!”
I had met Cammy’s aunt not too long ago when Cammy and I were chasing a lead on another murder.
From what Cammy and the gang had told me, I’d expected a full crowd, but what I didn’t expect was such a boisterous one. It was impossible to hold a conversation, let alone talk about wines. The Black Friday shoppers were getting an early start to the holiday season partying. The limousines were in full force and the weather was mild by November standards. Low forties and no snow.
At a little past four, Lizzie waved me over. “Norrie, you have a phone call from Godfrey Klein at the Experiment Station. Said he tried your house first.”
Although Godfrey called to provide innocuous updates about Francine and Jason’s progress tracking down that stupid bug, I always felt a certain amount of trepidation until I knew, for sure, that my sister and brother-in-law were all right. Visions of viper snakes and poison dart frogs came to mind, along with crocodiles and pumas.
“Hey, Norrie, I just got back from Lodi with another entomologist. We were called over there for the worst infestation of Boisea trivittata I’ve ever encountered. Not to be confused with the Boisea rubrolineata. The Boisea trivittata unleashes a horrible odor unlike the—”
“Stinkbugs? You’re calling me about stinkbugs?”
“What? Oh no. That’s not why I called, although you’ll find it quite interesting. We were surprised ourselves. I mean, when people have insect infestations, they usually call an exterminator, not a scientist. But these nuns were adamant they were not about to have any pesticides used on their premises. They were hoping we’d be able to recommend a process for the removal of the Boisea trivittata without the use of chemicals. They said this was the first time anything like this had ever happened. Frankly, it’s not that unusual. Did you know there are entire categories of what we refer to as overwintering pests?”
“Well, no. I hadn’t given it much thought.” Or any thought.
“Oh, yes. I believe that’s exactly what happened to the Sisters of the Holy Sepulcher Convent. Most likely they had pumpkins out for their fall decorations and those pests fed on the pumpkins and found a way into a warm home.”
“Did you say Holy Sepulcher Convent?”
“Yes. Are you familiar with it?”
“In a roundabout way. The Sisters who run the convent believe they’re going to inherit Arnold Mowen’s business. You know, Lake-to-Lake Wine Distributors. It’s a long story.”
“Hmm, that might explain something. While I was checking out the desks and armoires for Boisea larve, I came across a detailed set of plans for expansion. Major expansion. It called for new dormitories and a separate building for their bakery enterprise. I figured it was one of those architectural pie-in-the-sky kinds of things that lots of institutions have on file in the event a generous donor leaves them his or her estate.”
“Oh my gosh. That’s not pie-in-the-sky, that’s prepping for the future. No one hires an architect unless they’re certain there’s going to be a building project. And building projects don’t happen without the funding in place. I should know. It took the Penn Yan School District years to get bond approval, not to mention voter approval, to expand the high school. Of course, those nuns don’t need a taxpayer vote, but they do need money and lots of it.”
Suddenly the Holy Sepulcher raced to the top of my suspect list in Arnold Mowen’s death. I know. I know. It was a dreadful and horrible thought—nuns committing murder and all that. Still, I’d seen enough true crime drama to know that if so
meone wanted something badly enough, they might be willing to sacrifice their moral fortitude for cold hard cash.
“Godfrey, do you remember where you found those blueprints? What drawer? What room?”
“All I remember was that it was an upstairs room and they all look alike. Crucifix over the bed, small nightstand with a bible, and the occasional painting of the Virgin Mary. Why? What are you getting at?”
“I could go straight to hell for saying this, but…what if those nuns collaborated to murder Arnold Mowen in order to inherit his business? That business isn’t any small potatoes. The guy’s worth a fortune, from what I understand.”
“You might be putting two and two together and coming up with five. Maybe at one time the convent thought they had funding for expansion. I have no idea how far back those blueprints go.”
“Chances are you’re right, but still, you have to admit it’s a possibility.”
“What? Gun-toting Sisters poised and waiting at a winery event to shoot someone so they can inherit his fortune?”
“When you put it like that, and by the way, you sound just like my friend Theo, it does seem like a made-for-TV drama, but I’m not discounting anyone at this time. Not to be rude or anything, but was there a reason for your call?”
“I was so busy talking about infestations and nuns—I nearly forgot to tell you the real reason I called. Jason checked in on the satellite phone early this morning. I wanted to call sooner but I was tied up. Remember when I mentioned the Culex corniger and how they located it in a remote area?”
Vaguely…
“Anyway, they think they may have stumbled upon another species that’s now inhabiting urban areas. Fantastic, isn’t it?”
I’d like to inhabit an urban area. Manhattan, to be precise. In my own apartment. “Um, yeah. I guess.”
“Say, Norrie, I know it’s a ways off, but if you’re not doing anything for Christmas, you’re more than welcome to join our crew. There are seven or eight of us who get together each year at a different entomologist’s house. We all bring a dish to pass and chip in for a prime rib roast. I promise—there won’t be any insects.”
