by J. C. Eaton
“I, er…”
“You don’t have to answer right away. I just thought—”
“That’s awfully nice of you, Godfrey. I’m not sure if Theo and Don next door are expecting me, so let me get back to you, okay?”
“Sure thing. And listen, don’t decorate with pumpkins adjacent to your house next fall. Remember that. The Boisea trivittata can be quite invasive. Those poor nuns. It’s either kill the damn insects or convert them.”
Unless those Sisters have bigger plans.
Chapter 13
The phone practically screamed in my ear the next morning and I fumbled to reach it. I was groggy, and my thought processes hadn’t kicked in. I could see the murky, grey daylight outside my window, so I knew whoever called wasn’t a late morning sleeper like me. I barely uttered the word “hello,” when Lavettia Lawrence’s voice ripped through me like a razor.
“I’d like to know what on earth is going on. I just got a certified letter informing me that Arnold’s will is going to be read twenty-nine days past his death. What’s that? A Friday? A Saturday? And at midnight, no less. Midnight at your winery. Whichever one of those idiotic lawyers wrote that letter, they had the audacity to tell me my presence was requested. Damn right it was requested. I’m about to inherit the business. I’ll tell you what I told Marvin Souza on the voice mail I left him five minutes ago.”
“Good morning, Lavettia.”
I was still trying to focus and all I heard was a jumble of words including “midnight,” “inherit” and “Marvin Souza.”
Lavettia got louder and I had to move the receiver away from my ear. “Was the man insane? Who insists on the reading of a will at midnight? And at a winery, no less. If that business of his isn’t left to me in its entirety, I’ll have the will contested. I cannot, for the life of me, imagine who else he would’ve named as his beneficiary. He didn’t have any family. He had me. And I better have what’s coming.”
I didn’t dare mention Miller Holtz or the nuns, for fear Lavettia would really go off on a tear. It didn’t matter. She was on a roll, and she wasn’t about to stop.
“What if he was insane? Well, not insane, but cognitively diminished. Isn’t that what they call it? Oh my God! I’ve seen this on 48 Hours. The boss loses his faculties, but his assistant covers for him, all the while paving the way for the business to be handed over to him. That sneaky, sniveling lowlife Clayton LeVine. I’ll bet he’s behind all of this. Well, he’s got another think coming. I won’t let him get as much as one of his grubby little fingers on Arnold’s money.”
“You mean ‘business.’”
“Business…money…it’s all the same. Tell me, was this your idea? To have the will read at your winery?”
Finally, the real reason for the call. “What? Of course not. I have to pay my employees overtime and stay up late, not to mention provide refreshments.”
I failed to mention the generous compensation Two Witches would be getting for the shindig.
“Then it’s obvious,” she said. “Arnold was losing his wits. Let me ask you something. Did Marvin Souza indicate how many people he expected for the reading?”
“Sort of a ball park figure. Anyone’s guess.”
“Tell me.”
“Well, there’s Marvin, naturally, and the other lawyer in the firm, Bradley Jamison…and of course, you.”
“Three people do not constitute refreshments and employee overtime. Spit it out. What do you know?”
“This doesn’t mean anything, really, but we’re expecting between five and ten others. Winery contacts, that sort of thing.”
I tried to sound matter-of-fact, but I was sure she could sense I wasn’t being completely honest.
“So help me, if that mealy-mouthed Clayton LeVine gets so much as a penny out of the business, there’ll be hell to pay.”
“What makes you so convinced Clayton LeVine might be on the receiving end of the will?”
“Don’t you know? Clayton’s been holding something over Arnold for years. Probably some scandalous piece of gossip he plans to unleash posthumously if the business doesn’t go to him.”
“How do you know?”
“Arnold talked in his sleep.”
Yep. That should hold up in the Supreme Court. “Lavettia, what do you know about Miller Holtz?”
“Only that he’s in the right profession. At least, according to what Arnold said. Miller’s an expert when it comes to wheeling and dealing. Got lots of accounts for Arnold. Why? Is there something I should know?”
Not right now. “No. Not really. Wine reps are more than salespeople. They get the winery names out there and promote us in the big cities.”
It was way too early to be grilled by Lavettia, and I needed to end the call. I was about to tell her I’d see her next week when something gnawed at me. “Oh, by the way, how did your essential oils symposium go? A friend of a friend was there and said she saw you.”
“Who?”
“Zenora. I don’t know her last name.”
The line got quiet for a moment and then Lavettia spoke. “Of course. Zenora. I did see her. I saw so many people, it’s difficult to remember who I spoke to.”
“My friend saw a Facebook post and said Zenora looked kind of wild and wooly at the event.”
Again, a pause. “Well, that’s Zenora for you. Anyway, I need to make a few more calls. Maybe even leave another message for Marvin Souza. Oh, and if that certified letter wasn’t bad enough, do you know the Yates County Sheriff’s Department sent someone to my residence to question me. Why, I’m practically the grieving widow.”
“At least you have an alibi. And a witness.”
“What witness? Who?”
“Zenora, the lady we were just talking about.”
“Right. Zenora.”
Lavettia sounded a tad agitated. Either she was so unnerved about that certified letter and it made her jittery, or she really hadn’t attended that essential oils symposium—even if Glenda’s friend said she saw her. Zenora could’ve been mistaken, or high on some essential herb. I’d met some of Glenda’s friends before. All of them had one thing in common—they seemed to occupy an alternate universe.
Now, wide awake and famished, I washed up quickly and went downstairs for my coffee and whatever else I could dig up. At least Charlie could count on his kibble. I glanced at the wall calendar and counted the days until the midnight fiasco—thirteen, if I included the day of the event.
Deputy Hickman was no closer to finding Arnold’s killer than I was to figuring out who had sabotaged our wine. What I really needed was an insider in the sheriff’s department, but the closest I could get was Gladys Pipp. Still, she was better than no one. I made a mental note to call her on Monday and see if she was privy to any new information.
Miller Holtz moved to first place on my list of possible assassins, but Lavettia was back in the race as well. With nothing but a free morning on my hands, and a screenplay hanging over my head, I turned to the one place that could give me some answers—social media.
Delving into social media was like falling into a never-ending pit, but what choice did I have? If I could focus on Miller and Lavettia and not get sidetracked by cute kittens or craft projects I’d never make, I’d be okay.
I began by searching for Miller Holtz via LinkedIn. Because Miller was a businessperson, LinkedIn was a good place to start. Although I belonged, I didn’t utilize the site often. My producer had suggested it as a means for networking and business contacts. She thought I should get my name out there. I had to admit, Norrie Ellington, screenwriter, did have a certain flair.
There were lots of Holtzes, but only one Miller. A slam-dunk. The guy listed himself as a wine distributor/manager and highlighted his experience and education. He graduated from Clarkson University in Potsdam, New York, with a degree in Global Supply Chain Management. I di
dn’t know there was such a thing. He also listed his prior experience working for various businesses in upstate New York. While his age wasn’t exactly spelled out, I did the math. Miller was in his forties, just as I thought.
His profile didn’t offer anything that would scream Killer. I scrolled through his endorsements, a LinkedIn thing that job seekers need to impress would-be employers and recruiters. Miller’s included community outreach, business management, and technology communications: three things that were completely nebulous. I scrolled further to his recommendations. I stopped to rub my eyes and look again.
There was a recommendation that dated back eight years. One of Miller’s former professors from Clarkson had written, “Mr. Holtz has an innate understanding of how to maximize efficiencies, price, and ultimately, profit. The man is a veritable genius when it comes to manipulating the profit-loss margin.”
Did that mean Miller was sabotaging the wines to ensure a greater profit on the restaurant market? Or was it merely one of those jacked-up recommendations meant to get the guy a job? I shrugged and moved to the next name on my list—Lavettia’s.
LinkedIn wasn’t exactly the neighborhood she’d play in, but still, I gave it a try and bam! There she was. I almost choked. Her photo reminded me of Ginger from those old Gilligan’s Island reruns, only Lavettia’s hair was as platinum as could be.
Under education, she listed The New York Etiquette School for Social Success. Under endorsements, there were at least thirty. They ranged from personal branding to masterful manners and communication. Were we talking about the same Lavettia Lawrence? Then again, her profile didn’t mention a degree or even if she lasted past the first semester. Still, what this woman was vying for she most assuredly found with Arnold Mowen. Fine, so she majored in gold digging. That didn’t necessarily make her a murderess.
I was about to call it a day and get back to the real work I had on hand when I decided to look up one more person—Clayton LeVine. It didn’t surprise me when I didn’t find him on LinkedIn, but when he didn’t appear on Facebook either, I began to wonder. Heck, it’s almost un-American not to be on Facebook.
I tried a few other social media sites and met the same fate—no Clayton LeVine. I tried Clay LeVine, C. LeVine, and even CLeVine. Still nothing. Then, for some unknown reason, I checked out Pinterest. Lo and behold, the guy had his own board devoted to disguises using wigs. To top it off, he had four hundred and eighty-three followers. At first I wasn’t sure it was Clayton, even though the name said as much. One photo showed a man wearing some sort of wig meant to look like a green dragonfly head. The man stood in front of a door with a glass window with lettering that read, “Lake-to-Lake Wine Distributors.” Figuring out who that man was wasn’t rocket science.
The whole thing was downright weird, but, like Miller and Lavettia, it didn’t make Clayton a killer. A whack-job maybe, but not a killer. When I finished my online sleuthing, I was no better off than when I started. Unless, of course, I needed a cool costume for Halloween next year—I could always call Clayton.
I did receive some good news that morning, news that was a long time coming. The sheriff’s department finally removed the crime scene tape from the area where we found Arnold’s body.
John, our vineyard manager, called to let me know. “I imagine there aren’t any more clues they can uncover. Anyway, thought you’d be glad to know. They left a few minutes ago.”
“Did you talk to them? Who? Who left? Was it Deputy Hickman?”
“No. It was their regular patrol making the rounds on Route 14. When they pulled into the driveway, I was nearby doing some pruning, so I walked over. The deputy who stepped out of the car said there was no further need for the crime scene tape. He yanked it off the poles, wadded it up, and took off.”
“That’s it? That’s all he said?”
“Pretty much. Left me to deal with the wooden stakes. No big deal.”
“Geez, I wish I knew what they found.”
John laughed. “I think you already do—nothing. I don’t think they’ve made a shred of headway on the case. From what I hear, they’re still clinging to that hunting accident theory.”
“That’s crazy.”
“What’s that saying? Oh yeah. ‘If you can’t move forward, retreat or hold your position.”’
I thanked John for keeping me posted. I shot off a quick email to Theo. If he or Don glanced through their tasting room window, they’d see the yellow tape was gone, but once customers rolled in, it was impossible to catch a break.
I felt a little guilty for spending so much time sleuthing online, but I made myself a quick peanut butter and jelly sandwich before getting back to my screenplay.
It wasn’t until late afternoon, after I shut down the computer and put on a warm jacket for a fast walk outside, that I realized something. If I was going to make any headway on my so-called investigation, I really needed to eliminate one of my suspects, but who? Lavettia was the logical choice because she had an alibi, but then again, did she?
I certainly wasn’t going to eliminate Miller Holtz—he did everything but measure the corpse to see if the suit would fit. And what about the Convent of the Holy Sepulcher on the other side of the lake? They weren’t any better than Miller, what with their architectural plans for expansion. Where else were they going to get their money? Certainly not from their little cheesecake business.
No matter how hard I tried, it was impossible to narrow down the list. Worse yet, as I traversed the back of our property with Charlie on his retractable leash, I added yet another person to the list—Clayton LeVine. Who else would know more about wine distribution than a guy who managed his boss’s every interaction? It would be easy for Clayton to slip into that role.
The most horrific thought came to me—if Arnold Mowen’s killer didn’t inherit the business, would that killer then go after the beneficiary? Killing the beneficiary might not net any money, but anger ranked high as a motive.
Off in the distance, I heard the pop-pop of someone’s rifle, and I instinctively pulled back on Charlie’s leash. “I might have an idea about getting some answers.”
The dog was busy pawing at the ground.
“Too bad it’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”
Chapter 14
When I spoke with her on Monday, Gladys Pipp was no help whatsoever with Arnold’s murder. I don’t know which one of us was more frustrated.
“I have to keep my voice down,” she whispered. “People have been in and out of here all morning like it was Grand Central Station.”
I laughed to myself. That was an expression my mother used all the time. She had gotten it from her mother. I doubted either one of them had ever stepped foot in the New York City train station.
“Any chance you can get your hands on that ballistics report?” I asked.
“Unless Deputy Hickman printed it out and left it lying around on his desk, like he usually does with stuff like that, I doubt it. I can’t open his email.”
“Has he given any indication they’re getting close to making an arrest?”
“Honey, he hasn’t given any indication they’re getting close to making lunch. The man’s as tight-lipped as they come.”
“And no news on the wine sabotage either, I suppose…”
“Hmm, I may be able to help you out with that one.”
I perked up immediately and begged her to tell me.
“They got some new information from the Seneca County Sheriff’s Department about the van that was used in the truck hijacking.”
“Why didn’t they make it public?”
“Maybe they are keeping it hush-hush for the investigation. Up until now, all they had was a general description—white cargo van, possibly a Chevy. The license plate was deliberately covered with mud. But there was a dent on the rear passenger side bumper and a long scratch along the driver’s side, almost as if so
meone keyed the van.”
“Sounds pretty thorough to me. Of course, white cargo vans are as common around here as snow. And as for dents and scratches, they’re pretty common, too. So, what’s the new information?”
“A van matching that exact description was seen making deliveries to local restaurants in the Geneva, Penn Yan, Waterloo, and Seneca Falls areas. Sheriff’s investigators in all three counties are looking into it as we speak. They’re talking to the restaurant owners to see what items were delivered and from what sources. Restaurants usually use big chains like Sysco Foods, but they do contract with lots of local bakers. Not to mention farmers who supply anything from organic vegetables to goat cheese.”
“Wow! That is a break. Whoever’s making those deliveries might’ve loaned their van to the thieves or they are the thieves.”
Gladys’s voice sounded like a recording. “That’s correct. The office is open until five and you can file your complaint any time before we close.”
“Is Deputy Hickman right there?” I asked.
“Yes, that’s the right address.”
“Thanks, Gladys. I really appreciate it. Goodbye.”
“Very well. Have a nice day.”
As soon as I hung up the phone, it rang. I was in the kitchen and had used the landline because the connection was a zillion times clearer than my cell phone.
“Hello?”
“Norrie, it’s me, Godfrey. You left a message for me, but it was on my office number and I didn’t get it until this morning. Remind me to give you my personal cell phone number. What’s up?”
“Are you planning to go back to Lodi this week about those stinkbugs at the convent?”
“As a matter of fact, we are. Tomorrow, in fact. Alex Bollinger and me. Same entomologist as before. We might be able to ameliorate that situation by infusing the area with pheromones to confuse the Boisea Trivittata. They may seek another location. Why?”
“I need to look at that architectural blueprint. You said you found it upstairs. It had to be in one of the Sister’s rooms, but which one? Those blueprints always have the architect’s firm or name on them. Godfrey, you’ve got to let me join you and your buddy tomorrow.”
