Pinot Red or Dead?

by J. C. Eaton

  “Not if we lose your business. We’re all in this together. By the way, did that news report say anything else about Lavettia Lawrence?”

  “Like what?”

  “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

  I think the little tidbit I’d contrived about the DNA evidence might’ve hit a nerve with Clayton. Quite possibly he was the killer. Lavettia didn’t have kind words to say about him, but I wasn’t sure she had kind words to say about anyone. If it was Clayton who knocked off Lavettia so he’d be next in line for the moolah, especially if he was in the market for a new Mazda, then my guess was he’d head over to her condo to wipe his prints off the undersides of the chairs.

  If he shot her, the assumption that he’d at least rummage through her bag to take the house key in case he had to make a return visit was a no-brainer. Or…perhaps he’d plant the key on someone else. I was tempted to tail him to Lavettia’s condo, but I didn’t. Cammy’s lemongrass wasp spray wasn’t much of a defense against, say, a loaded .22 caliber gun.

  Nope. I did the sensible thing once I made my exit from Lake-to-Lake Wine Distributors. I called the Seneca County Sheriff’s Department from the nearest convenience store parking lot and insisted the deputy send a car to Lavettia’s address to see if Clayton was there.

  “You said your name is Norrie Ellington?” the deputy at the other end asked.

  “That’s right. From Two Witches Winery in Penn Yan.”

  “Will you hold the line for a moment, please?”

  “You need to hurry,” I said. “A killer could literally be getting away with murder.”

  “Please hold the line.”

  I had parked off to the side of the building where I wouldn’t be readily noticed.

  “Miss Ellington?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you for your concern. We will take this under advisement.”

  “That’s it? Advisement? It’s not like you’re reviewing a proposal or something. Clayton LeVine had motive, means, and opportunity to kill Lavettia Lawrence.”

  “Before we send deputies to a scene, the evidence would need to be stronger than someone’s hunch.”

  Oh my God! I’ve heard those words before. Those exact words, and they came out of Deputy Hickman’s mouth last month. “Deputy Hickman from the Yates County Sheriff’s Department spoke with you, didn’t he?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss our internal and/or external communications.”

  “Fine. All I can say is you missed an opportunity to catch a killer.” Fuming, I ended the call before he could utter another word. When I got home, I was more than exasperated. The red light was blinking on the landline, and the thought of returning a call annoyed me even more. I decided it could wait and made myself and the dog a bite to eat.

  An hour or so later, after I calmed down, I played the message.

  “Hey, Norrie! You’re probably not up for this, but on the off–chance you might be, I’m going back to the convent tomorrow morning to check on the eradication progress. Just me. Alex drew the short straw and will be studying the travel patterns of those roaches in Ithaca. I wasn’t sure if you still needed to snoop around. Give me a call.”

  I wasn’t quite sure what I’d discover at the convent if I took Godfrey up on his offer. I’d gotten what I needed from Sister Gloria Mae, and I seriously doubted she’d tell me how they paid for those comprehensive blueprints. Still, I wouldn’t get another opportunity like the one that was right under my nose.

  Lavettia had told me she thought Clayton was holding something over Arnold’s head. Not quite blackmail, but close enough. What if the Sisters of the Holy Sepulcher had something on him as well? Something so damaging he’d been forced to make a deal with them?

  “I’ll go,” I practically shouted into the phone when I returned Godfrey’s call.

  “Terrific. Since it’s only me, I can pick you up if you’d like. No sense leaving your car in our parking lot all day.”

  “Okay. Sure. What time?”

  “How about eight?”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  “Dress warm. That place is worse than a tomb. By the way, I saw the news over the internet about Arnold Mowen’s girlfriend. Horrible, huh?”

  For the next five minutes, Godfrey was forced to listen to my theory about Clayton, my suspicions about the nuns, and my impression of Miller Holtz.

  The poor guy couldn’t wait to get off the phone. “I’ve read epic novels that had less intrigue.”

  When I hung up, I was buzzing with energy. It was only seven thirty-nine. Plenty of time to bring Theo and Don into the loop. By now, I assumed they had eaten dinner and were hanging out.

  “Don! Theo! Whoever this is at the other end, I’m pretty sure Clayton LeVine is the cleaning lady and the killer. That draconian sheriff’s office in Seneca Falls refused to believe me and missed the chance to nail him.”

  “I think I missed the first act,” Don said. “Start from the beginning, will you?”

  I took a deep breath, complete with a few moans, and told him about Glenda’s conversation with Zenora, which led to my revelation about Clayton and my subsequent drive over to Lake-to-Lake Wine Distributors.

  “I’ve got to hand it to you,” Don said, “you’ll stop at nothing.”

  “Bradley Jamison told me the same thing, in a roundabout way. So…do you think I’m right about Clayton? Could he be our guy? He was practically drooling over the new Mazdas on his computer screen when I walked in to Arnold’s office unannounced this afternoon.”

  “I’m not so sure—”

  “That’s not all. According to his Pinterest board, he’s a mastermind at disguises with wigs. He could’ve easily pretended to be the cleaning lady. I hinted about DNA evidence at Lavettia’s and, all of a sudden, he was in a hurry to get out of work. What absolutely galls me is that I practically handed the killer to Seneca County on a platter, and they refused to stake out Lavettia’s condo and catch him in the act.”

  “I think that’s because—”

  “Ugh. I know. All those sheriff departments are the same. If they don’t have iron-clad evidence in front of them, they don’t make a move. As far as I’m concerned, no one understands the ins and outs of that business better than the secretary. He runs everything behind the scenes. Clayton could’ve gotten tired of working for Arnold or maybe he was just plain greedy. With Lavettia out of the way, it was probably a shoo-in for him to become the next owner.”

  “We’ve still got Miller Holtz to think about.”

  “Miller Holtz doesn’t monkey around with wigs and disguises. Aargh. This is so frustrating.”

  “What about those nuns? Maybe one of them got a little too overly zealous.”

  “I’m suspicious about where they got the money to pay for all that architectural planning, but the two nuns I spoke with couldn’t even bring themselves to kill stinkbugs.”

  “What about the third nun? You said it was a Triumvirate that ran the place.”

  “Oh yeah. Sister Celeste. I didn’t actually speak with her, but now that you mention it, I could picture her wielding an axe or blowing off a shotgun. You should’ve seen her in that kitchen. She was terrifying. Still, I don’t think she’s Arnold’s killer. Or Lavettia’s, for that matter. No means or opportunity, even if she had the same motive everyone else did—money.”

  Chapter 19

  “I know how frustrating that must be,” Godfrey said, “about the sheriff’s department refusing to send someone to Lavettia’s place. I once had a department head who adamantly refused to consider a joint venture with Texas A&M’s entomology department. The end result teamed them up with UC Davis. Together, they produced a groundbreaking study on the Tatuidris, better known as the Armadillo ant. You know, Jason and Francine might come across some of them in Costa Rica, although they are quite rare.”

  We were
in his car headed over to the Holy Sepulcher Convent and, for some reason, I couldn’t stop complaining about yesterday’s disaster.

  “They had nothing to lose,” I moaned. “Absolutely nothing. And they might’ve caught Clayton in the act of tampering with evidence. Or, in his case, removing it entirely.”

  Godfrey glanced my way and then quickly turned his attention back to the road. At least it wasn’t raining or snowing, but it was windy and overcast. That meant things could change without much warning. “If Clayton is the killer, he’ll slip one way or another. So, tell me, what exactly are you hoping to uncover today? Those nuns aren’t the most gregarious.”

  “Sister Gloria implied that one of the Triumvirate had a not-so-pristine past life that involved Arnold Mowen. I need to find out more. Maybe that Sister was blackmailing him—and that’s how the convent got its money for the architects.”

  “I don’t know, Norrie. I’m not so sure Sister Gloria is going to be willing to tell-all. And as far as approaching the other two—”

  “I know. In a way, it’s like that three-headed dog from the first Harry Potter book.”

  “Fluffy?”

  “Was that his name?”

  “Uh-huh. Hagrid’s dog.”

  I gave Godfrey a sideways stare. Maybe we had more in common than I thought. “Sister Gloria is certainly the most approachable of the three, but is she the most reliable? I got the feeling she and Sister Celeste weren’t exactly chummy.”

  “I think that’s the nature of the profession,” he said. “Do you want to stop for coffee or anything? We’re almost there.”

  “No, I’m okay.”

  “This shouldn’t take all day. Not like last time. A few hours at most. Then we can get something to eat.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll probably be ravenous by then.”

  The traffic was light, and we made it to Lodi without any delays. The convent’s long driveway, shrouded by barren trees, gave the place an ominous look. The dreary, overcast day didn’t help much. We were partially down the drive when we noticed a Seneca County Sheriff’s car in front of the residence.

  Godfrey was the first to comment. “This can’t be good.”

  “I don’t see any emergency vehicles or yellow tape. Maybe it’s a routine thing. A safety check or something.”

  “Doubtful, but let’s give the door a knock.”

  Three taps on the brass doorknocker and nothing.

  “They do know we’re coming, don’t they?” I asked.

  “Of course. I even confirmed it with Sister Mary Katherine a few minutes before I left to pick you up.”

  “Try again. Maybe they’re all in the kitchen, too terrified to escape from Sister Celeste.”

  Godfrey laughed and gave the door another knock. Then four raps. We waited a few more seconds and he tried again. Finally, a young nun, who I hadn’t noticed before, opened the door.

  “Please come in. Sister Mary Katherine said you’d be arriving this morning but she’s in the garage with two deputy sheriffs. Sister Gloria is there, too.”

  “Is anything wrong?” Godfrey asked as we stepped inside.

  The nun pressed her lips together and swallowed. “I’m not sure. Something about our delivery van. For the cheesecake deliveries. You know.”

  Suddenly the words I had been thinking flew out of my mouth nonstop. “Is it missing? Stolen? Wrecked?”

  The nun shook her head. “Our van is here. Today’s not a delivery day. But we do have deliveries lined up for tomorrow morning. Since tomorrow’s Saturday, lots of restaurants want cheesecakes on hand for Sunday. I wish I could tell you more about the van, but I don’t know.”

  “That’s all right,” Godfrey said. “It’s really none of our business unless, of course, unwanted, overwintering pests are inhabiting the interior. Anyway, I’m sure Sister Celeste will shed some light on the subject when we see her.”

  The nun shook her head vehemently. “She’s not in the kitchen. She’s not well. A dreadful headache. She’s been incapacitated since Wednesday night. It must be a really terrible migraine because she won’t allow anyone in her room and insists we leave her food trays at the door.”

  “That’s horrible,” I said. “Does she suffer from them often?”

  The nun gave a nod. “From time to time, but never this bad. It must be the change in barometric pressure or something.”

  Godfrey and I walked through the foyer and into the kitchen, where four or five nuns were working.

  “I’ll try not to disturb you,” he said, “but I need to open cabinets and drawers to check our progress with the Boisea trivittata. I’ll try to be inconspicuous. I’ll have Miss Ellington head over to your garage to inform Sisters Mary Katherine and Gloria.”

  “That would be fine,” one of the nuns said, but I couldn’t tell which one. Godfrey motioned for me to step into the small pantry area, where he was shining a light on one of the shelves.

  “Now’s your chance,” he whispered. “That sheriff’s deputy didn’t stop over to check their tire pressure. Good luck.”

  “Thanks. You, too.”

  I walked out of the kitchen and exited by the front door. The large Morton garage was equidistant from the residence and the chapel. At least a quarter of a mile. I wondered why the sheriff’s deputies decided to hoof it rather than take their car the rest of the way. It actually felt warmer outside than in the convent’s kitchen—and that was with the ovens on, too.

  It was too short a distance for me to rehearse a decent scenario that would necessitate my reason for the visit. I’d have to wing it. I took a few steps and got the uncanny feeling that I was being followed. I turned my head but nothing—no one in sight. Probably my imagination. I picked up the pace and kept moving. There was someone behind me, and they were gaining ground. I was half-walking, half-running at this point, and my legs felt as if they were going to give out. Damn it! I really need a better exercise routine. I’m not even thirty and I’m getting winded.

  Out of nowhere, I felt a shooting pain that ran from my hip to my ankle. This really stinks! I forced myself to keep moving. The garage was only yards away, and all I needed was one last burst of speed to make it. I spotted a small toe-path off to my right that would shave off some of the distance. I veered toward it but knew the moment I reached the uneven flagstone that I’d made a mistake—too easy to jam a foot into a crevice and stumble. I tried not to dwell on it and kept moving. Whoever was behind me was either one hell of an athlete or in incredible shape. In a flash, they latched on to my shoulder blades from behind and pressed them so hard I winced and doubled over from the pain. Then, if that wasn’t enough, they gave me a good shove. I fell face down on the grass a few inches from the toe-path. My head grazed something hard, a rock maybe, and a small trickle of blood made its way from my forehead to my cheek.

  Unlike my screenplays, where the heroine leaps from the ground to encounter her assailant, I pitched forward and when I stood my eyes filled with moisture. It was impossible to focus. Not that it mattered. Whoever pushed me was long gone.

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out a crumpled napkin that was left over from a donut I had eaten the day before. I meant to toss the napkin yesterday, but was glad I hadn’t. My forehead had only suffered a slight graze, but there was blood on the napkin. I took a few minutes and wiped the sticky residue from my face. Then, I steadied myself and continued my walk to the garage.

  Either one of those nuns was totally off her rocker, or someone else didn’t want me snooping around. It didn’t matter. In fact, whoever shoved me gave me more reason to do exactly what I was doing—sleuthing.

  When I approached the garage, a second sheriff’s vehicle was parked in front. If I ever I needed to inhale an antacid, it was at that moment. The print and logo were unmistakable—Yates County Sheriff’s Department. Apparently, the two counties were collaborating on whateve
r they thought happened at the Sisters of the Holy Sepulcher. I brushed my loose bangs over the scrape on my forehead, making sure I wiped clean all dirt and residue, and walked inside the garage as if I was an invited guest.

  I should have snapped a photo of Deputy Hickman’s face when he saw me. It would’ve boosted the LIKE status on my website to new heights. He was standing next to two other sheriff’s deputies, who, I presumed, were from Seneca County. Across from him were Sister Mary Katherine and Sister Gloria. The only thing separating them was the hood of a white cargo van with a dented Chevy logo.

  Sister Gloria gave me a quick wink and I smiled.

  “I’m here with entomologist Godfrey Klein from Cornell’s Experiment Station. All of us in the wineries are concerned about overwintering pests that inhabit our residences and wineries. I was invited to watch the eradication process.”

  “Nothing is being eradicated in this garage,” Deputy Hickman said. “We’re here on another matter.”

  “I, um, er…”

  Sister Gloria must have sensed I was at a loss for words and broke in with an over-the-top act that was almost comical, had it not been for the audience.

  “Our van! Our cheesecake delivery van might have been used for those terrible hijackings and robberies all over Seneca Lake. Dear Lord above, we’re a peaceful order, not a bunch of criminals.”

  Then, if that wasn’t enough, she began to sob. Really sob. Sister Mary Katherine turned to the three sheriff’s deputies and shook her head. “There. See what you’ve done. You’ve tormented a kind and gentle soul.”

  As she stepped closer to the deputies, Sister Gloria turned to me and mouthed, “Pretty good, huh?”

  I tried not to laugh.

  Seemingly oblivious to the charade, Deputy Hickman continued his conversation with me. “If I find out, Miss Ellington, that you’re here on any circumstance that doesn’t involve insects, I will issue you a citation for interfering in an investigation.”

  “Which one? Mr. Mowen’s death, Miss Lawrence’s death, or—”