“She got that call from that new distributor. Maybe that will help, but she did say that Carter wants to sell. They’ve had a lot of bad luck this year. That’s why Sims was here.”
“He did say he was exploring his options,” Simon said.
“But she doesn’t want to sell,” I said. “She said something about working on a new solution, but she changed the subject before I could get any details. She did say that they had lost their winemaker as well. So I wonder if they’ve approached Gerald, too.” I noticed something near the corner of the building and walked over to see what it was.
“Terrific,” Simon said. “That’s all we need—our closest competitor stealing our number two winemaker with all our secrets.”
“Don’t panic,” Jackson said. “You don’t know anything for sure yet.” The two of them walked over to me. “What are you doing, Willow?”
“Checking this out.” I pulled out my phone and took a photo. “If I’m not mistaken, this is poison hemlock.”
chapter twelve
Before anyone at the vineyard could see me, I plucked part of the plant off and shoved it inside my jacket pocket. Then we scurried to the car.
“If that’s real, it means that Camille or Carter could have done it, tried to kill David to get him out of the way, and killed Amy instead,” Simon said as he pulled out of the winery, took a left onto the cement road, and headed east again.
“I’ll need to take a closer look first.”
Jackson grabbed his phone and did a search. “When you get up there a bit, pull over so Willow can examine the plant and try to match it to this.” He held up a photo of poison hemlock.
“Will do,” Simon said. Moments later, when we reached the end of the road that fed back to Route 48, he pulled over onto the dirt shoulder.
Once we’d stopped, I carefully took the plant out of my jacket pocket and examined it. “Can I please have the phone?” Jackson handed it to me and I considered the two plants, the one in my hand and the one on the screen.
“Do you think it’s the real thing this time?”
“Well, is it? Is it poison hemlock?” Simon leaned over to try to see.
“Yes, this time it is. I’m sure of it.” I showed the plant to Jackson and Simon and held up the plant. “Do you two agree?”
Jackson nodded. “Looks right to me.”
“Me, too,” Simon said.
“Since Crocker Cellars is operating in the red, Camille and Carter do have a motive to kill David,” Jackson said. “Getting rid of him won’t affect the two-hundred-K prize from the competition, which it seems like they desperately need, but it would put a big dent in their main competition, which is Pure, and boost their sales in the long run.”
“You said they were good, Simon,” I said.
“It’s true,” Simon said. “Besides us, they are the most recognized vineyard out here, with the most awards even in the short time they’ve been open. Just like us, really.”
“Which means they had good reason to be threatened by David, and Pure, and the most to lose by coming in second,” Jackson said. “Think about it. If you’re way back in the pack with no hope of succeeding, it doesn’t make much sense to take out your main competition, but if you’re running neck and neck, it might.”
“It’s even possible that if David were dead, it might sway the Wine Lovers judges to vote for the Crockers instead,” I said. “You never know what will change people’s thinking. It might have been a risk that the Crockers thought was worth taking.”
“Not to mention that Carter’s supercompetitive,” Simon said. “Did you see how he tried to rub in that sale of Chambertin in my face? I saw that sale, I could have scored big online, but I was busy with other things.”
“Forget it,” Jackson said. “There will always be another bottle of expensive wine to chase. You’ll get it next time.”
“Sure you will,” I said. “But I’d like to drop this off at the EEAC.”
“In English?” Simon said.
“The East End Agricultural Center. It’s on the way back and I’d like them to check it. Let’s be one hundred percent sure.” I opened Simon’s glove compartment, which was neat and tidy and held only the driver’s manual. “I’m going to put it in here for safekeeping for now.”
“Okay, we’ll drop it off,” Simon said. “But didn’t we need to check out a few other places today—you know, pass the cork, as they say, from one winery to another? We might even get a free tasting.”
“Do you have the cork from Crocker Cellars?” Jackson said. “You’ll need it to give it to the next winery to get your drink.”
“Well, no,” Simon said.
“Then you’ll have to pay your own way,” Jackson said. “But we know you can afford it.”
“Because you told us so,” I said, and smiled at Simon.
“Yeah, yeah, okay. Where to next?”
• • •
We arrived at St. Ives Estate Vineyards, in Peconic, a few minutes later. While Crocker Cellars took its inspiration from all things Tuscan, Derek Mortimer, the owner and vintner at St. Ives, had re-created a traditional granite cottage common to his native seaside village of St. Ives, in Cornwall, England, for his tasting room. Up the road past the cottage, he’d gone even further, building two guesthouses for visitors, an elaborate English garden, and even a medieval castle that would be right at home in a Masterpiece Classic TV show.
The castle had caused a furor when he had proposed building it, but after he gave part of the acreage to the Nature Conservancy and scaled down the size, the plans were accepted by the Town of Southold. Since then, his castle had been featured in lots of glossy lifestyle magazines and on home-and-garden TV shows.
We found Derek Mortimer inside the tasting room, dressed in a three-piece suit and pouring a glass of burgundy for a visitor. The tasting room featured a fireplace that took up one entire wall, rugs on the stone floors, medieval-looking sconces and chandeliers, and a round oak table with all the wines on offer. A TV in the corner ran a short documentary about the vineyard; the building of the castle, tasting room, and guest cottages; and the English garden here, and a look back at Mortimer’s first vineyard in Cornwall, Heath Estate Cellars, which he still ran with an on-site partner. Mortimer finished with his customer and came over to us.
“Mr. Lewis, what are you doing here, away from Pure on this busy North Fork UnCorked! week? Shouldn’t you be close to base?”
“Just thought I’d stop in with my friends,” Simon said. “This is Willow McQuade and Jackson Spade.”
“Aren’t you the one who catered that ghastly affair on Sunday? I felt so horribly for poor Amy. She was my favorite in that family.”
“Yes, it’s very sad,” I said. “And we’re trying to find some answers.”
“Isn’t that what the police are for? Besides, I’ve already spoken to them, and I couldn’t tell them anything of interest.” Mortimer walked back over to the tasting bar and opened a cigar box. “Care for one? You, too, Willow, I don’t discriminate.” He smiled and plucked a cigar out of the box, clipped off the end, and lit it.
“I think we’re all good,” Simon said.
“How do you like my little estate—and my castle? I didn’t see any of you during those dreadful village planning meetings. The town was all up in arms; they were against me, you see, but we made a compromise and it all worked out.” Mortimer puffed on the cigar, which quickly filled the room with smoke and made me feel quite ill. I moved toward the window, which was open an inch. “When I wake up in the mornings, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear that I was at home in Cornwall. Although the air doesn’t smell the same and I do prefer our lovely beaches—”
“Mr. Mortimer,” I interrupted, “we were wondering if you saw anything on the day of the party. The police think, and so do we, that David Farmer was the real target, because, you see, Amy ate his scallop appetizer.”
Mr. Mortimer seemed baffled. “You mean she just took it off his plate?”
/> “No, he offered it,” Jackson said. “And the greens on top turned out to be poisonous.”
“Oh, dear, I didn’t hear that.” Mr. Mortimer puffed a few more times. “That is truly awful.”
“Did you notice anything at all?” Simon said.
“That Gerald chap seemed pretty annoyed, and didn’t David’s family show up, too? David got punched in the face.”
“Since then, there have been two attempts on his life,” Jackson said. “One in the barn, and another at Simon’s restaurant, Salt, in Greenport.”
“I don’t know anything about that. What a terrible business.”
“Have you heard anyone mention that they were disgruntled about Pure or about David?” I said.
“I think everyone knows that Pure is the one to beat, so yes, I think there is some envy and jealousy in our little community. Do I think it would drive anyone to murder? I really can’t say.”
• • •
“What were you two doing?” Simon said, when Jackson and I got back in the car.
“Willow wanted to look around for any poison hemlock so I was talking to Mr. Mortimer. On a hunch, I decided to ask him if Leonard Sims had tried to buy St. Ives, and he said, ‘No, not in years. He knows better than to come back here.’ ”
“That’s interesting,” I said. “Did they have a fight or something?”
“He wouldn’t say. Loose lips sink ships and all that, but it seems like Mr. Sims is not well liked around here.”
“Big surprise,” Simon said.
“Did you find anything, Willow?” Jackson said.
“No, but I also didn’t have time to look all over the English garden. We’ll have to come back tonight.”
• • •
We stopped at the East End Agricultural Center next, to drop off the poison-hemlock plant I’d found. The center was located in a white Victorian building on the main road a mile or so west of Cutchogue village, with offices on the main floor and a counter that separated the front of the room from the desks scattered in back. The high-beamed ceiling featured skylights, and the late-afternoon sun slanted in and made squares on the floor, while dust motes circled in the air. It had the feel of an old library and did have an extensive research library on the flora and fauna on the East End.
I spotted Sara Fletcher working at her desk in the back and called her over. Sara, in her late twenties, had shoulder-length blond hair and with her distinctive black glasses looked like the biodiversity researcher and expert in viticulture she was, with a PhD from Cornell University. She’d started working here last year, and I’d met her when she’d taken a tour through Aunt Claire’s Memorial Medicinal Garden. She was also pretty, with a knockout figure, which I knew would register with Simon.
She gave us a smile and took off her glasses. “Willow, and Jackson! Good to see you!”
Simon gave her a rakish grin. “And I’m sorry we haven’t met before. I’m Simon Lewis, I own the Pure Winery in East Marion. I’m also a TV writer, executive producer, and screenwriter.”
“Wow, well, I just love your grapes and your wine, Simon. You’ve chosen well. Falling Leaves is a real winner.”
“We think so, too. Just waiting for Sunday night. Will you be there?”
“I’ll be there, and even though I’m not supposed to say, I’m rooting for you to win.”
“We appreciate your support. Perhaps we can share a glass of wine together? And of course I’d love to give you a tour of Pure when you have time?”
Jackson rolled his eyes, and I smiled.
“Yes to both, thank you, Simon.” She turned to me. “So, Willow, how can I help you?”
I pulled the plant out of my jacket pocket and put it on the counter. “I found this and I was wondering if it’s poison hemlock.”
Sara leaned over to look at it. “It’s pretty common around here. Grows like a weed, you know.” She grabbed a book from under the counter, opened it to a page with a glossy photo of poison hemlock, and slipped her glasses back on. She studied it for a few moments before saying, “It looks like the real thing to me.”
• • •
“How come you never told me about Sara?” Simon said as he pulled back out onto the main road, Route 25, and headed east. Our next and last stop for today was Ramsey Black’s office in New Suffolk, just south of Cutchogue village, and only minutes away. “She’s smart, and beautiful, and a real knockout.”
“I didn’t know you were looking,” I said.
“I’m always interested in meeting someone new, and let’s face it, we have a lot in common.”
“She thinks you’re great and your wine is great and so do you. True,” Jackson said, and laughed.
“You two are always giving me a hard time. I should ask for my check back, not that I would,” Simon said, petulant.
“You can take on Hollywood but you can’t handle us? I remember how you’d deal with studio and network heads, the writers, the cast and the crew. You’re tough.”
“Yeah,” Jackson said. “C’mon. We’re the Three Musketeers, remember?”
“You’re right, and so is Sara, I’m amazing.” Simon laughed. “And so are we.”
“We make a good team,” I said. “We’ve learned a lot today already. And we’ll learn more tonight at the bonfire and movie at Sisterhood Wines and going back to St. Ives.”
“But for now, we need to see Ramsey Black,” Simon said. “Should I call ahead?”
“No,” I said. “We’re almost there.”
• • •
We pulled into the driveway that led to Ramsey Black’s office on New Suffolk Avenue in New Suffolk. The road circled through the woods and up a large hill, and when we parked and got out and looked east, the view of the Peconic Bay was nothing short of spectacular. But the parking lot in front of the yellow Craftsman-style house with a large porch was empty, and it didn’t appear that anyone was around.
“We should have called,” Simon said once we reached the porch. “He’s not here, or anyone else.”
“It doesn’t look like it,” I said, looking in the window. The lights were off, and the three desks usually manned by Ramsey and his two associates were empty. “Which makes sense since it’s a Thursday afternoon during North Fork UnCorked! week, but we could still look around.”
“Willow? What are you thinking?” Jackson said. “I’m not helping you to break in.”
“I will,” Simon said. “I need to know who tried to kill David and, despite his new bodyguard, may try again, not to mention sabotaging our entire business. We may find some answers in there.” Simon turned the door handle and it opened. “Hey, we got lucky. These country folk don’t lock their doors.”
“I do,” I said. “Maybe they forgot. Or they’ll be right back.”
“Then we’d better be quick.”
“I’ll keep a watch out and text you if someone is coming back.” Jackson walked back to the car.
“Thanks, buddy,” Simon said.
“Thank you, honey.”
“No problem.” Jackson threw us a wave.
Ramsey’s desk was near the front window and overlooked the porch with a view of the bay. Two files were on the blotter, and a large envelope; both his in-box and out-box were empty, and the computer was missing. I glanced around at the other desks, which had no computers either, leading me to believe that they all used laptops. The folders only contained the schedule of tastings and events this week and W-2 forms for the two employees.
So I moved on to the large envelope, which had been sent via FedEx from Nora Evans at Wine Lovers magazine to Ramsey Black at this address last week. He’d opened it, so I carefully pulled the flap back and pulled out several back issues of the magazine, along with a letter from the editor:
Ms. Nora Evans
Editor in Chief, Wine Lovers Magazine
1414 Broadway, Suite 505
New York, NY 10020
10/15/2015
Dear Ramsey:
It was a pleasure speaking with y
ou yesterday. I agree that the front-runners in the competition are, in order, Pure, Crocker Cellars, and Farmer’s Wines, followed by Sisterhood Wines, St. Ives, and Wave Crest.
But of course, it’s essential that we keep an open mind. Once we begin the tastings at the Pure vineyard on Sunday, October 25th, and visit the other wineries in the competition the following week, we will come to a final decision as to who is the winner of the monetary prize, the award, and the four-page photo spread.
In the meantime, I enclose back issues of our magazine to give you a better idea as to content and style. Since we are a quarterly, I’m thinking that I’ll do a Q & A with you about your role at the East End Wine Council and your background, along with a profile of the winner either by me or a freelancer for the April 2016 issue, to kick off the Spring/Summer. We can talk details after the competition is completed.
Best,
Nora Evans, Editor in Chief, Wine Lovers Magazine
212-555-1212
www.farmtotablemag.com
“Simon, take a look at this.” I handed the letter to him.
“Wow, this is good news.” He smiled. “But I don’t like the fact that they mention Crocker Cellars and Farmer’s Wines. I knew Walter and Kurt’s stuff was good, but not that good. That makes me nervous.”
“I think it’s interesting that the vineyard owners who were at the Pure party and at the funeral are all mentioned and, coincidentally, are the ones we’ve been checking. It makes me think we’re on the right track. Maybe it is business and not personal.” I took the letter, put it on top of the stack of magazines, slid it all inside, and replaced the envelope on the stack of folders. “Did you find anything?”
“No. Did you check the desk drawers?”
“No. You check the left side, and I’ll check the right.”
“Nothing here,” I said, finding copy paper, tape, and pens.
“Ditto. Just office supplies. Check the middle one.”
I pulled open the top drawer.
“Hey, that’s Ivy’s.” Simon picked up a silver bracelet embellished with grape clusters and twisting vines. “David gave that to her last Christmas. She must have left it here, or at his house. If we had any doubt, this is proof that something’s going on between them.”
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