by J. C. Eaton
As if that wasn’t enough, Henry virtually endorsed the new company with glowing accolades about their prior successes in the Hudson Valley. Midway through his dissertation, my mind flashed back to the conversation I had with Eli. The kid was adamant about his father being blackmailed and this new endorsement for a burgeoning agency could very well have been the response to what Eli overheard on the phone—“Make sure you take care of that little matter.”
Maybe that’s exactly what Henry did. Took care of the matter with an email to over thirty wineries. Don and Theo would tell me it was speculation but it sure fit the scenario. Well, almost. It had one important piece missing and that was the reason for the blackmail in the first place. If it was blackmail. Stephanie said kids exaggerate and she had a point. But still, Eli didn’t strike me as the kind of kid who would get it wrong. I noted that in my murder notebook when I returned home a short while later.
Then there was the more recent incident. Something about the Speltmores’ tawny port. If nothing else, Henry managed to tick off a few people. And one of them could quite possibly be Brewer’s murderer. I did a quick eye-sweep of the owner’s name for the new company but it didn’t register.
Meanwhile, I needed to find out from John if he knew anything about back-door poker games in Dresden. The WOW ladies may gossip but those vineyard guys have been known to wag their tongues, too.
I dialed his cell phone, and after a few rings he answered. “Hey, Norrie, everything all right?” Yeesh. This has become the official greeting for me as of late.
“Everything’s fine, but I was hoping you or one of your guys might know something about unofficial poker games in Dresden. I got wind of it today at the WOW meeting and Brewer’s name came up as the orchestrator. Could be a motive for his murder.”
“Harrumph. Those poker games have been going on in Dresden since Prohibition. New players but the same deal. Not that I would know firsthand but very little escapes me on this job. I haven’t heard anything recently, but I’ll ask my crew and get back to you. Hey, a word of advice—stay out of the investigation. Or at least do it from your desk. You don’t want to be the next victim someone finds in the woods.”
“Don’t worry. I’m just gathering information.”
“By the way, whatever happened with that Speltmore kid the other day?”
“He overheard someone threaten his father on the phone. And I think he may be on to something. Geez, this is turning out to be such a tangled mess.”
“What do you mean?”
“He heard the man tell his father to ‘take care of that little matter,’ but not in such nice terms. Anyway, when I got back to the winery after my WOW meeting, I checked my emails and there was a long one from Henry endorsing some new company that represented seasonal employees. A little too coincidental, wouldn’t you say?”
“As a matter of fact, I would. Too bad that’s all you’ve got. And if Henry didn’t want to inform the sheriff’s office about a threat, there’s not much more you, or anyone else, for that matter, can do.”
“Um, what about our seasonal employees? Are we okay?”
“Oh, yeah. Some of the local farmers have huge families and their kids are clamoring for work. Same with the Mennonites. No problem.”
“That’s a relief. I wouldn’t want Two Witches to get caught up in this muck until it’s settled. According to Brewer’s secretary, who I happened to meet, they’re waiting to hear from their counterpart on Cayuga Lake since they’re connected.”
“Happened to meet?”
“Okay. Fine. I went over there. But like I said before, only fact-finding.”
“Keep it that way. I’ll talk with my guys and see if anyone can shed some light on those poker games.”
“Thanks, John. I appreciate it.”
“Anytime.”
It was still early enough in the afternoon to work on my screenplay, so I took Charlie for a decent walk around the vineyards. I caught a glimpse of our crew in the Chardonnay section, and from where I stood it looked as if they were manually removing the shoots or suckers from the vines so that more grapes would grow. Usually that’s done in late May, but the temperature and weather are so unpredictable that oftentimes vineyard chores seem to blend.
June is officially trellising month in the Finger Lakes but that can go on in July as well. The shoots get separated and stapled to wires so they don’t fall over themselves. Then there’s the annoying bit about the leaves. Full leaves make the vines look lovely but they crowd the plant and prevent it from what it’s supposed to do in the first place—produce grapes.
No doubt about it, those vineyard workers never get a free minute. They just get different minutes depending on the season. And when wineries are pinched for workers, that’s when the seasonal employees are recruited.
As I continued to walk with Charlie, I couldn’t get Henry’s email out of my mind. It was summer, and although some wineries might need the extra help, most would be fine. However, when they got inundated in the fall with the harvest, they’d be pulling the proverbial hairs from their heads making sure they had enough staff on hand so as not to lose one single grape. If that business Henry recommended were to get its start now, by fall their owner would be sitting on one hefty cash cow. Darn it! I had to find out what the guy was holding over Henry’s head because the rest of the business formula was pretty clear-cut: part one—eliminate the competition; and part two—get one hell of a testimonial.
Speculation my foot. It was motive for murder. And while I couldn’t fathom Henry as a player in something so heinous, I could picture him being squeezed to the point where he’d have no choice but to become part two in the business plan. What started out as a simple fact-finding mission from WOW earlier in the day morphed into a twisted web of who’s who by the time I got home.
I refilled Charlie’s water dish, adding ice cubes that I had to pound out of Francine’s ancient metal ice cube tray since heaven forbid she and Jason buy a refrigerator with an automatic water and ice cube dispenser. This is the twenty-first century, guys.
Then I poured myself a glass of iced tea and took a closer look at my murder notebook. This time for connections. Unfortunately, there were none. Only a stick figure of Brewer with names, notes, and questions.
“Looks like I’m going to need a new tactic, Charlie, if I expect to get anywhere with this.” The dog dripped what was left of the ice water he guzzled onto the kitchen floor and meandered to the rug, where he promptly curled himself into a ball. “I’m still talking to you, you lazy Plott hound. What I really need is one of those giant boards so I can write a list of names and use different-colored string to make connections.”
No movement from Charlie. I stared at the notebook and looked around. There was nothing I could use that came remotely close to a genuine murder board. But I remembered some old transparency paper I found in the pantry a while back when I was looking for something else. The package had to be ancient. Ancient but workable.
I sidestepped the dog, walked to the pantry, and began a reconnaissance mission that took me over forty minutes. Finally! Behind an old toaster and an even older blender, I spied the package. Thankfully, the plastic hadn’t gotten too brittle to use.
“You know what this means, don’t you?” I said to the dog. “I can write the names in a circle or one of those line grids they always show on TV and put different transparencies over them. Then all I have to do is use my Expo wet markers to connect them. Different colors for different connections and different transparencies so the connections won’t overlap.”
The dog lifted his head and scratched behind an ear before returning to his original position.
“It’s a starting point. Don’t knock it.”
I cleared the kitchen table and took out two sheets of printer paper. I wasn’t sure if the circle method or the line method would work best, and the last thing I needed was to confuse myself with overlapping lines. I figured I’d do it both ways and see which one looked better.
“Here goes, dog,” I said as I drew a new stick figure of Brewer in the center of one paper and at the bottom of the other. Then I added the names and cringed when I got to the Troberts. I really didn’t want to add them, but according to Deputy Hickman, they had motive. I simply needed to prove him wrong.
When I finished, I read the list out loud to Charlie along with my comments. “Boyd, couple with the red baseball cap, Melissa (because one never knows about these things), competitor for new management service/threatening man on phone with Henry (they could be the same person), and last but not least, Henry Speltmore himself (he had contractual issues with Brewer but so did the Troberts). I sighed and looked at my list again. “This is a toughie, dog. If Henry had anything to do with Brewer’s murder, then why was he being blackmailed, or threatened? Then again, it may be another issue entirely. I’m not ruling anyone out.”
With that, I stood, stretched and went off to locate my Expo markers. It was going to be a long night.
Chapter 18
I took a good look at my handiwork the next morning. Not that I had a choice. I’d left the notebook and a small pile of transparencies on the kitchen table along with the markers. I studied each transparency between bites of whole wheat toast and sips of coffee, getting up only once to give Charlie another handful of kibble. It was a knee-jerk response to his whining. And not something Francine or Jason would ever tolerate.
Boyd had a connection to the Speltmores along with the mystery caller who allegedly threatened Henry. Both the Troberts and the Speltmores were connected to Brewer, as was Melissa. Add the missing bracelet and its owner could have been the woman in the woods. Now would be a good time for Zenora’s chant to work . . .
The more I looked at the transparencies, the more I felt as if I was taking one of those god-awful math exams that begin with “Harold is related to Susan but Susan is an only child. Jane is related to both Harold and Susan but she’s not their mother. Etc. Etc.” The stuff that makes me want to poke someone’s eyes out with a fork. Then I realized something. It wasn’t something that was on the transparency. It was the something that wasn’t—Boyd’s passenger. I needed to find out who the heck it was.
Gladys Pipp had no idea because the passenger’s name wasn’t listed on the accident report. But that didn’t mean I’d reached a dead end. It meant I would have to apply some darn good acting skills.
“It’s now or never,” I said to Charlie. “While I’ve still got the nerve.”
The clock on the stove said 8:34 and I figured Boyd was bound to be up. I rounded up my list of the four E. Boyds I found in the Rochester phone book and entered the first number in my cell phone. Last thing I needed was to have my call traced back to the house number. A static message indicating that number had been disconnected shortened my list to three.
The next E. Boyd on my list, according to his daughter, had passed away a few weeks ago. I offered my condolences without indicating who I was. Dodged a bullet there.
“We’re down to two, Charlie. Hold your breath.”
The dog scratched an ear with a back paw and sauntered to his dog bed. I tapped the numbers for the third E. Boyd and took a breath. The second I heard someone answer, I broke in, “Good morning. This is Patricia DeWitt from the DeWitt, Percy and Marcellus agency in Syracuse. I’m calling to speak with Emerson Boyd in reference to an automobile accident that took place on Route 14 in Penn Yan.”
“You must be kidding,” the man said. “Don’t tell me that old bat is pressing charges. She was the one who stopped short for a damned bird. And her car barely sustained a dent. Is she claiming whiplash?”
I took a breath and tried not to display the slightest emotion in my voice. “Actually, it’s not Mrs. Penny who’s interested in a settlement. It’s the passenger in your car. Let me see . . .”
I held still hoping I wouldn’t blow it. I desperately needed a few seconds for Boyd to respond before it was too late.
“What? That’s impossible. Are you sure?”
By now I all but bit my fingernails off. Come on. Come on. Give me a name. Again, I held still and waited.
Finally he spoke. “Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure it says Barbara Stanowicz? That’s the person who wants to sue my ass off?”
“Stanowicz? No, it doesn’t say Stanowicz. It says Merle LaTroub. Hold on a moment, will you.”
I took a breath and counted to twenty. Then I spoke. “I am so terribly sorry, Mr. Boyd. It seems your report was inadvertently entered into our data system incorrectly. Seems there was another fender bender on Route 14 and someone had the wrong passenger name. My sincere apologies. I do hope I haven’t ruined your day.”
“Gave me a jolt, all right, but no, you didn’t ruin it.”
“Again, our apologies. Do have a nice day.”
With that I pressed the End Call button and gave a shout out to the dog. “Bingo! Yahoo! I did it! I did it! And not only did I do it, Charlie, I may have found a connection. The connection. If I’m not mistaken, Barbara Stanowicz used to be Brewer’s secretary. I’m positive that’s what Melissa told me. How many women have that name? It’s not like Smith or Jones.”
Without giving the dog a chance to scratch, whine, or shake, I grabbed my notebook and added the new player. Then I reached for a transparency paper and drew in the connecting lines. I couldn’t wait to share my news with Cammy, Godfrey, and the guys from the Grey Egret, but I knew that they were already at work or on their way. I was the only one with a flexible, albeit nonexistent, schedule.
I finished my toast, rinsed my cup and dish in the sink and raced upstairs for a quick shower. Once in the tasting room, I’d spread the word like manure on a fresh field.
Rather than try to track down Barbara from Facebook or other social media, I took a shortcut. I called Melissa once I got into the winery. Cammy and the others all had customers at their tables and Lizzie was busy ringing up sales. No sense interrupting them. Melissa answered on the first ring, and once again I had to draw on acting skills I never knew I had.
“Hi, Melissa! It’s Norrie Ellington from Two Witches. I just wanted to call to see how everything’s going. I felt badly about the situation.” And now I need to figure out how to get Barbara into the conversation.
“Thanks. That’s very sweet of you. Things are going as well as expected, I suppose. I finally got a call from the other office on Cayuga Lake and someone’s supposed to stop over on Monday to meet me. They need to keep this office running and need to hire a replacement for Mr. Brewer. Right now I feel so inefficient. I thought about calling his former secretary but figured the last thing she’d want was to go back to work.”
Oh my gosh. She mentioned Barbara, not me.
“Um, that may or may not be a good idea, depending on what she’s like. Do you have any idea?”
“All I know is that she was very efficient and straightforward. She moved to that new condo development in Canandaigua. The fancy one. On the lake. Homeowner association fees start at fifteen hundred a month for a one bedroom, so it’s way out of my league, but maybe she had money saved up or something. When I met her, I couldn’t believe how classy she dressed. Especially for an office in Dresden. My wardrobe doesn’t come close but I’m trying.”
“You looked fine when I met you.”
“I was a blithering mess. By the way, I called Barbara to let her know about Mr. Brewer when I first found out in case no one else called. I didn’t want her to find out on the news.”
“That was very considerate of you.”
“Considerate or not, it was a strange call. She acted as if I called to let her know her grocery order or something had just come in. Then I figured it didn’t register with her so I let it go. But honestly, when I told her it was like she checked it off a list or something. Strange, huh? Oh, gosh. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not insinuating she had anything to do with his death. I tend to ramble. It’s a terrible habit.”
“It’s fine. I hope everything works out on Monday. Oh, an
d I hope you find your bracelet.”
“Me, too, but I’m not banking on it. Thanks, Norrie. Have a good day.”
The second I got off the phone I raced to the tasting room and literally pulled Cammy away from her table, wet wipe-down towel still in her hand. “I think I found the missing link,” I said. “Come on, we can talk in the kitchen.”
Cammy looked dazed for a moment but followed me into the kitchen. “What missing link?”
I caught a breath and went on to explain about my murder notebook and the two acting performances that should have won me an Oscar.
“You’re in the wrong business, Norrie. Instead of writing screenplays you should be in one.” Then she paused. “Hmm, Brewer’s former secretary, huh? Think she was the one who knocked him off?”
I shrugged. “She’s the only one with a connection to Boyd and Brewer.”
“That could be coincidental.”
“Right now the sheriff’s office has the Troberts on notice because of the argument Catherine’s husband had with Brewer. But maybe Brewer’s murder had nothing to do with contractual issues. Maybe it was personal.”
“Don’t tell me you’re thinking a scorned lover, because from what you said, Barbara was much older than him. Much older.”
“Maybe not so much scorned lover but embezzler. Maybe she cooked the books and he found out so she did away with him. I mean, retiring is one thing, but it won’t exonerate you if you’re found guilty of something like that. Holy mackerel! Everyone has a damn motive. Maybe Bradley can make some sense of it when we go out tonight.”
“Try to have a nice romantic evening and give the sleuthing a rest for a while.”
“Easy for you to say. You don’t have Catherine breathing down your neck. Next thing you know she’ll be showing me samples of wedding invitations. And then there’s poor Eli. Who knows what’s being held over his father’s head? And if it has anything to do with Brewer.”
