Sauvigone for Good

Book 4: Wine Trail Mysteries

by J.C. Eaton

Genres: Women's Fiction; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Can Norrie stop a murderer’s reign of terror? The descent of winter on the Finger Lakes means it’s time for the Wine Trail Association’s Chocolate and Wine Extravaganza. Unfortunately, for screenwriter-turned-reluctant vintner, Norrie Ellington, her Two Witches Winery is co-hosting the festivities. Norrie’s  duties include wrangling the three international chocolatiers featured at the event—bitter rivals and industry influencers who can make or break Two Witches. But the heated competition among the celebrity confectioners soon spills out of the professional arena, and before the Extravaganza is over, one of the cocoa pros is dead, last seen sipping a Two Witches’ Cabernet Sauvignon. With spirits souring at the Extravaganza and her winery on the line, Norrie must hustle to find the uncorked killer before Two Witches’ reputation is crushed once and for all.

Release date: December 10, 2019

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 223

Sample

Chapter 1

Two Witches Winery

Penn Yan, New York

I pulled the quilt up to my neck and tried to ignore the incessant sound emanating from my cell phone. Why did I ever pick such an annoying ringtone? Judging from the light in my bedroom, I couldn’t tell if it was dawn or mid-morning. January winters in New York’s Finger Lakes region boasted one kind of sky color—gray.

My fingers fumbled on the nightstand but I finally grabbed the phone and mumbled hello, only I forgot the o.

“Hell of a morning to you, too, Norrie. What’s keeping you? Catherine Trobert’s driving me insane. I don’t know why I ever agreed to be on this subcommittee in the first place. It’s not as if the two of you couldn’t work out the details. By the way, I ducked into our tasting room kitchen to make this call. I told her I was getting some more cookies. Hurry up and get over here before I lose it completely.”

“Oh my God! Sorry, Theo. I totally forgot to set my alarm clock and since I left kibble in Charlie’s dish last night, he didn’t bother to slobber me with those smelly Plott Hound kisses of his. I’ll be right over. Give me five minutes to throw on some clothes and brush my teeth.”

“I’ll give you ten. Brush your hair, too. Oh, and go slow when you head down the road to our place. It’s pretty slick. Even the sign in front of the Grey Egret seems to be iced over. Ugh. I hate winter.”

I threw the quilt into a giant wad and scrambled into the bathroom. Of all times to oversleep. I pictured poor Theo stuck listening to Catherine drone on and on about heaven-knows-what. At least she wasn’t trying to fix him up with her son, which she’s been doing with me since I arrived at our family winery last June. That was right. Last June. My sister, Francine, caught me at a weak moment and begged me to oversee the winery for a year so she could join my brother-in-law, Jason, an entomologist with Cornell’s Experiment Station, and chase after some godforsaken insect in Costa Rica as part of a grant. Notice they never offered you grants to write novels in Paris or sample beers in Germany, but insects? The sky was the limit.

Not that I was expecting a grant. I earned a fair amount of money as a screenwriter for a Canadian film company specializing in romances and mysteries. Not bad for someone in their twenties with no real “life plan.”

“All you need is your laptop and a landline,” Francine told me, insisting “the winery practically runs itself.” I guess I should have paid more attention to the word “practically.” In the last six months, I’d dealt with a dead body in our newly planted Riesling section, one across the road at Rosalee Marbleton’s place, and one halfway between Two Witches and the Grey Egret. It was a wonder I met my deadlines and managed to keep my script analyst happy. Anyway, I had another six months before my tenant’s lease ran out for my tiny apartment in Manhattan, so I was virtually stuck here. Besides, a promise was a promise. Same deal with that ridiculous subcommittee I’d said I’d join.

I threw on my heaviest socks and jeans, along with an old, lumpy, mohair sweater that belonged to Francine, and headed out the door to Theo and Don’s tasting room for the subcommittee meeting.

All the wineries on Seneca Lake belonged to the Seneca Lake Wine Trail, an organization that promoted tourism along with our wines. That was over thirty wineries and a heck of a lot of businesses to promote. To further the cause, our neighboring wineries started a small, more casual group so we could support each other. Under the name of WOW, or Wineries of the West, we meet twice a month to discuss important topics of interest or, as my mother used to say, “Chew that gossip as if it was a piece of gum.”

Except for Theo and Don, who ran the Grey Egret, all the other wineries, including ours, were represented by women–Rosalee Marbleton at Terrace Wineries, Stephanie Ipswich at Gable Hill Winery, Madeline Martinez at Billsburrow Winery, and Catherine Trobert at Lake View Winery.

It was one of those women, Catherine to be precise, who thought we needed a subcommittee for WOW to handle the arrangements for our role in the wine trail’s upcoming Valentine’s Day promotional event, Chocolate and Wine. Our six wineries were selected by the Seneca Lake Wine Trail Association to showcase the three international chocolatiers flying over from Europe to give demonstrations of their craft and compete in the first ever Chocolate and Wine Extravaganza at the prestigious Geneva on the Lake resort. I figured the only reason our wineries were selected was that we were closest to the resort.

The grand prize for the winning chocolatier was an obscene amount of money, in addition to full-feature articles in Food & Wine, Chocolate Connoisseur, and Wine Enthusiast. Not that those artisans hadn’t been featured in food magazines, but the scope of it would be enormous according to the WOW members. If you asked me, though, the real prize was a segment on Good Morning America and some sort of book deal. Madeline Martinez explained the details at last month’s WOW meeting, but I was too busy checking my Facebook status. Then, to make matters worse, I got a terrible itch on my back and when I raised my hand to scratch it, she thought I’d volunteered to be part of the subcommittee, along with Catherine. Once trapped, I gave Theo a subtle kick in the ankle and he agreed to join the subcommittee as well.

Now I was hustling to get to our first meeting. Normally I’d hoof it down the road since it was less than a mile, but it was freezing outside and I was already late. Thankfully, my well-weathered Toyota started right up and I was down the driveway in seconds. Our driveway was really the upper portion of the hill with the Grey Egret at the bottom. We shared commanding views of Seneca Lake and the Route 14 traffic that those views brought.

Theo and Catherine were seated at a small table at the rear of his tasting room and, from the look of things, they had already finished a platter of cookies. Only crumbs remained.

“Good Morning, Norrie,” Catherine said. “Don’t worry about being late. Theo and I had a wonderful conversation about Steven’s latest trial. That law firm of his certainly keeps him busy.”

My God! Not even one foot in the door and she has already managed to bring her son into the conversation.

“Um, that’s wonderful.”

“Yes, he really enjoys living in Maine, but he was so disappointed things didn’t work out for Christmas. Of course, there’s always April. He’s bound to get a vacation then and the two of you can reconnect.”

Reconnect? More like wave hello and goodbye. Just like our high school days.

Theo shoved a large mug of coffee at me. “It’s still hot. I brought it over a few minutes before you walked in.”

The aroma hit my nostrils and, for the next ten seconds, I completely forgot about Steven Trobert, not that it was difficult. I barely knew the guy in high school and I was sure he wouldn’t even remember who I was.

“Yum. Chicory flavor, right? This coffee is phenomenal.”

Theo smiled. “Don’s idea to try new blends. Of course, now with the Chocolate and Wine Festival coming up, we’ll need to add cocoa blends.”

Catherine brushed some loose strands of hair from her eyes and leaned into the table. “Speaking of which, we might as well get started. To tell the truth, this whole thing has gotten me in a tizzy. Sure, we have festivals all the time, but the wine trail has never hosted an international event with world famous chocolatiers. Allete Barrineau was in last month’s issue of Martha Stewart Living and Stanislav Vetrov made the front cover of Saveur. I can’t believe they’re actually going to be giving presentations in our wineries.”

“I can believe it,” Theo said. “Don even talks about it in his sleep. Mumbling about bonbons and truffles.”

I shrugged. “Guess I’m the only one around here who’s fine with a Three Musketeers bar or some M&Ms. Francine was into gourmet chocolate until she discovered health foods. Now we’ve got a pantry with dark chocolate bars that are one step away from qualifying as laxatives.”

Theo laughed. “Seriously, we need to focus on the schedule so the rest of the WOW group doesn’t have our heads at next week’s meeting.”

I nodded. “So, what exactly are we supposed to do?”

Catherine pulled out a small notebook from her bag and opened it. “We’re supposed to figure out how to maximize the time we have with the three chocolatiers at our wineries. They’ll be arriving the week before the extravaganza and staying at Geneva on the Lake. Essentially, they’ll be available to do small weekday demonstrations at our wineries, except for Friday. They’ll need Friday and Saturday to prep for the Saturday night event.”

I pinched my shoulder blades together and took another sip of the coffee. “I thought they were preparing the chocolate, not making it.”

“They are,” Theo said. “They’re not chocolate makers, they’re chocolate artists. The block chocolate has been donated by Puccini Zinest from the Netherlands. I imagine Teuscher from Switzerland, and our very own Scharffen Berger, are kicking themselves in the pants for not beating Puccini Zinest to the punch.”

“How do you know this stuff?”

“I live with Don, remember? He practically oozes this information.”

Just then, Catherine slipped me a piece of paper entitled, “Seneca Lake Wine Trail Chocolate Extravaganza, Important Information for Winery Owners.”

“You should have gotten a copy of this, Norrie. It was sent out weeks ago. It has all the pertinent information on it.”

I glanced at the paper. “Uh, I’m sure we did. It’s probably with our tasting room manager.”

“The important thing to keep in mind is the chocolatiers will need a workspace in your kitchens and, except for Belgium’s Jules Leurant, they’ll need someone to be their assistant before, during, and after the demonstrations,” she said.

“Huh? Why doesn’t this Jules guy need one?”

Theo leaned back and groaned. “According to Don, Jules is a regular prima donna and a bona fide germophobe. He won’t make appearances anywhere without his assistant.”

“Well, he won’t want to make an appearance at our winery once he sees our goat, Alvin, hanging over the fence by the side of the building. And I don’t even want to think what would happen if Charlie trounced over to him.”

“Good,” Catherine said. “We’ll assign Jules to two of the other wineries. Each chocolatier will be assigned to only two wineries. That way they can get used to the setup. Less stressful for them.”

Yeah, but what about us?

Theo immediately responded. “Better keep him away from Gable Hill. Stephanie’s twin boys will have their little sticky fingers over everything.”

“Give him to Rosalee,” I said. “And Madeline. That should be germ-free enough.”

Catherine took copious notes for the remainder of our meeting, while Theo and I rolled our eyes at each other when she wasn’t looking. We managed to assign each chocolatier to two wineries for the demos and agreed on how we were going to use social media to promote it.

Suddenly Catherine turned ashen and put her notebook down. “Oh dear. Oh dear. We haven’t even discussed which wines each of us will be pairing. We don’t want to overlap if at all possible. Of course, it really shouldn’t matter since it’s a food pairing and not a wine demo, but still…we want our visitors to get a good sampling of what we produce in the Finger Lakes.”

“Merlot,” Theo said. “What about you, Norrie? Your winemaker must have shared that info with you by now.”

“He did. Franz said we’ll be serving our Cabernet Sauvignon, and when I spoke to Rosalee last week, she mentioned something about Pinot Noir. At least her Pinot wasn’t tampered with by that lowdown crook a few months ago.”

The color slowly returned to Catherine’s face. “Thank goodness. We’re serving Lemberger and I know for a fact Stephanie’s going to present their Cabernet Franc. That leaves Madeline. I know they produce Syrah so I’ll ask her if they’ll serve that. Oh my! Is that clock over there right?”

Theo nodded as Catherine rattled on. “I can’t believe it’s a quarter to ten already. I really should get back to our winery. I promised I’d give a hand in the tasting room. Now remember, we only have three weeks before those chocolatiers arrive and I, for one, want things to go off without a hitch.”

Theo’s phone buzzed with an alert and he mumbled, “Facebook or Twitter” as he picked it up from the table. None of us said a word as Catherine stood up to leave. No sooner did she push her chair into the table when Theo announced, “Without a hitch may be an impossibility.”

Catherine froze. “What do you mean?”

“It’s a news alert and it’s probably trending everywhere. It says, ‘New threats and old rivalries loom for famed chocolatiers.’”

Chapter 2

I don’t know who invented the term “train wreck” when it came to describing impending or ongoing disasters, but this chocolate fest had train wreck written all over it. Somehow it didn’t surprise me. I figured I’d go along with the plan, whatever the heck we come up with, and hope for the best. As far as I could tell, all I had to do was ensure our winery was prepared for the demonstrations and attend the bookended events that called for my presence.

The not-so-casual but not-quite-formal opening reception was to take place at Geneva on the Lake the week preceding the grand competition. I figured it would be an introduction of sorts with lots of boring speeches from the wine association. Apparently, I was wrong. My tasting room manager, Cammy, set me straight as soon as I left the Grey Egret. I parked my car next to one of the three visitor cars in our lot so it would look as if more people were there and walked into our wine sampling room. I swore my lips were blue from the cold.

“There you are!” Cammy held a duster and walked away from the gift shelf. “Did you get a chance to read that chocolatier article on Facebook? It might be from the Associated Press, but I’m not sure. Boy, talk about tabloid news. Guess this event is going to be a humdinger, huh?”

“I only got the headline from Theo. Please tell me it’s nothing that’s going to do damage to our winery. We’ve already had enough media attention this year, not to mention I’m probably on Deputy Hickman’s speed dial.”

“What part of the disaster do you want me to start with?”

“The part that doesn’t involve us.”

“Come on. Let’s chat in the kitchen for a few minutes. Besides, you look as if you could use a hot cup of coffee. Glenda and Sam have the tasting room tables covered.”

Cammy pulled the maroon ribbon on her French bun tighter and opened the door to the kitchen for me. A robust brunette in her thirties, Cammy had a welcoming demeanor that put everyone at ease. “I’ll pour us some dark blend. Glenda just made it. Pray to the gods she didn’t put any weird essences of God-knows-what in it.”

Glenda was a dear soul and our resident kook, for lack of a better word. She swore by séances and spirits, premonitions, and voices from the netherworld. Don’t ask.

“Sit down. This could rival one of your screenplays.”

Cammy was right. I did need more coffee. I figured there was no such thing as too much caffeine in one day, so I took a good gulp. “Go on.”

“Stanislav Vetrov, who, by the way, gets my vote for hunk-of-the-year, had a short-lived affair with Allete Barrineau a few years back until her husband found out and threatened to cut off the guy’s you-know-what. Rumor has it, the affair got rekindled and Allete filed for divorce. She cited his erratic behavior and unrelenting insomnia as issues that destroyed the marriage. According to the article, the husband threatened to lob off Stanislav’s head this time.”

“Ew. Please tell me the husband isn’t planning on attending the event.”

Cammy shrugged. “Who knows? But I can tell you this much—all the major news networks are sending reporters. The backstories are almost as riveting as the event. Including the cannabis remedy Allete’s husband tried for his sleep deprivation.”

“Oh brother.”

“Anyway, I’ve got a friend who handles the reservations for Geneva on the Lake and, even though it’s confidential, she did name names.”

By now I was chomping at the bit. “What names? Whose names?”

“Robin Roberts from ABC and Hoda Kotb from NBC. There’s more, but she couldn’t tell me—and that’s not all. A few world-famous chefs have reservations, too.”

“Like who?”

“No idea, but my friend said that the resort beefed up security like nobody’s business.”

“Holy cow. For chocolate and wine?”

“I imagine it’s a bigger deal than any of us realize. Anyway, getting back to that article, the Stanislav and Allete situation is only the tip of the iceberg.”

“Please don’t tell me we need to beef up security. The best I can do is move Alvin closer to the entrance. You know how he gets when he freaks out.”

“Uh-huh. Your poor vineyard crew can probably rebuild fences in their sleep. Listen, someone sent Jules Leurant a death threat stating if he dared to participate in the competition it would be his last.”

“Terrific.”

“Wait. There’s more. The article also said Jules’s long-time assistant quit because he feared for his life,” Cammy said.

“Oh no. I’d better tell Catherine. The wineries we assigned to Jules will need to do some jockeying around and get him a temporary helper.”

“No, they won’t. He’s bringing his nephew, some wet-behind-the-ears kid by the name of Earvin Roels. That was all over the news, too.”

I took a good whiff of the coffee before putting it to my lips. “Too bad Jules doesn’t have a relative who’s well-versed in martial arts and real familiar with using a handgun. Did the article say what was behind the death threat? I mean, other than the obvious thing of someone else not wanting him to win.”

“Nope, but it does sound all Tanya Harding and Nancy Kerrigan to me.”

“Who?”

“Yeesh. I keep forgetting you’re only in your twenties. They were Olympic figure skaters. Nancy Kerrigan was attacked in an attempt to knock her out of the competition.”

“Let’s hope no one knocks anyone out of this competition. Especially in our winery.”

“Did your subcommittee work out the schedule?” Cammy asked.

“Sort of. We left it to Catherine to finalize. If I’ve got things straight, the chocolatiers will be visiting each of the six wineries individually to sample the wine we plan to pair with their creation. They’ll be doing this the week following the opening reception.”

“Uh-huh. So far so good,” Cammy said.

I continued, “Monday of that week is for the chocolatiers to get acclimated. Nothing scheduled. Then the ticketed program begins on Tuesday. The full ticket includes the winery demos and the grand competition event on Saturday night. Visitors can choose to purchase grand event tickets only or demo tickets. The Seneca Lake Wine Trail Association is handling all of that.”

“Good. They planned this shindig. They should be doing something.”

“Judging from the internet attention, we should make doubly sure that when the chocolatiers arrive for their individual tastings with us, they don’t accidently bump into each other in our parking lot or, God forbid, our building. Sounds like it could be volatile.”

“Nah, it’s probably a bunch of hype so we’ll sell more tickets.”

As things turned out, it wasn’t hype and, if anything, it was understated. It didn’t take one of Glenda’s premonitions to tell us we were in for a maelstrom.

And while I wouldn’t quite use the word “maelstrom” to describe the WOW meeting I was forced to attend the following week, words like “nerve-racking” and “tense” certainly came to mind.

A fast Alberta Clipper charged through the Finger Lakes and forced our already cold temperatures to a new level of misery. John Grishner, our vineyard manager, still managed to don his winter parka and, along with his crew, prune the grapevines and repair any falling or failing trellises. And while the landscape smacked of “dead of winter,” the vines only looked that way because dormant could easily be mistaken for deceased.

I had the heat cranked so high in my Toyota that the interior of the vehicle actually condensed in the three or four miles it took me to get from Two Witches to the WOW meeting at Billsburrow Winery.

“I’d offer to take your coat,” Madeline said, “but it’s still cold in here. We insulated the enclosed porch, but it’s not enough. That fireplace of ours could really use a new heating fan. Anyway, there’s hot cider on the console along with coffee and muffins.”

Stephanie Ipswich and Rosalee Marbleton were already seated at the long rectangular table that overlooked Madeline’s vineyards. Both had steaming cups of liquid in their hands.

“I’m here! I’m here. Don’t start the festivities without me,” Theo bellowed from the doorway.

Madeline ushered him in and, within seconds, Catherine arrived. She was laden down with a stack of papers and literally plopped them on the table. “Updated schedules and information for everyone. I’ve been on the phone all morning with Henry Speltmore. Honestly, for the president of the wine association, the man was practically no help whatsoever. All he kept saying regarding the chocolatier schedules at our wineries was, ‘I’ll leave it in your capable hands.’ That’s a euphemism for ‘you do all the work.’”

Stephanie reached across the table and gave Catherine’s arm a pat. “And we appreciate it. We really do.”

The next half hour was grueling. We went over the event schedule ad nauseam, pausing every few seconds so someone could add a recent tidbit of tabloid gossip to the mix. Twenty minutes later I was ready to heave—either that or bolt out of there. The latest news was that one of the chocolatiers insisted we let them choose their block chocolate, rather than subjecting them to the “blind drawing” for blends like dark, semi-sweet, or milk chocolate. The end result, which probably came after ceaseless bickering, was that the three chocolatiers would select their preferred block chocolate for their creations.

“Dear Lord!” Rosalee exclaimed. “Don’t tell me they’ll insist on a particular wine—because all they’re getting from us is Pinot Noir. Next thing you know, they’ll want us to plant a specific variety for them.”

“You can relax, Rosalee,” Catherine said. “That’s . . .