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  Death, Dismay and Rosé

  It’s rare that the summer solstice and a full moon fall on the same night, but winery manager Norrie Ellington is all too familiar with the curse that supposedly accompanies the event: the death by suffocation of someone in the area. She’s inclined to write the whole thing off as folktale nonsense―until the president of the local historical society is found smothered on that very night. Local law enforcement aren’t quite so superstitious, however, and they’ve pegged a close friend of Norrie’s for the murder.

  Determined to discredit the curse and get her friend off the hook, Norrie begins digging into the background of the victim, only to discover that he had no shortage of enemies. And as evidence emerges of his questionable connections and shady dealings, Norrie follows a trail of clues that leads her smack into the racing world at Watkins Glen. She’ll have to shift into overdrive to save her friend, because curse or not, there’s a flesh-and-blood killer dead set on making Norrie the next victim . . .

  Title Page

  

  Copyright

  Death, Dismay and Rosé

  J. C. Eaton

  Beyond the Page Books

  are published by

  Beyond the Page Publishing

  www.beyondthepagepub.com

  Copyright © 2020 by J. C Eaton.

  Cover design by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

  ISBN: 978-1-950461-77-6

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Dedication

  To our fearless great nephew, Jeremy Lynes, who defied the odds all those years ago and kissed the haunted gravestone in Penn Yan’s Lakeview Cemetery. You continue to amaze us with your zest for life and love of family.

  Acknowledgments

  Our gratitude goes out to the relentless beta readers who have been by our side all these years. Your tech skills, advice, and keen eyes kept us afloat. Kudos to Larry Finkelstein, Gale Leach, Susan Morrow, and Susan Schwartz all the way in Australia.

  Special thanks to Rachel Marlatt Donner, for giving us the title to this mystery. Boy, does it ever fit!

  And a very special thanks to all the contributors on the VW Automatic Register forum. We learned so much about removing VW engines that it might just become part of our new skill set. If only in our novels.

  We are so fortunate to be part of the “Cozy Mystery Crew” of authors who work together to support one another. We’re glad to be part of this crew. You’re amazing: Ellen Byron, Becky Clark, Vicki Delany, Mary Feliz, Tina Kashian, Libby Klein, Olivia Matthews, Elizabeth Penney, Shari Randall, Linda Reilly, and Abby L. Vandiver.

  Without our incredible team of agent, Dawn Dowdle from Blue Ridge Literary Agency, and editor, Bill Harris, from Beyond the Page Publishing, this mystery would not have come to fruition. We are so fortunate to have you in our corner.

  Thank you, Beyond the Page Publishing for getting this mystery out there, and to the booksellers, librarians, and readers whose energy keeps us penning whodunits well into the night.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Epilogue

  Endnotes

  Books By J. C. Eaton

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Norrie’s House,

  Penn Yan, New York

  I flipped the kitchen wall calendar from May to June and shouted to Charlie, “Only thirty more days till my sentence is over.” The big brindle Plott hound barely cast me a glance and continued to guzzle his kibble. My sentence referred to the year I committed to overseeing the family winery while my sister, Francine, and her entomologist husband, Jason, traipsed through the Costa Rican rain forests in search of some elusive insect. All part of a grant Jason got from the New York State Agricultural Experiment Station at Cornell University.

  Hooray for Jason. He got a grant and I got stuck dealing with more murders on the Seneca Lake Wine Trail than I could ever imagine in my real occupation as a romance and mystery screenwriter for a Canadian film company. I sublet my cozy apartment near Little Italy and returned to our family farmhouse on Two Witches Hill in Penn Yan, New York, adjacent to our winery that bore the Two Witches name.

  For years, Francine and I begged our parents to change the name of the winery but our parents, who are now comfortably enjoying retirement in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, adamantly refused. Needless to say, Francine and I were teased relentlessly with all sorts of witch references. Of course, the fact that I just had to dye my hair orange and purple for Halloween in my sophomore year didn’t help.

  Now, with a Sharpie marker in one hand and my cup of morning coffee in the other, I reached over to circle June thirtieth. That’s when I spied the small moon images on the calendar page and froze. I put the coffee cup down for fear of spilling it and took a closer look. Sure enough, under June twenty-first, beneath the words summer begins, was a full moon.

  Wonderful. As if I don’t have enough to deal with. Now the curse of the full moon on the summer solstice.

  It was a ridiculous Penn Yan legend that probably got started two centuries ago when someone tried to cover up a murder. The curse was right up there with the “kiss of death” gravestone curse that still lingers over the Penn Yan Cemetery on Lake Road. That curse, I think, was meant to keep kids away from the grave markers, but all it did was encourage them to dare each other to place a kiss on Elinor McLandon’s grave, circa 1802, and see if she would materialize and take them with her to the netherworld.


  The solstice legend wasn’t all that different. Apparently, if a full moon occurred the same date as the summer solstice, the two witches, who once lived on our hill, would return from the dead and snuff the life out of someone in their sleep. The legend even specified the location—within a five-mile radius from the top of Two Witches Hill. There was a lot of lakefront in that area, including a popular vacation spot, Kashong Point. It was idiotic nonsense, but still somewhat chilling in a bizarre sort of way.

  I snatched my iPhone off the table and googled the last date of a summer solstice that coincided with the full moon. It was on a Monday in 1948. Rosalee Marbelton from Terrace Wineries was old enough to remember that date but she wasn’t living here back then. I groaned and tried to think. That’s when it dawned on me. Gladys Pipp might be able to help. Gladys was the secretary for the Yates County Sheriff’s Office and knew more about the goings-on in the county than the deputies who were paid to deal with them.

  Maybe I was being silly, but if no one was smothered in their sleep back in 1948, I could pooh-pooh the whole thing and tell everyone else to do the same. I looked at the clock and saw it was a little after eight. Gladys was bound to be at work, especially on a Monday morning, so I phoned her.

  “Norrie! I haven’t heard from you in a while. Is everything all right at the winery?” she asked once she finished with the usual spiel of “if this is an emergency, hang up and dial . . .”

  “Great! Everything’s great. Thirty days and Francine will be taking over the helm. She needs to make more jellies and jams.”

  Gladys was a regular fan of my sister’s assorted berry jams and, much as I hate to admit it, I used lots of those jars to eke information out of her when I needed it. Besides, she was the only friendly face in that entire office.

  “So, what’s up?” she asked.

  “I know this is a long shot, but you wouldn’t happen to know of anyone who was smothered to death in their sleep back in nineteen forty-eight, do you?”

  “Oh, no. Not you, too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I need to keep my voice low. Listen, Deputy Hickman was in here a few minutes ago asking the same question. Said he wanted to be prepared in case the summer solstice curse reappears. Thinks someone might use it as a cover-up for them to commit murder. Had me pull up the obits from Google, but it was worthless. Now he’s sending me to the Yates County Historical Society to go through their records. He even got a deputy to cover my desk while I’m gone. Can you believe it?”

  “Yeah, I can. That curse originated with the two witches who lived on our hill centuries ago. Those kinds of tales can really scare the tourists right out of here or bring in throngs of loonies. Hmm, that gives me an idea. I’m meeting a friend of mine in Geneva for lunch today. I’ll drop by the Geneva Historical Society on my way home and see what their archives say. We can touch base later, okay?”

  “Sounds good to me. Listen, I wouldn’t put a whole lot of credence into those things. They’re only good for one thing—late-night ghost stories around the campfire.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  When I got off the phone with Gladys, I took a quick shower and got down to my real job. I had a screenplay due to my producer in two weeks. Actually, to the screenplay analyst who worked for my producer. Then it would be bounced back to me for revisions and his little “just a thought” notes that were more annoying than anything else. I never knew if he wanted me to change anything or if he merely wanted to point things out.

  • • •

  At a little before eleven, I closed my laptop and headed to the tasting room before taking off to meet Godfrey Klein for lunch at Tim Horton’s. Godfrey was an entomologist who worked alongside my brother-in-law at the Experiment Station. He was also the only person who kept in touch with Jason and Francine via a satellite phone from Cornell. He was also the only person I ever kissed on the lips for no apparent reason other than a spur-of-the-moment impulse. And while nothing like that happened again, mainly because I was, and still am, dating a lawyer who works in Geneva, I still have mixed feelings about Godfrey. Good thing I’ll be back in Manhattan in July. I like writing drama, not living it.

  It felt wonderful to walk down the hill to our winery building in comfortable sandals instead of the heavy boots that seemed to be glued to my feet all winter long. Living in Penn Yan meant dealing with three seasons—snow, mud, and humidity. With mud season out of way, I could look forward to pesky mosquitos, no-see-ums, and frizzy hair. No wonder I moved to the city.

  Surprisingly, the tasting room was busier than usual for a midmorning Monday on the first of June. Lizzie, our bookkeeper and cashier, lifted her wire-rimmed glasses from her nose and called out, “Good morning, Norrie. Did you happen to notice the June calendar?”

  “Thirty fun-filled days?”

  “Shh! I’m referring to the summer solstice. It falls on a full moon. Not that I believe in all that mumbo-jumbo but—”

  Just then, Glenda emerged from the kitchen with a full rack of wineglasses. She immediately put them on the nearest tasting room table and rushed over to me. “The full moon falls on the summer solstice. It’s not too late, Norrie,” she said as she brushed a long strand of pink and silver hair from her face. “Zenora and I can smudge this place in less than an hour. It’s wide open so we can move clockwise while we gently wave the sage stick smoke around the room. The winery can’t afford to take any chances. Especially since it sits right on the same property where those two witches lived.”

  “That was centuries ago and none of us really know if they were witches in the actual sense of the word or maybe two hormonal sisters with bad attitudes.” Like the one I’m about to have if this keeps up.

  Glenda clasped her hands so tight I swore her knuckles were going to turn white. “If you must know, I have an awful premonition about this. And I’m not the only one. Zenora dreamt she saw a dead body floating on the lake.”

  “Good. At least it wasn’t on our property. Tell your friend Zenora we can’t risk setting the place on fire with her ritual sage sticks. The séance last summer and the ear-piercing chants around my house were bad enough. We’ll be fine. It’s only a ghostly legend meant to give little kids goose bumps.”

  “I’m not so sure,” she replied. “Promise me you’ll think about it.”

  “Oh, I’ll think about it. I have no choice. By the way, has anyone seen Cammy?” I stretched my neck and looked around the tasting room. Roger was at his table with four customers and Sam was chatting with a full crew at his table.

  “In the kitchen,” Glenda said. “Loading the dishwasher. It’s been a busy morning. Glad she’s the tasting room manager and not me. Nonstop customers. Fred and Emma can deal with them at the bistro. Whoa, I’d better get a move on. A few more just came in the door.”

  With that, Glenda grabbed the glass rack from the vacant table and proceeded to unload the glasses at her spot while motioning for the new arrivals to join her for a tasting.

  “You know,” Lizzie said, “it might not hurt to appease her. Glenda’s a gentle soul and she really believes in all that new age stuff.”

  “My sister and I believed in Santa Claus but my father didn’t go running out there to build a shed for the reindeer.”

  “No, but your brother-in-law built one for that Nigerian dwarf goat of his.”

  “Ugh. Alvin. Don’t remind me. Hmm, come to think of it, if those ghostly witches do appear on the solstice, one look at Alvin and they’ll be hightailing it off this hill like nobody’s business. Especially if he starts spitting.”

  Lizzie laughed. “I tend to agree.”

  Chapter 2

  I walked into the kitchen, and sure enough Cammy was busy loading and unloading the dishwasher. She didn’t hear me at first and all but dropped a rack of wineglasses when she turned around.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I should have coughed or something.”

  “It’s fine. Believe it or
not, we were slammed this morning with customers out of nowhere. I mean, yeah, the weather’s been terrific, but Mondays are usually slow. At least it kept Glenda from rattling us about that full moon curse of the two witches or whatever the heck it is. Remember, I’m from Geneva, not Penn Yan. We have our own imbecilic rumors and curses.”

  “This one followed me all the way through childhood, past puberty, and now well into adulthood. Anyway, I just stopped in to say hello. I’m meeting Godfrey for lunch in a half hour and better get moving.”

  Cammy raised her thick, dark eyebrows. “Just lunch?”

  “He’s a friend. Like Theo and Don from next door.”

  “Theo and Don are a couple. Godfrey’s, well . . . you know. Available.”

  “I want to find out more about when Francine and Jason are coming home. Godfrey’s been on the satellite phone with them. That’s all. I’m not about to muddy the waters as far as Bradley is concerned. Hunky lawyers don’t appear on your doorstep every day.”

  “I wouldn’t know. The only thing that appears on my doorstep, other than bird droppings, is the occasional delivery from Amazon. Oh, before I forget, Madeline Martinez from the Wineries of the West left you a message. She’ll be by today to drop off tickets for the annual WOW Winemakers Dinner in July. I think it’s nice that the six wineries in our section of the lake formed that little group. Great way to promote our wines.”

  “And catch up on the local gossip. Don and Theo draw straws to see which one of them gets stuck attending the meetings. At least the dinner’s being hosted at her winery and not here. Did she say who was catering? I must have dozed off at that meeting.”

  “Chez Claude from Rochester.”

  “No kidding. Too bad Francine and Jason won’t be back in time for it.”

  “Don’t worry, there’ll be tons of events for them to attend, like it or not.”

  I told Cammy I’d be by the next day and took off to meet Godfrey at Tim Horton’s. True, it was a small chain restaurant, but they had the best cappuccinos as far as I was concerned, and a decent selection of soups, sandwiches, and pastries.