Dandelion Dead (16 page)

“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 you 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.”

“Yes, but what's this?” I pointed to a small jewelry case.

“Is it an engagement ring?”

I picked up the tiny box and flipped the top open. Inside, resting on velvet fabric, was a silver engagement ring, with a big diamond. “Wow, this is beautiful.” I examined the inscription. “But it's not for Ivy. It says, ‘MP, Yours Forever, RB.' ”

“Can I see it?” Simon said.

I handed the ring to him, and pulled out my phone. “Jackson just sent me a text to get out. We need to go.” I glanced out the window and no one was there, but I guessed that he didn't want to take any chances.

I held out the box and Simon placed the ring back inside. “I don't get it. Who is MP?”

On the way home, we
filled Jackson in on Nora's letter and the bracelet and engagement ring. All of it was intriguing, although the content of the letter was much clearer than who
MP
was. But we'd have to find out.

In the meantime, I'd planned a fun evening for Jackson and me—movie night at Sisterhood Wines, where we might also be able to gather information. Throughout the summer Carla had hosted a film festival of classic movies every Thursday night, and she'd saved the best for the last one of the season: Alfred Hitchcock's
North by Northwest
, starring Cary Grant. Instead of using a traditional movie screen, however, she'd painted the side of one of her barns white and projected the films onto it.

Carla provided the wine, but we brought along organic popcorn and Honest Tea, along with blankets and chairs, and water for the dogs. We'd scored good seats in the front, and the dogs, Qigong, Columbo, Rockford, and Zeke, tired from a long walk around town and playing together, napped under a woolen
blanket. Carla had also placed heat lamps throughout the seating area.

We dressed in jeans and sweatshirts and sneakers because we wanted to be comfortable. We also planned to stop by the St. Ives Estate Vineyards afterward to look for any poison-hemlock plants and needed to be in activewear to move.

As for investigating tonight, Simon was hosting a wine tasting at Salt, another North Fork UnCorked! event in town, and our suspects, Ivy and Ramsey Black, Gerald, the Crockers, Derek Mortimer, and the Farmers, were absent. I'd wanted to chat with Carla about her relationship with David, but she'd been busy with her guests.

Jackson and I both loved this movie—and Hitchcock films in general—so I decided that I'd take a break from the case and just enjoy watching it. But I couldn't help but notice when David got up and followed Carla around the side of the barn right after the film started at eight o'clock. Scott Peters, his bodyguard, followed.

Twenty minutes after that, when a drunk Roger O. Thornhill, aka Cary Grant, almost died in a fiery car crash, my assistant, Lily, drove in, screeched to a stop in the parking lot, jumped out, and ran around the barn.

“That looks like trouble,” I said. “She went to talk to David.”

“Should we go over?”

“I will. Can you stay here with the dogs?”

“Sure, text me if you need me.” Jackson squeezed my hand.

When I rounded the corner of the barn, Lily was
yelling at David. “You told me you were done with her! And here you are!”