Dandelion Dead (28 page)

“Thanks, honey.”

Walter, also dressed in a suit, and Nora, who wore an autumn-orange-colored wool dress, a brown scarf around her throat, and thigh-high boots, continued to talk, but it was about his business and the
Wine Lovers
magazine contest. “I'm glad that you like the vintage,” Walter said. “Kurt worked really hard to get it right.”

“You must miss working with David, though,” Nora said. “He's
quite talented and, I'm sure you know, the front-runner in our little competition.”

“Yes, and I taught him everything he knows. I think you're better off with the chicken rather than the egg. Don't you, ma'am?”

She giggled and took a sip of wine. “You do have a point, Mr. Farmer.”

“Please call me Walter.” He waved Kurt over. “This is the genius behind the wine. Kurt, meet Ms. Evans. She likes your wine.”

“Thanks very much,” Kurt said, and noticing us, he turned so that his back blocked our view of them.

We moved down the bar a bit and reassessed. “Not much there,” Jackson said.

“No, nothing unexpected.”

“Hey,” Kurt said as he came over to us, “what are you two doing here? You're the enemy.”

“I'm sorry you feel that way, Kurt,” I said. “We're just checking out the various vintages around town.”

“Sure you are. I think you'd better leave.”

“Counterproposal—why don't you step outside?” Jackson said. “We've got a few questions and then we'll go.”

Kurt thought it over for a moment, then grabbed another glass of wine and followed us out. He closed the door behind us. “So what do you want?”

“Given your history with your brother, David,” I said. “We were wondering just how far you might go to win the competition tomorrow night.”

“What do you mean?”

“We mean that since you attacked David at his sister-in-law Amy's wake, we're wondering if you're
behind the repeated attempts on his life,” Jackson said. “So far he's been almost poisoned, almost crushed, and almost frozen, and last night someone threw him into a wine vat and he broke his arm in two places.”

“No way. He's my brother. We may not get along, but I wouldn't do that.”

“He's also been receiving threatening texts and e-mails telling him to withdraw from the competition. Know anything about that?”

“No.” But as Kurt said it, he averted his eyes.

“And we're supposed to take your word for it?”

“I don't care what you do.” Kurt reached for the door handle. “I wouldn't hurt my brother.”

We took the crosswalk to
Main Street and walked toward the Oyster Bar, which was wedged between an insurance office and a clothing store. The place had started out as a gelato shop but had changed hands several times until its most recent incarnation, thanks to the owner of an apparel company in New York.

“So what did you think? Was Kurt telling the truth?” I said. “Did you notice how he wouldn't look at us when he said he wouldn't hurt David?”

“Yes, but it's not an admission of guilt. In fact, there's no benefit for him to admit anything. He'd have to be caught in a lie.”

“How do we do that?”

“I don't know.”

“Nora Evans and Walter Farmer seemed pretty cozy,” I said. “It's a good thing that Simon wasn't with us.”

“That's for sure.”

We walked up to the Oyster Bar, a nondescript redbrick storefront with a neon sign and a poster in the window advertising pairings of Pure wine with signature dishes, and the wine tasting for Pure with Gerald Parker.

Inside, I spotted Gerald at the bar that ran the length of the place, talking to Derek Mortimer of St. Ives Estate Vineyards and pouring him a glass of wine. Once he was finished and Mortimer stepped away, we went over to him. The Oyster Bar wasn't nearly as crowded as Harry's Half Shell because it didn't have the same reputation for fine seafood.

“Are you okay, Gerald?” I said. “Simon and I were on Route Twenty-Five this afternoon and we saw your truck in the water.”

“I really don't have time to talk right now. I'm super-busy. Get you something?”

“No, thanks,” I said. “Did you get a look at who was in the car?”

He turned away to serve a new customer. Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder, and I turned to find Derek Mortimer. He wore his usual three-piece suit and held an unlit cigar. “I can fill you in.”

“I didn't see you at the bridge,” I said.

“I saw the whole thing. I just didn't stick around afterward because I had a meeting to go to.”

“So what happened?”

“When we passed the Seafood Barge, Gerald was two cars in front of me, and he wasn't going very fast. But then when we got to the straightaway, this black Jeep Grand Cherokee zoomed past me and the car in front of me and just managed to squeeze in behind Gerald's truck. As they approached the bridge, he or she, I guess, hit the gas hard, but Gerald spotted him and sped up. But the Jeep caught up to him and rammed his bumper, really hard. The truck skidded off the road, flew into the air, and
ended up in the water. It's a miracle that he's here tonight.”

“Any idea who was in the Jeep?” Jackson said.

“No,” Mortimer said. “Tinted windows.” The door to the Oyster Bar opened and he waved to someone he knew. “I need to say hello to someone, please excuse me.”

“That's quite a story,” I said. “I wonder who was driving the Jeep?”

“I don't know, but there's no one else of interest here, and I just saw Ramsey Black walk by outside. Shall we follow him?”

“Definitely.”

•  •  •

We followed Ramsey Black to
Whitman's, a quaint new boutique hotel in Sterling Square, four blocks north of the harbor. The menu and accommodations had quickly won raves, and that Crocker Cellars was the featured vintner here tonight indicated the winery's dominance in the market—besides Pure. We waited a few minutes after Ramsey went in before we followed.

When we did enter, the place was packed, and the bar was crowded with customers wanting a taste from Camille and Carter of Crocker Cellars' entry in the
Wine Lovers
magazine contest, while others waited for tables to sample the wine pairings with various dishes.

The interior had the appeal of an English pub, with table groupings around a fireplace that blazed in the low light of the dining room. Bookshelves filled with the nineteenth-century poet Walt Whitman's literary works lined the walls along with illustrations and photos of
him, and his sister's house on South Street in Greenport, where he often visited, along with other memorabilia.

Because it was so dark, though, it was difficult to see who exactly was here, including Ramsey, who seemed to have vanished. But then I spotted him heading back to the bar from Carla Olsen's table in the dining room. She sat at a table with a woman I didn't recognize.

We walked over toward him. “Evening, Jackson, Willow,” he said. “How are you two this evening?”

“We're fine, Ramsey,” Jackson said.

An awkward silence ensued, after which Ramsey said, “I heard about the arrest of your employee, Willow. It's difficult to imagine someone that young and pretty doing something like this.”

“We don't think she did,” I said.

“From what I can gather, she did have motive.”

“She wasn't the only one,” Jackson said.

“You, for example,” I said. “We've heard rumors that you are involved with Ivy Lord. It's not beyond the realm of possibility that you might want her husband, David, out of the way.”

Ramsey waved the suggestion away. “That's preposterous, on both counts. Ivy and I are just good friends.”

“But you were involved with her sister, Amy, right?” Jackson said. “Until she broke it off?”

“I don't see what that has to do with anything.”

“If you and Ivy are such good friends, you must know about Amy's will and the fact that she left her estate to Gerald Parker,” Jackson said. “I imagine that Ivy isn't very happy about that.”

“I don't know anything about that. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to circulate.”

“In a minute,” Jackson said. “Where were you this afternoon around four o'clock?”

“Not that it's any of your business, but I was at a wine tasting with Ivy at Harrison Jones's vineyard, Wave Crest. I met Nora Evans there, along with the other judges. Why?”

“Because Gerald Parker had an accident around that time on the Mill Creek Bridge. Someone rammed the back of his truck and he ended up in Peconic Bay.”

“Fortunately, he's okay,” I said. “So he'll still inherit. If he hadn't, a clause in the will stipulates that his share of the Pure vineyard would go to Ivy.”

“I did no such thing, and I'm sure that Ivy didn't either. Now, I need to go.” Ramsey pushed past us into the crowd.

“I think we're done here,” Jackson said. “Let's go check in with Simon and David at Salt.”

But as we turned to go, Carter Crocker blocked our way. “I have a bone to pick with you, Willow. You upset my wife this afternoon, and at a very inopportune time. This tasting tonight is very important to us, but it was all I could do just to get her to come.”

“I didn't mean to upset Camille,” I said.

“Well, you did, and I don't like it much.”

“I don't like it either, but I had reason to believe that you were trying to lure Gerald Parker away from Pure, which would have been a problem for my friend Simon Lewis and, more important, may have something to do with Amy Lord's murder.”

“Come again?”

“From what we've been told, Crocker Cellars is a close second to Pure in the
Wine Lovers
competition,”
Jackson said. “I guess we're wondering how far you might go to win. Maybe trying to hire Gerald away was just the tip of the iceberg. Maybe you two took a run at David Farmer at the party on Sunday and killed Amy Lord instead. Maybe you didn't stop there and you two are behind the attempts on his life over the past week.”

“And since Gerald didn't jump at the chance to work for you, it's also possible that either you or your wife ran him off the road earlier today, just to get rid of the competition.”

“Both of you are out of your minds,” Carter said. “And if you repeat any of this to anyone else, I'll be calling my lawyer and suing you for slander.”

•  •  •

After the confrontations with Ramsey
Black and Carter Crocker, breathing in the crisp fall air was a welcome relief. We decided to go to Salt and check in and go home. Tomorrow would be a busy day, with Lily's release, a weekend crowd at Nature's Way, and a slate of activities at Pure, not to mention the ball at Southwold Hall, where the winner of the
Wine Lovers
magazine competition would be announced.

Salt, like Harry's Half Shell and Whitman's, was packed with people, dining and queuing up to the bar to sample Falling Leaves and other Pure vintages. Simon sat at the end of the bar with Harrison Jones of Wave Crest Vineyard, which was opportune, since I wanted to check Ramsey Black's alibi for the time of Gerald's accident this afternoon.

“Hey, you two,” Simon said, waving us over. He
had on a smart-looking teal-blue suit with a brown tie, while Harrison was dressed casually in jeans, a T-shirt, and a checkered blazer.

Harrison stood and kissed me on the cheek and shook Jackson's hand. “Good to see you again. Twice in one week, lucky me.”

“We just saw Ramsey Black at the Whitman Inn,” I said. “He told us that he was at your place this afternoon for a tasting with Nora Evans. What time was that?”

“Three thirty, why?”

“We're still trying to figure out who is making the attempts on David's life and who killed Amy Lord. My assistant, Lily Bryan, has been arrested, so we need answers.”

“I understand. He was there from three thirty to five o'clock and I didn't see him leave in between. Does that help?”

I looked at Jackson. “We're not sure.”

“Is David here with Tony?” Jackson said, looking around.

“Came and went,” Simon said. “His arm was really bothering him, so he and Ivy made an appearance around eight o'clock and went home an hour later. He did say to tell you that Tony is working out great, but he'd like you to be at Pure tomorrow since there will be a lot going on. We've got a concert on the lawn, arcade games, a bouncy castle, and a Halloween costume contest for the kids, not to mention all the people coming in for tours and tastings.”

“I'll be there,” Jackson said. “With all that activity, it's the perfect smoke screen if someone is planning another attempt on David's life.”

•  •  •

Since it was getting late,
we decided that we'd stay at Nature's Way for the night and headed back to the store. After Jackson checked in with his volunteer and made sure that all the animals were doing well, we headed upstairs with the dogs, and my cats, Ginger and Ginkgo.

Jackson changed into sweats and got in bed, while I changed into a T-shirt and pajama pants and went into the bathroom to wash my face. When I came out, Jackson had a pad of paper and was writing notes. The dogs were at the foot of the bed, already sleeping, while the cats, curious sorts that they are, sat on the windowsills. “What are you doing, hon?”

“Jotting down the people we think may be involved and possible means, motive, and opportunity. This is what I've got so far.” He showed me the first page.