I called Gladys Pipp the following morning before I even had my morning coffee. It was a little past eight and I knew she’d be at her desk.
“If you’re calling about that unfortunate man whose body you discovered, I’m not at liberty to give you his name. Not until next of kin are notified,” she said.
“Oh, I already know his name, it’s Davis Brewer and he’s the cooperative manager for a group of seasonal workers at the vineyards.”
“Goodness, Norrie, you’re going to put this office to shame.”
Or get myself in trouble.
“The reason I’m calling is to find out about a fender bender that took place in front of Lake View Winery two days before I happened upon Brewer’s body.”
“Don’t tell me you think that fender bender had anything to do with it? I sent the information to the Chronicle Express for their police-beat section. It’ll be public knowledge on Wednesday, but if you hold on, I’ll pull it up. Deputy Hickman hasn’t come in yet but he’s bound to arrive any second.”
“No problem.”
I waited a minute until Gladys was back on the line. “Here goes: Mrs. Ursula Penny, age seventy-six, from Milo, New York, was driving to her garden club meeting at Belhurst Castle in Geneva when a bird landed on the road. She stopped short so as not to hit the bird and that’s when Mr. Emerson Boyd, age thirty-three from Brighton, New York, rear-ended her. Neither of the drivers, nor the passenger in Mr. Boyd’s car, sustained any injuries. Mrs. Penny’s nineteen ninety-nine Cadillac had minor damage to the rear bumper, while Mr. Boyd’s two thousand seventeen Dodge Charger had a few minor dents and scratches along with a broken headlight on the driver’s side of the vehicle. There were no passengers in Mrs. Penny’s car and no one required medical treatment.”
“Does your report give the name of the passenger?”
“I don’t see it. But I can hear Deputy Hickman’s voice in the outer office.” Then she lowered her voice. “I doubt the accident had anything to do with that body. However, my brother owns a two thousand seventeen Dodge Charger and they have trunks, not hatchbacks, if you were wondering.”
“Thanks, Gladys.”
I had to admit, that woman was beginning to read my mind regarding the possibility of a body in the trunk. And while I dismissed Ursula Penny, I wasn’t too sure about Emerson Boyd or his unnamed passenger. I mean, what are the chances someone would select that particular spot off the road to dump a body unless for some reason he was already there, given the fender bender. Both cars would have had to pull off to the side of the road, and who’s to say Brewer’s body wasn’t in the trunk when Boyd and his passenger decided to dump it rather than find another spot.
Theo and Don would tell me it was a far-fetched theory, but as of right now, it was the only one I had. As soon as I got off the phone with Gladys, I poured Charlie a heaping cup of kibble and popped a K-Cup into the Keurig. Monday mornings were notoriously slow at the winery, and even though I promised myself I’d work on that screenplay, I figured there wouldn’t be any harm in learning more about Emerson Boyd.
Brighton was a suburb of Rochester and chances were the guy wasn’t the only E. Boyd in the directory. Therefore, I turned to my usual source—Facebook. That came up as empty as my stomach and I paused my search to finish my coffee and nuke a frozen corn muffin. Then I tried other sites with equally dismal results. Whoever Boyd was, he wasn’t connected on social media.
Rather than monkey around with Google’s phone book sites, I pulled out Francine’s Rochester directory, which weighed more than Charlie’s bag of kibble. There were four E. Boyds, but that was a doable number if it ever got to point where I’d call him. That being done, I picked up where I left off on my screenplay, then showered and walked to the winery.
“Does the name Emerson Boyd ring a bell to you?” I asked Lizzie when I stepped inside.
She shook her head. “Is he one of our customers? Were we supposed to ship wine to him?”
“No, but he may know something about that body Theo and I found. It’s a long shot, really, but the guy was in our area and he may have visited our winery.”
I wasn’t about to tell Lizzie he might be the responsible party for fear she’d grill me on the Nancy Drew protocol for establishing a viable theory.
“Cammy and Glenda are setting up wineglass trays in the kitchen. Maybe one of them knows. And Roger’s almost done at his tasting table. He might have an idea.”
“Thanks. I’ll check.”
I knew Sam wouldn’t be in until Wednesday but I seriously doubted any of our crew had an inkling of who Boyd was. Still, I asked, beginning with Cammy and Glenda. Both of them shook their heads and Cammy asked why.
When I told her, she didn’t seem too surprised. “The killer, huh? Hmm, that’s kind of an interesting thought, come to think of it.”
“Yeah. According to Catherine, both of those cars were only yards away from where the body had been dumped.”
Cammy furrowed her brow. “I’m not sure about one of those drivers being responsible for dragging that poor guy into the woods, but maybe he or she noticed something odd.”
I moved closer to the dishwasher. “I think the only thing Ursula noticed was a bird. But Boyd might be a different story entirely. I’m going to grab something to eat and see if Fred or Emma have any idea. Then I’ll touch base with Roger.”
“Wait a minute, Norrie,” Glenda said. “A few of my friends are joining me this evening for an herb-gathering party. I’ll run the name by them and see if anyone recognizes it.”
“Uh, thanks.”
And thank you even more for not inviting me.
Fred and Emma had no idea who Boyd was and neither did Roger. But like Glenda, they offered to ask around. That left Sam, and the chances were slim to none he’d have an idea. My best gossip source was the WOW women but we weren’t going to meet until Thursday. Still, nothing prevented me from shooting out a group email to them. I finished off my roasted beef on brioche with caramelized onions and went into my office to send that email. I kept it short and to the point—“Hi, everyone. Do any of you know an Emerson Boyd from Brighton? Call, email, or message me. Thanks, Norrie.”
I wasn’t holding out any hope that anyone would have a clue, but less than twenty minutes later there were two responses on my email feed—the first one from Madeline and the second from Stephanie.
“If it’s the same Emerson Boyd,” Madeline’s email read, “he’s a wine publicist out of Rochester and Brighton’s one of the suburbs. He’s got a few clients in the area, including the Speltmores. Do you have some juicy gossip on him? Tell us on Thursday.” Then the one from Stephanie read, “He’s a pompous wine publicist out of Rochester. Derek and I thought about using his services but decided not to. Why? What did the SOB do?”
It was a good question. In fact, it was the very question I was trying to figure out. If indeed the guy had done anything wrong other than getting too close to bird-loving Ursula. I wrote back to Madeline and Stephanie, “Thanks. I’ll explain on Thursday.”
Since it was a quiet afternoon at Two Witches, I returned home and concentrated on my own work until early evening, when I took Charlie for a long walk in the upper vineyards and made myself a tuna salad for dinner. With at least two more hours of daylight and a nagging thought, I called Theo and Don, only to find they had gone to Walmart in Geneva to “stock up.” That left only one other person since Bradley was at some sort of legal symposium in Syracuse.
“Godfrey! I was hoping you’d answer,” I chirped. “How’d you like to take a nice walk by the lake with me?”
“Nice walk by the lake my foot! You want to go back to the crime scene and snoop around.”
“I, um, uh . . .”
“The place will be cordoned off, you know.”
“I know.”
“Aha! I was right all along.”
“Come on, it’s a nice evening and you have nothing to lose. Heck, I’ll even spring for ice cream cones at one of the lake stands near Geneva. What do you say?”
“Tell me what you hope to find.”
“I’m not sure. But I need to take a closer look at the spot where Brewer’s body was and the entry point from where he got dragged in.”
“I suppose a walk would do me some good. I’ve been cooped up in the office all day. Alex Bollinger sent me a fascinating study from France on the phylloxera. That microscopic aphid can destroy an entire vineyard by devouring grapevine roots.”
“Is this something I need to lose sleep over? Because the thought of Steven Trobert showing up here has cut into my zzz’s already.”
“No. The wineries around here have hybrid resistant rootstock.”
“Good. Good to know.”
“Yes, unfortunately, that vineyard louse destroyed the European wine industry in the eighteen hundreds and was nearly responsible for doing the same thing in Washington and Oregon not too long ago.”
“You can tell me all about it once you get here.” Or not.
“Fine. I’ll head out in ten minutes.”
“Thanks. I’ll be in front of the winery, so you don’t have to drive all the way up the hill unless you’d rather have me drive.”
“Not on your life.”