I nodded and filed this away to use the next time Randall complained about the expense of the judges’ hotel rooms.
“Some events just recruit from the industry, the trade, and the press,” the winemaker went on. “People who make wine, sell wine, or write about it. That’s okay, too, as long as nobody’s judging anything in which they have a financial interest. But absent any information on who’s doing the judging, there’s nothing to prevent Genette from rigging the contest in her favor. And nobody wants to help her pull off a scam like that.”
“You really think she’d do something that obvious?” I asked.
“She already has.” He indicated her booth with a nod of his head. “See the banner?”
Strung above her booth was a bubblegum-pink and mustard-yellow banner proclaiming that she was selling “award-winning wines!”
“The only awards we know of that she’s won are a couple of fourth-place medals at her county fair,” he said. “And that was in categories where there were only four entries. She claims to have won a first place at a competition held by the Shenandoah Oenophilic Society, but none of us have ever heard of it, so we think it’s bogus.”
Just then Genette walked in.
“She’s back,” I murmured.
“Excellent,” Mother said. “I have decided it would be better to catch her actually committing an infraction. It shouldn’t take long.”
As we watched, Genette flicked a few specks of dust off her counter, cast a venomous glance at the booth to her left, which was crowded with chattering tasters and customers, and then hastily rearranged her face into a smile when two couples stopped in front of her booth. She sashayed out from behind the counter and began batting her eyes at the two men, to the visible distaste of the two women.
“Getting back to your question,” the winemaker said. “No. Do not expect to see a fabulous wine pavilion at the Virginia Agricultural Exposition.”
He nodded and returned to his booth, which was not festooned with gaudy banners advertising the awards his winery had won. He did have them listed on relatively small plaques attached to the front of the booth. They filled five of the plaques, and there wasn’t much room left on the sixth.
“He makes nice wines,” Mother said. “Very nice indeed.”
I hoped by now the winemakers had figured out that Mother’s “very nice indeed” was equivalent to most people’s “fabulous.”
“Special occasion wines,” she added.
Which meant they were not only fabulously good, but also fabulously priced.
“But that’s not why I called you,” Mother said. “He’s back.”
“Who?”
“Remember that man I told you about? The suspicious one?”
Had Mother reported a suspicious person earlier today? I didn’t actually remember, but in the wake of the thefts and vandalism, she’d have been in a very small minority if she hadn’t reported at least one suspicious person.
“Remind me what he was doing that was suspicious.”
“Precisely what he’s doing now,” Mother said. “Standing over there, staring fixedly at the wine tent.”
She led me to the entrance and we stepped outside, as if to have a private conversation.
“Don’t stare,” she said. “He’s right over there beside that bank of trash cans.”
“Wearing the navy-blue windbreaker. I see him.”
“He’s been there on and off all day.”
“I’ll check him out.” I wouldn’t have called him suspicious. Morose, maybe. But if he was making the exhibitors nervous, I’d check him out.
“Thank you, dear.” Mother strode back into the tent.
I checked my watch and then set off toward the trash cans in a matter-of-fact manner, looking not at them but at the tent beyond them. But I could see the lurker out of the corner of my eye.
Then an enormous overalls-clad figure stepped between me and my target.
“Are you the fair director?” he asked. “I need to talk to you.”
Chapter 13
I tried to keep the lurker in view, but the man in overalls was at least six feet six, almost as wide, and completely blocked my view of him.
“I’m the assistant director,” I said. “What can I do for you?”
“I just heard about the problems,” he said.
“Problems?” As I talked, I shaded my eyes and edged slightly to one side, as if the glare made it uncomfortable to look up at him.
“All these thefts,” he said. “I need to make sure my Romeldales are safe.”
I found myself wishing, for at least the tenth time since the fair had started, that farmers would at least try to remember that the rest of us weren’t necessarily that familiar with all the heritage breeds. Would it kill him to say “Romeldale chickens” or “Romeldale goats” or “Romeldale apples”?