The Hen of the Baskervilles by Donna Andrews Page A

person,” Mother pointed out.
    â€œBut it’s being held at her winery, and you can bet it’s being done with her money,” I said.
    â€œThen she’s wasting her money.” Another winemaker had come up behind us and was studying the flyer over our shoulders with a slight frown on his face.
    â€œYou don’t think people will come?” I asked. “There’s going to be a competition. Aren’t ribbons and medals good advertising?”
    â€œShe doesn’t actually say who will be judging the competition,” the winemaker said. “What if we all show up and she has some flunky judge the competition and award her a lot of the medals?”
    â€œCan she do that?” I asked. “Who judges wine competitions, anyway?” I was looking at Mother. I’d given her free rein to organize all the wine events. I suddenly found myself worried that she’d just recruited a trio of relatives who liked wine.
    â€œSome competitions use judges certified by a group like the American Wine Society,” the winemaker said. “They go through a three-year training program, and they’d better know a lot about wine going in.”
    â€œThat’s who we’re using, dear,” Mother said. “We have three very prestigious nationally known judges.”
    â€œAn impressive set of judges.” The winemaker was nodding his approval.
    I reminded myself never to doubt Mother on what she considered the important things in life, like wine, gourmet food, and interior decoration.
    â€œThat’s why I insisted that we put our judges up at the Caerphilly Inn,” Mother said.
    â€œIt was the quality of your judges that convinced a lot of us to come,” the winemaker said. “We realized you were serious about making this a good event.”
    I nodded and filed this away to use the next time Randall complained about the expense of the judges’ hotel rooms.
    â€œSome 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.”
    â€œYou really think she’d do something that obvious?” I asked.
    â€œShe 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!”
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œShe’s back,” I murmured.
    â€œExcellent,” 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.
    â€œGetting 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