Blood on the Vine
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter TWenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter TWenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Here’s a preview of the next Murder, She Wrote mystery, Murder in a Minor ...
In the hot seat
The temperature of the mud bath continued to rise, and I realized it was reaching a dangerous point. My flesh was on fire, and my head pounded.
“Could you make the mud cooler?” I asked.
“That’s not possible,” she said. Her bitter, angry expression said she had no intention of doing that, and it occurred to me that she was the one who had turned up the temperature.
“I have to get out now,” I said, attempting to sit up, but the mud blanket was too heavy. Mary Jane placed her hands—strong hands—through the mud on my shoulders, holding me down. “Let me up!” I snapped. “I’ve had enough.”
“What do you know about Louis’s death?” she hissed, continuing the pressure on my shoulders.
“Nothing, just that he was murdered.” I now yelled, “Let me out, damn it!”
If she pushed down any more, I would drown in the boiling mud, and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it....
Other Murder, She Wrote mysteries
Trick or Treachery
Gin & Daggers
Knock ’Em Dead
Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch
A Little Yuletide Murder
Murder in Moscow
Murder on the QE2
The Highland Fling Murders
A Palette for Murder
A Deadly Judgment
Martinis & Mayhem
Brandy & Bullets
Rum & Razors
Manhattans & Murder
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For David B. Agus, M.D.,
who gives medicine a good name.
Chapter One
“... and this Ladington Creek has always been one of my favorite cabernet sauvignons. I’m sure you’ll agree that its sweet jammy nose, its big, rich, black-cherry aroma and lingering presence on the palate are extraordinary.”
I glanced at Seth Hazlitt, who sat next to me in the single-session wine-appreciation course being taught by John St. Clair, a professor of business law at Cabot Cove Community College. John taught business to earn a living. His passion in life, however, was wine, and he’d been acknowledged for years as our town’s most erudite connoisseur. A small man fond of tweed jackets and floppy bow ties, whose tortoise-rimmed glasses were round and oversized, he had an enthusiasm for the subject that was contagious. He’d started conducting the course ten years ago, and it was always fully subscribed, as it was this particular early October night.
“It is good,” Seth said, savoring the wine’s flavor.
John, who tended to be dramatic when discussing wine, threw up his hands. “Good?” he mimicked. “Seth, it is heavenly, a gift of the gods, a supreme affirmation of nature.” He looked to me. “Don’t you agree, Jessica?”
“Oh, yes,” I said, suppressing a smile. “Definitely a gift of the gods. But will it help me get over this cold I’ve been fighting for weeks?”
“Absolutely,” John said. “Better than any antibiotic.”
“The Ladington of Ladington Creek vineyards,” I said. “Is he still alive?”
“Very much so,” said John. “Men like William Ladington never seem to die, and I hope he lives forever, as long as he turns out cabernets like this one.”
The William Ladington we were discussing had been a larger than life character in years past. He’d made his fortune in Boston real estate, then gone to Hollywood where he bankrolled—which meant he produced—a succession of movies, the early ones receiving good reviews, later efforts pretty thoroughly trashed by the critics. Then he packed up and headed north, to California’s vaunted wine country in the Napa Valley, where he bought a vineyard and started turning out Ladington Creek wines. Unlike his Hollywood experience, his early efforts weren’t well received by those with the power to judge the relative worth of the product. Bu
t he continued refining his approach to turning grapes into wine and eventually produced vintages that met the approval of the leading critics, including Robert Parker, who never failed to praise Ladington Creek’s output.
But it was Ladington’s personal life that delighted the gossip columnists. He was known as a hard drinker and had been arrested for drunken driving on more than one occasion. He ran with Hollywood’s macho crowd; he had his own “Rat Pack,” it was said, all of them carousers and womanizers. Adding to his controversial image was an incident early in his career in which he was charged with the rape, and death, of a Hollywood starlet, a more contemporary replay of the Fatty Arbuckle case. Charges against Ladington were dropped for lack of evidence, but that dark shadow became a permanent part of his legacy.
Unlike some men on the Hollywood fast track, Ladington seemed to have a need to be married. The last thing I read, which was a few years ago, he’d taken his sixth bride, a failed Hollywood actress one-third his age.
“How old do you figure he is?” I asked.
“Got to be eighty,” Seth said.
“Like fine wine, he improves with age,” John added. He ended the evening by handing out a list of his current favorite wines, and urging us to upgrade our taste when purchasing. “A fine wine is priceless,” he said as we filed from the room. Then he added a favorite quote of his from the Bible: “ ‘Like the best wine that goeth down sweetly, causing the lips of those who are asleep to speak.’ ”
Seth had driven me to the course, so he took me home.
“It’s still early,” I said. “Would you like a nightcap? Tea?” “Ayuh,” he said. “Cup of tea sounds fine.
“Glad you went tonight?” he asked after we’d settled in my living room to wait for the water to boil.
“Yes. One night won’t make me a wine expert, but at least I have a heightened appreciation for the subject. I thought it made sense to attend John’s course before I leave for California.”
“Lot of damn nonsense.”
“What is?”
“John’s fancy descriptions of the way the wine tasted. ‘Sweet jammy nose,’ indeed. Tasted like any other wine to me.”
I laughed. “Not according to John, and I must say he is inspirational. I never think much about the wine I buy, but I probably should. As he said, we should upgrade our taste.”
“It’s all a pretentious game, Jessica,” my friend of many years proclaimed, “especially in restaurants. That silly ritual of sniffing the cork, smelling the wine, taking a tiny sip and holding it in your mouth, then sending the bottle back because it lacks bouquet or some other such thing.”
Although I tended to agree with him—to an extent—I was glad the whistling kettle summoned me to the kitchen. When Seth becomes adamant about something, I’ve learned it’s best to change the subject.
When I returned with our tea on a tray, he was perusing printed material we’d been given at the course. “When are you off for California?” he asked absently.
“Day after tomorrow.”
“You’ll be spendin’ all your time at Margaret and Craig’s bed-and-breakfast?”
“No. I’m staying at the Westin St. Francis in San Francisco for a few days, then going to Napa.”
“Maybe you’ll run into that old coot, Ladington, while you’re there.”
“Maybe I will,” I said, refilling our cups.
Seth laughed. “John is probably partial to Ladington’s wines because he wishes he was like him,” Seth said. “You know, bigger than life, a woman’s man.”
“I doubt it,” I said. “John St. Clair would never allow sentimentality to influence his selections. He’s a purist when it comes to wine.”
Seth looked at his watch. “Better be heading home,” he said. “I’ve got a full house of patients tomorrow. Thanks for the tea. It had a sweet jammy nose, lingers nicely on the palate.”
“Don’t be so cynical,” I said, walking him to the door.
“I was tempted to quote something else to John about wine,” he said.
“Which was?”
“Disraeli. He said, ‘I rather like bad wine ... one gets so bored with good wine.’ ”
“I’m glad you didn’t. Thanks for the ride. We’ll talk before I leave.”
I sat in bed and reread letters I’d received from former Cabot Covers, Craig and Margaret Snasdell. No matter where I travel, there always seems to be someone who’s spent at least a portion of their lives here, and who enjoys touching base with current residents. Craig and Margaret were a popular, attractive couple in Cabot Cove. He was tall and solidly built, with a strong chin and reddish hair; there was a resemblance to the actor Robert Redford. Margaret, too, was tall and willowy, five feet nine inches, with an impressive mane of blond hair and a smile that melted snow in midwinter Maine. When they’d lived in Cabot Cove, Margaret was a nurse, Craig an independent insurance agent specializing in auto insurance.
They’d always talked of owning and operating a bed-and-breakfast, preferably in an area with less severe weather than we experience in Maine. They’d made their wishes known to real estate agents in northern California and waited patiently until the right property came on the market, a 10,000 square foot, 1892 manor house, Cedar Gables, designed by a British architect named Ernest Cox-head to reflect the Shakespearian era. They were thrilled when their bid was accepted, and we held an elaborate going-away party for them the night before they moved.
Their letters and occasional phone calls always ended with an invitation for me to be their guest at Cedar Gables Inn. The photographs they sent of the inn showed every aspect of it, inside and out, and the more I looked at them, and thought about it, the more I wanted to take them up on their offer. I was between writing books in October, and had been sneezing and coughing since the beginning of the month. This was a perfect time to get away for a week or two. There was an added incentive, however. I’d been toying with the idea of setting my next mystery novel in a winery, and this would give me a chance to do some research while enjoying myself.
“Lovely,” I thought as I put the letters and pictures on my night table and turned off the light. A few days in one of my favorite cities, San Francisco, and then a relaxed, peaceful week in California’s famed wine country.
Just what the doctor ordered.
Chapter Two
“That’s it, Jess, trim the nose up a little and keep her flying straight and level.”
I sat in the right-hand seat and did as Jed Richardson instructed, trimming up the nose of his Cessna 182 S single-engine airplane. I’d taken flying lessons from Jed a year ago and had received my private pilot’s license. That didn’t mean I was completely comfortable at the controls of an aircraft, although I’d passed my FAA test flight with flying colors, pardon the pun, and had aced the written exam, as the saying goes. My friends found it amusing that I’d learned to fly a plane but had never learned to drive a car. I suppose there is a certain irony in it, but that doesn’t matter. I’d taken flying lessons as a challenge, much to Seth Hazlitt’s chagrin, and was glad I had.
Jed was a former airline pilot who’d retired to start up his own small charter airline in Cabot Cove. This morning, he was flying me to Boston where I would catch a nonstop flight to San Francisco.
With the plane properly trimmed, we settled back and allowed the autopilot to take over.
“Sounds like a nice trip you’re off on,” he said.
“Yes, I’m really excited. It’ll be wonderful seeing Craig and Margaret Snasdell again. From everything I hear about their bed-and-breakfast, it’s lovely. And, of course, I’m looking forward to doing some wine tasting at all those vineyards.”
“I suggest you have a designated driver with you,” Jed said, laughing.
“I always have a designated driver, Jed. I don’t drive.”
“That’s right—forgot about that.”
“Seth and I were talking with John St. Clair last night about William Ladington.”
“Is he still alive?�
�
“That’s what we wondered. He hasn’t been in the news for quite a while.”
“Probably still kicking around. Damn fool with all those marriages. And that rape and murder of that actress.”
“He was only charged, Jed,” I said. “That doesn’t mean he did it.”
“I know, I know,” he said, shaking his head. “Innocent till proved guilty and all that. Still, I wouldn’t put it past him. You’d think he’d learn after two or three marriages didn’t work. Of course, I give him credit for his successes. Everything he touches seems to turn to gold.”
“Or wine in this case.”
We passed the remainder of the flight making small talk. Then, as we entered the Boston air traffic control system, Jed disconnected the autopilot and navigated the intricate, busy Boston air space down to a smooth touchdown at Logan International. He taxied up to the private aviation area of the airport, took my bags from the rear of the plane, and walked me into the small terminal.
“You planning to stay in Boston awhile?” I asked after requesting ground transportation to the main terminal.
“Nope. Heading right back. Got an early-afternoon charter to Burlington. But I’ll be here to meet you in ten days.”
“And I’ll be looking for you.”
I watched him leave the terminal and stride to his plane. A few minutes later, an airport minibus took me to where the major airlines operated and I checked in for my San Francisco flight.
Although I travel a great deal, there’s always a feeling of anticipation as I climb aboard a large jetliner and head for a favorite place. San Francisco certainly ranks as one of those, although there are plenty of other places I love to visit in this vast country of ours. San Francisco’s physical beauty has always inspired me—the steep hills in the city that challenge even the strongest legs, the glittering bay beneath the Golden Gate Bridge, and the rugged mountains that form an exquisite scrim about the city. But it is the history of San Francisco that defines for me the spirit that permeates this magnificent jewel of a city. Even today, the rugged individuality of the Gold Rush and the dogged determination to survive after the 1906 earthquake say a lot about the character of the men and women living there. And the vast array of coin-operated newspaper boxes on many of the city’s street corners are symbolic of the free and open attitude the residents of San Francisco seem to have toward one another.