Blood on the Vine

by Jessica Fletcher

  I returned the newspaper to the table and rejoined Margaret in the den.

  “Wine?” she asked, indicating the tabletop that offered a variety of cheeses and crackers, raw vegetables and dip, and bottles of red and white wine. Some of the bottles were labeled Cedar Gables.

  “Your own vineyard?” I asked.

  “No. Wineries custom-label wines for private use. This chardonnay is a favorite of mine.”

  It was a lovely wine, with a buttery taste that lingered on the tongue and ...

  I thought back to my evening with Seth Hazlitt at John St. Clair’s wine-appreciation seminar. Despite Seth’s cynicism about those who took wine tasting seriously, I was committed to using this week to sharpen my palate and heighten my appreciation of wine.

  I held up my glass: “Cheers!”

  Chapter Six

  The Napa Valley Grille was everything Margaret had said it would be. We were greeted warmly by a handsome maitre d’ named Joel who obviously knew Craig and Margaret well. “He’s the best dancer in the valley,” Margaret said as the tall, lithe man led us to a table in a prime area of the restaurant. Craig ordered a bottle of sauvignon blanc, and we settled in for a leisurely dinner.

  “It is so wonderful having you here,” Craig said. He was tanned and fit, and wore a brown suede jacket, chinos, and a yellow shirt. “Brings back all those memories of Cabot Cove—”

  “And Maine winters,” Margaret added with a chuckle.

  “All in the mind,” I said.

  “The mind?” Craig said. “I felt those winters in my bones.”

  They recommended a special appetizer, breast of duck in a cabernet sauce, and we caught up on our respective lives, including mutual friends from back home. It was over endive and frisée salads that the topic of murder was raised.

  “Been reading about our murder?” Craig asked me.

  “Yes,” I replied. “Have you had any cancellations because of it? I understand your mayor is concerned about the impact on tourism.”

  “Our mayor,” Craig said, not attempting to disguise the displeasure in his voice. “No, no cancellations—yet. Our mayor is a good man with good intentions, but the notion that someone might be murdered on his watch is anathema. I suppose his concerns about what it might do to tourism are justified, but there is such a thing as reality.”

  “I understand William Ladington owns the restaurant where the victim worked,” I said.

  Craig and Margaret looked at each other, raised their eyebrows, and shook their heads. “Bill Ladington,” Craig said. “The original angry man.”

  “I thought he was a lover,” I said, “not an angry man.”

  “Bigger than life,” Margaret said. “And powerful. We’ve only run into him a few times. A big, gruff older man with a perpetual scowl and not a kind word in his vocabulary.”

  “Is he married?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Craig said.

  “Yes, he is,” Margaret said, “to a woman in her late twenties, early thirties at best. He must be close to seventy-five, eighty.”

  “What number wife is that?” I asked myself aloud. “Number seven?”

  “An honorable man,” Craig quipped. “Believes in the sacred act of marriage. No one-night stands for Mr. Ladington. I will say this. Ladington Creek wines are among the best coming out of Napa Valley. He’s got a wall in his tasting room filled with awards. Planning to visit him while you’re here, Jess?”

  “No, but if his wine is as good as everyone says, maybe I ought to do a little tasting.”

  “He’s got quite a place out near Halton Mountain,” Margaret said. “A castle that’s been here since the Spanish.”

  “Halton Mountain?” I said. “I think I read something about that.”

  “The finest grape-growing land in all of California,” said Craig, “and the most hotly contested.”

  “Why?”

  “Perfect conditions for a vineyard,” Craig said. “Some vintners would kill to own a piece of it.” He must have realized his comment was provocative because he added, “Figuratively speaking, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “I don’t know the specifics,” said Margaret, “but people have been talking for years about Halton Mountain as though it possesses some sort of magical grape-growing powers.”

  “Hillsides are always prime land for vineyards,” Craig offered. “Halton Mountain evidently is better than most.”

  “Who owns the mountain?” I asked.

  “That’s what’s being contested,” Margaret replied. “As I understand it, Ladington and other vintners are claiming rights to a prime area of it. According to rumors, the dispute has turned ugly. So, Jess, tell us more about your Scotland Yard friend.”

  “George? That’s exactly what we are, friends, nothing more.” I recounted how we’d met in London but had found so little time to nurture a relationship. “I’m sure he’ll love the room the count slept in. Bonzi?”

  “Yes. Your timing was perfect. I’m sure you noticed that we’re short on guests this week. Only three of the six rooms are occupied, including yours. It runs in cycles. Some weeks we’re fully booked, with dozens of callers being turned down. Then we have a week like this. Plenty of room at the inn.”

  “Not good for the bottom line,” Craig said with a laugh. “But that’s the nature of the business.”

  “I’ve tried to clear the slate for the week so we can bounce around together,” Margaret said. “Still don’t drive?”

  “No, but I fly,” I said, which led to some good-natured kidding as I told them about having become a licensed private pilot. “And don’t feel a need to chauffeur me. George is renting a car in San Francisco.”

  We feasted on the crusted sea bass and topped off dinner with raspberry tarts and coffee, then sat up until midnight back at the inn, chatting away, joined briefly by the only other guest, a Mrs. Marshall, whose husband had died within the past year and who was taking a long, leisurely car trip to help lessen her grief.

  “Time for bed,” I said.

  “Breakfast is between nine and nine-thirty,” Margaret said. “My special almond French toast in honor of our special guest and friend.”

  I changed for bed in the Churchill Chamber and picked up the paperback of Playing with Cobras, a novel written a few years back by a close friend, Craig Thomas, whose work I admire. Craig and his wife, Jill, live outside London, and I’d been their houseguest on a few occasions.

  But as I reclined in bed and was about to start reading, my eyes strayed to a heavy chest of drawers across the room. I got up, went to it and picked up a leather-bound, oversized book I’d noticed earlier but hadn’t opened. It was a diary of sorts written by previous occupants of the room, mostly honeymooners. Their entries waxed poetic about their stay at Cedar Gables, and some included rather intimate details of their first nights together in the two-person whirlpool tub. I took the book back to bed with me and spent the next half hour chuckling at some of the entries, tearing up at others. It always amazes me—and often touches me—that people are willing to bare their personal lives to strangers. Many of the entries went back a long time, long before Margaret and Craig had bought Cedar Gables and renovated it. Some people inserted their photographs along with their entries. There were crushed flowers, labels from the bottles of wine they had enjoyed on their stay, poems (Neil Schwartz would have cringed at most of them), and reviews of local restaurants.

  My eyes closing, I placed the diary on the nightstand next to Craig’s book, silently apologized to my friend for being distracted from starting his novel, turned out the light, and snuggled in for the first of what I anticipated would be many peaceful nights in Napa Valley.

  Chapter Seven

  I answered a knock on my door the next morning.

  “Someone here to see you,” Barbara said.

  “Thank you. I’ll be right down.”

  I hadn’t expected George to arrive so soon, although I knew he was an inveterate early riser. I chec
ked my watch. Not that early after all. Eight o’clock. I’d been up for an hour, and after showering and dressing had been sitting by the window reading Craig Thomas’s book. Now, I stood in front of the mirror and fluffed my hair and scrutinized my makeup and outfit—heather tweed skirt, coffee-and-cream blouse, pale green cardigan sweater, and sensible walking shoes.

  I left the room, walked down the hall, and descended the stairs, stopping once to say good morning to a life-sized suit of armor guarding the first landing. I continued and reached the foyer, expecting to see George. Instead, another man stood in the main parlor. He was short, no taller than five feet, five inches, but he was solidly built with a short neck, and a chest that pushed against the front of his shirt and jacket. He wore a black suit, white shirt, and brightly colored tie and held a hat in his hands.

  My first instinct was to return upstairs. Obviously, he was not there to see me. I’d never seen him before.

  But he turned, spotted me standing on the staircase, and approached.

  “Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Raoul Sebastian.”

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Ladington sent me.”

  “Mr. Ladington? William Ladington?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Why—why did Mr. Ladington send you to me?”

  “He wants you to be his guest at lunch today.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond. After a pause that seemed endless, I said, “Why does Mr. Ladington want me at lunch?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am, but he instructed me to bring you to the winery.”

  “What if I don’t wish to go to lunch at his winery? Did it ever occur to Mr. Ladington to call and issue a proper invitation?”

  “I can’t address that, ma’am. All I know is that he’s expecting you for lunch. I’ll be happy to wait until it’s time to go. You’re due there at noon. We should leave here at eleven-thirty.”

  “I don’t wish to be rude, Mr. Sebastian, but I find Mr. Ladington’s approach to be out of line, even offensive. I have no intention of joining him for lunch at his winery today, or any other day for that matter. I happen to be waiting for someone to join me, and my schedule does not include lunch with Mr. Ladington.”

  Barbara had been standing in the dining room doorway, listening to our conversation. Sebastian turned to her: “May I please make a phone call?” he asked.

  “Local?” Barbara asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. To Ladington Creek.”

  “The phone is over there,” she said, pointing to the single phone in the inn for guest use. As he went to it, Barbara and I looked at each other, raised our eyebrows in unison, and moved a little closer to hear what he was saying.

  “Mr. Ladington, it’s Raoul. I’m at Cedar Gables Inn. Mrs. Fletcher refuses to come for lunch.”

  He held the phone away from his ear, and Ladington’s shouting could be heard across the room. Sebastian turned to me and held out the receiver. The look on his face was one of pleading. I crossed the main parlor and took the receiver from him.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Jessica Fletcher?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bill Ladington here. Glad you can make it.”

  “Make it? No, I’m sorry. I’m not free for lunch.”

  “Nonsense! I’d like to meet you, get to know you, get your advice about something.”

  “I’m sorry, but I won’t be at lunch,” I said. “I have other plans.”

  “I won’t take no for an answer, Jessica.”

  I considered suggesting that since we didn’t know each other, his informality was annoying. But he didn’t give me the chance. “Tell you what, Jessica. Nice name. I like that name. What do they call you, Jess? You come on out here with Raoul, enjoy a fine meal, see how a real winery operates, and lend me an ear. What have you got to lose? You’ve got a date with somebody else? Bring him along. No need to dress up. We’re informal out here, laid back.”

  “How did you know I was here?” I asked.

  “Saw your picture in the paper. You must be a real star. Didn’t think writers got that much attention.”

  “I’m nothing of the sort.”

  “Like you to see my place. A real castle, built back when the Spanish ran things in Napa Valley. Got a chef who puts all those fancy French chefs to shame.”

  “I—”

  Margaret came from her office. “Jess,” she said with a smile, “a call for you. Heavy British accent.”

  “Oh?” I said to Ladington, “I’m afraid I have another call. It was nice speaking with you.”

  “Go ahead and take it,” he said. “I’ll hold on till you’re through.”

  Exasperated, I placed the receiver on the table and went to the office, where Margaret handed me the phone.

  “George?” I said.

  “Yes. Glad I caught you. I’ll be delayed a bit.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. How long?”

  “I’ve been roped into a panel discussion later today. I should be able to pick up the rental car by three. What is it, two hours to Napa?”

  “Approximately.”

  “Look for me about five, in time for a quiet drink and dinner. Sorry, love, but it can’t be helped.”

  “Of course. I understand. I’ll do some things on my own for the day and be here when you arrive.”

  “Splendid. Can’t wait to see you. Cheerio.”

  “He’s not coming?” Margaret said.

  “Later. About five.”

  “Who are you on the phone with out there?” she asked, pointing to the main parlor.

  “William Ladington.”

  “What does he want?”

  “Wants me to have lunch with him at his winery. He sent an emissary to bring me.”

  “Oooh, sounds intriguing. You’re going, right?”

  “No, I’m not. He’s arrogant.”

  “But now you’re free until five when your Scotland Yard friend arrives. Go to lunch. See what’s up. You can bring back all the gossip, tell me what’s going on with Ladington.”

  I left the office and went to where the phone still rested on the table. Raoul stood in the parlor with Barbara.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Got rid ’a that other call, huh? Good girl.”

  I started to say that I wasn’t a “girl.” Instead, I said, “I’ve decided to accept your luncheon invitation.”

  “That’s what I wanted to hear. You tell Raoul to stay around until it’s time to head over here, take you anywhere you want to go, give you anything you need.”

  “I have to be back early this afternoon,” I said.

  “Whatever you say. Got a new book out? Bring it along, sign it for me and the wife. We don’t read much but like to have signed books on the shelves, especially hardcovers. They look a lot better. Make it to Bill and Tennessee.”

  “Tennessee?”

  “That’s her name. Ever hear anything so dumb? But she’s a real stunner, a real beauty.”

  We ended the conversation and I hung up. Margaret and Barbara stood looking at me, smiling.

  “Satisfied?” I asked.

  “As long as you tell us everything that happens,” said Margaret.

  “I’m only doing it for research,” I said, sounding defensive, like an alcoholic who claims to drink only for medicinal purposes. “I may set my next book in a winery. What better way to learn than to be hosted by the owner of one of the better wineries?”

  “Of course,” Margaret said.

  “If George arrives early, tell him I’ll be back as soon as possible.”

  “Don’t worry,” Margaret said. “And if you don’t come back, you’ll have Scotland Yard on your case.”

  Her comment caused me to remember what Neil Schwartz had told me: that William Ladington owned the restaurant where the waiter had worked before being knifed to death, and that he had a vile temper.

  “Yes,” I said, “that will be comforting in case I don’t come back
.”

  I said to Raoul, “I’ll be ready to leave at eleven-thirty.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What are you going to do between now and then, Jess?” Margaret asked.

  “Go upstairs, get out my book on growing grapes and making wine, and bone up on those subjects before meeting Mr. Ladington. I’d hate to look stupid.”

  “Breakfast at nine,” Barbara called as I headed up the staircase.

  “My special almond French toast,” Margaret added.

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” I said over my shoulder without missing a step.

  Chapter Eight

  The vehicle driven by Raoul was a red four-wheel drive Jeep Grand Cherokee. I don’t pay much attention to cars, but this sort of Jeep is familiar to me because we get so much snow in Cabot Cove. Four-wheel drives, with their ability to handle slippery conditions, are the most popular vehicles in town—perhaps in all of Maine, for that matter.

  Raoul held open a rear door for me, but I opted for the front passenger seat, from which I’d have a better view and could more easily converse with him.

  We left Napa City on Route 121, but quickly turned onto what Raoul said was the Silverado Trail. “Mr. Ladington told me to bring you this way, Mrs. Fletcher,” he explained. “It takes longer but the views are prettier.”

  “I’m glad he did,” I said. “Pretty views are always appreciated.”

  The Silverado Trail wound along the eastern edge of Napa Valley, running parallel to the more congested and commercial Route 29, the main artery from the valley’s southern boundary to Calistoga at the northern end. Raoul had handed me a map shortly after leaving town. On it were listed all the major wineries in the valley. Ladington Creek was almost at the end of the Silverado Trail, near the town of St. Helena. Two mountains were noted on the map: Howell Mountain, and the one that Craig and Margaret had mentioned at dinner, Halton Mountain. Ladington Creek was located at the base of the latter.