Blood on the Vine

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Of course,” I said.

  George nodded his agreement.

  “Who else did you meet there this afternoon, Jess?” Margaret asked.

  “Oh, his wife, son, daughter-in-law, business manager—he drove me back here, name’s Stockdale—household staff, vineyard manager.”

  “A cast of suspects,” Margaret said.

  “Margaret!” Craig said.

  “How can I not think about it maybe being murder?” she asked. “We’re sitting here with one of America’s most famous murder-mystery writers and a detective from Scotland Yard.”

  “Both of whom are decidedly off duty,” George said with a chuckle.

  “Amen,” I added. “And this off-duty mystery writer’s eyes are getting heavy.”

  “Not too upset to sleep?” Craig asked. “Would you like a drink?”

  “No, no, I’m fine,” I said. “I didn’t know the man, but spent what turned out to be a pleasant few hours with him, at least at the end of my visit. He wanted me to collaborate on his autobiography.”

  “He did?” Margaret said.

  “Yes. I told him no, of course, but I’m sure someone will do his biography now that he’s gone. Should be interesting. You will excuse me. Time for bed.”

  “Sure you don’t want a nightcap?” Craig asked.

  “Positive.”

  George took Craig up on his offer. I bid everyone good night and went to the Churchill Chamber where I assumed I’d fall quickly asleep. But the news of Ladington’s death proved to be more upsetting than I’d thought, and I spent an hour in bed reading more entries from the guest diary. Eventually, the long day caught up with me and I turned off the light and lay there in the darkness, hearing the wind outside my window, and processing everything that had occurred that day. I didn’t get very far; my eyes closed and I slipped into welcome slumber.

  Chapter Eleven

  George and I sat at a small table in the dining room the next morning.

  “Sleep well?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes. I wondered whether Count Bonzi would make an appearance in the middle of the night, but no such luck.”

  The door to Margaret and Craig’s office was open and we heard her answer the ringing phone.

  “Cedar Gables Inn,” she said smartly. “Hello, Mrs. Kaplan. Yes, of course I remember you. What? Today? This week? Oh, I’m sorry, but both the Churchill Chamber and Count Bonzi’s room are taken for the week. Yes, I understand. Last-minute vacations are always the best. I wish we could accommodate you but—”

  I heard the front door open. A few seconds later two men stood in the dining room entrance.

  “Hello,” I said. George’s confusion was written on his face. “George, this is William Ladington’s driver, Raoul, and Ladington’s son, Bruce.” I said to Bruce, “I was so sorry to hear about your father. It must have been a terrible shock for all of you.”

  Margaret said into the phone, “Hold on, Mrs. Kaplan, please. We have other rooms and—” She poked her head out of the office to see who’d arrived.

  “Could I speak with you, Mrs. Fletcher?” Bruce asked. He was perspiring, and had a frantic expression on his face.

  “Yes, of course,” I said. “Excuse me, George?” As I followed Bruce to the main parlor, I said to Margaret, “They’re from Ladington Creek. Bill Ladington’s son and the driver.”

  Margaret’s expression asked why they were here. I shrugged in response.

  “I’m sorry to bother you like this, Mrs. Fletcher,” Bruce said hurriedly, “but I didn’t know whether to call or to just come here and see you in person.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Why are you here?”

  “My father’s death.”

  “I heard it on the news last night,” I said. “I was sorry to hear it, but—”

  “Mrs. Fletcher, they say he committed suicide.”

  “Oh, my. Did he?”

  “No. He was murdered.”

  I sensed that George was standing in the doorway listening to our conversation and looked at him, then turned back to Bruce. “Are you sure?” I asked. “How do you know that? He only died last night. Surely, an autopsy will have to be done to determine the cause of death.”

  “I don’t care about any autopsy, Mrs. Fletcher. I know my father didn’t kill himself. You met him. Did he seem to you like a man planning his own death?”

  “No, he certainly didn’t, but that doesn’t prove anything. Look, Bruce, I know you’re upset. If what you say is true and someone murdered your father, the authorities will do their best to determine the killer’s identity. In the meantime—”

  “Mrs. Fletcher, I want you to help prove my father was murdered.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say.

  “I know you’re out here in Napa on vacation,” Bruce went on, “and that solving murders isn’t what you do for a living, but my father really took a liking to you. He told me he invited you to come stay at the winery and help him write his autobiography.”

  “Yes, he did, but—”

  “Will you come stay with us and help me prove that my father did not take his own life?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t do that.”

  Bruce turned to George, who now stood next to Margaret. “Won’t someone help me?” he asked, extending his hands palm-up in a gesture of helplessness. “You must have known my dad. Everyone in the valley knew him.”

  “I met him a few times,” Margaret said.

  “Sorry,” said George, “but I’m a stranger here. I only knew of your father through what I read in the newspapers.”

  “The gossip sheets, you mean,” Bruce said. “The tabloids. He was better than that.” He returned his attention to me. “Please, Mrs. Fletcher, at least come to the castle for the day and see what you think after you’ve talked to me and the others. You may be a writer, but I know you’ve actually solved some murders. Please!”

  “I think it’s obvious the lady doesn’t wish to go with you,” George said in his Scottish brogue, modified a bit from having lived and worked for years in London.

  “This is Chief Inspector Sutherland of Scotland Yard,” I said.

  “Scotland Yard?”

  “Yes,” said George.

  “Then you and Mrs. Fletcher could come together and help.”

  “Are your local authorities investigating?” George asked.

  “Sure, but what do they know? They don’t know how to solve a murder. All they do is give out traffic tickets and arrest an occasional drunk. They’ve already said it looks like a suicide.”

  “Why have they reached that conclusion so quickly?” I asked.

  “An empty bottle of pills and a note found in his study.”

  George and I looked at each other and knew we were thinking the same thing: an empty bottle of pills and a farewell note weren’t bad reasons for authorities to suspect suicide at the outset of their investigation.

  I said, “Bruce, I hope that if your father was murdered, his killer is found. But I’m not the one to help in that effort.”

  “Oops, I almost forgot I left someone hanging on the phone,” Margaret said, heading for her office.

  “Margaret,” I said, following her into the office, “we overheard your conversation with someone wanting the rooms George and I are occupying.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” she said. “They’re regular guests, always show up with enough people to fill the place. Mr. and Mrs. Kaplan always take Count Bonzi’s room, and her mother—she’s very old—likes Churchill Chamber.”

  “I feel terrible depriving you of paying guests,” I said.

  “Don’t be silly,” she said. “Craig and I are thrilled to have you and your friend staying with us for a week.”

  I lowered my voice. “You heard what Ladington’s son wants us to do, go back out to the castle.”

  “Yes. How exciting.”

  “I’m not sure it’s that, but it seems to me that by our going out there, you could free up our rooms for your paying guests.�
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  “Please, Jess, don’t make a decision based on that. If your natural bent as a sleuth makes you want to dig into his death, by all means go. Do you think George will want to go too?”

  “I’ll ask him.”

  She smiled. “Can’t resist, can you?”

  “Oh, I could resist, Margaret, but I suppose I don’t want to.”

  She picked up the receiver from her desk and said, “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mrs. Kaplan. Good news. The guests who were occupying the rooms you want have had a sudden change in plans and are leaving. Happy to have you.”

  I returned to the main parlor and motioned for George to join me in the dining room. I started to say something, but he put his index finger to my lips and said with a grin, “I have a feeling we’re about to cross a moat and spend a few nights in a Spanish castle.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “I would if it meant seeing less of you. But since we’ll be together—and since you have this insatiable need to get to the bottom of things—I wouldn’t think of protesting. Besides, we haven’t worked as a team in a long time, not since that week at my family’s home. It might regenerate a whole new career for us, the Scotland Yard detective and the beautiful murder-mystery writer.”

  “You are wonderful,” I said.

  “And so are you, Jessica Fletcher. I’ll go pack.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Bruce wanted us to go to Ladington Creek in the Jeep driven by Raoul, but we insisted on taking George’s rental car. Although I’d decided to make the trip, I wanted the ability to leave whenever we wished, and at a moment’s notice. We followed the Jeep; this time we took the more congested, but shorter Route 29, which took us through Yountville, Oakville, and Rutherford until we reached St. Helena. The Jeep passed over the drawbridge that spanned the moat, but we stopped before crossing it.

  “Aha,” George said, “the famous moat.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Do they ever raise the bridge?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. It was down the last time I was here. I suppose they do. Why bother having a drawbridge if you don’t raise it now and then?”

  “I was just wondering if it was up or down last night, when he died.”

  “We’ll ask.”

  Raoul beeped his horn and motioned for us to cross. George did, and we parked next to the Jeep in front of the castle where Raoul and Bruce had exited their vehicle. Once we’d crossed the moat, Bruce went to a wooden box near the front door and activated a switch that caused the drawbridge to slowly, noisily creak to a vertical position, cutting off access to the castle.

  “Was the bridge raised last night?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Bruce said. “Dad always raised it at night.”

  “Which would mean no one had access to the castle except those already in it,” I said.

  Bruce pursed his lips and frowned. “I suppose so,” he said, as if he wasn’t sure he liked the idea. “We might as well go inside.”

  George lagged behind as we approached the massive front doors. I turned to him. “Coming?” I asked.

  “There isn’t any sign of the police having been here,” he said, hands in his pockets, eyes taking in everything.

  “Because they say it was a suicide,” Bruce replied. “They were in and out of here in less than an hour. Great police work, huh?”

  George ignored his comment and continued to pace in front of the castle. Finally, he shrugged and joined us as we entered the expansive foyer with all the symbols of its Spanish heritage.

  “These are most impressive,” George said, admiring the wall hangings. “Very nineteenth century, Francisco de Goya influenced.”

  Tennessee Ladington appeared through a doorway. She was dressed less casually and provocatively this time in black slacks and a black blouse, closed black shoes, and less jewelry and makeup.

  “Hello, Mrs. Ladington,” I said. “I’m terribly sorry about your husband.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  I searched her face for signs of grief. There were none. “This is George Sutherland,” I said. “He’s a friend of mine from England.”

  “Mrs. Ladington,” George said, extending his hand, which she took and quickly released.

  “George is a chief inspector with Scotland Yard,” I added.

  “Scotland Yard.” The respect in her voice was mock. “I don’t think it would be out of line to ask why you’re here, Mrs. Fletcher, you and your British friend.”

  “They’re here because I asked them to be,” Bruce said.

  His stepmother’s expression was as menacing as a loaded gun.

  Roger Stockdale joined us. “Hello again, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “I didn’t know you were coming back.”

  “Nor did I,” Tennessee said. “You’ll have to excuse me if I seem distracted. Bill’s death has been a terrible shock for me.”

  “I’m sure they understand,” said Stockdale. “One minute he’s here, big as life and running things, the next minute he’s dead.” He shook his head. “What a tragedy.”

  “I asked her to come,” Bruce told Stockdale, referring to me. “This is her friend, Detective ...”

  “Sutherland,” George said. “George Sutherland.”

  “British, huh?”

  “Close enough, I suppose,” George said with a smile. “Scottish.”

  “Scotland Yard,” I said.

  “Why would Scotland Yard be interested in Bill’s death?” Stockdale asked.

  I spared George having to reply. “Mr. Ladington had invited me to stay here as his guest,” I said. “Inspector Sutherland is an old friend who joined me here in Napa for a holiday. Bruce came to where we were staying and reissued the invitation.”

  “Impressive, Bruce,” said Stockdale, “taking action. Now that your father’s dead, maybe you’ll find that missing backbone.”

  I expected Bruce to respond angrily. He didn’t. His face reddened and he focused his gaze on the tile floor.

  “Please excuse me,” Tennessee said. “I have a lot of things to take care of.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Stockdale said, touching her arm. To me he added, “I’m glad you’ve come back. We can use some clear thinking.”

  “Any chance of a cup of tea?” I asked Bruce after they’d left.

  That snapped Bruce out of his funk. “Oh, sure,” he said. “Come in the kitchen.”

  George and I followed him to where Nick, the dinner chef from Ladington’s Steak House, was preparing lunch. The main housekeeper, Mercedes, was helping.

  “Could we get some tea, Mercedes?” Bruce asked.

  “Tea? What do you think this is, a restaurant?” she said without turning.

  “It’s for guests,” he said hurriedly. “Jessica Fletcher, the mystery writer, and a Scotland Yard inspector.”

  Mercedes slowly turned, wiping her hands on her apron as she did. She was a stout woman with gray hair pulled into a tight bun and a ruddy, round face.

  “You came back, huh?” she said to me.

  “I don’t really need tea,” I told Bruce.

  “I’ll make it for you,” the housekeeper said, heading for a huge six-burner stainless-steel stove.

  “We’ll be in Dad’s study,” Bruce said.

  “Are you sure we should be there?” I asked as we went down a hallway. “He was found there, wasn’t he?”

  “Oh, no, Mrs. Fletcher. He was found in the moat.”

  George and I looked at each other.

  “You said there was an empty bottle of pills on his desk,” George said as Bruce opened the door to the study.

  “There was, but he was found in the moat. That’s strange, isn’t it?”

  “Not necessarily,” George answered.

  “A bigger concern is whether the police will want to come back and do a crime scene investigation in this room,” I said.

  “They won’t,” said Bruce, closing the door behind us. “To them it’s a suicide. Remember?”

  Bill Ladi
ngton’s study was decorated and furnished as I would have expected it to be, a reflection of a dominating character. But unlike his office, this room was more personal, a quiet refuge where he could retire and indulge in more reflective thought, read a book, think about things other than the day-to-day running of the winery. One wall was dominated by huge blowups of posters for the movies he’d produced, with dozens of photographs of him with recognizable movie stars interspersed between them. The walls were southwestern tan stucco, the carpet purple, thick and plush, the color of royalty. The cherry wood desk was easily twelve feet long, the large swivel chair behind it in tan leather. The wall displayed stuffed animal heads—elk, tiger, leopard, and a few deer. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases, an elaborate bar, and a tan leather couch and armchairs completed the room.

  George went to the bookcases and perused what they held while I sat in one of the armchairs. The desk was immaculately clear of papers and other signs that a busy person had been using it. The only items on it were a fancy telephone with a dozen buttons, and a single black leather portfolio.

  “This is where the empty bottle of pills was found?” I asked Bruce.

  “Yes.”

  “Was it a prescription drug?”

  “No. It didn’t have any label on it. One of those amber-colored bottles.”

  “So there was no way for the police to know what had been in it?” I said.

  “I guess not. They took it.”

  “The police lab will determine what was in that bottle—if anything,” I said.

  George took a chair next to me. “Your father had quite a collection of technical books on wine making,” he said to Bruce.

  “Dad was serious about making wine,” his son replied. “Lots of people didn’t think he was serious, that Ladington Creek Vineyard was just a hobby of his. But he was determined to create the world’s finest cabernet sauvignon.”

  “So he told me,” I said.

  “The moat,” George said absently.

  “What?”

  “I’ve been thinking about the moat where Mr. Ladington was found,” George said. “It seems unlikely he would take an overdose of some sort of pills for the purpose of killing himself, then get up from behind his desk, leave this room, and go to the moat to die.”