Blood on the Vine

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Exactly!” Bruce exclaimed, coming to his feet for emphasis.

  As he did, Mercedes arrived with our tea. She placed the tray on the desk without a word and left. I served.

  “Who was here last night when he died?” George asked.

  Bruce screwed up his face in an exaggerated attempt to remember. “Let’s see,” he said, rubbing his round chin, “there was Tennessee, Roger, Raoul, my wife Laura, Wade Grosso, Mercedes, Consuela and Fidel, some of the vineyard workers who met with Dad, the security staff, and ... oh, right, Madame Saison.”

  “The French vintner,” I said. “Your father told me she was coming. They were involved in some sort of joint venture, I believe.”

  “Yeah, something like that,” Bruce said, not attempting to disguise his displeasure.

  “And security staff?”

  “Three of them. They live in their own quarters at the back end of the main vineyard.”

  “Which would be on the other side of the moat,” George said.

  “Right, although one of them was here at the house last night. They take turns at the night shift.”

  “The suicide note,” I said. “I assume the police took that.”

  “Yes, they did,” Bruce replied.

  “What did it say?” George asked.

  “I didn’t see it,” Bruce said, picking up his cup and saucer but quickly replacing it on the tray because his hand shook visibly. “They just took it.”

  “Then how do you know it was a suicide note?” I asked.

  “Because that’s what they told me. Dad had a small, battery-powered Canon typewriter in here. They took that, too.” He laughed. “Dad had no use for computers. Even using an electric typewriter was a big deal for him.”

  “They’ll test it to see whether the note was written on it,” George said.

  Our conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door. It opened and Mercedes announced, “Sheriff Davis is here.” She stepped aside to allow him to enter. He was a big man, almost as imposing as Bill Ladington. He wore jeans, a pale green V-neck sweater over a white button-down shirt, and white sneakers. Obviously, law enforcement in Napa Valley was a casual undertaking.

  “Sorry to barge in on you like this,” he told Bruce, “but I was passing and thought I’d stop by.”

  “Is the drawbridge down?” Bruce asked.

  Davis laughed. “It wasn’t, but I rang the bell and announced who I was on the intercom.” He looked directly at me and George.

  “This is Jessica Fletcher,” Bruce said. “And her friend, George Sutherland. He’s a Scotland Yard detective.”

  “That so?” Davis said, crossing the room and extending his hand to George. “Pretty much out of your jurisdiction, I’d say.”

  “Just a tourist,” George said, smiling and shaking his hand.

  Davis also extended his hand to me, which I took.

  “Jessica Fletcher,” he said. “Sounds familiar.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher is a famous mystery writer,” Bruce said.

  “Yes, that’s probably where I heard it. I’m not much of a reader so no offense if I haven’t read any of your books.”

  “Of course not,” I said.

  “Your name came up this morning,” the sheriff said.

  “Oh? Why?”

  “A writer from San Francisco was in my office. He said he was a good friend of yours.”

  “Neil Schwartz?”

  “Yeah, that’s him. You are his friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s a pesty guy.”

  I laughed. “Sometimes to get a story you have to be a bit of a pest.”

  Davis turned to Bruce. “Appreciate a word with you, alone,” he said pleasantly.

  Bruce looked nervously at George and me as he followed Davis from the room and closed the door behind them.

  “Maybe the police have more interest in Mr. Ladington’s death than his son thinks,” George said.

  “I wonder what he wants,” I said, going to the bar and examining the dozens of bottles displayed on the back bar. “I doubt very much if he was just passing by and dropped in for a social visit.”

  George laughed and joined me at the bar. We didn’t turn immediately at the sound of the door opening because we assumed it was Bruce. But when we did turn, we were face-to-face with a woman.

  “Mrs. Fletcher?” she asked in a heavy French accent.

  “Yes,” I said. “You must be Edith Saison.”

  She smiled, came to us, and shook our hands. She was of medium height. A pin spot in the ceiling shone down on ink-black hair cut short, causing it to glisten. Her features were sharp and well defined, cheekbones high, chin and nose prominent. Her large, oval eyes were as black as her hair. She wore a black pants suit subtly trimmed in gold and cut to accent her good figure. I judged her to be in her late forties, although she could have been in her early fifties. Hard to tell.

  “It must have been a blow having Mr. Ladington meet such a sudden, unexpected end,” I said.

  “Yes, it was,” she said. “I still can not believe it.”

  “You arrived last evening,” I said.

  “Oui.”

  “Had you spent much time here at the vineyard, and in Napa Valley?”

  “Oh, no. This is my first trip. Bill and I did all our negotiations in France or Curaçao. We both have homes there. Bill told me you were going to help him write his autobiography.”

  “That isn’t exactly true,” I said. “We did discuss it, but I told him it was out of the question.”

  “But he did talk to you.”

  “About making wine.”

  “About me and our plans?”

  “Just in passing. He said you were bringing varietals to graft to his vines.”

  “That’s right,” she said. “It’s such an exciting project. The combination of the varietals we’ve developed in France, and the excellent growing conditions here, promise to create a truly superior cabernet.”

  I was about to ask whether Ladington’s death changed those plans, but she walked from the room. Bruce and Sheriff Davis returned. Bruce looked as though he’d been given bad news by the large, affable sheriff, but the lawman’s expression was unreadable.

  “I understand you’ll be staying here for a week or so, Mrs. Fletcher,” Davis said.

  “That’s right, Sheriff.”

  “A shame Bill Ladington won’t be around to play host,” Davis said. “Well, I’ll be going now.”

  “Are you still considering Mr. Ladington’s death a suicide?” George asked the sheriff.

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation.”

  “Investigation?” I said. “Bruce told me it was definitely ruled a suicide.”

  “Well, now, Mrs. Fletcher, even though everything points to Bill Ladington’s taking his own life, until we’ve got the autopsy results, it’s still considered under investigation. But that shouldn’t concern you or Detective Sutherland. You wouldn’t be here to conduct your own investigation, would you?”

  Bruce answered for us. “No, Sheriff, they’re just houseguests. When I learned Dad had invited Mrs. Fletcher, I thought it was only right to honor what he wanted.”

  Davis’s expression said he didn’t necessarily believe it, but he didn’t press. He bade us a good night and Bruce escorted him from the study, leaving George and me alone.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “About what?”

  “About staying. We don’t have to.”

  “You’ve already given up our rooms at your friends’ inn.”

  “I’m sure we can find something else.”

  He went behind the desk, placed his hands on it, and leaned forward, a chairman of a board about to break news to stockholders. “I rather think I’d like to stay, Jessica,” he said, grinning broadly. “Interesting group of characters, perplexing situation, many questions but few answers, and so much to learn about turning grapes into fine wine.”

  I smiled and shook my h
ead. “So much for our pledge last night at dinner to avoid murder at all costs.”

  George laughed. “Simply a matter of life intruding on otherwise well-laid plans. We should get our luggage from the car.”

  Raoul, Ladington’s driver, was in front when we exited the castle and he helped us inside with our bags. Tennessee Ladington awaited us in the foyer, arms folded across her chest.

  “Your room is—” she said.

  “Rooms,” I corrected. “We’ll need two separate rooms, if that isn’t too much trouble.”

  We were shown to a wing in which four empty guest rooms were located. Mine was on the west side, affording a view over the main vineyard where Bill Ladington and I had our conversation the previous afternoon. George’s accommodations were on the east side, separated from me by a short hallway.

  “Dinner is at eight,” Tennessee said. “Informal. Cocktails at seven in the drawing room.”

  We watched her walk away. When she was out of earshot, I said to George, “This is absolutely bizarre. Cocktails? Dinner at eight? It’s as if no one has died, no talk of funeral plans, no grieving, except for Bruce.”

  “Undoubtedly they’re in shock,” George said. “You can never judge people by their reactions to a sudden death. Some fall apart, others forge ahead.”

  “Maybe it’s denial,” I said.

  “Or they’re all glad to see him gone.”

  “What a sad thought,” I said. “I wonder—”

  “Yes?”

  “I wonder whether the murder of the young waiter at the restaurant Ladington owned is in any way linked with his death.”

  “One of many things to find out while we’re here,” he said. “See you downstairs for cocktails?”

  “Yes. George, are you sure we should stay? I mean, instead of a leisurely week visiting vineyards, we’re smack-dab in the middle of a possible murder.”

  “Not an unusual situation for either of us, Jessica.”

  “I just don’t want to spoil our week.”

  “To the contrary. No better way to forge a close relationship than to investigate a murder together.” He kissed my cheek, stepped into his room, and closed the door. I went back to my room, unpacked, and took a shower. When I was dressed for dinner, I paused at the window overlooking the vineyard. Edith Saison stood alone on the terrace peering out over the vineyard. Bill Ladington had said she’d developed the varietal with her “beau” in France. Would he be arriving? I wondered.

  I answered a knock on my door. It was George, dressed in a handsome blue suit, white shirt, and burgundy tie. “Ready?” he asked.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “You’re bonny, as usual.”

  “Thank you,” I said in response to his calling me beautiful. “What’s the Scottish word for handsome?”

  “Braw. Weill-faured.”

  “Well, you’re both of those things.”

  He held out his arm, which I took, and we descended the wide staircase together. I glanced over and saw the trace of a smile on his lips, which made me smile too. He was enjoying this in a pixieish way, a side of him I’d seen before and found appealing, among so many other sides.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Although we walked into the drawing room at precisely seven, we were the last ones to arrive. It was as though everyone else couldn’t wait to get a drink. Raoul served as bartender behind a rolling cart on which a variety of liquors and Ladington Creek wines were displayed. Frank Sinatra singing I’ve Got You Under My Skin crooned incongruously through hidden speakers. Bruce immediately came to greet us. His wife, Laura, stood alone in a far comer. In another corner of the large room, Tennessee Ladington spoke with Roger Stockdale and Wade Grosso. The vineyard manager had exchanged his rubber boots and coveralls for gray slacks, green blazer, and white shirt. All three held drinks in their hands.

  Bruce led us to the bar where I asked Raoul for a glass of sparkling water while George selected a single-malt Scotch, on the rocks. Consuela passed through with a tray of canapes.

  “I’m so happy you’re here,” Bruce told me.

  “I feel a little awkward,” I said, “being here the day after your father’s death. And I wasn’t expecting a cocktail party.”

  “That’s Tennessee for you. I’m surprised she didn’t book a band to celebrate Dad’s passing.”

  George changed the subject by asking, “What did your sheriff have to say this afternoon?” He sipped his Scotch and sighed in appreciation.

  “That clown? He didn’t like it that you and Mrs. Fletcher were staying here.”

  “Why, for heaven’s sake?” I asked.

  “He said he doesn’t want anybody making more out of Dad’s death than it was. ‘Just a suicide,’ was what he said.”

  “I trust you informed him of your feelings on the subject,” George said.

  “Of course I did, but he’s not interested in hearing them.”

  I looked around the room and was struck with the reality that if Bruce Ladington was right, and his father was murdered, that murderer was likely enjoying cocktails in that very room. Unless, of course, the killer had managed to vault the moat, come in from the outside, and leave the same way.

  Roger Stockdale broke away from his group and joined us next to the bar. “Good evening,” he said.

  “Good evening,” I replied.

  “I hope all the ringing phones haven’t disturbed you,” he said.

  “Ringing phones? I wasn’t aware of any.”

  “Good. The damn media vultures have been calling nonstop about Bill’s death. Oh, by the way, Mrs. Fletcher, there was a call for you.” He fished in his shirt pocket and handed me a slip of paper. Written on it was Neil Schwartz’s name and phone number.

  “Your pesty friend?” George asked, reading the paper over my shoulder.

  I laughed. “Yes. From Cabot Cove. He’s the writer and poet I told you about. I had dinner with him in San Francisco before coming to Napa. He has a contract to write an article for Vanity Fair about the murder of that young waiter at Bill Ladington’s restaurant.”

  “I suppose Mr. Ladington’s death makes the story even more compelling,” George said.

  “Or kills interest in it if he committed suicide,” I countered. I asked Stockdale if there was a phone I could use.

  “Of course.”

  I followed him from the drawing room to a small office down the hall. “You can use this one,” he said.

  He closed the door. I settled behind the desk and dialed Neil’s number. He answered on the first ring.

  “Neil, it’s Jessica.”

  “You got my message. I was afraid they wouldn’t give it to you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m obviously part of the dreaded media. I called Cedar Gables Inn. Your friend Margaret told me you’d moved to Ladington’s castle. You’re staying there?”

  “It’s a long story, Neil, but yes, I’m staying here along with my friend from London, George Sutherland.”

  “The Scotland Yard inspector.”

  “Right.”

  “You’re there because Ladington died?”

  “Right again. I’d been here as his guest for lunch yesterday and he invited me to stay. I declined the invitation, but Margaret at Cedar Gables had a last-minute request for rooms and Ladington’s son, Bruce, arrived and asked me to come and—as I said, it’s a long story.”

  “Did he really commit suicide?” Neil asked.

  “Ladington? I don’t know. That’s the official word so far.”

  “But you suspect he didn’t.”

  “I’m told he did.” I debated telling Neil that Ladington’s son thought otherwise, but held my counsel.

  “All the press reports say it was suicide. I spoke with my editor at Vanity Fair. She says that if Ladington did commit suicide, it waters down the murder story about the waiter. But if Ladington was murdered, that’s an even bigger story.”

  “I have to get back to a cocktail party, Neil.”


  “Cocktail party? The guy just died.”

  “I know. Unusual, isn’t it? These are unusual people.”

  “Jess, any chance of getting me in there?”

  “Here? At the castle?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t know, Neil. There hasn’t been any press as far as I can determine—yet. I don’t think you’d be especially welcomed.”

  “Will you try?”

  “Let me play it by ear. I really should get back. I’ll stay in touch.”

  “Great. I can’t believe you’re actually there. I’d sell my soul to be in your shoes right now. Go back to the party. Party! Jesus! What a weird crowd.”

  Weird crowd stayed with me as I rejoined the assembled in the drawing room.

  “Is there a problem?” George asked when I rejoined him.

  “No. Neil wants me to see if I can arrange for him to visit the castle.”

  “For his article?”

  “Yes.”

  Edith Saison, who’d been huddled with Roger Stockdale, interrupted us. She looked stunning in a floor-length, low-cut white dress. It was hardly attire for grieving, but then again, no one seemed to be in an especially somber mood. Weird crowd indeed!

  “Mrs. Fletcher, I wonder if we could find some quiet room where we can talk.”

  “All right.”

  George raised his eyebrows, turned, and asked for a refill. Edith escorted me from the drawing room to the same office from which I’d called Neil. She took the chair behind the desk; I sat in the room’s only other chair, upholstered in gray.

  “We only have a few minutes before dinner,” she said in her charming French accent, “so I’ll be direct. What did you and Bill talk about yesterday?”

  My initial reaction was to be offended. It was no business of hers what Bill Ladington and I discussed. But since our conversation was certainly innocuous enough, I saw no reason not to repeat it. No state secrets were exchanged, no confidences passed on with an admonition to keep them secret.

  “We talked about growing grapes and making wine mostly,” I said. “He said he wanted to create the world’s best cabernet, and that you were coming to help him do just that. Were you to be partners?”

  She closed her eyes, drew a deep breath, opened them, and said wistfully, “Yes. We signed the papers not long ago.”