“I’m sorry you’ve lost your partner,” I said. “Does this affect ownership of Ladington Creek Winery?”
“Of course. I suppose it will be a tangled legal mess, lawyers fighting with each other, Bill’s estate claiming outright ownership. His wife, that dreadful woman, is already staking her claim by virtue of having married him.”
“A wife does have rights,” I said, not wishing to engage in a debate on the subject but compelled to state the obvious.
“Rights! Pooh!” Edith said, fairly snarling. “She’s been nothing to Bill but a garish blonde thing on his arm. She may have rights, Mrs. Fletcher, but she deserves nothing. They were about to divorce, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know.”
“He didn’t mention it to you during your talks?”
“Talk. Singular.” I glanced at my watch, stood, and said, “I’d better get back to George, Ms. Saison. Once again, I’m sorry for the loss of your partner, and I’m sure, your friend.”
I felt her eyes on me as I left the office and returned to the drawing room where George was talking with Wade Grosso.
“Have plans been made for Mr. Ladington’s funeral?” I asked the vineyard manager.
“Probably not,” he replied. “There’s the autopsy and all that. I suppose Tennessee will get around to it when she has to. I see you and Edith Saison had yourselves a little talk.”
“Just a chat, getting to know each other. I understand she and Mr. Ladington were partners in developing a new cabernet.”
“Over my objections.”
“Why did you object to it?” I asked, feeling comfortable enough to probe.
“You wouldn’t understand,” he said. “Making wine is a complicated process. Edith and her French partner think they know it all and sold Bill on it. Frankly, I think they’re a couple of frauds. I tried to get Bill to see it, but he could be the most stubborn man ever born. Excuse me. I want to get another drink before dinner.”
“Interesting,” George said. “I assume you’ve come up with your own thoughts about Ms. Saison’s character.”
“Not yet,” I said. “She seems pleasant enough. Mr. Grosso is right. I’d have to know a lot more about growing grapes and making wine to make that sort of judgment. I—”
Mercedes entered the room and announced in a distinctly unwelcoming voice, “Dinner is served!”
Chapter Fourteen
We were spread out at the dining room table, which left plenty of space between us. George was to my right, Wade Grosso to my left. Directly across was Laura Ladington, whose uncommunicative solemnity hadn’t changed. Her husband, Bruce, tried to engage her in small talk but she managed only an occasional grunt and nod of the head. I felt sorry for both of them. She was a pretty young woman, but much of her natural attractiveness was lost in what seemed to be a pervasive depression. Her light blue eyes were lifeless and dull. She seemed to be a dreadfully unhappy person, which must be difficult for her husband to cope with.
Tennessee sat at the head of the table where her husband had been the previous day. Conversation during the early portion of dinner, which we were told had been cooked by Mercedes and was being served by Consuela and Fidel—a tomato and onion salad, pot roast, glazed carrots, thin home fries, and raspberry pie for dessert—was directed by Tennessee, who spent most of it complaining about how much work would be involved in settling her husband’s estate. “He wasn’t very organized, you know. He never changed his will after his fourth divorce, although Lord knows I urged him to hundreds of times. It isn’t fair to those who have to wade through everything when a disorganized person dies.”
It seemed to me from my observation of Bill Ladington that he was an extremely organized man. I mentioned that.
Tennessee answered me in a tone usually reserved for a teacher correcting a slow student. “Bill could show many sides to many different people, Mrs. Fletcher. He certainly was organized when it came to his business. When it involved his personal life, he was—”
“Go ahead and say it,” Stockdale said. “When it came to his personal life, William H. Ladington was a mess.” He looked to me and quickly added, “I speak from experience, Mrs. Fletcher. Supposedly, I handle the vineyard’s business and finances. But Bill brought me into his personal affairs on a regular basis. I told him as recently as a few days ago that he should update his will. His answer was to wave his hand and say he’d get to it. He never did.”
“If I’m out of line asking about his will, please say so,” I said. “Who benefits from the existing, out-of-date will?”
“His fourth wife,” Tennessee responded. “Isn’t that wonderful? My attorney says I have every right to fight it. Obviously, Bill didn’t intend for anything to go to her.” Was she about to cry? She didn’t, saying in a voice tinged with exaggerated sweetness, “Of course, Bruce here is in that will, aren’t you Bruce, dear?”
“Dad left me a little.”
“The lawyers will sort this out,” Stockdale said.
“And take their huge fees,” Tennessee said.
Edith Saison, who’d sat silently during this conversation, suddenly spoke up. “His intentions were very clear,” Edith said. “He wanted our partnership to survive, wanted this winery to continue under his name—and under my leadership.”
“Rubbish!” Tennessee said.
“Any word on when the autopsy will be completed?” Stockdale asked, more to head off further confrontation between the two women than because he cared.
“No, but it can’t be soon enough,” Tennessee answered. “Bill always said he wanted immediate cremation, and that’s what he’ll have.”
“No service?” Bruce asked.
“If you want one, dear Bruce, have one. Your father told me that—”
“Stop it!” Laura said, springing from her chair, slamming her hands on the table, which caused her plate to jump, and violently shaking her head. “You people are all sick. He just died and all you care about is money and your own selfish needs. God, I hate you all.” She ran from the room, her crying resonating from out in the hall.
“Go tend to her, Bruce,” said Tennessee.
Bruce stood.
“Why don’t you stay here, Bruce, and let her get over her hysterics?” advised Wade Grosso, who didn’t sound as though he was trying to be helpful.
“I’ll go,” Stockdale said, standing.
Bruce jumped to his feet. “No, I will,” he said. “She’s right. All anyone here cares about is money.”
As Bruce left, Raoul appeared: “You have a call, Ms. Saison.”
Edith quickly left the room. George said quietly and casually, “If Mr. Ladington was murdered, there won’t be any cremation, at least not until the authorities are satisfied with their findings.”
“I’m impressed,” said Tennessee. “Spoken by a member of Scotland Yard. Does that make it official?”
“Simply standard police procedure, Mrs. Ladington,” George said, not sounding at all piqued at her tone, as I was.
“I don’t believe we need the British version of standard police procedures,” Tennessee said. “We have all the competent authorities we need right here.”
My anger had now risen to the point where I was prompted to speak. “Mrs. Ladington,” I said, “if you’d like us to leave, please say so. Your husband invited me to stay here as a guest for the week, and your stepson renewed that invitation. But I assure you it would not be a hardship for us to pack up and spend the week in more welcoming surroundings.”
“Mrs. Fletcher is right,” Stockdale said. “We aren’t treating our guests the way Bill would have wanted us to. We’re on edge, Mrs. Fletcher, as I’m sure you can understand. Bill’s passing shocked us all. Please forgive us—and don’t think of leaving.”
Edith Saison returned to the room to announce, “That was Yves. He’s coming to stay here.”
“When?” Tennessee asked.
“He called from Curaçao. He’s getting on a plane within the hour.”
St
ockdale answered the question written on my face. “Yves LeGrand. Edith’s partner in their French vineyard.”
“Oh.”
Wade Grosso, who stood to my left, snorted but didn’t comment.
I looked to Tennessee, who didn’t seem pleased with the news.
Bruce reappeared and took his seat. “Laura’s not feeling well,” he said. “A bad headache.” To me he said, “She gets migraines.”
“Poor thing,” Tennessee said, standing. “Excuse me. I don’t eat dessert.”
After dinner, Bruce suggested we retire to his father’s study for a nightcap, but George and I declined.
“I have to talk to you,” Bruce said. “About Dad’s death.”
“I think it had better wait until morning,” I said. “I’m very tired.”
“Sure, I understand,” he said. “We’ll spend the day going over it.”
“Do you feel like some air?” George suggested when we stood alone at the foot of the stairs leading to the second level and our rooms.
“Oh, yes,” I said.
We stepped outside into a chilly, damp night. The clouds were low and fast-moving, and a dense fog had enveloped the winery. The air was filled with a hum.
“Giant fans in the vineyards,” I said. “It must be cold enough for them to go on. They circulate the warmer air above the vines to keep the lower portions from freezing.”
“You already sound like an expert,” he said, pulling a pipe from his jacket, tamping tobacco from a pouch into it and lighting it. It smelled good.
“What do you think of our friends inside?” I asked lightly.
“I’ve been in the company of some strange people following a death,” he said, “especially when murder is a possibility, but these characters elevate dysfunctional to new heights.”
We fell silent and breathed in the damp night air. But we stiffened at a sound from behind. We turned. A man emerged from the shadows holding a rifle. It was pointed directly at us. “Identify yourselves,” he said.
“We’re guests here,” I said. “Who are you?”
“Security. Guests? Nobody told me about any guests.”
“I don’t care what anyone told you,” George said. “Put down that ridiculous gun before you hurt someone.”
He seemed unsure of what to do, which made him especially dangerous. I glanced beyond him to a window next to the front door and saw Roger Stockdale’s face. He realized I’d seen him, opened the door, and said, “It’s all right, Willy. They’re houseguests.”
Willy lowered the rifle. “Just doing my job,” he told Stockdale.
“Of course,” Stockdale said. “It’s all right.”
“That’s better,” said George. “I have a particular aversion to having strange men point a loaded weapon at me.”
“Can’t blame you,” Stockdale said. “It won’t happen again.”
George’s anger was palpable. He took my arm and said, “Let’s go inside, Jessica, before we end up dead like our host.”
Chapter Fifteen
Rain pounding against the window woke me early the next morning. I pulled open the heavy drapes and looked out at a windswept torrent of water cascading from an almost black sky.
The weather was disappointing. George and I had decided before retiring to our rooms that we’d find some time to get away from the castle and explore the surrounding countryside. Although we’d made a commitment of sorts to Bruce to investigate his father’s death, I was also determined to relax and take in the valley’s sights.
Before falling asleep, I’d perused my Napa Valley guidebook and had noted a few places to visit, including Sterling Vineyards, where you have to ride an aerial tram to get to the chateau and tasting room. I was also intrigued with the notion of taking a hot air balloon ride, and wrote down the number of Napa Valley Balloons, which offered daily trips. In the past, the thought of going up in a balloon and hanging from it in a wicker basket while flames were shot up inside the balloon to give it lift, had never appealed. Now that I’d learned to fly, however, I was eager for the experience.
But those excursions would have to wait for a sunny day.
I joined George for breakfast in the dining room where, we’d been told, we could have breakfast any time up until noon. Consuela served us eggs and toast and fresh-squeezed orange juice. We were either early or late; we were the only ones there.
Bruce Ladington joined us as we were finishing.
“I thought we could have that talk now,” he said.
“Looks like a perfect day for talking,” George said. “This weather isn’t good for much else. Very much like home in Scotland.”
“Before we have that talk,” I said, “I’d like to see the tasting room. I understand your awards are displayed there.”
“Yeah. Dad was really proud of them. Nobody knew that side of him. He never bragged about all the money he made in real estate in Boston, or movies in the Hollywood days. But this was different. It was as if wine became a transfusion, a new supply of blood for him.”
“Was the partnership with Ms. Saison as important as he thought it would be?” I asked.
Bruce lowered his voice to a conspiratorial level. “That’s what he believed, but as far as I’m concerned she’s a fraud. And now this lover of hers—what’s his name? Yves LeGrand? I don’t know what kind of deal Dad cut with them, but Roger told me once that they really took Dad to the cleaners.”
“How so?” I asked.
“Dad never shared his business with me. Kept it to himself. Probably figured I was too dumb or something.”
Hearing him say that saddened me. This young man was so unlike his father in every way, physically and emotionally, and had desperately wanted and needed his father’s approval, which, I suspected, he’d never received.
“How’s your wife feeling this morning?” George asked, sensing the discomfort I was experiencing and changing the subject.
“Better. When she gets those migraines, the only thing she can do is go to bed.”
“I’ve heard how painful they are,” I offered.
“Pretty bad,” Bruce said. “It’s always worse when we’re here at the castle. She never has them when we’re at the Curaçao house.”
“Do you spend much time in Curaçao?” I asked.
“As much as we can. Come on. I’ll show you the tasting room.”
I’d assumed we’d be going to another part of the castle. But we had to leave it in order to get to a separate building that was considerably newer than the castle. We took large, striped golf umbrellas from a stand and held them above us as we crossed a level grassy area to the newer building, which was one-story and designed to look like an oversized log cabin.
“It isn’t open to the public until ten,” Bruce said once we were inside.
The tasting room took up almost the entire building, with the exception of three small offices at one end. While the building’s exterior was rough-hewn, the inside was decidedly modem. A long stainless-steel counter ran the length of the room. Behind it were display racks for the different wines produced by Ladington Creek. Two large trays of small glasses occupied one end of the counter.
“This is where people come to taste,” Bruce said. “It used to be free, but the other wineries started charging and we did, too. It got to be too expensive handing out free wine.”
“I can imagine,” George said, going behind the counter and examining some of the bottles and their labels. I strayed to the wall opposite, on which dozens of framed awards were displayed. They came from all over the world. Most had been given for the winery’s cabernets, although there were also citations for a Ladington Creek merlot. It was evident that white wine was not the winery’s strong suit.
Bruce joined me.
“Your father told me,” I said, “that the varietals Ms. Saison was bringing to graft to his vines would create a truly superior cabernet one day.”
“I guess he believed that, Mrs. Fletcher. I wish he hadn’t. If you ask me, Edith Saison s
hould be a prime suspect in his murder.”
George had come up behind us. “If it was murder,” he reminded the younger Ladington.
“Can there be any doubt?” Bruce said. “You saw the way everybody acted at dinner last night. They’re all glad he’s dead.”
“Why?” I asked.
“For control, Mrs. Fletcher. For the money. Edith claims Ladington Creek becomes her property because of her partnership with Dad. Boy, did she sell him a bill of goods. He met her and her boyfriend, Yves, in Curaçao. They have a house there, too, over on Knip Bay. Dad was like any big tough guy. They’re the easiest to con, if you know what I mean, like salesmen being the easiest people to sell.”
“What about your stepmother?” George asked.
“Her? Oh, she wants the money, too. It isn’t fair that she can lay claim to it just because she got him to marry her.”
“Got him to marry her?” I repeated.
“That’s right. Dad was a big, tough guy, but he was a pussycat when it came to women. You know he’d been married many times. Tennessee told him what a great man he was and he fell for it, like he usually did. She even said he should run for President. They were married a month after they were introduced.”
“Is there anyone else you suspect?” George asked.
“Bob Jenkins.”
“Who is he?” George asked.
“He owns the vineyard next to Ladington Creek. Shelton Reserve. Ever hear of it?”
“I believe I have,” I said. “I attended a wine-appreciation course before leaving Maine. Our instructor had a number of wines for us to taste, and I seem to remember one was Shelton Reserve.”
“Jenkins has been trying to run my father out of business since Dad bought Ladington Creek. It was called Opel Vineyard then, until he changed the name.”
“Your father mentioned Mr. Jenkins to me,” I said. “Said something harsh about him.”
Bruce smiled. “I don’t wonder. He hated him. Jenkins’s vineyard is on higher ground than ours. That means any problems Jenkins has with disease, especially phylloxera, can run down onto our vines in a heavy rain.”
Blood on the Vine Page 9