Blood on the Vine

by Jessica Fletcher

  “I figured, with the accent and all. Are you investigating Louis’s murder?”

  “Unofficially,” I answered. “We’re—we’re friends of Mr. Ladington.”

  Her expression, which had been noncommittal, soured. “He’s dead,” she said.

  “Yes, we know,” I said. “He committed suicide.”

  “You believe that?”

  “Is there a reason why we shouldn’t?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just that he didn’t seem like the sort of man who’d do that.”

  “I agree,” I said. “Had your friend, Louis, and Mr. Ladington had any problems between them?”

  Her small laugh was rueful. “I’d say so.”

  “What sort of problems?” George asked.

  “Ask Mary Jane.”

  “Who is she?” I asked.

  “A waitress who used to work here. She left the night Louis was killed. I have to get going. I’ll see if your chicken salads are ready.”

  “Where can we find Mary Jane?” I asked.

  “Calistoga, I guess. She’s working at one of the spas.”

  “And her last name?”

  “Proll. Mary Jane Proll.”

  She returned with our dishes and quickly left the table. The only further conversation we had with her was when she served us a piece of apple crumb pie to share.

  Afterward, I told George, “Bill Ladington said the day I had lunch with him that drugs might have been involved in the waiter’s murder.”

  His eyebrows went up. “Doesn’t look like a place where drugs would be sold,” he said. “But you can’t assume that about any place on the planet these days.”

  “Ladington didn’t say that this Louis Hubler was a drug user or seller. He based his comment on rumors. Feel like a ride to Calistoga?”

  “A strange name for a place,” he said, removing a credit card from his wallet and placing it on the bill our waitress had delivered with the pie.

  “Named after the famous spa in Saratoga, New York,” I said. “Or so I read. ‘Cali’ for California. It’s famous for mud baths.”

  “Mud is for pigs to bathe in, Jessica. Not people.”

  “But this is California, George. Things—and people—are different here.”

  “So I’ve noticed.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  We retraced our steps back up Route 29, passing the turnoff to Ladington Creek Vineyards in St. Helena and continuing north until we reached Calistoga. For some reason, I expected a town out of the old west, with saloons, wooden sidewalks, and tall cowboys in large Stetsons sitting around in front of a jailhouse. The name Calistoga had that ring to it.

  Instead, we drove down Lincoln Avenue, the busy main street lined with art galleries, upscale clothing stores, attractive restaurants, and an assortment of small shops that might have been found on any prosperous main street.

  “Where to?” George asked.

  “To the spa where Mary Jane Proll works.”

  “And where might that be?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea, but a good start would be the first spa we come to.”

  Which was only a hundred yards in front of us. George parked, and we stood on the sidewalk beneath a large red sign promising the ultimate in mud baths, steam rooms, and massage. George laced his fingers together, stretched his arms in front of him, pivoted left and right, and grimaced.

  “Stiff?” I asked.

  “Yes. The back acts up now and again. Are we going in?”

  “I will if you’d prefer to stay out here.”

  “You go ahead,” he said. “I’ll try and walk off this kink in my back.”

  The spa’s reception area was spartan but welcoming. The walls were painted stark white, broken only by two large, colorful Kandinsky posters. A woman wearing a white lab coat sat behind a gleaming black, free-form Plexiglas desk.

  “Hello,” she said pleasantly.

  “Hello,” I replied.

  “Can I help you?”

  “If you mean am I looking for a mud bath and massage, the answer is no. I’m touring the wine country with a friend. I’m from Maine—Cabot Cove, Maine. A dear friend back home asked me to look up a family member while I was in Calistoga. I thought you might know her.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Proll. Mary Jane Proll. Her mother told me she was working here in a spa.”

  “I don’t know anyone by that name. Did her mother say which spa she works at?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  “Sorry, but I can’t help. Try the Hampton Spa. It’s over near Sterling Vineyard.”

  “Really? That’s on my list of places to visit. It has an aerial tram.”

  “Right. Once you get up to the chateau you have a great view of the valley.”

  “That’s where I’ll go then. The Hampton Spa. Thank you.”

  “Hope you find your friend.”

  “Oh, I’m sure I will. Thanks again.”

  George was standing in front of an art gallery smoking his pipe when I came out of the spa.

  “Feeling better?” I asked.

  “Yes, much. Any luck?”

  “No, but a lead.”

  We got back in the car and I consulted a map of Calistoga on which many of the spas were noted. “We’re going here,” I said. “Hampton Spa. And then maybe we’ll take that ride I mentioned, on an aerial tram.”

  He laughed. “Sounds as though you’re shifting from murder investigator to tourist.”

  “A little of both wouldn’t hurt. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it, to take in the sights?”

  “That was the original plan.”

  “Murder tends to change plans, doesn’t it?”

  “It certainly does. All right, to the Hampton Spa we go.”

  Unlike the spa I’d visited downtown, Hampton Spa was set back from a narrow road on the outskirts of Calistoga. It looked more like a ranch than a spa. A breeze that had picked up sent dry, red dirt surrounding the building into the air, giving some credence to my initial perception of what Calistoga would be.

  We parked directly in front of the entrance in a space a car had just vacated. Judging from the number of vehicles, Hampton Spa was doing a brisk business.

  “Coming in with me this time?” I asked.

  “Absolutely. This might be my one and only chance to see what a spa, California style, looks like from the inside.”

  Although the building’s exterior was rough-hewn, a quintessential western look, the reception area was opulent, the sort of room one might associate with a European anteroom. The floor was covered with thick Persian area rugs; the furniture was period reproductions. The sound of soft classical music and the aroma of bath oils and soaps were soothing.

  “Hi,” said a young woman in white slacks and blue turtleneck as she entered the room from an area behind it. “Are you being helped?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Be right back.”

  She disappeared through the door, to be replaced by an older woman wearing an oversized white terrycloth robe and disposable white slippers, who smiled at us as she crossed the room and left through another door. Then, a middle-aged man, also wearing a robe and slippers, appeared, followed by the woman in white slacks and turtleneck. “The massage rooms are through that door,” she told the male client. “Someone will be with you in a minute.”

  When the man was gone, she smiled at us and asked, “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No,” I said. “Actually, we were—”

  “We have an opening,” she said as she sat behind a desk and consulted an appointment book. “Mary Jane had a last-minute cancellation. Would you like the full treatment—mud bath, whirlpool, steam, and massage?”

  “Mary Jane has an opening?” I said, more to delay answering her question than seeking clarification.

  “Yes, she’ s—”

  Another young woman came through a door. She wore a white lab coat over jeans and a pale blue button-down shirt. She was tal
l and solidly built, and had short red hair and a pretty face that skirted being masculine. The large nametag pinned to her white coat said: MARY JANE PROLL.

  “This is Mary Jane,” her colleague said.

  “Hi,” Mary Jane said.

  “Hello,” I said. “I’m Jessica. This is my friend, George.”

  “Here for a treatment?” she asked.

  “Well, maybe. I understand you have an opening. What does a treatment entail?”

  She ran through the list as her colleague had done, but added, “You’ll feel like a million dollars after it, relaxed and at peace with the world.”

  I smiled at her enthusiasm.

  “What does it cost?” George asked.

  “The complete session is a hundred and twenty-five dollars,” Mary Jane said. “We take all major credit cards. Or you can just have a mud bath or massage. Your choice.”

  “Actually,” George said, “we really came in to—”

  “I’ll have the works,” I announced, causing George to frown at me.

  “You, too, sir?” Mary Jane asked George.

  “I, ah—”

  “You don’t mind, do you?” I asked him. “Calistoga looks like a pleasant place to browse. Being at peace with the world is very appealing.”

  “Sure you want to, Jessica?” he asked, his tone suggesting that I should reconsider.

  “Yes,” I said. I asked Mary Jane how long it would take.

  “An hour and a half,” she replied.

  “All right,” George said. “I’ll mosey about the town, as you Yanks like to say, and be back to collect you in ninety minutes.”

  “I’ll get your robe and slippers,” Mary Jane said, following the other woman from the room and leaving George and me alone.

  “I can’t think of a more perfect chance to have a long talk with her,” I whispered.

  “Have you ever had a mud bath before?” he asked.

  “No, but I’d never flown a plane either. Even if this doesn’t result in useful information, I’ll have had a new experience.”

  “Sounds daft to me, but you know best.”

  He kissed me on the cheek, shook his head, and left as Mary Jane reappeared with my robe and slippers. She led me to a room with two square tile tubs sunk into the floor. Each contained a grayish substance I assumed was the mud. One thing was certain: the temperature in the room was considerably hotter than the reception area.

  She pointed to a set of curtains. “You can change in there,” she said, and handed me a white sheet. “Wrap yourself in this sheet when you’ve finished undressing.”

  I hesitated. Deciding to have the spa treatment in order to spend time with her had been easy. Now, I thought of George’s comment that only pigs bathe in mud, and I wasn’t quite sure I wanted to go through with it. Mary Jane’s expression said she was waiting for me. I took the sheet and stepped through the curtains. The small dressing room was concrete, too, including a narrow bench on which to sit. Plastic hangers hung from two hooks in the wall. I removed my clothing and hung it on the hangers. Naked, I wrapped the sheet around me, drew a breath, and stepped back through the curtains.

  “All set?” Mary Jane asked.

  “I suppose so,” I replied.

  “Hand me the sheet and I’ll hold it up while you get in the tub.”

  “Which one?” I asked, trying to forestall the inevitable.

  “This one,” she said, indicating the closest one. “Just get in and let yourself sink.”

  She took the sheet from me and I sat on the rim of the tub and lowered my bottom into the mud, which had the consistency of wet peat moss. Slowly, tentatively, I swung my legs over and stretched out, the buoyant mud supporting my body. My head rested on a slim, hard pillow at one end. Mary Jane methodically folded the sheet, placed it on a chair, slipped on a pair of plastic gloves, got down on her knees, and began to slather more mud over me, using a small wooden paddle.

  “Comfortable?” she asked.

  “It’s very warm,” I said. “Hot” would have been more accurate. It was becoming uncomfortable, and I sensed that my blood pressure was rising. I wasn’t sure how much longer I wanted to stay submerged in hot mud, and decided to get to the real reason I was there.

  “I must admit,” I said, “that I came here today for something other than a mud bath.”

  “Really?” she replied, continuing to smear more hot mud over me.

  “Yes. My friend and I—he’s a chief inspector with Scotland Yard in London—we’ve been looking into the death of William Ladington.”

  I looked up into a face that reflected surprise, and concern.

  “We had lunch at Ladington’s Steak House and got talking with a waitress there. She’s the one who told us about you, that you worked there until the young waiter, Louis Hubler, was murdered.”

  “What business is it of yours?” she asked as she continued to mold the mud around me. Her movements seemed to become slower and more deliberate, more forceful. I started to answer, but she cut me off. “What do I have to do with it?” she asked brusquely.

  “Probably nothing,” I said, forcing a smile and moving in the mud. My discomfort was increasing and I decided to end this as quickly as possible and leave. “The other waitress at the steak house said there might have been trouble between Mr. Ladington and Mr. Hubler, and said you’d know about it.”

  “I thought you said you were investigating Ladington’s death. What does Louis have to do with it?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I was hoping you could tell me. I think I’ve had enough. I’d like to get out now.”

  She ignored my request and continued moving the mud over me with the paddle.

  “Do you know what problems existed between the waiter and Mr. Ladington?” I asked.

  “I used to work there,” she said flatly.

  “I know,” I said. “Were you friendly with Louis?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Jessica Fletcher. I write crime novels. I’m—”

  “I don’t have to talk to you.”

  “Of course you don’t,” I said. “All I wanted to ask you was—”

  “I don’t know anything. Excuse me.”

  She stood and left the room. I decided to try to extricate myself from the tub in her absence, but she was back before I could even start.

  “What do you really want?” she asked, again on her knees and moving mud over me.

  “Look,” I said, “I didn’t mean to upset you. I don’t have any official reason for asking questions. Mr. Ladington’s son asked me to help prove that his father was murdered.”

  “He killed himself. I read about it.”

  “Yes, he might have. I won’t ask any more questions. Just help me out and I’ll be on my way.”

  The mud was now up under my chin, and movement was difficult. The mud also seemed to have gotten hotter, and my discomfort level was rising with it. She made a sudden, forceful move with the paddle, causing some of the hot mud to splash on my cheek and lip. The temperature of the mud 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 even if she could, and it occurred to me that when she’d left the room, it might have been to raise 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 which, combined with the weight of the mud, rendered me incapable of moving. “Let me up!” I snapped. “I’ve had enough.”

  “What do you know about Louis?” she asked, continuing the pressure on my shoulders.

  “Nothing, just that he was murdered.” I now yelled: “Let me out, damn it!”

  For a moment I thought she was about to push me under, submerge my face in the mud—drown me in it. If so, I was hel
pless to prevent it. Sweat poured down my forehead into my eyes. The heat was unbearable.

  “Please,” I said. “Don’t do this to me.”

  I actually believed I was going to die in that tub filled with mud. But then she released her grip on me, knelt, and began scraping the mud from my body into the side of the tub. “Come on. Get out before you boil,” she said.

  She held up a clean sheet as I struggled to pull myself free of the mud’s sucking grip. She extended a hand, and I managed to first sit up, then pull my legs over the side of the tub and finally stand. She wrapped the sheet around me. “The shower is in that room,” she said, pointing to a door.

  I was furious as I stood there, shaking with anger and fear. I glared at her; she locked eyes with me and never wavered. I drew a series of deep breaths before being able to say, “Coming here was foolish. Trying to ask you questions under false pretenses was even more foolish. But what you just did to me is inexcusable.”

  She said nothing. I entered the shower room and washed the hot mud from me. My skin, every inch of it, was fire-engine red; I felt as though thousands of tiny needles had been injected into me. My robe and slippers were there. I put them on and returned to the mudroom where Mary Jane sat in the chair, leaning forward, elbows on her knees, face cradled in her hands, hair in disarray. I intended to say nothing else, simply ask for my clothes and leave.

  But she said, “I don’t know you or why you’re interested in Louis’s murder, and I don’t care. Who sent you?”

  “No one sent me. My friend, George, and I are staying at the Ladington winery. We’re interested in determining whether Bill Ladington was a suicide or a murder victim. The murder of your friend was probably just a coincidence.”

  “Ladington hated Louis.”

  “Hated him? An employee? Why did he hire him?”

  “He didn’t hate him when he hired him. It was after.”

  “What caused it?” I asked, pleased that she’d begun to open up.

  “Ask the bitch.”

  “Pardon?”

  “That old hag, Ladington’s wife.”

  It was true that Tennessee Ladington was older than the young woman in the room with me, but she was hardly an “old hag.” I suppose it was all a matter of perspective.

  “What about Mrs. Ladington?” I asked.