Blood on the Vine

by Jessica Fletcher

  “She was after Louis.”

  “I see.”

  “She seduced him. That’s what always happens, I guess, when a woman marries an old guy with megabucks but has to get her sex somewhere else, like from a young waiter at her husband’s restaurant.”

  “Are you certain they were having an affair?” I asked.

  “Of course I am. Louis told me all about it.”

  “He bragged about it to you?”

  “He wasn’t bragging. He said he was breaking it off, wasn’t going to see her anymore. He promised me.”

  She averted her eyes. She had obviously been involved with Louis Hubler too.

  “That’s right,” she said, reading my thoughts, “Louis and I were going out. It got pretty serious. At least I thought it was, until I found out about Ladington’s wife. God, guys can be so stupid, falling for some bleached-blonde bimbo because she wears clothes cut down to here and lots of lipstick. What a jerk he was. Look what it got him.” She lifted a trembling hand and smoothed her hair.

  “Yes,” I said sadly. “Why did you leave the restaurant?”

  “To get away. If Ladington knew that I knew about his wife and Louis, he’d come after me, too.”

  “After you too? Are you saying Ladington murdered Hubler?”

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it? He killed Louis because he was climbing under the covers with his wife. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that out.”

  If Louis had, indeed, broken off the affair with Tennessee, I thought, she too might have had reason to kill him, either because her heart was broken—unlikely—or because he’d threatened to tell her husband about her sexual dalliance.

  “You can’t be afraid of Bill Ladington anymore,” I said. “He’s dead.”

  “Not him personally,” she replied. “He’s dead, and I couldn’t care less about that. But there’re the others.”

  “Who?”

  “Everybody, including that bitch Tennessee, his stupid son, that thug Raoul who drove him everywhere. Don’t think I’m paranoid. But I am smart enough to know that knowing too much about Bill Ladington can get you killed. I used to work in the spas up here in Calistoga, and got back as fast as I could after Louis was killed. Satisfied? Do you want the rest of the treatment? Massage?”

  “No.”

  She retrieved my clothes and handed them to me.

  “Know what I’m going to do?” she said.

  “What?”

  “Calistoga isn’t far enough away. I’m getting out of here, maybe Hawaii, Russia, someplace at the opposite end of the earth.”

  “Did Louis use drugs?” I asked.

  “Why don’t you just get out of here,” she said. “And don’t bother coming back. I won’t be here.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  I stepped into the fresh air and said a little prayer of thanks for being out of that infernal cauldron called a mud bath. Maybe it would have been therapeutic if a slightly deranged young woman hadn’t decided to turn me into a french fry. But for me, it would be one of those first-time experiences never to be repeated.

  I looked down the road toward the center of town, which wasn’t more than a quarter of a mile away. The silver Taurus was gone, as I expected it would be. I looked at my watch. I’d been in the spa for an hour, thirty minutes less than I’d told George. Nothing to do, I decided, but to walk into town and look for him.

  I checked cars parked along the curb and eventually spotted ours in front of an art gallery. I entered. No George. I eventually found him in another gallery specializing in local contemporary artists. He was admiring a particular painting, head cocked, eyes half narrowed, when I walked up to him.

  “Nice,” I said.

  He turned and his eyes widened. “Good Lord, Jessica, what happened to you?”

  “Do I look that bad?”

  “Like a lobster just out of boiling water.”

  “I had a mud bath.”

  “I know that, but you didn’t say the purpose was to sauté you.”

  “Frankly, I thought it was going to end up even worse.”

  “Does it hurt? Like a sunburn?”

  “A little. Unless you’re seriously considering buying that painting, I suggest we leave.”

  The gallery owner, a stout woman wearing a floor-length black dress and multiple gold chains around her neck, intercepted us. “If you’d like to buy that painting today, I can give you a substantial discount. The artist is ill and needs the money.”

  “Thank you, no,” George said, ushering me out of the gallery. When we were on the sidewalk, he said, “I heard her give that line to another browser about a different painting. The going-out-of-business approach.”

  We got in the car. George started the engine, turned and asked, “Care to tell me what happened at the spa?”

  “Every minute detail of it. Oh, look, there’s Neil Schwartz coming out of that restaurant.” He was heading on foot in our direction.

  “Your writer friend?”

  “Yes.”

  When Neil was almost abreast of the car, I lowered my window and called his name. He stopped, leaned forward to see who it was, broke into a grin, and came to me. “Jessica,” he said enthusiastically. “What are you doing here?”

  “I took a mud bath.”

  “Really? Where?”

  “Hampton Spa. Neil, this is George Sutherland.”

  “Heard lots about you,” he said to George. “Jessica, I need to talk to you. Hey, you look funny.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No, I mean, sort of—sort of red. Is that from the mud bath?”

  “Yes. Very unpleasant. The young woman at the spa raised the temperature to almost the boiling point.”

  “Deliberately?” George exclaimed.

  “Yes, deliberately. George, maybe we’d better skip the tram ride and find a quiet place where we can talk.”

  “Follow me,” Neil said, taking off in the direction of his car, a champagne-colored Lexus.

  “I’d say your friend does quite well,” George said as we fell in behind the Lexus.

  “I’m so pleased for him. He’s always struggled. He was a New York City police officer, you know. Retired from the force and moved to Cabot Cove. His financial picture seems to have improved dramatically, although I can’t imagine one magazine piece doing it. But I’m out of touch with magazines and what they pay.”

  “I didn’t realize magazines paid that well, either. Chaps I know who write for magazines for a living are always complaining about low rates.”

  Fifteen minutes later we’d pulled into a parking lot for a restaurant and bar on the outskirts of St. Helena. It was three o’clock; the parking lot was empty. Inside, the cleanup from lunch was underway, and tables were being set for the dinner crowd. A rosy-cheeked young man stood behind the bar washing glasses and squeezing lemons.

  “Are you serving?” Neil asked.

  “Yes,” the bartender replied.

  We took a table in a far corner of the bar area and were served frosty mugs of draft beer.

  “Seems like sacrilege ordering beer in wine country,” George said, raising his mug. “Cheers!”

  After George and Neil exchanged getting-to-know-you pleasantries, Neil and I looked at each other. “You first,” he said.

  “I haven’t gotten very far,” I said. “George and I went to Ladington’s restaurant. A waitress told us about another waitress who used to work there, Mary Jane Proll.”

  “You found her?” Neil asked.

  “Yes. At Hampton Spa. Do you know who she is?”

  “I heard something about her.”

  “Didn’t people at the restaurant mention her to you?” I asked. “I assume you’ve interviewed everyone there for your article.”

  “Her name did come up, just in passing. Go on. What did she tell you?”

  “Well, I signed up for a mud bath, figuring if I had her one-on-one, I could get her to open up. But when I started asking questions—I was in the mud bath at the
time, captive in it is more apt—she became upset and raised the temperature on me.”

  “You might have died,” George said.

  “That crossed my mind.”

  “What did she tell you?” Neil repeated.

  “Not very much. She’s afraid of Bill Ladington. Or was. She thinks he killed the waiter, Louis Hubler.”

  “What does she base it on?” Neil asked.

  “Supposition. Nothing more than that. She’d dated Hubler.”

  “She said that?”

  “Yes.”

  I sat back and pretended to be enjoying my beer. What I was really doing was taking a break from the conversation to decide how much to share with Neil. On the one hand, I wanted to be helpful to him for his article. On the other hand, George and I had been drawn into the situation at the behest of Bill Ladington’s son, and it was obvious that neither he nor any other member of the household wanted to cooperate with the press.

  “What’s going on inside the castle?” Neil asked. “I called this morning and asked for an interview. My ear still hurts from the hang up.”

  “They’re not interested in talking to reporters,” I said,

  “Fine,” said Neil, “but you’re on the inside. What’s going on there? I’ve been talking with people, regular folks, in St. Helena. They laugh about the story that Ladington killed himself. Got to be murder, is what they tell me. What does his family say?”

  George sensed my discomfort and answered for me. “Obviously, Jessica is in an awkward position. We’re houseguests at the castle and—”

  Neil regarded me with disappointed eyes. “Look, Jessica, if you don’t want to help me, that’s okay. I mean, I just thought that because we go back a long way as friends, and are both writers, that you’d, well, that you’d be happy to share things with me.”

  “You’re right, Neil, absolutely right. It’s just that—”

  “Maybe I’d better be going,” Neil said, motioning to the bartender that he wanted the check.

  I made up my mind to help him. There really wasn’t any ethical or moral reason not to.

  “We’re at the castle because Ladington’s son, Bruce, came to Cedar Gables the morning after his father died and asked me to come. He’s adamant that his father didn’t commit suicide, although he doesn’t have anything to prove it. I tend to agree with him only because my brief time spent with Bill Ladington said to me that this was not a man who would take his own life. George doesn’t buy the suicide scenario either, based upon Ladington’s actions the night he died.”

  George explained to Neil the incongruity of Ladington swallowing a bottle of pills at his desk and then going outside to die.

  “Doesn’t make sense to me, either,” Neil said. “Who’s the most likely suspect?”

  I shrugged. “They’re all unusual people, and one gets the distinct feeling that few of them liked William Ladington. But whether their dislike went deep enough to prompt killing him remains to be seen.”

  “What about this Mary Jane character?” he asked. “Is she linked in some way to Ladington’s death?”

  “I can’t imagine how,” I said. I told him about Mary Jane Proll’s accusation that the murdered waiter, Louis Hubler, had been having an affair with Tennessee Ladington.

  Neil made a note in his reporter’s spiral-bound notebook. “That would give Ladington a motive for killing the kid. His wife, too, if Hubler was breaking off the relationship.”

  “Exactly,” George said.

  “Let’s not forget Ms. Proll,” I said. “She was evidently in love with Hubler, and he’d been cheating on her. A woman scorned. And, I might add, she’s a very strong young woman with a streak of cruelty in her.”

  Neil nodded and sat back in his chair. He said, more to himself than to us, “Damn, I wish I could get inside that castle with you.” He came forward again. “Any chance of my arriving with you as an old friend, Johnny Jones or Willy Smith?”

  “I’d be uncomfortable perpetrating a falsehood,” I said. “I think the best you can expect is to benefit from what we observe. Sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about, Jess,” Neil said. “I understand. I really do. Getting the inside scoop from you will be enough help.” To George he said, “Not much of a holiday for you, huh, trying to figure out a murder?”

  George smiled as he took his pipe from his pocket and lit it.

  “Sorry, no smoking,” the bartender announced from behind the bar.

  “Not even in a bar?” George asked.

  “California law,” the bartender said. “No smoking in any restaurant or bar.”

  “An uncivilized practice,” George muttered, tamping the tobacco to extinguish it.

  “I did manage to get a hold of the sheriff who’s handling Ladington’s death and the Hubler murder,” Neil said.

  “Sheriff Davis,” George said.

  “Right. Nice enough guy, only he wouldn’t tell me much. Said he wasn’t able to discuss an ongoing investigation. It’s what they all say. Have you met him?”

  “As a matter of fact, we have,” replied George. “He didn’t seem especially keen on my being at the castle.”

  “Professional jealousy?” Neil said.

  “I wouldn’t know,” George said.

  “We should be heading back,” I said. “We’ll take the aerial tram ride another time. What are you up to for the rest of the day, Neil?”

  “I thought I’d swing by one of the local newspapers, see if I can pick up any scuttlebutt from reporters who’ve been following things.”

  “Try Winston Wallace,” I said.

  “Who’s he?”

  “A local reporter. He did a piece about my coming to Napa and staying with Craig and Margaret at Cedar Gables. I’m surprised I remember his name.”

  “What paper?” Neil asked.

  “That I don’t remember,” I said. “I can call Margaret and find out.”

  “Great.” Neil handed me his cell phone.

  Margaret or Craig wasn’t there, but Barbara answered my question.

  “The Napa News,” I told Neil, handing him back his phone. “Should have been easy to remember. It’s a weekly. Margaret Snasdell is a friend of the reporter.”

  “I’ll look him up,” Neil said. “What else have you learned about the waiter’s murder?”

  “Nothing, except that drugs might have been involved.”

  Neil frowned, and paused before saying, “I’ve heard that, too. What are they saying? About drugs, I mean.”

  “Actually, Bill Ladington was the one who brought it up.”

  “Ladington himself, huh? What did he say?”

  “Just that there were rumors. I don’t think he knew anything for certain. Are you staying in the area, or going back to Sausalito?”

  “Staying here. A motel in Napa. Nothing fancy but it’s all I need.” He handed me a business card from the motel.

  “I’ll call,” I said. “Better that you not try to reach us at the castle.”

  “Fair enough.”

  We parted in the parking lot and drove off in separate directions.

  “Think I’m making a mistake in confiding in him, George?” I asked.

  “Not at all. He seems like a trustworthy chap. Besides, he’s liable to dredge up something around the valley that we’ll miss by being at the castle. What’s our next step?”

  “See if we can get answers to that growing list of questions. I think it’s time we got to know our hosts a little better.”

  Chapter TWenty

  The drawbridge was up when we arrived and we had to call on the intercom to have it lowered. Standing on the castle side was Wade Grosso. He wore his usual high rubber boots, coveralls, and a broad-brimmed straw hat. He watched us get out of the car, and was about to turn and walk away when I called to him.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “I was wondering whether we could steal a few minutes of your time, Mr. Grosso.”

  I couldn’t tell from his expression whether my request annoye
d him, or if he didn’t care one way or the other.

  “What do you need?” he asked.

  “We were wondering exactly where Mr. Ladington’s body was found in the moat the night he died,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Why would you want to know that?”

  “Just curious,” I said.

  “Bull! You and your limey friend here want to make it look as though Ladington was murdered instead of taking his own life. Isn’t that right?”

  “No, it isn’t right. Bruce Ladington has asked us to learn the truth. We want to know what really happened that night. If he committed suicide, fine. Don’t you want to know what happened to him, what really happened?”

  “All I want to know, Mrs. Fletcher, is that he’s dead. That’s good enough for me.”

  “You sound pleased that he’s dead,” George said.

  “Doesn’t matter to me one way or the other. If that lily-livered, weak-kneed son of his hadn’t brought you here, the whole thing would be over and we could get on with the business of making wine. But no, Mr. Bruce Ladington has to make a stink about what seems perfectly obvious to me, that the old bastard decided he’d had enough of his family and packed it in, checked out, said adios. As far as I’m concerned, if I had to put up with these people, I’d swallow pills too.”

  “Doesn’t anyone like anybody around here?” George asked.

  His question brought a smile to Grosso’s lips. “Not much,” he said, breaking into what passed for a laugh. “You want to see where Ladington ended up? Come on. I’ll show you.”

  We followed him around to the side of the castle. Grosso stopped, went to the edge of the moat, and peered down into it. “Right there,” he said, pointing.

  We stood next to him and looked down.

  “A secluded area of the property,” George said.

  “No more so than most,” Grosso said.

  “You have lights out front,” George said, “illuminating the moat. I don’t see any lights here.”

  “You’re right,” said Grosso. “It gets pretty dark on this side.”

  “Those are nasty looking rocks,” I said.

  “Did Mr. Ladington often come out here at night?” George asked.