Grosso shrugged and screwed up his face. “Not so I can recall.”
“The assumption is that he took the pills, left the house, came here, felt the effect of the pills, and fell into the moat,” George said.
“That’s what they say,” said Grosso.
I hesitated before asking, “Did you see him come out of the house that night, Mr. Grosso?”
His broad face turned hard. “Are you asking whether I might have pushed him into the water?”
“No. I just thought—”
“You want to know who killed him—if he was killed and didn’t do it himself? Just take a look over there.” He pointed to the neighboring vineyard, the one owned by Bob Jenkins. “Bad blood between them, Bill and Jenkins. They’ve been fighting over rights to Halton Mountain ever since Bill bought this place. Damn near shot each other a few times.”
“Is the mountain really that important?” George asked.
Grosso guffawed. “You’d better damn well believe it is,” he said. “You plant the right vines on that mountain and you’ll one day produce the best cabernet in the world. I’ve been in this business all my life, started as a kid working for my father. He was a pretty good wine maker but didn’t have the gumption to go out on his own. Always working for somebody else, like me. I’ve worked for a lot of people in this valley, some good, most bad. You get people with money who think that’s all they need to make good wine. You tell ’em how to do it and what they need, but all their goddamn money clouds their brains. They know it all. So they end up producing second-rate wine, only they think it’s great because their taste buds are in their bank accounts. Halton Mountain? Important? It’s the best piece of grape-growing land in all of California.”
“Was Mr. Ladington one of those people with money who thought he knew more than he did?” I asked.
“Bill? No. That crazy bastard—pardon my French—he loved the idea of making fine wine, and he listened to me. Well, most of the time. It was like he found religion when he bought this place, put all his crazy past behind and decided to make this winery work. Of course, he never did get over his love of the ladies. Married that piece ‘a work, Tennessee, because she made him feel like a kid again. Women can do that to you—if you let ’em. There were lots of things I didn’t like about Mr. Bill Ladington, but I respected him when it came to this vineyard and what he wanted it to be. You can respect a man and hate his guts at the same time.”
“Is it possible that Mr. Jenkins was here the night Mr. Ladington died?” George asked.
“Sure it is. Jenkins was always sneakin’ over here to see what we were doing with our vines and the wine. Wouldn’t be surprised if he was in cahoots with our French friend, Saison.”
“I thought she and Bill Ladington were partners,” I said.
“Doesn’t mean anything with that lady. Stab you in the back as soon as look at you. We’ve had lots of Frenchmen come through the valley, their noses up in the air, thinkin’ they’re the only ones who know how to make wine. Truth is, they come here to learn from us. Saison’s no different, except she’s a woman. Bill had his blinders on when he met her, fell for her so-called French female charms. Wouldn’t have happened if she’d been a man. Excuse me, I’ve got things to attend to.”
George and I watched him lumber off, shoulders back, a swagger to his gait because he’d set us straight.
“Surly chap,” George said, lighting his pipe.
“A proud man, like his boss. As he said, he had respect for Bill Ladington.”
“And hated his guts, as he also said.”
I looked down into the moat where Bill Ladington’s body had been found and felt a chill, and wrapped my arms about myself. “Feel like a walk?” I asked.
“Sure you don’t want to go inside? You’re cold.”
“More psychological than temperature,” I said.
We strolled along the moat to the rear of the castle and stepped up onto the expansive patio overlooking the vineyards beyond the moat. The footbridge was down, but no security guard was on duty.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I said. “Not only the land, the idea that those millions of vines all over the valley will, if handled with care, become fine wine.”
“It takes a certain type of person, I’m sure, to coddle grapes through the wine-making process. A very patient person.”
“Or an incurable romantic like William Ladington.”
I looked over to the neighboring vineyard owned by Robert Jenkins, then to Halton Mountain. “If that mountain is as valuable as everybody says it is, I imagine people would kill for it.”
“Wouldn’t be very neighborly.”
“Neighbors have killed neighbors for lesser reasons—a barking dog, a fence that’s too tall.”
George drew on his pipe, squinted, and said, “Isn’t that Bruce’s wife?”
“Yes, it is.”
Laura Ladington stood alone at the far end of the vineyard. She appeared to be slightly bent over; a hand held one of the stakes.
“Shall we say hello?” I suggested.
We crossed the footbridge and slowly made our way between the long rows of stakes until we were within fifty feet of her. She sensed our presence and turned quickly, like a feral animal startled by a predator.
“Hello, Laura,” I said pleasantly, advancing toward her.
She straightened, then seemed to fold within herself as though she lost air. Her frightened eyes were open wide. She started to say something but turned away.
“It’s so peaceful out here,” I said.
“Yes,” she said in a voice carried away on a breeze that ruffled her hair. She wore a shapeless knee-length dress as gray as her mood, and sandals.
“Is Bruce back at the house?” I asked, trying to make conversation but concerned that the wrong topic would send her scurrying away.
“Yes.”
“We took a ride today,” I said. “Just to get away for a few hours.”
“That’s nice,” she said.
“You should do the same,” George said.
“I don’t drive.”
“I don’t either,” I said, laughing. “But I can fly a plane.”
“You can?”
“Yes. I learned last year in my hometown. Cabot Cove. It’s in Maine. Have you ever been to Maine?”
“No.”
Her pain surrounded her like a visible aura.
“Would you like to come with us when we take another ride?” I asked. “We’re planning to go to some of the other vineyards. They have an aerial tram at Sterling Vineyards, and I’m dying to take a hot air balloon ride.”
“I don’t think so, but thank you for asking. I’d better get back. Bruce will be looking for me.”
“The offer still holds,” I said. “We’d love to have you join us.”
She walked away.
“Pathetic creature, isn’t she?” George said as we watched her navigate the trellises on her way to the castle.
“Breaks my heart,” I said. “Do you get the feeling that if she could open up, she’d have a lot to tell us about Ladington’s death?”
“It’s been my experience that it’s the quiet, withdrawn members of a family who know the most. She must be carrying a very heavy burden.”
“As well as carrying a child,” I said.
He looked at me. “She’s in the wey?”
“I said I think she’s pregnant.”
“So did I. ‘In the wey’—Scottish for being with child.”
“Oh. She wears those baggy dresses and dusters, but that slight bulge tells me she’s in the early stages of a pregnancy.”
“A blessed event for Mr. Bruce Ladington.”
“I’d like another, longer conversation with her.”
“And I’m sure you’ll arrange it. Ready to go back and face the other inmates at the asylum?”
I chuckled. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but the description does seem to fit. Yes, I’m ready to go back. Let’s not forget we have
our meeting with the sheriff in the morning.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” he said. “I find myself looking forward to anything except these people Mr. Ladington left behind.”
“Don’t make me feel guilty for bringing you into this. We can always leave.”
“Oh, no, Jessica. Now that I’m in, I’m in all the way and for the duration. I just hope we resolve this before we must leave to get back to our regular lives.”
He took my hand, squeezed it, and grinned. “I should consider moving closer to you,” he said. “Spending time with Jessica Fletcher is infinitely more interesting than chasing British serial killers and mad-dog rapists.”
“I’m not sure that’s a compliment,” I said, laughing as I led him across the drawbridge.
“Oh, it is, Jessica. It certainly is.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Edith Saison and a man we hadn’t seen before greeted us as we entered the castle.
“Mrs. Fletcher,” she said, “I’d like you to meet Yves LeGrand.”
“Did you have a pleasant flight?” George asked after we’d exchanged greetings.
“As pleasant as airline travel can be these days,” he replied.
“You should try Virgin Atlantic,” George said. “Very much the way air travel used to be.”
LeGrand pointedly ignored George’s pitch for the British airline by rolling his eyes and wrinkling his nose. He was a distinguished-looking gentleman whose French accent matched Edith’s. He was tall and reed-thin, his double-breasted blue blazer cut to mold his upper body; his gray slacks had a razor crease. I assumed he’d changed upon arriving; you couldn’t get off a long flight looking that good. He wore a white silk shirt open at the collar, and a red-and-blue ascot. His deep tan looked permanent.
“Yves and I are partners in our vineyard in France,” Edith said. “As you know, we became partners with Bill.”
“So he told me,” I replied. “You were bringing some special vines to graft onto his native rootstock.”
“Shoots,” Yves corrected. “They’re called shoots.”
“I’m afraid I’m not especially well versed in grape growing and wine making,” I said.
“But well versed in many other things, I’m sure,” said Yves, charmingly.
“Bill obviously told you a great deal about our partnership before he died,” Edith said.
“You asked me that once before,” I said. “No, he had very little to say, just that he was excited about the potential of the wine you were planning to develop together.”
“Exactly,” Edith said. “It was his enthusiasm that promised to make the partnership work. That, and the superior cuttings we’ve brought with us. I’m sure he indicated to you that he wanted his work to go forward even after he died.”
It sounded to me as though she was trying to line me up as a witness on her behalf. If so, she was due for a disappointment.
“Have you started grafting your shoots to the Ladington rootstock?” George asked.
“Oh, no,” Edith said, becoming animated. “That won’t happen until the question of ownership is resolved.”
“Ownership of Ladington Creek?” I asked.
She became conspiratorial as she whispered, “Of course. Our agreement was finalized in Curaçao. We both own houses there.”
“So I understand.”
“If that dreadful woman, Tennessee, insists upon claiming rights to this vineyard, there will never be a superior cabernet from it.”
“She is the widow,” George said.
“Under fraudulent circumstances!”
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. LeGrand,” I said. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other.”
“The pleasure was mine, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“A grotty couple if I ever saw one,” George muttered after they’d walked away.
“Grotty?”
“British slang for shabby.”
We’d reached the door to Bill Ladington’s study when the door opened and Bruce and Laura stepped into the hallway.
“Hi,” Bruce said. “Have a nice day?”
“Yes, quite,” George said. “You?”
“So-so,” Bruce replied.
“I meant to ask you when we were outside, Laura, about your migraine,” I said. “Are you feeling better?”
“Yes, much better,” she said, wandering down the hall.
“That’s good to hear,” I called after her.
“See you at dinner?” Bruce asked.
“Yes.” I put a hand on Bruce’s sleeve to detain him. “While I’m thinking of it, was there a glass found on your father’s desk the night he died?”
“Glass? No. At least I don’t think there was. Why?”
“We were wondering how—if he committed suicide—he washed down the pills,” George said. “I understand he was a big man. Must have needed to take a lot of them to kill a man his size.”
“A glass? No. There wasn’t a glass. But I see what you’re getting at,” Bruce said, animatedly. “If there was no glass, then there was no suicide.”
“Perhaps he took the pills in the small bathroom off his study,” George offered. “You know, drank water in there, then brought the empty bottle back to his desk.”
“But he didn’t commit suicide,” Bruce said. “That’s the whole point.”
George grunted.
“You’re right,” Bruce said, “about the glass. I’m really glad you two are here. I never would have thought of it. See you at dinner.” He followed his wife down the hall.
I looked through the open door into the study, motioned for George to follow, and we entered the room, closing the door behind us. I went to the small bath off the study and looked inside. It was as neat as the proverbial pin. There was a stall shower, sink, and toilet. On the sink’s countertop were two glasses. One held a toothbrush and small tube of toothpaste. The other contained a comb and nail file. I looked for a paper cup holder or glass for drinking. There wasn’t any.
When I returned to the study, George had removed a book from the shelves and was perusing it. I came to his side and saw that it was a guide to pharmaceuticals.
“Looking for what pills Ladington was supposed to have taken?” I asked.
“As a matter of fact, yes. I thought there might be a page turned down, or something highlighted.”
“And?”
“Nothing.”
He continued leafing through the book while I went behind the desk and sat in the leather chair. “Ladington was a neat man,” I said absently.
He agreed.
“I somehow think of men his size as not being fastidious,” I said.
“An erroneous assumption.”
“Yes.”
“Inconceivable to me that a man of Ladington’s business success and wealth wouldn’t have an updated will.”
“At least not one that anyone knows about.”
I ran my hand over the surface of the desk. It was highly polished; I could see my reflection as I leaned over it.
“Hardly the sort of man to be content with having his body found in a moat,” George said.
Bruce Ladington interrupted our musings. “I’m glad you’re still here,” he said, lowering his voice and coming close to us. “I thought you might be interested in knowing that Tennessee threatened Dad on more than one occasion.”
“Physical threats?” George asked.
“Yes. I saw her point a gun at him once.”
“Obviously she didn’t pull the trigger,” George said.
“No, but she wanted to.”
“How long ago did that happen?” I asked.
“It happened more than once,” Bruce said. “The last time was about a month ago. She’s got a mean streak in her, Mrs. Fletcher, a real mean streak. She wanted Dad dead so she could have this place all for herself.”
“What about the French couple?” George asked. “They seem to think they’ll be getting the winery by virtue of their business relationship with your
father.”
“And they’d gladly kill to get it,” he said. “I don’t trust them any more than I trust Tennessee.”
“Mr. LeGrand wasn’t here when your father died,” I said. “He couldn’t have killed him.”
“But Edith could have. Dad and Edith were fighting over the partnership the night she arrived. I heard her tell him that if he didn’t give in, she’d see to it that he didn’t live to enjoy the superior cabernet she intended to produce here on Halton Mountain.”
“What were they fighting about?” I asked.
Bruce shrugged. “I don’t know. Like I told you before, Dad didn’t ring me in on his business dealings.”
“But you did hear her threaten him.”
“Yes. She got loud at that point.”
“Such threats seldom progress to murder,” George said. “Do you know why your father had this book, Bruce? It was on the shelf here in the midst of books on making wine. Out of order, it would seem.” He showed the pharmaceutical guide to him.
“No,” Bruce said. “I never saw that book before. Are you—I mean, are you thinking that because he had such a book he probably did take his own life?”
“I’m thinking nothing of the sort,” George said. “Just curious.”
“Well, if you are thinking along those lines, you can just forget it. I just thought you’d want to know about the threats to Dad’s life. Somebody in this house killed him. That’s why I asked you here, to prove that.”
“I thought you asked us here to ascertain the truth,” I said.
“Well, sure,” he said. “Of course. But the truth is that my father was murdered.”
He abruptly left the room.
“I have a suggestion, Jessica.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t think we’re going to learn anything useful until we meet with the sheriff in the morning and get some indication of what the autopsy reveals. In the meantime, why don’t we put aside any thoughts of how Mr. William Ladington died and simply enjoy ourselves for the rest of the evening?”
I couldn’t stifle a laugh. “Do you think that’s possible?” I said. “Enjoy ourselves here?”
“Of course it is,” he said with bravado. “All we have to do is—”
My sudden and involuntary gasp cut him off.
“What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”
Blood on the Vine Page 13