“Bill Ayala. Came here from Chicago ten years ago. He’s good.”
“I’m sure he is.”
Davis led me through the admitting area to the rear of the hospital utilized by Dr. Ayala and his staff. The ME was reading a newspaper in his office when Davis poked his head through the open door. “Catching up on the news, or reading your horoscope?” he asked with a chuckle.
“Both,” Ayala said, dropping the paper to his desk and standing. He was a light-skinned black man with a youthful face and engaging smile, and wore a white lab coat over a blue button-down shirt and gold tie.
“I’d like you to meet Jessica Fletcher,” Davis said.
“This is a real pleasure,” Ayala said. “I read you were vacationing in Napa Valley.”
“It’s turned out to be not much of a vacation,” I said.
“Oh?” He invited us to take seats across the desk from him.
“Mrs. Fletcher has been looking into Bill Ladington’s death,” said Davis. “She and a friend from Scotland Yard are houseguests out at the Ladington castle.”
“Is that so?” Ayala said. “Scotland Yard? What’s their interest in it?”
“Strictly unofficial,” I said. “Mr. Ladington’s son, Bruce, is convinced his father was murdered.”
“So the sheriff has told me. You’re functioning on behalf of Bruce Ladington?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” I responded. “I’d met his father the day he died. I, ah—”
“Mrs. Fletcher writes murder mysteries,” Davis said.
“I’m well aware of that,” Ayala said. “I saw you on the Larry King Show.”
“My goodness. That was a couple of years ago.”
“But I remember it well. I’ve read some of your books. I’m impressed with your grasp of medical forensics.”
“Thank you. I have a good consultant back home in Maine, a doctor friend.”
“Aha. I’d be happy to consult with you.”
“And I may take you up on it one of these days. The sheriff told me this morning that a substance was found in Ladington’s body, some exotic poison from puffer fish.”
Ayala looked quizzically at Davis.
“Mrs. Fletcher seems to have a penchant for coming up with information, Bill, and is willing to share it with me. Only fair to share with her what I know. I gave her a copy of the fax that came through this morning from Sacramento.”
“Interesting, wasn’t it?” Ayala asked.
“I’d never heard of such a poison,” I said.
“I’m aware of it, but don’t know much about it. That’s why I sent it to Sacramento.”
“Did your autopsy of Bill Ladington indicate he had cancer?” I asked.
Ayala frowned. “No. No sign of any disease, aside from the results of high blood pressure, and an ulcer the size of a quarter in his stomach. Cancer? Why do you ask?”
“One of his employees told me that Ladington had a doctor in Los Angeles, an older man now deceased, who’d informed Ladington of the cancer a year ago.”
“What sort of cancer?” Ayala asked.
“He didn’t specify.”
“I’m sure this doctor was wrong,” Ayala said. “There was no sign of cancer in Bill Ladington. There was the head injury.”
“Head injury?” I said, surprised.
“I didn’t mention that to you,” Davis said to me.
“What sort of head injury?” I asked.
“Blunt force injury,” the sheriff said. “To the left side.”
“Perhaps it happened when he fell into the moat,” I offered. “Those rocks in there look menacing.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Unless someone hit him on the head,” Sheriff Davis offered.
“Which would rule out suicide,” I said.
“A reasonable assumption,” said the sheriff.
“Judging from an external examination of the wound, I’d say it was a rock that caused the injury,” Ayala said. “The discoloration on his left temple and cheek was widespread, consistent with having struck his head on a rock.”
A buzzer sounded on Ayala’s phone.
“Yes?” he said. He frowned. “Tell him I’m busy,” he said and hung up the receiver. He shook his head. “That writer from San Fran, Neil Schwartz, calling again,” he said to Davis.
“Your buddy,” Davis said to me.
I smiled.
“He is tenacious,” Ayala said. “You and he are friends, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Yes. We go back a long way.”
“He’s for real?” Ayala asked pleasantly.
“Oh, yes. He was a police officer in New York City. A good one, I’m told. He turned to writing when he retired, mostly poetry. He has a contract from Vanity Fair.”
“About the murder of the waiter from Ladington’s Steak House.”
“I believe that started it for him. But I’m sure Bill Ladington’s death, especially if it was murder, has taken center stage.”
“You’d never know that by talking to him,” Sheriff Davis said.
“What do you mean?”
“All his questions have to do with the waiter,” Ayala replied.
“All his questions to me have been about Ladington,” I said.
“Well,” Davis said with a sigh, “you never can tell about writers.” He quickly added, “Present company excluded.”
“No need to exclude me,” I said. “Tell me more about the blow to Ladington’s head.”
“As I said, a broad injury to his head,” Ayala said. He consulted his autopsy report and read from it: “Gross discoloration of left side of face, including temple, cheekbone, and jaw line. Significant swelling and bruising. Some bone fragments invaded soft tissue. Internal bleeding between the dura and inner surface of the skull. I’d say he died somewhere between nine-thirty and eleven.”
“Was the blow to the head the cause of death?” I asked. “As opposed to the poison?”
“Hard to say,” the ME responded. “Tetrodotoxin is a pretty potent poison, although the level found in Ladington was small. The blow to his head caused intracranial damage. It’s my professional opinion that it was the chief cause of death, although the poison might have done it, too, if he’d lived a little longer.” The ME got up from behind the desk. “You’ll have to excuse me. I have a meeting to get to. It was a real pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“For me, too,” I said, shaking his hand. “Does the family know of your conclusions about how Bill Ladington died?”
“I intend to call them later today,” Davis said.
“Is there a phone I can use to make a local call?” I asked Dr. Ayala.
“Use this one,” Ayala said, pointing to the one on his desk on his way out.
“I want to see how George is doing,” I said, fishing the Ladington Creek Winery’s number from my purse.
Mercedes, the housekeeper, answered.
“This is Jessica Fletcher,” I said. “I’m calling to see how Inspector Sutherland is feeling.”
She said nothing in response. Bruce came on the line a few seconds later.
“He’s doing fine,” he told me. “Laura’s been looking in on him. She brought him some tea. She says his back is a little better.”
“That’s certainly good to hear,” I said. “I shouldn’t be much longer.”
“Do you need someone to pick you up?”
“No, thank you. Sheriff Davis is driving me.”
“He is?”
“Yes. Please tell George hello from me and that I’ll be back as soon as possible.”
“I will.”
“How’s your friend?” Davis asked as we left the hospital and went to his car.
“Feeling better.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“I should go back.”
“Sure, only I was wondering whether you were up for another detour.”
“Someone else for me to meet?”
“No. Someone I’d like to meet.”
“Who might that be?”
“The waitress who told you about the affair between the waiter and Tennessee Ladington. Mary Jane is her name?”
“Yes, but—”
“I could go up to Calistoga alone,” he said, starting the car, “but since you’ve already met her, she might be more willing to talk to me if you make the introduction.”
“I doubt that,” I said.
“Why?”
“We didn’t part on the best of terms. She tried to boil me alive.”
“Whoa.”
“In the mud bath. She’s an unpleasant young woman. At least she was with me. She’s frightened of Ladington’s people.”
“Did she tell you why?”
“No. She just turned up the heat. She didn’t appreciate the questions I was asking.”
I looked at my watch. Ten-thirty.
“All right,” I said, “I’ll go with you, but I would like to be back in time to have lunch with George.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” he said. “I just want you to know how much I appreciate this, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“No, I’m the one who’s appreciative. I met with you to see what I could learn about William Ladington’s death.”
“Yeah, but I’m the one who’s ended up learning things. Tell me again about this Mary Jane—”
“Proll. Mary Jane Proll.”
“Right.”
I recounted for him the trip George and I had made to Calistoga after having had lunch at Ladington’s restaurant where we learned about Ms. Proll. He listened quietly, nodding now and then, focusing on his driving. When we reached Calistoga and were a few hundred yards from Hampton Spa, he pulled to the side of the road.
“She’s likely to be not very happy having you bring me to her,” he said. “I’d appreciate it if you could smooth the way, grease the skids.”
“I’ll do what I can. She claims to be afraid of Ladington, or at least of some of the people who surrounded him. She specifically mentioned his driver, Raoul. I don’t think she’ll be happy to see me, either.”
We pulled up in front of the spa, parked, and I led us inside. The same woman who’d greeted me the last time sat behind the desk.
“Hello,” I said.
“Hi.” She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. “You were here just a few days ago.”
“Yes, I was. I had a mud bath. Mary Jane Proll took care of me.”
Her expression soured.
“I was wondering if she was working today.”
“No.”
“Day off?”
“She quit.”
“Permanently?” I asked.
“Permanently and last minute. She really left me in the lurch. We had reservations booked for her, but she just didn’t show up this morning. I called her apartment. She said she was leaving town.”
“Today?”
“I suppose so.”
“Could you tell us where she lives?” I asked.
The woman looked at Davis.
“This is Sheriff Davis,” I said.
“I thought so. I’ve seen your picture in the papers. I don’t think I should be giving out employees’ home addresses.”
“This is an official police matter,” Davis said.
“Has she done something wrong?” the woman asked.
“Just tell us where she lives,” he said in a gentle, yet firm voice.
She consulted a notebook from a drawer and wrote on a slip of paper, and handed it to me.
“Thanks,” I said.
“You just can’t depend on help anymore,” she said. “They have no sense of loyalty or responsibility.”
“I know what you mean,” Davis said. “Much obliged.”
“Do you know where this is?” I asked as we got back into his car.
“Yes, I do. An apartment complex east of town.”
The complex was a five-minute drive from Hampton Spa. The two-story buildings, with small porches in front of each unit, were stacked up one behind the other on a low terraced hill, with a narrow road separating them. Mary Jane’s apartment was in the third building from the base of the hill.
We got out of the car and went up onto the porch. The front door was slightly ajar. Sheriff Davis went to it and knocked, causing it to open a little more. “Hello,” he said through the gap. “Anyone home?”
There was no response.
He called her name, pushed the door fully open, and stepped inside. I followed.
We were in a large central room. A dining table was to the left, in front of a low counter separating the room from a small kitchen. Two open doors led to bedrooms.
“Looks like Ms. Proll made a hasty getaway,” Davis said, referring to the condition of the room. Clothes had been tossed everywhere. An open suitcase lay on the counter separating the kitchen from the main room.
He went into one of the bedrooms. It was even more chaotic than the living room. Dresser drawers hung open. The door to the closet was ajar, revealing clothing on hangers dangling precariously from a metal rod.
I went to a desk wedged in a comer of the room. Drawers were open and papers and books were strewn across it. A pile of magazines a foot high was on the floor next to a rickety chair. I sat and glanced at some of the materials in front of me. Many of the papers were bills, and offers for credit cards. I looked into the open top drawer to my right and absently pulled things from it. One item was a small green leather address book that was buried at the bottom. I flipped through it, perusing the handwritten names and numbers, and in a few case addresses, noted next to the names. As I was doing it, Davis entered the bedroom carrying a framed photograph.
“This is Louis Hubler,” he said, handing me the picture.
“A nice-looking young man,” I said. Hubler stared at me with pale blue eyes beneath a mop of blond hair. The picture had obviously been taken in summer. Hubler wore tan shorts and a yellow T-shirt, and a lake could be seen in the background. He had an engaging, wide, crooked smile exposing large, white teeth.
“What a shame,” I said, handing the photo back to Davis.
“A young man with his future all in front of him,” Davis said, shaking his head. “Damn drugs destroy too many young lives.”
“You sound convinced that drugs were involved,” I said, continuing to flip through the address book.
“I don’t think there’s much doubt, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Did he have drugs in his system?”
“Marijuana. A high level, according to Dr. Ayala.”
“But that doesn’t mean he was murdered because of drugs,” I said.
“No, it doesn’t, at least on the surface. The undercover narcs will hopefully come up with something on that. Any idea where she might have gone?”
“No. I know nothing about her. I’ve been looking through papers here hoping I’d come up with something, some indication of where she has family, or had lived previously.”
“I checked the other bedroom,” he said. “Neat as a pin.”
The sound of the front door being closed caused both of us to turn.
“Who are you?” a young woman asked as she appeared in the doorway. She was short and chunky, and had close-cropped brown hair. She wore very tight jeans and a sweat-shirt with U. of Cal-Berkeley imprinted on it.
“I’m Sheriff Davis,” he said. “This is Mrs. Fletcher.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Looking for Ms. Proll,” I said. “Do you live here with her?”
“I did.” She didn’t sound happy.
“It looks like she’s gone,” Davis said.
“She sure is. She, like, threw some things in a bag this morning and took off.”
“Do you know where she went?” I asked.
“No idea, but I wish I did. She owes half the rent for this month, and owes me money too.”
“She’ll probably be back in touch with you,” I offered, not really meaning it. “Do you know why she left in such a hurry?”
The woman shook
her head and said, “I don’t care. She babbled about some bad guys being after her. She was, like, paranoid, you know.”
Davis showed her the photo of Louis Hubler. “This was her boyfriend, wasn’t it?” he asked.
“Until he started messing around with that old woman and got himself killed.”
“Old woman?” I said. “You mean Mrs. Ladington?”
“Yeah.”
“Mary Jane told you about it?”
“Yeah. She was, like, really bummed out.”
“Did she talk to you about who might have killed Hubler?” Davis asked.
“She figured it was either old man Ladington or his wife.”
I continued looking through the green address book while the conversation was taking place.
“Does Ms. Proll use drugs?” Davis asked.
His question visibly unnerved Mary Jane’s roommate. She turned and went to the living room. Davis followed. “I ask only because it might help identify who killed Hubler,” I heard Davis say.
“What do you think I am, like, dumb or something?” the woman said. “Talk to a sheriff about drugs? Give me a break.”
I turned the pages in the address book until I’d reached the end. The final page contained a list of phone numbers. Unlike the rest of the book, in which names were entered in alphabetical order, these numbers were jumbled together with no regard for the alphabet. I stared at the list as I heard Davis ask, “Do you know whether Louis Hubler dealt drugs?”
“I heard something like that,”’ she replied.
“Does your roommate, Ms. Proll, deal drugs?”
“Do you have a warrant or something?”
“No,” said Davis. “We’re just trying to get to the bottom of things.”
“Who’s she in there?”
“Mrs. Fletcher? She’s a famous writer of murder mysteries. She’s helping in the investigation.”
“Well, I’m not talking to you anymore unless I get, like, a lawyer or something.”
“You won’t need a lawyer,” Davis said. “Thanks for your cooperation.”
I slipped the address book into the pocket of my jacket as Davis reappeared.
“We might as well leave,” he said.
“Yes. There’s nothing more to do here,” I said, standing.
We said good-bye to Mary Jane’s roommate on the way out, got in the sheriff’s car, and he drove me back to Ladington Creek.
“Thanks for your help,” he said, stopping at the raised drawbridge. Wade Grosso stood at the other end.
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