Blood on the Vine

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Hubler was stabbed,” I said. “In the heart.”

  “Exactly. Know what I think?”

  “What?”

  “I think Ladington killed Hubler, and his wife, Tennessee, killed him.”

  “Because her husband killed her lover?”

  “Sure. Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  I didn’t answer. Instead, I asked, “What about drugs being involved, Neil? Everyone seems to believe drugs were a factor.”

  “They’re wrong,” he said as we pulled onto Coombs Street and stopped in front of Cedar Gables. “It’s such a knee-jerk reaction, Jess. Cops immediately assume drugs are involved in every crime. Not in this case. It was lust and jealousy, pure and simple.”

  “You sound absolutely convinced.”

  “I sound that way because I am.”

  “I’d like to speak with this person who claims Ladington threatened to murder Hubler.”

  “No can do. I promised him anonymity. I can’t break that promise.”

  “Coming in with me?”

  “Sure. I’d like to meet your friends.”

  Craig was away, but Margaret greeted us as we came through the door.

  “Hello, stranger,” she said.

  “Hi, Margaret. This is my friend Neil Schwartz.”

  “The writer,” Margaret said, shaking his hand. “People around town have been telling me about you.”

  “I’m not sure whether that’s good or bad,” Neil said with a laugh.

  “You’re investigating William Ladington’s death for a magazine article.”

  “That’s right.”

  Margaret turned to me. “How’s your stay going out at Ladington Creek?”

  “All right, although George fell and hurt his back.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear it. What brings you here?”

  “I should have called first, Margaret, but I was in a rush.”

  Her eyebrows went up. “Something to do with Ladington’s murder?”

  “Possibly. Is your guest upstairs in the Churchill Chamber?”

  “No. They all went out. Why?”

  “I was wondering whether I could go up and take a look at the guest diary.”

  “Guest diary?” Neil said.

  “Yes.” To Margaret I added, “You know, the one where happy guests wrote their thoughts, and even included pictures.”

  “I’ll go get it for you,” Margaret said. “You and Neil settle in the den.”

  “Wow,” Neil said when he saw Craig’s shiny motorcycles. “Interesting way to decorate a B-and-B.”

  “It puts the male guests at ease, I’m told.”

  Margaret returned a minute later carrying the diary and handed it to me. I started at the beginning, flipping quickly through the thick book, stopping only to examine photographs as they appeared. Neil sat and viewed the book with me.

  “What are you looking for?” he asked.

  “I’ll know it when I see it,” I replied. Margaret had excused herself to help in the kitchen.

  Although it wasn’t my intention to read any of the guests’ diary entries, it was difficult not to, so charming were many of them. Neil, too, had me stop a few times when an entry caught his eye.

  I was three-quarters of the way through when the picture I was seeking appeared. It was a small Polaroid snapshot of a couple posed in front of one of the many hot air balloons for which Napa Valley is known, which take thousands of tourists each year into the air above the valley. Neil sensed I’d found what I was looking for.

  “Who are they?” Neil asked.

  “I’ll fill you in once I’ve sorted out why this photo is here,” I said.

  Margaret poked her head back into the room. “Find what you’re looking for?” she asked.

  “Yes. Mind if I take this picture? I’ll bring it back.”

  “Sure.”

  I placed the Polaroid in my purse and stood. “Can you give me a lift back to the castle?” I asked Neil.

  “Of course, but I’d really like to know what that picture’s all about.”

  “Please, Neil, not now.”

  Neil, obviously angry at my reticence, preceded me through the door.

  “Be out in a minute,” I yelled to him.

  I showed the photo to Margaret. “Do you remember these guests?” I asked.

  She took the snapshot and brought it closer to her eyes, then smiled. “Of course I do. They were here about a year ago. Craig and I got a kick out of them.”

  “Why?”

  “They stayed with us for two nights. They were sort of—well, sort of secretive, like a couple of international spies.”

  I laughed. “What did they do?”

  “In and out at odd hours, always whispering to each other, stopping their conversations abruptly whenever Craig or I approached. ‘Typical French,’ Craig said when they were gone.”

  Neil returned to the open door. “Come on, Jess, I haven’t got all day.”

  “Sorry,” I said, kissing Margaret on the cheek and going to the car with him.

  He was obviously still annoyed. I considered telling him what the photo meant to me, but still felt uncomfortable sharing it with him. To be honest, I wasn’t sure myself what it meant, if anything, and I didn’t want to give him fuel for speculation until I had something tangible to back it up.

  Neil’s face was grim, his lips set in a hard, thin line. He gripped the steering wheel as though trying to squeeze something from it, and pulled away faster than necessary.

  “Please slow down,” I said in response to squealing tires as he sped around a corner.

  He did, but his expression was still one of irritation.

  “Neil,” I said, “I know you’re upset but—”

  “I thought we were friends.”

  “We are.”

  “Sure doesn’t sound like it. All I’ve been asking is that we keep each other informed about what’s going on with the murder. You’re inside the house. I’m not. I’m working the street.”

  “And you seem to be successful at it.”

  “That’s not the point. Sure, I’m good at getting people to talk openly to me. That’s why I called and said I wanted to talk to you this afternoon. I want to wrap up the story on Hubler for the magazine. Now that we know that Ladington killed the kid because he was having an affair with his wife, I’d like you to—”

  “Hold on, Neil. I know this unnamed source of yours claims Ladington knew of his wife’s affair, and that he made some threat about carving Hubler’s heart out, but that doesn’t mean Ladington killed Hubler. People make dumb threats all the time.”

  “I’m convinced Ladington did it. Look, I know you’ve gotten close to the sheriff. I’m sure he respects you and listens to you. He won’t give me the time of day.”

  “And?”

  “And—I think he should have this information I’ve come up with.”

  “I told him about the affair between Hubler and Tennessee Ladington,” I said.

  “I want you to do more than that. I want you to convince him that Ladington killed Hubler.”

  “I can’t do that, Neil. One, I’m not in a position to convince the sheriff of anything. Two, he’s not about to come to a conclusion based upon a claim by an anonymous person.”

  “Why not? Ladington’s dead. Frankly, I don’t care who killed him. The Hubler case is the one I’m interested in.”

  I hesitated before asking, “Why is that, Neil? Sheriff Davis was wondering the same thing.”

  “He was?”

  “Yes. I suppose it seems natural to him that the death—if it was murder—of William Ladington would be a much bigger story.”

  “Well, it isn’t. You won’t go to bat for me with the sheriff?”

  “Go to bat for you? You sound as though you have some personal reason for wanting me to do it, Neil.”

  He said nothing and accelerated. I reached into the pocket of the teal blazer I was wearing and pulled out the green leather address book I’d found in Mary Jane P
roll’s apartment. Neil glanced over and saw it.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “An address book I took from Ms. Proll’s apartment when Sheriff Davis and I were there.”

  “What did you want that for?”

  “There’s a page at the back of the book, Neil, on which she’d written some phone numbers. They weren’t in the alphabetical sections of the book, which leads me to believe they were grouped together on that page because they shared something in common.”

  “Like what?”

  “I thought maybe you could tell me.”

  “Me?” He guffawed. “How would I know?”

  “Your number in Sausalito is on that page.”

  “That’s—my number?—that’s ridiculous. Why would my number be there? I didn’t even know her.”

  “I can’t answer that,” I said. “But here it is.” I held it up so he could see it without taking his eyes from the road for more than a second.

  “No idea, Jess,” he said.

  “I have to turn this over to Sheriff Davis, Neil. I didn’t want to do that until I had a chance to ask you about it.”

  He swerved up onto the shoulder of the road, came to a jarring stop, and turned to face me. “What are you suggesting, Jess?” he asked, pleading for an answer, not belligerent. “Do you think that my number being in her address book has some sinister implication? What the hell are you doing?”

  “Neil,” I said, “I’m not suggesting anything, and I’m certainly not assigning something sinister to it. But you claimed you didn’t know Mary Jane Proll. I accept that—except, why would she have your phone number included in a list of numbers at the back of her book? I think that’s a fair question to ask. The sheriff will certainly ask it, too.”

  “And I can’t give you an answer.”

  “Fair enough. Would you take me back to Ladington Creek now?”

  For a moment, I wondered whether he might strike me, or insist I get out of the car. This was so unlike the Neil Schwartz I knew, the tough ex-cop with a poetic bent, a loving husband, father, and grandfather, a good friend.

  He smiled and shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just that my editor is putting pressure on me to get the article to her. I have no idea why my phone number is in that book, and frankly I don’t care. Sure, give it to Sheriff Davis. It means nothing.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, Neil.”

  He checked his side-view mirror and pulled out onto the road. Fifteen minutes later we were crossing the drawbridge.

  “Thanks for the lift, Neil. And I’m sorry if I sounded accusatory. I feel under some pressure too, to get to the bottom of things. George and I only have a few more days before we head home. Let’s not let this detract from our friendship. We go back a long way together.”

  “We sure do. Let’s keep in touch, huh?”

  “Of course. You’re staying in Napa a little longer?”

  “No. I think I’ll head home. I have enough to put together the article.”

  “That’s good to hear. Thanks again.”

  He kissed my cheek and reached across to open my door. As I exited the car, the door to the castle opened and Tennessee Ladington came through it, followed by the driver, Raoul. I looked at Neil; was he about to get out of the Lexus and approach Tennessee? I considered for a moment introducing them because I was experiencing some guilt over not having been cooperative with him. But I shelved that instinct, and was relieved when he put the Lexus in reverse and drove away.

  “Hello,” I said, approaching Tennessee and Raoul.

  “Friend of yours?” Tennessee asked. Raoul glowered at me, his usual expression.

  “Yes,” I said. “An old friend. I see I’m in time for cocktails and dinner.”

  “I’d like a word with you,” she said.

  “Of course. Let me see how George is doing and—”

  “He’s fine. Please.”

  “All right.”

  I followed her to a wing of the castle where the bedrooms were located, segregated by heavy wooden double doors leading to a long corridor. The master bedroom was at the end; we passed four other bedroom doors on our way, all shut.

  The master bedroom was very large. A white, frilly, lightweight comforter covering a king-sized bed was in perfect concert with the rest of the room’s decidedly feminine decor, which was somewhat incongruous with the masculine image Bill Ladington had presented. Tennessee noted my interest in the room.

  “Everything wasn’t Stetson hats and stuffed animal heads on the wall with Bill, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said. “He had his soft side, too.”

  “I’m sure he did.”

  “He was pleased to let me decorate this room. When we married, this space looked like an army barracks. He gave me carte blanche with our bedroom and loved what I did with it. We spent many wonderful intimate moments here.”

  She invited me to sit in a small upholstered chair in front of an elaborate makeup table.

  “I’m afraid I owe you an apology,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “For the way you and the inspector have been treated here.”

  “We both understand the strain you’ve been under.”

  “I appreciate that,” she said, sitting on the bed’s edge. She crossed her long legs and sighed. “I never smoke in this room. I promised Bill I wouldn’t.”

  “It certainly makes for a sweeter-smelling bedroom,” I said.

  “It was always sweet in here, Mrs. Fletcher. Bill was getting old, but he remained a very virile man right up until he died.”

  I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. I felt like George having a man-to-man talk with Bruce about Bruce’s sterility problems. Was I about to be engaged in a woman-to-woman talk about her deceased husband’s virility? I hoped not.

  “I’m sure you’re finding us a different breed of people than you’re probably used to, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Would you call me Jessica? Or Jess?”

  “Yes, I’d like that.”

  “A different breed?” I said. “I’m not sure that’s true, although there are things that have—well, that have surprised me.”

  “Beginning with me?”

  “No. I find it interesting that you allow Ms. Saison and Mr. LeGrand to stay here considering their designs on the winery.”

  It was more of a snort than a laugh. “Excuse me,” she said. She left the room and returned smoking a cigarette. “With Bill gone, it doesn’t make much difference whether I smoke in here or not.”

  I didn’t say I would have preferred that she honor the deal they’d had.

  “You were talking about Edith and Yves,” she said, balancing an ashtray on her knee as she sat on the bed.

  “That’s right. She says they’re entitled to ownership of Ladington Creek by virtue of their partnership with your husband.”

  “Well, they’re wrong,” she said, blowing a thick, blue cloud of smoke into the air and snuffing out her cigarette. “As far as having them here, it gives me a chance to keep an eye on them. Bill taught me that. Stay close to your enemies.”

  “I suppose there’s wisdom in that,” I said, “although I’m sure it’s not easy for you.”

  We didn’t say anything for a few moments. Finally, she said, “You haven’t asked me whether I murdered Bill.”

  “Did you?”

  “No. No one did. He committed suicide.”

  “With poison?”

  “Yes. But then he fell into the moat and hit his head. Sheriff Davis called and told me what the autopsy revealed.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “I’m sure you do. If you research your murder mysteries as thoroughly as you’ve looked into Bill’s death, they must be very good books.”

  “I like to think so. Tennessee, neither George nor I believe that your husband intended to kill himself. We’re convinced that someone gave him the poison. Whether that was the proximate cause of his death or not is irrelevant.”

  “Irrelevant? He died
of an accidental head injury.”

  “Not if the poison caused him to fall into the moat. Even if it didn’t—even if he simply lost his balance—someone attempted to poison him. That’s attempted murder.”

  “Are you looking at me, Jessica?”

  “Should I be?”

  “I didn’t try to poison Bill.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “How does the murder of Louis Hubler fit in with all of this?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea. Do you have ideas about it?”

  Be direct? Bring up her alleged affair with Hubler?

  “Were you having an affair with Hubler?”

  She reacted by smiling and slowly shaking her head. “What powerful things rumors are,” she said softly, lighting another cigarette.

  “Were you?” I repeated.

  “If I were,” she said, “that would make you suspect me in that death, too, wouldn’t it?”

  “Those powerful rumors you mentioned involve you in an affair with Hubler, your husband knowing about it, him killing Hubler, and you killing your husband because he’d murdered your lover.”

  “My goodness,” she said with exaggerated surprise. “Shakespeare couldn’t have done better.”

  I laughed. “Now that I’ve told you what I’ve been hearing, Tennessee, I’d better look in on George. I’ll see you at dinner?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  I stood and was halfway to the door when it opened. Roger Stockdale glanced at me in surprise and confusion.

  “Jessica and I were just having a heart-to-heart,” Tennessee said.

  “You were?” Stockdale said.

  What struck me was that he evidently was comfortable simply walking into her bedroom. No knock on the door, no asking whether she was “decent.”

  “I must be going,” I said.

  I went directly upstairs. George’s door was open. He was standing in front of a mirror straightening his tie.

  “I see you’re feeling better,” I said.

  He turned and nodded. “Much better, thank you. Did you find what you were looking for at your friends’ B-and-B?”

  “Yes.”

  I showed him the photograph I’d taken from Cedar Gables.

  “Familiar faces,” he said.

  “Aren’t they?”

  “And?”

  “They told me this was the first time they’d been to Napa Valley. Obviously, it isn’t.”