Blood on the Vine

by Jessica Fletcher

  “I wonder why they bothered to stretch the truth.”

  “I intend to ask them.”

  “I’ll be interested in their answer.”

  “So will I. I need to freshen up. Cocktails at the usual time?”

  “So I’m told by Laura. She’s been quite solicitous, playing nurse to me. I like her.”

  “Did you discuss her pregnancy?”

  “Of course not. It wouldn’t have been gentlemanly of me to probe such a delicate subject.”

  “I’ve come to the conclusion, George, that the only delicate subject around here is the relative quality of the wine. Give me ten minutes.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Everyone was in the drawing room when George and I arrived. Raoul stood at his usual place behind the bar; others clustered in various parts of the room. Bruce noted our entrance and came immediately to us.

  “Hi,” he said. “Is your back feeling better, Inspector?”

  “Much, thank you. I took it easy today.”

  “I guess that’s the best way,” Bruce said. He appeared to be even more nervous than usual. There was perspiration on his forehead and upper lip, although the room was somewhat chilly. I saw that Laura stood at the opposite end of the room talking with Roger Stockdale.

  “How is your wife feeling?” I asked.

  “No more headaches, thank goodness. Sheriff Davis called this afternoon. He said you’d been with him.”

  “That’s right.”

  “He said Dad probably died from hitting his head on the rocks.”

  “So he told me.”

  “But there was poison in his system, too. Somebody did murder him. He probably fell into the moat after the poison started to work.”

  “That’s one possibility,” George said.

  “You said you and Laura enjoyed going to your father’s steak house,” I said.

  “That’s right, until that waiter was murdered.”

  “And your stepmother said she never went there.”

  “She’s a liar. I know she used to stop in there at night for a drink. Plenty of times.”

  I considered asking him whether he was aware that his stepmother had been having an affair with Louis Hubler, but thought better of it. His hatred of her had been so apparent from the beginning that it would be difficult to give any credence to anything he might say about her.

  Yves LeGrand and Edith Saison joined us.

  “You look lovely,” I told her.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher. I understand you’re the one to ask about progress in the investigation of Bill’s death.”

  “That’s hardly accurate,” I said.

  George tossed a conspiratorial glance at me and said to Bruce, “Let me get you a drink.”

  “Get me a—?”

  He took Bruce’s arm and led him to the bar, leaving me alone with Edith and Yves.

  “I stopped in at Cedar Gables Inn this afternoon,” I said. “It’s a B-and-B owned by friends of mine. Do you know it?”

  Frowns creased their brows.

  “It’s a lovely place. They have a diary of sorts, a scrap-book, in one of the rooms, the Churchill Chamber. People who spend time there, many of them honeymooners, write in the book. Some even include pictures of their stay in Napa Valley.”

  “Interesting,” Yves said in his alluring accent. To Edith he added, “We must stay in this charming place Mrs. Fletcher speaks of the next time we visit.”

  “Excuse us,” Edith said, turning and walking away. Yves nodded, and went after her.

  “Well?” George asked me when he returned to my side.

  “I wasn’t direct,” I said, “but I’m sure they knew what I was saying, and why I was saying it.”

  “They continue to deny they were here in Napa Valley before?”

  “By inference, yes.”

  We didn’t have a chance to discuss it further because Roger Stockdale joined us. “Good evening,” he said. “Was your visit with the sheriff this morning fruitful?”

  “To some extent,” I replied. “I also spent time with the medical examiner.”

  “Oh?”

  “The autopsy on Bill Ladington didn’t show any sign of cancer.”

  “Interesting.”

  “I thought so. Was your only source of information Bill himself?”

  He thought before answering. “Yes. He was the one who told me, but that’s no surprise. No one else knew.”

  “He shared it with you but not with his wife or son?”

  “Bill trusted me implicitly, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m the only person in his inner circle who can claim that.”

  George spoke. “I understand you were promised some sort of partnership by Mr. Ladington.”

  “I wouldn’t call it a partnership, Inspector, but he did assure me that I would become a participant in the vineyard’s profits once the new varietals bore fruit and produced the quality of cabernet they promised.”

  “But only if he died,” I said. “I think that’s what you told me.”

  “You’re wrong. I was to share in the profits whether he was dead or alive. His concern was that if he were to die, I was not to be cut out by the vultures around him.”

  George laughed. “I always enjoy vultures with names,” he said.

  Stockdale looked around the room. “Take your pick,” he said. “There wasn’t one of them who cared whether Bill lived or died, and he knew it. He didn’t trust anybody. Is that paranoia? Sure it is, but there’s that old saying that just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean someone isn’t following you. He built the moat, had guns around, hid money in different places to keep it out of their hands.” He swept the room with his own hand to indicate that he was referring to them all. “He was a very unhappy man.”

  “He seemed happy to me,” I said.

  “He put on that façade, Mrs. Fletcher. Underneath, he was miserable.”

  “Dinner is served,” Tennessee announced from the doorway.

  We went to the dining room and took our seats at the large table. Everything seemed the same—until the kitchen door opened and salads were brought to us, carried not by the soon-to-depart Mercedes, or by Fidel and Consuela, but by Nick, the chef whose routine had been to cook lunch at the house, then go to the restaurant bearing Ladington’s name to handle dinner there. He wore kitchen whites and a tall white chef’s hat. He was a handsome man, no older than thirty-five, with a dark complexion and a heavy twelve-o’clock shadow.

  When he’d left the room, I asked, “To what do we owe the presence of the chef this evening?”

  “For what he’s being paid, we might as well have him cook decent dinners for us,” Tennessee said from the head of the table. “The sous chef is handling dinner at the restaurant. I’m selling the joint as soon as the estate is settled and I can find a buyer.”

  “I understand Mercedes is leaving,” I said nonchalantly, taking a bite of salad.

  “You seem to know everything,” Tennessee said. She had changed into a sequined red halter top and tight white slacks for dinner, and had pulled her long blonde hair back into a taut ponytail. She wore less makeup than I was accustomed to seeing on her.

  “Unfortunately, I don’t,” I said. “Know everything. I wish I did.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, I’m sure I share what all of you desire, to know what really happened to your husband.”

  “We already know that, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said, her lip curling. “Frankly, I find you and your charming British friend to be more amusing than efficient. Sheriff Davis told me what happened when he called today. Bill took poison, but before that could work he fell and struck his head.”

  “Or someone in this room fed him that poison,” George said.

  Wade Grosso cleared his throat, causing everyone to look at him. He said to me, “Do you think one of us killed Bill?”

  I chose not to reply.

  Bruce said animatedly, “Dad was murdered. And what conclusion can anyone come to except that someb
ody close to him is the murderer?”

  They all stared at him without saying anything.

  Nick delivered the soup course, and we ate in silence until I announced, “We’ll be leaving here tomorrow.” I glanced at George, who masked any surprise my pronouncement might have caused him.

  “You can’t,” Bruce said from his seat across from me.

  “I’m afraid we must, Bruce,” I said. “We both have to get back to our respective homes and lives. It’s evident to me that our presence here has been an extremely unwelcome one, and I’m old enough to know when a welcome has been outworn.”

  Bruce said to George, “How can you just leave when you know someone has been murdered? Don’t you have some sort of ethics at Scotland Yard?”

  George smiled and said calmly, “Oh, yes, we have many codes of ethics at the Yard. But Jessica and I also have our personal lives to consider. We came to this lovely valley to relax and enjoy each other’s company. I think it’s time we did that.”

  “You’ll be leaving in the morning?” Tennessee asked as Fidel and Consuela cleared the soup bowls and Nick delivered the main course, lovely-looking breasts of chicken and braised root vegetables.

  “Some time tomorrow,” I responded. “This looks delicious.”

  My announcement of our planned departure created two distinctly different reactions. Bruce and his wife became sullen, although it was hard to determine Laura’s true feelings because she was sullen so much of the time. On the other hand, spirits seemed to pick up with Tennessee, Roger, and Wade.

  In between those diverse reactions were Edith and Yves. I couldn’t read what either of them was thinking. When I confronted them about Cedar Gables Inn, I had expected them to agree with me that it was, indeed, a lovely place and that they’d spent a pleasant time there. At least that would have been the way I would have handled it. If asked why I’d said earlier that I’d never been to Napa Valley, a simple laugh and reference to having forgotten would have sufficed.

  After dinner, as George and I were leaving the dining room, Tennessee encouraged us sweetly to ask for help if we needed it when leaving in the morning. I thanked her, and George and I went outside for some air. It was a pristine night, with millions of brilliant white stars against a black sky. And it was chilly; the sound of hundreds of windmills keeping the vines warm provided a low drone over the valley. George lit his pipe and drew contentedly on it.

  “How’s your back?” I asked.

  “It was all right for a while, not perfect but better. Beginning to trouble me as we sat at dinner. What made you decide to announce we were leaving?”

  “To create a sense of urgency.”

  “With them?”

  “With me. Truth is, we have a couple of days before we have to leave. I thought I would call Margaret and Craig and see if our rooms at the inn have become available. Spend our last days there.”

  “Without a resolution to Ladington’s murder?”

  “Don’t think that doesn’t bother me. But resolving who killed him really isn’t our responsibility. It never was.”

  “You won’t hear an argument from me, Jessica.”

  He groaned; his hand went to his back.

  “You’re in pain.”

  “This chilly air isn’t helping.”

  “Come,” I said, taking his hand. “Let’s get inside.”

  This particular spasm had come on quickly. By the time we’d reached the door and stepped into the hallway, he was almost doubled over. I helped him up the stairs and to his room, where he stretched out on the bed with a long, deep sigh of relief.

  “What can I get you?” I asked. “Do you want me to call a doctor?”

  “Oh, no, love. This is all I need.”

  “I feel so guilty,” I said.

  “Guilty? You don’t control the weather.”

  “I wasn’t talking about the weather. There’s been such tension here, I’m sure it’s contributed to your bad back.”

  “Nonsense. No more talk about that.”

  There was a knock at the door. It was Laura Ladington.

  “I saw the inspector and you come in, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said. “Is he all right?”

  “No, he’s not,” I said. “His back seems worse.”

  She looked past me at George, who managed a wave:

  “Is there anything I can do?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so.” I turned to George: “Can we get you anything?”

  “Thank you, no.”

  I thanked Laura for asking. She looked as though she was about to leave, but her hesitation was obvious. She whispered, “Could I speak with you privately?”

  “Of course.”

  “After you’ve taken care of the inspector.”

  “Meet you downstairs?”

  “Outside,” she said, fear in her voice. “In the vineyard.”

  “Fifteen minutes?”

  “Yes.”

  She backed away, and I closed the door. George was now sitting up. His raised eyebrows asked the obvious question.

  “She wants to speak with me privately.”

  “Interesting. The quiet Mrs. Ladington is about to become vocal.”

  “Maybe it’s nothing.”

  “Maybe. But I have a gut feeling—no, a feeling in my back—that she’s about to tell you something meaningful.”

  “We’ll see. Sure I can’t do anything?”

  “Nothing. Go. Have your private conversation with Laura. Then report back as quickly as possible.”

  “Yes, boss.” I tossed him a small salute, got a cardigan from my room, slipped it on, and headed for the vineyard.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The hand-operated wooden drawbridge over the narrow part of the moat, to the rear of the castle, was down when I arrived. One of the security guards sat dozing in the chair. My presence startled him awake.

  “Good evening,” I said.

  “Oh, hello.”

  “Lovely night. A little chilly.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Did Laura Ladington come out here a few minutes ago?”

  “Yes, ma’am. She’s out there in the vineyard.”

  I looked past him and saw Laura standing where George and I had last encountered her. Were it not for the moonlight, she would have been invisible among the vines.

  I crossed the drawbridge and approached slowly. She appeared to be ill. She was bent over, supporting herself by holding one of the stakes.

  “Laura?’ I said, stopping a few feet from her.

  “I—I’m sorry,” she said. “I was nauseous. I must have eaten something that—” She began to cry, softly at first, then loud sobs that caused her body to heave. I closed the gap between us and placed my hand on her shoulder.

  “What is it?” I asked. “Nothing served at dinner tonight seemed to—”

  “It wasn’t food. It wasn’t anything I ate. It’s—”

  “It’s your pregnancy,” I said.

  My blunt statement caused her sobbing to cease.

  “How did you know?” she asked.

  “Women in the early stages of pregnancy often don’t realize how soon they begin to show,” I said lightly. “You looked pregnant to me.”

  “Oh, God,” she said. “How did I get into this mess?”

  “I can’t answer that,” I said. “I assume Bruce is pleased.”

  “Bruce? He doesn’t—”

  “Doesn’t know? You haven’t told him?”

  “Yes, he knows.”

  “He noticed, too.”

  She shook her head. “He hasn’t had a chance to notice, Mrs. Fletcher. We haven’t slept together for a long time.”

  “How many months are you?” I asked.

  “Three, I think.”

  I wasn’t sure how far to probe into what was obviously a very personal situation. Yet I felt I had to, knowing through George that Bruce was sterile.

  “I know I’m prying, Laura, but since you’ve opened up to me, I feel somewhat justified.�
��

  “It’s all right,” she said, her crying now under control.

  “I’ve been told, Laura, that your husband isn’t capable of fatherhood. Is that true?”

  Her voice tightened. “How did you find that out?”

  “It doesn’t matter. What does matter is whether the situation you find yourself in has any bearing on your father-in-law’s death.”

  “No. Of course it doesn’t.”

  “Then why did you decide to confide in me tonight?”

  “I don’t know why, Mrs. Fletcher. It was foolish of me. I’m sorry.”

  She turned to leave.

  “Laura,” I said.

  She stopped, turned, and faced me.

  “Who’s the father of your child?”

  The light from the moon illuminated her face, which was now hard, even hateful.

  “Who, Laura?”

  “That bastard, Ladington.”

  “Ladington? Not Bruce.”

  “No.”

  “Your father-in-law.”

  “Yes.”

  She ran from me in the direction of the drawbridge and the house.

  Chapter Thirty

  “That is a shocking revelation,” George said after I’d returned to his room and told him of my conversation with Laura.

  “I’m still in shock,” I said, sitting on the edge of the bed and trying to process what I’d been told.

  “How could a father do such a thing to a son?” George asked, as though seeking wisdom from an unseen force in the room. “The man must have been a monster to rape his own daughter-in-law.”

  “If it was rape,” I said.

  “Good God,” George said. “If it wasn’t rape—if it was consensual—it’s even more perverted in a way.”

  “Do you think he could possibly have deliberately impregnated Laura to punish Bruce?”

  “If so, it makes his actions even more despicable. At least if he’d had a sexual relationship with his daughter-in-law out of lust for her, it could be understood. Not condoned, of course, but understood in human terms. But if it was an act of aggression toward his own flesh and blood, it reaches the level of evil.”

  I simply nodded.

  “She didn’t indicate why it happened?”

  “No. It was enough for her to tell me at all. The moment she did, she was gone, scurrying back to the castle.”