Blood on the Vine

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Why do you think she told you, Jessica?”

  “I’ve been trying to figure that out since it happened. Confess? Salve her conscience.”

  “Deliver a message to you?”

  “About the murder? That’s the most logical reason. I asked her about that. I didn’t get an answer.”

  George stood stiffly and went to the window. “Who else knows?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was Ladington killed because of it?”

  “A good possibility.”

  “If Tennessee knew, it could have angered her to the point of killing her unfaithful husband,” he said.

  “The same could be said for Bruce. Laura told me that Bruce knows about the pregnancy, but she didn’t say whether he knows his father was responsible.”

  “What do you suggest we do with this information, Jessica?”

  “That’s one of many questions swimming around my brain. I can’t help but wonder who else in this household has been having affairs. There’s Tennessee having had her fling with Louis Hubler. She might have entered into that relationship to get back at her husband—if she knew he’d fathered Laura’s baby.”

  “If so, it would be a more benign form of revenge than killing him. What about the others?”

  “Hard to say,” I replied, “not knowing their own personal secrets. Stockdale burst into Tennessee’s bedroom while I was there with her. I have the feeling it isn’t the first time.”

  “An affair between them?”

  “Possible,” I said.

  “Our charming French friends,” George said. “Any idea why they’d been here in Napa Valley before, but found it necessary to lie about it?”

  “No. Where does this leave us? It appears that Ladington was murdered for one of two reasons: lust and/or jealousy, or money.”

  “Two of the more common motives.”

  “Let’s say it was lust or jealousy, George. What I can’t sort out is the ingestion of poison and his fall into the moat. Did someone push him? If so, that could have been the result of a jealous rage. But he was poisoned, too. That’s a much more premeditated approach and would take careful planning.”

  He returned to sit beside me on the bed and laughed. “Maybe two people tried to kill our philandering vintner, one with poison, the other by pushing him to his death. Hardly likely that the same person tried both methods.”

  “Not necessarily,” I said. “The murderer might have tried poison, saw it wasn’t working—or working too slowly—and finished him off in a more forceful way. Belt and suspenders.”

  I observed him as he sat next to me. He was deep in thought.

  “What are you thinking?” I asked.

  “That we’re overlooking Miss Laura. We’re sitting here speculating about how her pregnancy might have prompted someone to kill. But we’re not taking into account that she had as much, or more, motive for killing her father-in-law. Let’s say it was rape. She wouldn’t be the first woman who’d sought revenge on her rapist.”

  “Well,” I said, standing and stretching against a pain that had developed in my back, “I don’t think this changes our plans to leave tomorrow.”

  “I’m in the mood for a drink,” he said.

  “I’ll join you. It’s been that sort of an evening.”

  We went down to the drawing room where George pulled down a bottle of single-malt Scotch from behind the bar. “You?” he asked.

  “I’ll have some of that Ladington Creek cabernet,” I said.

  We held up our glasses in a toast. As we did, Nick entered the room.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think anyone would be here.”

  “No problem,” George said. “Please join us.”

  “That’s what I came in for,” Nick said, going directly to the bar. He went behind it and poured bourbon into a water glass, “Aah,” he said, taking a healthy swig. “This may be wine country, but there’s nothing like a good bourbon.” He wore jeans, a white V-neck sweater that exposed a bush of black chest hair, a well-worn leather jacket, and loafers sans socks.

  “I agree,” said George, “especially one of your single-barrel varieties.”

  “We’ve never been formally introduced,” I said. “I’m Jessica Fletcher, and this is George Sutherland.”

  He shook our hands.

  “I know who you both are,” he said, drinking again; his glass was almost empty. “Famous mystery writer and Scotland Yard detective.” He finished off his drink and refilled his glass. “So, who done it?”

  “Murdered William Ladington?” I said.

  “Yeah. Somebody did, that’s for sure.”

  “I thought you might have some answers,” I said, “working here and at the restaurant.”

  He crossed the room, fell into an easy chair, and raised his glass. “To the end of the Ladington era.”

  We took chairs near him.

  “You sound almost pleased that the ‘Ladington era’ has ended,” I said.

  “Pleased? No. Indifferent. The man was crazy, impossible to work for. And that wife of his. The current one, I mean.” He affected a southern accent. “Madame Tennessee.” He snickered and drank. “She got what she wanted. She married the old fool for his money. Looks like her plan paid off.”

  “We had lunch one day at your restaurant,” George said.

  “Not my restaurant. I’m out of there. I’m heading home to San Francisco, to my old job at Fleur de Lys. You know it?”

  “A very nice French restaurant,” I said. “I’ve eaten there. Why did you leave to work for Bill Ladington?”

  “We all have our moments of insanity, Mrs. Fletcher. That was mine. It doesn’t matter. I’ve had enough of this valley and the people who make wine. They’re all a little nuts. Don’t you agree?”

  “I can’t say that I’ve met enough of them to come to that conclusion.”

  George sat forward in his chair, his glass cradled in his hands. “Since you’re leaving,” he said, “Mr.—what is your last name?”

  “Potmos.”

  “Mr. Potmos. Since you’re leaving, I feel comfortable being direct in asking you questions.”

  “Questions?” His eyebrows went up. “Am I being interrogated by Scotland Yard?”

  “Of course not,” George responded. “But Mrs. Fletcher and I are leaving in the morning and our natural curiosity is getting the better of us.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know, the kid brought you here to prove his old man was murdered. No luck, huh?”

  “Solving crimes often involves luck, Mr. Potmos, more than most police officers like to admit. But maybe we’ll get lucky with you.”

  “Shoot. I’ve already been questioned a couple of times by Sheriff Davis and his people about the Hubler thing. Nothing to hide. What do you want to know? Who do I think killed Bill Ladington?”

  “A good place to start,” I offered.

  “When Mrs. Fletcher and I—” George started to say.

  “Please, it’s Jessica,” I said.

  “And I’m Nick. You were saying?”

  “I was saying,” George continued, “that when Jessica and I had lunch in Ladington’s Steak House, we noticed you had a sushi bar. Unusual fare for a steak house, we thought.”

  “Mea culpa,” Nick said, holding up his hands in mock defense. “I convinced Ladington the place needed something different instead of just greasy steaks and french fries. He didn’t like the idea, but he let me put in the sushi bar.”

  “Did the fish offered at it include puffer fish?” I asked.

  Potmos shrugged. “I don’t know what Ye used. Not my thing.”

  “Ye? Was he Japanese?”

  “Yeah. Nice little guy, but he split a few days after Hubler was killed. I didn’t bother finding a replacement for him. I closed the sushi bar down, as I’m sure you noticed. Ye ordered fish from different places, San Fran, L.A., lots of places.”

  “Including Curaçao?” I asked.

  “As a matter of fact, he did, b
ut not through the usual suppliers. Ladington hooked up with some source in Curaçao. He has—had—a home there. Insisted we order from them.”

  “Bill Ladington arranged it?”

  Potmos thought for a moment. “No. Tennessee did.”

  George and I glanced at each other.

  “Why?” Potmos said.

  “Nothing specific,” I said. “To your knowledge, was Mrs. Ladington having an affair with your waiter, Louis Hubler?”

  Potmos laughed loudly, got up, and went to the bar. “This deserves another drink, a double.” He returned to his chair with his glass filled again, sat back, crossed his legs, and grinned. “You were asking about Tennessee and Louis. My, how word does fly. Yeah, they had something going between them. She made a pass at me, too, only she’s not my type. A little long in the tooth for me.”

  I didn’t say what I was thinking.

  George said, “You spent your evenings at the restaurant, Mr. Potmos, preparing dinners for customers. You obviously interacted a great deal with staff, including Louis Hubler and a waitress named Mary Jane Proll. Ms. Proll told us that she and Louis had been dating. Is that true?”

  “Dating? That’s an old-fashioned term. Did they get it on now and then, out in the car, in a storeroom? Yeah, they did.”

  “Were they drug users?” I asked.

  “Oh, boy, now we’re getting heavy,” Potmos said with a laugh.

  “Not nearly as heavy as murder,” George offered. “Were they drug users?”

  “Some weed now and then, maybe an upper. Ecstasy when they were partying, nothing more than that.”

  His cavalier attitude about drug use was unsettling, even distasteful. I seemed to be reading almost every day about young men and women suffering serious illness, even death, through the use of so-called recreational drugs. How sad.

  “Where did they get the drugs?” George asked.

  Potmos shrugged and drank. “Where does anybody get drugs? Dealers. They run it up from San Francisco.”

  “Did either of them sell drugs?”

  “Hubler did some selling. Minor stuff at first, just enough to support his own use. But then he got more ambitious. I guess the money was better than minimum wage and tips.”

  “There’s been speculation that Bill Ladington might have murdered Hubler out of jealousy about his wife.”

  “It’s crossed my mind.”

  “Or Mrs. Ladington. Ms. Proll told us Hubler had ended the affair.”

  “Another possibility. How about Mary Jane? She was jealous as hell, seething with rage at being dumped for a senior citizen.”

  George looked at me and smiled.

  “We’ve thought of that,” I said. “Of the three, which one do you think killed Louis Hubler?”

  “Hey, why all this interest in Hubler? I thought you were here to nail the old man’s killer.”

  “There might be a link between the two murders,” George said.

  “Well, good luck,” Potmos said, draining his glass of its amber liquid, and standing. He crossed the room in the direction of the door, stopped, turned, and said, “You didn’t ask whether I killed old man Ladington.”

  “Did you?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Hubler, either. Have a good night.”

  When he was gone, I asked George what he thought.

  “Interesting, arrogant chap. Do I think he might have provided the poison that Ladington ingested? No, I don’t. Someone else either got hold of the puffer fish ingredient from the sushi bar, or brought it back with them from Curaçao. Either way, I know one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The Hubler and Ladington murders are, most likely, not connected.”

  “Why?”

  “Instinct, based upon what I’ve gleaned from people we’ve talked with. And you? What do your instincts say?”

  “My instincts are talking louder lately. Tell you what. I want to call Sheriff Davis and see if we can get him here tomorrow morning. He gave me his home phone number.”

  “And?”

  “I think we might provide for an interesting breakfast before we leave Ladington Creek. I’d like the sheriff on hand.”

  “You’ll fill me in, I’m sure, before this so-called ‘interesting breakfast.’ ”

  “Of course I will, but not here. Is your back up to a ride?”

  “Even if it were broken, I wouldn’t miss this conversation for anything.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  We drove first to a pay phone from which I called Sheriff Davis at home. His wife, a pleasant woman, answered and brought her husband to the phone.

  “Mrs. Fletcher,” he said.

  “Hope I’m not disturbing a favorite TV show.”

  “Not at all. I was in my workshop putting finishing touches on a piece of furniture I’m building. It’s my hobby, woodworking.”

  “I’m always impressed with people who can do that,” I said. “I won’t keep you from it for more than a minute. I was wondering whether you were free in the morning to join George and me for breakfast at Ladington Creek.”

  Davis laughed gently. “What’s the occasion?” he asked.

  “George and I will be leaving in the morning. In a sense, it will be our farewell breakfast with all the occupants of the castle. One of them murdered Bill Ladington, and I think we know who it is.”

  There was a moment of silence on the line before Davis said, “Have I got this right, Mrs. Fletcher? You and your Scottish friend intend to accuse someone at breakfast?”

  “Exactly,” I said.

  “Well, Mrs. Fletcher, I don’t see how I can say no to an invitation like that. What time?”

  “They usually gather between seven and seven-thirty.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “You might want to station some of your deputies in a car outside, on the other side of the moat. Just in case our plan works.”

  “All right.”

  “Thanks, Sheriff. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  We next drove to a nearby bakery and coffee shop that was ready to close, but whose owner graciously invited us to sit and order cappuccinos, and the last piece of coconut custard pie in the display case. We had the place to ourselves, which was ideal for the topic of discussion, the murder of William Ladington. I laid out for George the conclusions to which I’d come, and what I thought we should do with them.

  “I don’t know,” he said when I finished, fishing his pipe from his jacket, remembering he couldn’t smoke inside, and returning it to his pocket. “You’re suggesting we accuse someone of murder without having the proverbial smoking gun.”

  “Which we’ll never have,” I said. “I’m counting on the vulnerability of the murderer, George. I’ve seen it happen more than once before. As you well know, plenty of murderers have been put away on purely circumstantial evidence, even without a body. I’ve also seen pretty tough characters fess up when confronted with compelling circumstantial evidence. I think it’s worth a try.”

  “I’m not arguing with you, Jessica. I’ve heard my share of such confessions, too. I suppose we can apply the old adage, nothing ventured, nothing gained. I’m with you.”

  “Good.”

  He shook his head. “You’re determined not to leave here without some sort of resolution.”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  “It might with someone else. With you? No. You agreed to help Bruce Ladington prove that his father had been murdered, and you don’t want to let him down. I quite understand that.”

  “I’m glad you do. But the big question is, do you agree with my thesis?”

  “Yes.” He held up his hand. “However, I hope you aren’t disappointed if your theory fails to elicit an admission of guilt.”

  “I’m prepared for that.”

  There was one sliver of pie left on the plate.

  “Go ahead,” I said.

  “No, no, no, it’s for you.”

  “I insist.”

  “I wouldn’t t
hink of taking the last piece.”

  “I wouldn’t either.”

  George said, “Let’s go. We have a busy morning ahead of us.”

  “Yes.”

  We stood and looked down at the table.

  “Please,” he said.

  “Absolutely not.”

  He scooped up the slice with his fork, paid the bill, and we returned to Ladington Creek where we sat in my room for another hour going over what we intended to do at breakfast, speaking in hushed tones, even passing each other notes to avoid any possibility of being overheard. Finally, he wrote his final note: I’m going to bed.

  Why are you writing me that? I wrote. “Go to bed,” I said loudly.

  He laughed. “I will,” he said. “Good night, Jessica.”

  “Good night,” I said, laughing, too. “Sleep tight. See you at breakfast.”

  I expected to have trouble sleeping, but it turned out not to be the case. I awoke rested and content, very much at peace with myself and with what George and I were about to do.

  It was early, a few minutes past six. I took a leisurely shower, packed my bag, dressed in my traveling clothes, and sat on the window seat. It promised to be a fair day, although as George had pointed out, the weather in Napa Valley could be changeable.

  At seven, I went to George’s room and knocked.

  “Come in,” he said.

  He was dressed and packed, too.

  “Ready?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How’s the back?”

  “Just fine. Nothing like a good night’s sleep to straighten out the kinks.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “Is the prosecution ready?” he asked lightly.

  “I think so. My concern is that they all won’t be there.”

  “We’ll just have to hope that they are. Actually, we only need one—the right one.”

  Wade Grosso and Roger Stockdale were seated at the table when we entered the dining room. They’d been served juice and coffee.

  “Good morning,” I said pleasantly, slipping into the chair George held out for me.

  They returned the greeting.

  “Are you on your way?” Grosso asked as Consuela entered carrying a tray with their breakfasts.

  “Yes, we are,” George said, laying his napkin on his lap. “Where are the others?”