Blood on the Vine

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Four-thirty?” I said. “In the morning?”

  Margaret laughed. “Believe me,” she said, “it’s well worth it.”

  The ringing phone drew Margaret to the office.

  “Let’s unpack,” I suggested.

  Margaret reappeared. “It’s for you, Jess. Neil Schwartz.”

  “I’ll take these up to our rooms,” George said, grabbing our suitcases.

  “Watch your back,” I said.

  He went up the stairs without any apparent discomfort, and I took the call.

  “Hello, Neil.”

  “Jess, I have to see you.”

  “I’d love to see you, too, but I don’t think I’ll have time before I head home. Where are you?”

  “Home. Sausalito. I can drive up right now.”

  “Neil, I’m sorry, but I’ve had an exhausting week. George and I intend to relax and—”

  “I wouldn’t think of interrupting your plans if it wasn’t necessary. Please. Just a half hour.”

  I sighed and thought about the next forty-eight hours. “We’ll be driving down to San Francisco the day after tomorrow to catch our flights,” I said. “Maybe we can find a few minutes at the airport.”

  He said dejectedly, “I guess that’ll be okay. When’s your flight?”

  “Three-oh-five. United. George is flying Virgin Atlantic. His flight leaves at four-thirty. You know me. I love to be early. We plan to get to the airport by one.”

  “I need to see you alone, Jess. It’s a very private matter.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem. We can meet in United’s club. I’m a member.”

  “All right. I’ll be there at one.”

  That night, George and I enjoyed a quiet dinner at Pasta Prego, recommended by Margaret, who called the owner and chef, Marco, to reserve a table for us. We ate lightly—grilled salmon, a salad, and sautéed spinach. Naturally, part of the evening was spent rehashing the week.

  “And you have no idea why your friend, Neil, is so desperate to see you,” George said.

  “None whatsoever. I’m concerned. I wish I hadn’t taken that address book from Ms. Proll’s apartment and pointed out to the sheriff why I did. I have a feeling Neil is in some trouble because of it.”

  “You’ll find out soon enough. Are you sure I can’t convince you to change your plans and fly to London with me? Virgin Atlantic is a unique flying experience, the way flying used to be. They even give you a neck and head massage in first class before landing.”

  “Sounds lovely, but I have to get home. Maybe in a month or so I can break away and spend a long weekend with you.”

  “We keep making these tentative plans and never seem to follow through on them.”

  “We will,” I said, hoping it wasn’t an empty promise.

  Four-thirty the next morning came quickly. George placed the call to confirm the balloon ride and was told the weather was perfect. At six, a young man named David, who said he was a student balloon pilot, picked us up and drove us to a restaurant where others scheduled for flights had gathered. After coffee and donuts, and a briefing about the flights, a professional photographer took orders and we opted for one. We then got back in the vans and drove to the launch area. There were a dozen or so balloons of varying sizes being readied for flight, the gas burners sending hot air up to inflate them. The passengers were expected to pitch in to right the large wicker baskets, and we helped with our rig. We’d been told to wear hats or caps, especially George who, because he’s tall, would find his head and hair painfully close to the blasts of hot air that would be activated during the flight.

  “All set?” our pilot asked.

  “I’m ready,” George said, “although I have to admit I hae nae brou o this.”

  “What?”

  “Scottish. I said I’m not sure I have a liking for this.”

  “Why didn’t you say something before?” I asked.

  “Because you seemed keen on the notion. I didn’t want to be a spoilsport.”

  A few minutes later we were airborne, slowly drifting up into the early-morning sky over Napa Valley, the loud whoosh of hot air being fired into the balloon the only sound to break the stillness. When we’d reached the right altitude, the super-charged flame was turned off and we were in total silence. Dozens of other brightly colored balloons, some larger and carrying six or eight passengers, some smaller like ours with only two or three people in them, were all around us.

  “This is so peaceful,” I said.

  “Great morning to fly,” the pilot said.

  We chatted about many things, interrupted only when a loud blast of flame and hot air was needed to maintain our altitude of two thousand feet. Below was the lush valley; the vineyards looked as though they’d been painted into the landscape, thousands of rows of vines snaking around and over hillsides, stately buildings set in the middle of them or along roads at their front entrances.

  George put his arm around me when I felt a chill in the morning air.

  “It’s so beautiful,” I said.

  “Look,” George said, pointing over the side of the basket. I followed his finger. It was the castle at Ladington Creek Vineyards.

  “Nice to be up here and not down there,” I said.

  The pilot heard me and laughed. “The famous Ladington Castle. He died, you know. Murdered. His son killed him.”

  “Really?” George said.

  “Heard it on the news this morning,” the pilot said. “They solved another murder, too.”

  “What other murder?” I asked.

  “Ladington owned a restaurant in Napa. A steak house. Pretty good food. Anyway, a waiter there was murdered a couple a months ago. Stabbed to death.”

  He sent another deafening blast of hot air up into the balloon.

  “You say they solved the waiter’s murder?” George said when there was quiet again.

  “That was on the news, too. Looks like drugs were involved. No surprise. Those damn drugs are at the root of most crimes these days. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. “Who are they charging with the murder?”

  “Some drug dealer from San Francisco.”

  “Oh?”

  “There were always rumors about drugs being sold out of Ladington’s place. This waiter—I forget his name—evidently was holding out on this dealer and got killed for it. What a bunch of animals.”

  “Certain two-legged animals,” I said. “Let’s not give our four-legged furry friends a bad name.”

  The pilot laughed, produced another shot of hot air, and said, “You’re right.”

  “Did they give the name of the drug dealer they’ve arrested?” I asked.

  “Yes, but I don’t remember what it was.”

  We eventually set down in a large parking lot connected to a college. A chase team pulled up in a station wagon, and the crew went through the process of packing up the balloon and wicker basket for use tomorrow. We were driven to another restaurant where a champagne brunch was served. The photographer who’d taken our photo leaning out of the basket as we were about to ascend, gave us a receipt and said the picture would be sent to me in Cabot Cove. We were dropped off at Cedar Gables where we freshened up and spent some time with Margaret and her assistant, Barbara. I called Sheriff Davis from there and asked about Louis Hubler’s murderer having been apprehended. He confirmed it was a drug dealer from San Francisco named Jason Morris.

  George and I spent the rest of the day visiting vineyards, including the spectacularly beautiful Sterling Vineyard where we finally got to enjoy the aerial tram ride, the stunning views of the valley, and, of course, wonderful wines to sample.

  Margaret and Craig treated us to dinner that night at Domaine Chandon, a lovely French restaurant. The following morning, after a hearty breakfast of Margaret’s signature almond French toast, we packed our bags into George’s rental car and headed for San Francisco, turning in the car at the airport a little before one.

  We both had ambivalent
feelings during the drive. We’d managed to salvage a little time to relax and enjoy the valley’s abundant pleasures. It had been good being with George, even in the chaotic situation that existed at Ladington Creek. But it would soon be over. In a few hours we’d be on planes flying to our respective homes; no telling how long it would be before we saw each other again.

  I tried to put my meeting with Neil out of my mind during the trip but was only partially successful. I turned on the radio twice and tuned to an all-news station, but the apprehension of Hubler’s murderer wasn’t mentioned. My call the previous day to Davis had eased my mind considerably; I couldn’t help but feel that the thing Neil wanted to discuss with me was linked to that murder in some way. Perhaps it still was. But at least his being a suspect in Hubler’s murder had been ruled out. Anything else paled in comparison.

  Neil was waiting in the United frequent flyer club when we walked in. The woman at the desk confirmed that he was my guest, and we went to a secluded comer of the room. Neil looked at George and started to say something, but George preempted him. “I’ll leave you two alone,” he said, “and find a good book—and, hopefully, a place where I can smoke my pipe.”

  “Well, Neil,” I said when George was gone, “you sounded upset when you called. Sorry I can’t spend more time with you but—”

  He drew a deep breath before saying, “Jess, I’m in trouble.”

  I drew a breath, too, before asking, “What sort of trouble?”

  His lip trembled.

  “Louis Hubler?”

  He nodded. “No, not in the way you think. I mean, it doesn’t have to do with his murder.”

  I waited for him to continue.

  “Well, maybe it does.”

  “Neil, you don’t have to tell me anything. We’re friends. Whatever you’ve done won’t change that. Are you in trouble with the law?”

  Another nod.

  “Then you should be talking with a lawyer, not a friend.”

  “I intend to. It’s just that—”

  “Just that what?”

  “That I need a friend right now.”

  “I’m here.”

  “I delivered drugs to Ladington’s restaurant, Jess.”

  I was stunned. It was inconceivable to me that this gentle, dear man, who’d worked the mean streets of New York as a cop yet wrote poetry in his spare time, who had been devoted to his wife and daughter and grandchildren, could become involved in something so shabby.

  I broke our silence. “Why?” I asked.

  “Money. What else?”

  “You needed it that badly?”

  “I thought I did. No, I didn’t need it to live. But there were things I wanted that I’d never had. Don’t misunderstand. I’m not talking about big-time drug sales—no heroin, no coke, just marijuana, and not a lot of that. And I’m not a drug user except for smoking some weed now and then. I’ve done that all my life.”

  “I hadn’t realized,” I said.

  “One or two on the weekend when I was alone, especially after Sandy died. Then I came out to Sausalito and tried to play the bohemian writer. I met some people who were selling marijuana and making pretty good money. I guess I rationalized it, Jess. Everybody smokes marijuana now and then.”

  I didn’t correct him.

  “I started driving up to Napa with small bags of it because I figured there was less chance of being caught there. I met Hubler and Mary Jane—”

  “Mary Jane Proll?”

  “Yeah.”

  I thought for a moment before saying, “You say you’re in trouble with the law? With Sheriff Davis in Napa?”

  “He called and said he wanted me to come to his office for questioning concerning drug sales. He asked that I come voluntarily.”

  “Which is the best thing you could do—with a lawyer.”

  “I know. I intend to do that tomorrow. That list of names in Mary Jane’s address book—the one with my name on it—those were other drug suppliers. Damn, to be included on a list like that is terrible. I mean, the other names on that list are probably hard-core drug dealers and users. That’s not me.”

  I didn’t say what I was thinking, that selling drugs is selling drugs—period!

  Instead, I said, “You don’t have a criminal background, Neil. I’m sure they’ll be lenient with you when it comes to sentencing.”

  “Yeah. But that doesn’t take away the stigma with my daughter and grandkids. God, how could I have been so stupid?”

  He was sitting slumped forward in the chair, elbows resting on his knees, head in his hands. I touched one of his hands. “What do you want me to do?” I asked.

  “Talk to Sheriff Davis on my behalf. Talk to anybody else involved. Intervene for me. I don’t want to go to jail, Jess. I was a cop, and a good one. I never took a nickel in graft or bribes. But I know what prisons are like. I wouldn’t last.”

  I glanced at my watch. We’d been talking for a half hour. I turned and saw George come through the door carrying a book and magazines.

  “I had to go outside to smoke my pipe,” he said. “Am I back too early? I can find something else to do.”

  “No,” I said, “we’re finished.”

  Neil shook George’s hand, wished him a safe trip home, and followed me to the club’s door. I placed my hand on his shoulder. “I’ll make the call, Neil. If there’s anything else I can do, just let me know.”

  “Thanks, Jess. I appreciate it.” He looked as though he expected that any attempt to hug me would offend me now that I knew the trouble he was in. I wrapped my arms around him and squeezed hard. “It’ll be all right,” I said. “It’ll be all right.”

  A few minutes later I told George what had transpired. His only comment was, “I suppose we’re all capable of being corrupted, Jessica. I’m sure your friend will be okay.”

  I passed through Security, gave George a final wave, and felt my eyes tear up.

  My flight home arrived on time.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Neil received a one-year probationary sentence. He returned to Wisconsin to live with his daughter and grandchildren. Vanity Fair canceled his article because the editors felt that his involvement with Hubler and drugs rendered him a partial participant, not an impartial journalist. He was allowed to keep the portion of the advance he’d received, a generous act on the magazine’s part, I thought. I never learned how much of an advance the magazine had agreed to pay Neil, but judging from his illegal actions in California, it wasn’t as much as he’d indicated.

  He called me one night to thank me for having put in a good word with the California authorities.

  “You kept focusing on the Hubler murder to keep tabs on whether anyone was looking at you as a drug supplier,” I suggested.

  “I had the magazine assignment,” he said.

  “I know, but there was that parallel motive, wasn’t there?”

  “Yeah, you’re right. I’m still in denial, I guess. At any rate, Jess, thanks again. I’m a lucky man. I got off easy.”

  “And you’re a good man, Neil. Stay in touch.”

  Sheriff Davis also called me one evening.

  “Mrs. Fletcher, I thought you’d want to know that we’ve identified who tried to poison William Ladington.”

  “His wife?”

  “Not alone. She was in it with the vineyard’s business manager, Roger Stockdale. They were evidently cozy, Mrs. Fletcher, lovers.”

  “Have they been arrested?”

  “We’ve charged them with attempted murder and conspiracy. Stockdale skipped town right after you and the inspector left, but was picked up in Texas.”

  “How did you come up with them?”

  “I did what you suggested, followed the puffer fish trail. The housekeeper, Mercedes, came forward after she left the castle to live in Oregon. She knew that the wife had brought the poison into the castle from the restaurant, and knew where the wife had hidden it. She noticed it was gone the night Ladington died. I confronted Tennessee and she did wha
t lots of accused do when they’re involved with a conspirator. She pointed the finger at Stockdale, and he accused her when we questioned him alone. No honor among thieves, as they say.

  “We pieced together that Stockdale was promised some sort of financial participation in the vineyard by Ladington, but only after he died. Tennessee wanted that to happen sooner than later.”

  “Well, Sheriff, I appreciate the call.”

  “My pleasure. How’s your friend, Neil?”

  I filled him in on Neil’s life after his plea bargain of guilty, and his probation. The sheriff and I promised to stay in touch.

  Bruce Ladington was originally charged with murder, but a plea bargain reduced it to manslaughter; he was sentenced to fourteen years, with the possibility of parole after four years. I can only assume that the prosecutors, as well as the judge, were as sympathetic as I’d been after hearing what had driven Bruce to push his father into the moat.

  I have no idea what happened with Laura and the child she carried. I only hope that she’s able to put her life together and give the child a decent upbringing.

  Not long after returning to Cabot Cove from Napa Valley, I spent an evening with Seth Hazlitt and other friends. After dinner, I recounted in exquisite detail what had transpired while I was in California. One of my guests was John St. Clair, Cabot Cove’s resident wine expert. He’d insisted upon bringing the wine for the dinner party, and included two bottles of Ladington Creek cabernet. After his first taste, he proclaimed, “Heavenly, with a husky, fleshy-mouthed taste that oozes across the palate.”

  “Hruumph,” Seth muttered.

  “I only hope,” St. Clair said, “that the death of William Ladington, and the turmoil it’s created at Ladington Creek, doesn’t ruin the crop there. That would be a tragedy of immense proportions.”

  Later, talk turned to the novel I’d just started.

  “What’s it called?” asked Richard Koser, who shoots the photos for my book jackets.

  “Blood on the Vine,” I replied. “I’m setting it in a winery in Northern California.”