Blood on the Vine (11 page)

Although we walked into the drawing room at precisely seven, we were the last ones to arrive. It was as though everyone else couldn’t wait to get a drink. Raoul served as bartender behind a rolling cart on which a variety of liquors and Ladington Creek wines were displayed. Frank Sinatra singing
I’ve Got You Under My Skin
crooned incongruously through hidden speakers. Bruce immediately came to greet us. His wife, Laura, stood alone in a far comer. In another corner of the large room, Tennessee Ladington spoke with Roger Stockdale and Wade Grosso. The vineyard manager had exchanged his rubber boots and coveralls for gray slacks, green blazer, and white shirt. All three held drinks in their hands.

Bruce led us to the bar where I asked Raoul for a glass of sparkling water while George selected a single-malt Scotch, on the rocks. Consuela passed through with a tray of canapes.

“I’m so happy you’re here,” Bruce told me.

“I feel a little awkward,” I said, “being here the day after your father’s death. And I wasn’t expecting a cocktail party.”

“That’s Tennessee for you. I’m surprised she didn’t book a band to celebrate Dad’s passing.”

George changed the subject by asking, “What did your sheriff have to say this afternoon?” He sipped his Scotch and sighed in appreciation.

“That clown? He didn’t like it that you and Mrs. Fletcher were staying here.”

“Why, for heaven’s sake?” I asked.

“He said he doesn’t want anybody making more out of Dad’s death than it was. ‘Just a suicide,’ was what he said.”

“I trust you informed him of your feelings on the subject,” George said.

“Of course I did, but he’s not interested in hearing them.”

I looked around the room and was struck with the reality that if Bruce Ladington was right, and his father was murdered, that murderer was likely enjoying cocktails in that very room. Unless, of course, the killer had managed to vault the moat, come in from the outside, and leave the same way.

Roger Stockdale broke away from his group and joined us next to the bar. “Good evening,” he said.

“Good evening,” I replied.

“I hope all the ringing phones haven’t disturbed you,” he said.

“Ringing phones? I wasn’t aware of any.”

“Good. The damn media vultures have been calling nonstop about Bill’s death. Oh, by the way, Mrs. Fletcher, there was a call for you.” He fished in his shirt pocket and handed me a slip of paper. Written on it was Neil Schwartz’s name and phone number.

“Your pesty friend?” George asked, reading the paper over my shoulder.

I laughed. “Yes. From Cabot Cove. He’s the writer and poet I told you about. I had dinner with him in San Francisco before coming to Napa. He has a contract to write an article for
Vanity Fair
about the murder of that young waiter at Bill Ladington’s restaurant.”

“I suppose Mr. Ladington’s death makes the story even more compelling,” George said.

“Or kills interest in it if he committed suicide,” I countered. I asked Stockdale if there was a phone I could use.

“Of course.”

I followed him from the drawing room to a small office down the hall. “You can use this one,” he said.

He closed the door. I settled behind the desk and dialed Neil’s number. He answered on the first ring.

“Neil, it’s Jessica.”

“You got my message. I was afraid they wouldn’t give it to you.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m obviously part of the dreaded media. I called Cedar Gables Inn. Your friend Margaret told me you’d moved to Ladington’s castle. You’re
staying
there?”

“It’s a long story, Neil, but yes, I’m staying here along with my friend from London, George Sutherland.”

“The Scotland Yard inspector.”

“Right.”

“You’re there because Ladington died?”

“Right again. I’d been here as his guest for lunch yesterday and he invited me to stay. I declined the invitation, but Margaret at Cedar Gables had a last-minute request for rooms and Ladington’s son, Bruce, arrived and asked me to come and—as I said, it’s a long story.”

“Did he really commit suicide?” Neil asked.

“Ladington? I don’t know. That’s the official word so far.”

“But you suspect he didn’t.”

“I’m told he did.” I debated telling Neil that Ladington’s son thought otherwise, but held my counsel.

“All the press reports say it was suicide. I spoke with my editor at
Vanity Fair.
She says that if Ladington did commit suicide, it waters down the murder story about the waiter. But if Ladington was murdered, that’s an even bigger story.”

“I have to get back to a cocktail party, Neil.”

“Cocktail party? The guy just died.”

“I know. Unusual, isn’t it? These are unusual people.”

“Jess, any chance of getting me in there?”

“Here? At the castle?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know, Neil. There hasn’t been any press as far as I can determine—yet. I don’t think you’d be especially welcomed.”

“Will you try?”

“Let me play it by ear. I really should get back. I’ll stay in touch.”

“Great. I can’t believe you’re actually there. I’d sell my soul to be in your shoes right now. Go back to the party. Party! Jesus! What a weird crowd.”

Weird crowd
stayed with me as I rejoined the assembled in the drawing room.

“Is there a problem?” George asked when I rejoined him.

“No. Neil wants me to see if I can arrange for him to visit the castle.”

“For his article?”

“Yes.”

Edith Saison, who’d been huddled with Roger Stockdale, interrupted us. She looked stunning in a floor-length, low-cut white dress. It was hardly attire for grieving, but then again, no one seemed to be in an especially somber mood.
Weird crowd
indeed!

“Mrs. Fletcher, I wonder if we could find some quiet room where we can talk.”

“All right.”

George raised his eyebrows, turned, and asked for a refill. Edith escorted me from the drawing room to the same office from which I’d called Neil. She took the chair behind the desk; I sat in the room’s only other chair, upholstered in gray.

“We only have a few minutes before dinner,” she said in her charming French accent, “so I’ll be direct. What did you and Bill talk about yesterday?”

My initial reaction was to be offended. It was no business of hers what Bill Ladington and I discussed. But since our conversation was certainly innocuous enough, I saw no reason not to repeat it. No state secrets were exchanged, no confidences passed on with an admonition to keep them secret.

“We talked about growing grapes and making wine mostly,” I said. “He said he wanted to create the world’s best cabernet, and that you were coming to help him do just that. Were you to be partners?”

She closed her eyes, drew a deep breath, opened them, and said wistfully, “Yes. We signed the papers not long ago.”

“I’m sorry you’ve lost your partner,” I said. “Does this affect ownership of Ladington Creek Winery?”

“Of course. I suppose it will be a tangled legal mess, lawyers fighting with each other, Bill’s estate claiming outright ownership. His wife, that dreadful woman, is already staking her claim by virtue of having married him.”

“A wife does have rights,” I said, not wishing to engage in a debate on the subject but compelled to state the obvious.

“Rights! Pooh!” Edith said, fairly snarling. “She’s been nothing to Bill but a garish blonde thing on his arm. She may have rights, Mrs. Fletcher, but she deserves nothing. They were about to divorce, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know.”

“He didn’t mention it to you during your talks?”

“Talk. Singular.” I glanced at my watch, stood, and said, “I’d better get back to George, Ms. Saison. Once again, I’m sorry for the loss of your partner, and I’m sure, your friend.”

I felt her eyes on me as I left the office and returned to the drawing room where George was talking with Wade Grosso.

“Have plans been made for Mr. Ladington’s funeral?” I asked the vineyard manager.

“Probably not,” he replied. “There’s the autopsy and all that. I suppose Tennessee will get around to it when she has to. I see you and Edith Saison had yourselves a little talk.”

“Just a chat, getting to know each other. I understand she and Mr. Ladington were partners in developing a new cabernet.”

“Over my objections.”

“Why did you object to it?” I asked, feeling comfortable enough to probe.

“You wouldn’t understand,” he said. “Making wine is a complicated process. Edith and her French partner think they know it all and sold Bill on it. Frankly, I think they’re a couple of frauds. I tried to get Bill to see it, but he could be the most stubborn man ever born. Excuse me. I want to get another drink before dinner.”

“Interesting,” George said. “I assume you’ve come up with your own thoughts about Ms. Saison’s character.”

“Not yet,” I said. “She seems pleasant enough. Mr. Grosso is right. I’d have to know a lot more about growing grapes and making wine to make that sort of judgment. I—”

Mercedes entered the room and announced in a distinctly unwelcoming voice, “Dinner is served!”

We were spread out at the dining room table, which left plenty of space between us. George was to my right, Wade Grosso to my left. Directly across was Laura Ladington, whose uncommunicative solemnity hadn’t changed. Her husband, Bruce, tried to engage her in small talk but she managed only an occasional grunt and nod of the head. I felt sorry for both of them. She was a pretty young woman, but much of her natural attractiveness was lost in what seemed to be a pervasive depression. Her light blue eyes were lifeless and dull. She seemed to be a dreadfully unhappy person, which must be difficult for her husband to cope with.

Tennessee sat at the head of the table where her husband had been the previous day. Conversation during the early portion of dinner, which we were told had been cooked by Mercedes and was being served by Consuela and Fidel—a tomato and onion salad, pot roast, glazed carrots, thin home fries, and raspberry pie for dessert—was directed by Tennessee, who spent most of it complaining about how much work would be involved in settling her husband’s estate. “He wasn’t very organized, you know. He never changed his will after his fourth divorce, although Lord knows I urged him to hundreds of times. It isn’t fair to those who have to wade through everything when a disorganized person dies.”

It seemed to me from my observation of Bill Ladington that he was an extremely organized man. I mentioned that.

Tennessee answered me in a tone usually reserved for a teacher correcting a slow student. “Bill could show many sides to many different people, Mrs. Fletcher. He certainly was organized when it came to his business. When it involved his personal life, he was—”

“Go ahead and say it,” Stockdale said. “When it came to his personal life, William H. Ladington was a mess.” He looked to me and quickly added, “I speak from experience, Mrs. Fletcher. Supposedly, I handle the vineyard’s business and finances. But Bill brought me into his personal affairs on a regular basis. I told him as recently as a few days ago that he should update his will. His answer was to wave his hand and say he’d get to it. He never did.”

“If I’m out of line asking about his will, please say so,” I said. “Who benefits from the existing, out-of-date will?”

“His fourth wife,” Tennessee responded. “Isn’t that wonderful? My attorney says I have every right to fight it. Obviously, Bill didn’t intend for anything to go to her.” Was she about to cry? She didn’t, saying in a voice tinged with exaggerated sweetness, “Of course, Bruce here is in that will, aren’t you Bruce, dear?”

“Dad left me a little.”

“The lawyers will sort this out,” Stockdale said.

“And take their huge fees,” Tennessee said.

Edith Saison, who’d sat silently during this conversation, suddenly spoke up. “His intentions were very clear,” Edith said. “He wanted our partnership to survive, wanted this winery to continue under his name—and under my leadership.”

“Rubbish!” Tennessee said.

“Any word on when the autopsy will be completed?” Stockdale asked, more to head off further confrontation between the two women than because he cared.

“No, but it can’t be soon enough,” Tennessee answered. “Bill always said he wanted immediate cremation, and that’s what he’ll have.”

“No service?” Bruce asked.

“If you want one, dear Bruce, have one. Your father told me that—”

“Stop it!” Laura said, springing from her chair, slamming her hands on the table, which caused her plate to jump, and violently shaking her head. “You people are all sick. He just died and all you care about is money and your own selfish needs. God, I hate you all.” She ran from the room, her crying resonating from out in the hall.

“Go tend to her, Bruce,” said Tennessee.

Bruce stood.

“Why don’t you stay here, Bruce, and let her get over her hysterics?” advised Wade Grosso, who didn’t sound as though he was trying to be helpful.

“I’ll go,” Stockdale said, standing.

Bruce jumped to his feet. “No, I will,” he said. “She’s right. All anyone here cares about is money.”

As Bruce left, Raoul appeared: “You have a call, Ms. Saison.”

Edith quickly left the room. George said quietly and casually, “If Mr. Ladington was murdered, there won’t be any cremation, at least not until the authorities are satisfied with their findings.”

“I’m impressed,” said Tennessee. “Spoken by a member of Scotland Yard. Does that make it official?”

“Simply standard police procedure, Mrs. Ladington,” George said, not sounding at all piqued at her tone, as I was.

“I don’t believe we need the British version of standard police procedures,” Tennessee said. “We have all the competent authorities we need right here.”