Blood on the Vine (16 page)

“You’re right, Neil, absolutely right. It’s just that—”

“Maybe I’d better be going,” Neil said, motioning to the bartender that he wanted the check.

I made up my mind to help him. There really wasn’t any ethical or moral reason not to.

“We’re at the castle because Ladington’s son, Bruce, came to Cedar Gables the morning after his father died and asked me to come. He’s adamant that his father didn’t commit suicide, although he doesn’t have anything to prove it. I tend to agree with him only because my brief time spent with Bill Ladington said to me that this was not a man who would take his own life. George doesn’t buy the suicide scenario either, based upon Ladington’s actions the night he died.”

George explained to Neil the incongruity of Ladington swallowing a bottle of pills at his desk and then going outside to die.

“Doesn’t make sense to me, either,” Neil said. “Who’s the most likely suspect?”

I shrugged. “They’re all unusual people, and one gets the distinct feeling that few of them liked William Ladington. But whether their dislike went deep enough to prompt killing him remains to be seen.”

“What about this Mary Jane character?” he asked. “Is she linked in some way to Ladington’s death?”

“I can’t imagine how,” I said. I told him about Mary Jane Proll’s accusation that the murdered waiter, Louis Hubler, had been having an affair with Tennessee Ladington.

Neil made a note in his reporter’s spiral-bound notebook. “That would give Ladington a motive for killing the kid. His wife, too, if Hubler was breaking off the relationship.”

“Exactly,” George said.

“Let’s not forget Ms. Proll,” I said. “She was evidently in love with Hubler, and he’d been cheating on her. A woman scorned. And, I might add, she’s a very strong young woman with a streak of cruelty in her.”

Neil nodded and sat back in his chair. He said, more to himself than to us, “Damn, I wish I could get inside that castle with you.” He came forward again. “Any chance of my arriving with you as an old friend, Johnny Jones or Willy Smith?”

“I’d be uncomfortable perpetrating a falsehood,” I said. “I think the best you can expect is to benefit from what we observe. Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about, Jess,” Neil said. “I understand. I really do. Getting the inside scoop from you will be enough help.” To George he said, “Not much of a holiday for you, huh, trying to figure out a murder?”

George smiled as he took his pipe from his pocket and lit it.

“Sorry, no smoking,” the bartender announced from behind the bar.

“Not even in a bar?” George asked.

“California law,” the bartender said. “No smoking in any restaurant or bar.”

“An uncivilized practice,” George muttered, tamping the tobacco to extinguish it.

“I did manage to get a hold of the sheriff who’s handling Ladington’s death and the Hubler murder,” Neil said.

“Sheriff Davis,” George said.

“Right. Nice enough guy, only he wouldn’t tell me much. Said he wasn’t able to discuss an ongoing investigation. It’s what they all say. Have you met him?”

“As a matter of fact, we have,” replied George. “He didn’t seem especially keen on my being at the castle.”

“Professional jealousy?” Neil said.

“I wouldn’t know,” George said.

“We should be heading back,” I said. “We’ll take the aerial tram ride another time. What are you up to for the rest of the day, Neil?”

“I thought I’d swing by one of the local newspapers, see if I can pick up any scuttlebutt from reporters who’ve been following things.”

“Try Winston Wallace,” I said.

“Who’s he?”

“A local reporter. He did a piece about my coming to Napa and staying with Craig and Margaret at Cedar Gables. I’m surprised I remember his name.”

“What paper?” Neil asked.

“That I don’t remember,” I said. “I can call Margaret and find out.”

“Great.” Neil handed me his cell phone.

Margaret or Craig wasn’t there, but Barbara answered my question.

“The
Napa News,
” I told Neil, handing him back his phone. “Should have been easy to remember. It’s a weekly. Margaret Snasdell is a friend of the reporter.”

“I’ll look him up,” Neil said. “What else have you learned about the waiter’s murder?”

“Nothing, except that drugs might have been involved.”

Neil frowned, and paused before saying, “I’ve heard that, too. What are they saying? About drugs, I mean.”

“Actually, Bill Ladington was the one who brought it up.”

“Ladington himself, huh? What did he say?”

“Just that there were rumors. I don’t think he knew anything for certain. Are you staying in the area, or going back to Sausalito?”

“Staying here. A motel in Napa. Nothing fancy but it’s all I need.” He handed me a business card from the motel.

“I’ll call,” I said. “Better that you not try to reach us at the castle.”

“Fair enough.”

We parted in the parking lot and drove off in separate directions.

“Think I’m making a mistake in confiding in him, George?” I asked.

“Not at all. He seems like a trustworthy chap. Besides, he’s liable to dredge up something around the valley that we’ll miss by being at the castle. What’s our next step?”

“See if we can get answers to that growing list of questions. I think it’s time we got to know our hosts a little better.”

The drawbridge was up when we arrived and we had to call on the intercom to have it lowered. Standing on the castle side was Wade Grosso. He wore his usual high rubber boots, coveralls, and a broad-brimmed straw hat. He watched us get out of the car, and was about to turn and walk away when I called to him.

“Yes?” he said.

“I was wondering whether we could steal a few minutes of your time, Mr. Grosso.”

I couldn’t tell from his expression whether my request annoyed him, or if he didn’t care one way or the other.

“What do you need?” he asked.

“We were wondering exactly where Mr. Ladington’s body was found in the moat the night he died,” I said.

“Why?”

“Pardon?”

“Why would you want to know that?”

“Just curious,” I said.

“Bull! You and your limey friend here want to make it look as though Ladington was murdered instead of taking his own life. Isn’t that right?”

“No, it isn’t right. Bruce Ladington has asked us to learn the truth. We want to know what really happened that night. If he committed suicide, fine. Don’t you want to know what happened to him, what
really
happened?”

“All I want to know, Mrs. Fletcher, is that he’s dead. That’s good enough for me.”

“You sound pleased that he’s dead,” George said.

“Doesn’t matter to me one way or the other. If that lily-livered, weak-kneed son of his hadn’t brought you here, the whole thing would be over and we could get on with the business of making wine. But no, Mr. Bruce Ladington has to make a stink about what seems perfectly obvious to me, that the old bastard decided he’d had enough of his family and packed it in, checked out, said adios. As far as I’m concerned, if I had to put up with these people, I’d swallow pills too.”

“Doesn’t anyone like anybody around here?” George asked.

His question brought a smile to Grosso’s lips. “Not much,” he said, breaking into what passed for a laugh. “You want to see where Ladington ended up? Come on. I’ll show you.”

We followed him around to the side of the castle. Grosso stopped, went to the edge of the moat, and peered down into it. “Right there,” he said, pointing.

We stood next to him and looked down.

“A secluded area of the property,” George said.

“No more so than most,” Grosso said.

“You have lights out front,” George said, “illuminating the moat. I don’t see any lights here.”

“You’re right,” said Grosso. “It gets pretty dark on this side.”

“Those are nasty looking rocks,” I said.

“Did Mr. Ladington often come out here at night?” George asked.

Grosso shrugged and screwed up his face. “Not so I can recall.”

“The assumption is that he took the pills, left the house, came here, felt the effect of the pills, and fell into the moat,” George said.

“That’s what they say,” said Grosso.

I hesitated before asking, “Did you see him come out of the house that night, Mr. Grosso?”

His broad face turned hard. “Are you asking whether I might have pushed him into the water?”

“No. I just thought—”

“You want to know who killed him—
if
he was killed and didn’t do it himself? Just take a look over there.” He pointed to the neighboring vineyard, the one owned by Bob Jenkins. “Bad blood between them, Bill and Jenkins. They’ve been fighting over rights to Halton Mountain ever since Bill bought this place. Damn near shot each other a few times.”

“Is the mountain really that important?” George asked.

Grosso guffawed. “You’d better damn well believe it is,” he said. “You plant the right vines on that mountain and you’ll one day produce the best cabernet in the world. I’ve been in this business all my life, started as a kid working for my father. He was a pretty good wine maker but didn’t have the gumption to go out on his own. Always working for somebody else, like me. I’ve worked for a lot of people in this valley, some good, most bad. You get people with money who think that’s all they need to make good wine. You tell ’em how to do it and what they need, but all their goddamn money clouds their brains. They know it all. So they end up producing second-rate wine, only they think it’s great because their taste buds are in their bank accounts. Halton Mountain? Important? It’s the best piece of grape-growing land in all of California.”

“Was Mr. Ladington one of those people with money who thought he knew more than he did?” I asked.

“Bill? No. That crazy bastard—pardon my French—he loved the idea of making fine wine, and he listened to me. Well, most of the time. It was like he found religion when he bought this place, put all his crazy past behind and decided to make this winery work. Of course, he never did get over his love of the ladies. Married that piece ‘a work, Tennessee, because she made him feel like a kid again. Women can do that to you—if you let ’em. There were lots of things I didn’t like about Mr. Bill Ladington, but I respected him when it came to this vineyard and what he wanted it to be. You can respect a man and hate his guts at the same time.”

“Is it possible that Mr. Jenkins was here the night Mr. Ladington died?” George asked.

“Sure it is. Jenkins was always sneakin’ over here to see what we were doing with our vines and the wine. Wouldn’t be surprised if he was in cahoots with our French friend, Saison.”

“I thought she and Bill Ladington were partners,” I said.

“Doesn’t mean anything with that lady. Stab you in the back as soon as look at you. We’ve had lots of Frenchmen come through the valley, their noses up in the air, thinkin’ they’re the only ones who know how to make wine. Truth is, they come here to learn from us. Saison’s no different, except she’s a woman. Bill had his blinders on when he met her, fell for her so-called French female charms. Wouldn’t have happened if she’d been a man. Excuse me, I’ve got things to attend to.”

George and I watched him lumber off, shoulders back, a swagger to his gait because he’d set us straight.

“Surly chap,” George said, lighting his pipe.

“A proud man, like his boss. As he said, he had respect for Bill Ladington.”

“And hated his guts, as he also said.”

I looked down into the moat where Bill Ladington’s body had been found and felt a chill, and wrapped my arms about myself. “Feel like a walk?” I asked.

“Sure you don’t want to go inside? You’re cold.”

“More psychological than temperature,” I said.

We strolled along the moat to the rear of the castle and stepped up onto the expansive patio overlooking the vineyards beyond the moat. The footbridge was down, but no security guard was on duty.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I said. “Not only the land, the idea that those millions of vines all over the valley will, if handled with care, become fine wine.”

“It takes a certain type of person, I’m sure, to coddle grapes through the wine-making process. A very patient person.”

“Or an incurable romantic like William Ladington.”

I looked over to the neighboring vineyard owned by Robert Jenkins, then to Halton Mountain. “If that mountain is as valuable as everybody says it is, I imagine people would kill for it.”

“Wouldn’t be very neighborly.”

“Neighbors have killed neighbors for lesser reasons—a barking dog, a fence that’s too tall.”

George drew on his pipe, squinted, and said, “Isn’t that Bruce’s wife?”

“Yes, it is.”

Laura Ladington stood alone at the far end of the vineyard. She appeared to be slightly bent over; a hand held one of the stakes.

“Shall we say hello?” I suggested.

We crossed the footbridge and slowly made our way between the long rows of stakes until we were within fifty feet of her. She sensed our presence and turned quickly, like a feral animal startled by a predator.

“Hello, Laura,” I said pleasantly, advancing toward her.

She straightened, then seemed to fold within herself as though she lost air. Her frightened eyes were open wide. She started to say something but turned away.

“It’s so peaceful out here,” I said.

“Yes,” she said in a voice carried away on a breeze that ruffled her hair. She wore a shapeless knee-length dress as gray as her mood, and sandals.

“Is Bruce back at the house?” I asked, trying to make conversation but concerned that the wrong topic would send her scurrying away.

“Yes.”

“We took a ride today,” I said. “Just to get away for a few hours.”