Blood on the Vine (17 page)

“That’s nice,” she said.

“You should do the same,” George said.

“I don’t drive.”

“I don’t either,” I said, laughing. “But I can fly a plane.”

“You can?”

“Yes. I learned last year in my hometown. Cabot Cove. It’s in Maine. Have you ever been to Maine?”

“No.”

Her pain surrounded her like a visible aura.

“Would you like to come with us when we take another ride?” I asked. “We’re planning to go to some of the other vineyards. They have an aerial tram at Sterling Vineyards, and I’m dying to take a hot air balloon ride.”

“I don’t think so, but thank you for asking. I’d better get back. Bruce will be looking for me.”

“The offer still holds,” I said. “We’d love to have you join us.”

She walked away.

“Pathetic creature, isn’t she?” George said as we watched her navigate the trellises on her way to the castle.

“Breaks my heart,” I said. “Do you get the feeling that if she could open up, she’d have a lot to tell us about Ladington’s death?”

“It’s been my experience that it’s the quiet, withdrawn members of a family who know the most. She must be carrying a very heavy burden.”

“As well as carrying a child,” I said.

He looked at me. “She’s in the wey?”

“I said I think she’s pregnant.”

“So did I. ‘In the wey’—Scottish for being with child.”

“Oh. She wears those baggy dresses and dusters, but that slight bulge tells me she’s in the early stages of a pregnancy.”

“A blessed event for Mr. Bruce Ladington.”

“I’d like another, longer conversation with her.”

“And I’m sure you’ll arrange it. Ready to go back and face the other inmates at the asylum?”

I chuckled. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but the description does seem to fit. Yes, I’m ready to go back. Let’s not forget we have our meeting with the sheriff in the morning.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” he said. “I find myself looking forward to anything except these people Mr. Ladington left behind.”

“Don’t make me feel guilty for bringing you into this. We can always leave.”

“Oh, no, Jessica. Now that I’m in, I’m in all the way and for the duration. I just hope we resolve this before we must leave to get back to our regular lives.”

He took my hand, squeezed it, and grinned. “I should consider moving closer to you,” he said. “Spending time with Jessica Fletcher is infinitely more interesting than chasing British serial killers and mad-dog rapists.”

“I’m not sure that’s a compliment,” I said, laughing as I led him across the drawbridge.

“Oh, it is, Jessica. It certainly is.”

Edith Saison and a man we hadn’t seen before greeted us as we entered the castle.

“Mrs. Fletcher,” she said, “I’d like you to meet Yves LeGrand.”

“Did you have a pleasant flight?” George asked after we’d exchanged greetings.

“As pleasant as airline travel can be these days,” he replied.

“You should try Virgin Atlantic,” George said. “Very much the way air travel used to be.”

LeGrand pointedly ignored George’s pitch for the British airline by rolling his eyes and wrinkling his nose. He was a distinguished-looking gentleman whose French accent matched Edith’s. He was tall and reed-thin, his double-breasted blue blazer cut to mold his upper body; his gray slacks had a razor crease. I assumed he’d changed upon arriving; you couldn’t get off a long flight looking that good. He wore a white silk shirt open at the collar, and a red-and-blue ascot. His deep tan looked permanent.

“Yves and I are partners in our vineyard in France,” Edith said. “As you know, we became partners with Bill.”

“So he told me,” I replied. “You were bringing some special vines to graft onto his native rootstock.”

“Shoots,” Yves corrected. “They’re called shoots.”

“I’m afraid I’m not especially well versed in grape growing and wine making,” I said.

“But well versed in many other things, I’m sure,” said Yves, charmingly.

“Bill obviously told you a great deal about our partnership before he died,” Edith said.

“You asked me that once before,” I said. “No, he had very little to say, just that he was excited about the potential of the wine you were planning to develop together.”

“Exactly,” Edith said. “It was his enthusiasm that promised to make the partnership work. That, and the superior cuttings we’ve brought with us. I’m sure he indicated to you that he wanted his work to go forward even after he died.”

It sounded to me as though she was trying to line me up as a witness on her behalf. If so, she was due for a disappointment.

“Have you started grafting your shoots to the Ladington rootstock?” George asked.

“Oh, no,” Edith said, becoming animated. “That won’t happen until the question of ownership is resolved.”

“Ownership of Ladington Creek?” I asked.

She became conspiratorial as she whispered, “Of course. Our agreement was finalized in Curaçao. We both own houses there.”

“So I understand.”

“If that dreadful woman, Tennessee, insists upon claiming rights to this vineyard, there will never be a superior cabernet from it.”

“She is the widow,” George said.

“Under fraudulent circumstances!”

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. LeGrand,” I said. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other.”

“The pleasure was mine, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“A grotty couple if I ever saw one,” George muttered after they’d walked away.

“Grotty?”

“British slang for shabby.”

We’d reached the door to Bill Ladington’s study when the door opened and Bruce and Laura stepped into the hallway.

“Hi,” Bruce said. “Have a nice day?”

“Yes, quite,” George said. “You?”

“So-so,” Bruce replied.

“I meant to ask you when we were outside, Laura, about your migraine,” I said. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes, much better,” she said, wandering down the hall.

“That’s good to hear,” I called after her.

“See you at dinner?” Bruce asked.

“Yes.” I put a hand on Bruce’s sleeve to detain him. “While I’m thinking of it, was there a glass found on your father’s desk the night he died?”

“Glass? No. At least I don’t think there was. Why?”

“We were wondering how—if he committed suicide—he washed down the pills,” George said. “I understand he was a big man. Must have needed to take a lot of them to kill a man his size.”

“A glass? No. There wasn’t a glass. But I see what you’re getting at,” Bruce said, animatedly. “If there was no glass, then there was no suicide.”

“Perhaps he took the pills in the small bathroom off his study,” George offered. “You know, drank water in there, then brought the empty bottle back to his desk.”

“But he didn’t commit suicide,” Bruce said. “That’s the whole point.”

George grunted.

“You’re right,” Bruce said, “about the glass. I’m really glad you two are here. I never would have thought of it. See you at dinner.” He followed his wife down the hall.

I looked through the open door into the study, motioned for George to follow, and we entered the room, closing the door behind us. I went to the small bath off the study and looked inside. It was as neat as the proverbial pin. There was a stall shower, sink, and toilet. On the sink’s countertop were two glasses. One held a toothbrush and small tube of toothpaste. The other contained a comb and nail file. I looked for a paper cup holder or glass for drinking. There wasn’t any.

When I returned to the study, George had removed a book from the shelves and was perusing it. I came to his side and saw that it was a guide to pharmaceuticals.

“Looking for what pills Ladington was supposed to have taken?” I asked.

“As a matter of fact, yes. I thought there might be a page turned down, or something highlighted.”

“And?”

“Nothing.”

He continued leafing through the book while I went behind the desk and sat in the leather chair. “Ladington was a neat man,” I said absently.

He agreed.

“I somehow think of men his size as not being fastidious,” I said.

“An erroneous assumption.”

“Yes.”

“Inconceivable to me that a man of Ladington’s business success and wealth wouldn’t have an updated will.”

“At least not one that anyone knows about.”

I ran my hand over the surface of the desk. It was highly polished; I could see my reflection as I leaned over it.

“Hardly the sort of man to be content with having his body found in a moat,” George said.

Bruce Ladington interrupted our musings. “I’m glad you’re still here,” he said, lowering his voice and coming close to us. “I thought you might be interested in knowing that Tennessee threatened Dad on more than one occasion.”

“Physical threats?” George asked.

“Yes. I saw her point a gun at him once.”

“Obviously she didn’t pull the trigger,” George said.

“No, but she wanted to.”

“How long ago did that happen?” I asked.

“It happened more than once,” Bruce said. “The last time was about a month ago. She’s got a mean streak in her, Mrs. Fletcher, a real mean streak. She wanted Dad dead so she could have this place all for herself.”

“What about the French couple?” George asked. “They seem to think they’ll be getting the winery by virtue of their business relationship with your father.”

“And they’d gladly kill to get it,” he said. “I don’t trust them any more than I trust Tennessee.”

“Mr. LeGrand wasn’t here when your father died,” I said. “He couldn’t have killed him.”

“But Edith could have. Dad and Edith were fighting over the partnership the night she arrived. I heard her tell him that if he didn’t give in, she’d see to it that he didn’t live to enjoy the superior cabernet she intended to produce here on Halton Mountain.”

“What were they fighting about?” I asked.

Bruce shrugged. “I don’t know. Like I told you before, Dad didn’t ring me in on his business dealings.”

“But you did hear her threaten him.”

“Yes. She got loud at that point.”

“Such threats seldom progress to murder,” George said. “Do you know why your father had this book, Bruce? It was on the shelf here in the midst of books on making wine. Out of order, it would seem.” He showed the pharmaceutical guide to him.

“No,” Bruce said. “I never saw that book before. Are you—I mean, are you thinking that because he had such a book he probably did take his own life?”

“I’m thinking nothing of the sort,” George said. “Just curious.”

“Well, if you are thinking along those lines, you can just forget it. I just thought you’d want to know about the threats to Dad’s life. Somebody in this house killed him. That’s why I asked you here, to prove that.”

“I thought you asked us here to ascertain the truth,” I said.

“Well, sure,” he said. “Of course. But the truth is that my father was murdered.”

He abruptly left the room.

“I have a suggestion, Jessica.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t think we’re going to learn anything useful until we meet with the sheriff in the morning and get some indication of what the autopsy reveals. In the meantime, why don’t we put aside any thoughts of how Mr. William Ladington died and simply enjoy ourselves for the rest of the evening?”

I couldn’t stifle a laugh. “Do you think that’s possible?” I said. “Enjoy ourselves here?”

“Of course it is,” he said with bravado. “All we have to do is—”

My sudden and involuntary gasp cut him off.

“What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

“There was someone at the window looking in at us. I think it was—no, I’m sure it was Raoul, the driver.”

George went to the window and peered out. “Well, he’s gone now,” he said, closing the gap in the drapes.

I shivered. “Raoul makes me nervous.”

“Oh? He seems like a harmless enough chap to me.”

“There’s something in his eyes. Lots of anger bottled up. I have a sudden need for a nap.”

“Splendid idea. Make us feel as though we’re on vacation.”

But as I lay awake in my bed, I didn’t feel at all like someone on a holiday.

I was gripped with a sudden anger and resolve. Until that moment, I’d been ambivalent about being involved in William Ladington’s death. Bruce had been persuasive in his zeal to learn the truth about how his father had died, and I wanted to help him reach some sort of closure. But now, I was the one who wanted to get to the truth, for my own sake. Someone at the winery was a murderer, and whoever that person was couldn’t possibly be happy having us snooping around trying to prove it.

“Did you enjoy your day?” Roger Stockdale asked George and me after we’d been seated for dinner.

“Yes,” I said. “An interesting day. Wasn’t it, George?”

“Yes, quite interesting.”

“What did you do?” Tennessee asked.

“Oh, we drove around, had a pleasant lunch,” I said. “We ate at Ladington’s Steak House.”

“Really?” said Tennessee. “What caused you to go there?”

“We just happened on it,” George said. “The chicken salad was very good.”

“I can’t bear to go near it after that waiter was killed,” Tennessee said.

If she had, in fact, engaged in an affair with Louis Hubler, her demeanor and words didn’t reflect it.

“I can certainly understand that,” I said. “Did you know him?”

“I knew who he was. Bill managed affairs there.”

Interesting choice of words,
I thought.

“I seldom went there,” she added. “Why he had to have a restaurant is beyond me. Ego, I suppose. Something else with his name on it.”