Blood on the Vine (18 page)

“I was glad when he opened it,” Bruce said from across the table. “We really like going there, don’t we, Laura?”

“What did you, a vegetarian, ever find to eat?” Wade Grosso asked Laura. “Hardly your sort of menu.”

“I did fine,” she replied.

“Nothing but a bottom-line loser,” Stockdale said. “Bill didn’t know anything about running a restaurant. It lost money from the day it opened.”

I observed Tennessee throughout the conversation because I wanted to gauge her reaction to our having gone there for lunch. Her expression didn’t change, no sign of anger or concern. The lady was cool.

“What else did you do?” she asked.

“I had a mud bath,” I said, laughing. “In Calistoga. Have you ever had one?”

She ignored my question by asking her own: “Which spa did you go to?”

“The Hampton.”

I didn’t know whether Tennessee knew the waitress, Mary Jane Proll. If she did, was she aware of the romantic link between Mary Jane and Hubler? I decided to find out.

“My attendant at the spa used to work as a waitress at Ladington’s Steak House,” I said. “Mary Jane Proll.”

Tennessee didn’t have a visible reaction to my mention of the name. But Roger Stockdale did.

“I know her,” he said. “She waited on me when I went to the place. You say she’s working at a Calistoga spa?”

“Yes.”

“Was it a coincidence you ended up having her as your attendant?” he asked.

I wasn’t sure whether to be truthful or not. I decided to be. “Actually,” I said, “we sought her out.”

For the first time, Tennessee’s deportment changed. Her lips became thin and her eyes bored holes in me. “Why, might I ask, did you seek her out?”

“We were told by someone else at the restaurant that your husband and the dead waiter might have had problems between them. I wanted to see what that was about.”

Stockdale picked up on Tennessee’s mood shift. “Don’t you think you’re out of bounds, Mrs. Fletcher?” he said, trying unsuccessfully to maintain a well-modulated voice. “You’re invited guests, no matter what your reason for having come here. A man—a
great
man, I might add—is dead. There is a vineyard to run, and a lot of legal issues to resolve. Having you chasing after waitresses who used to work for Bill is an intrusion into what are distinctly private matters.” To further make his point, he stood and walked with conviction from the room.

Wade Grosso ignored Stockdale’s sudden departure and asked Tennessee, “Anything new on the autopsy and funeral plans?”

“No,” she responded. “I’m meeting with the lawyers in the morning.”

Edith Saison and Yves LeGrand looked at each other as though trying to determine who should speak. Edith got the nod.

“Speaking of lawyers, Mrs. Ladington,” she said in a measured voice, “Yves and I have retained our own counsel here in California. You’ll be hearing from him.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. It’s become obvious to us that you don’t intend to honor our partnership agreement with Bill.”

“You bet I don’t,” Tennessee said.

“Why don’t you talk about this another time?” Bruce suggested, weakness in his voice indicating he wasn’t sure he should be saying it.

“I’ll discuss what I want, when I want to,” Tennessee snapped at him.

Consuela and Fidel’s timing was good as they entered the room carrying our dinner on trays—grilled salmon, steamed vegetables, and a simple salad with oil-and-vinegar dressing. Obviously, Bill Ladington’s passing had resulted in a different approach to menu planning. Light was in, fat was out.

Silence fell over the room as everyone started eating. Stockdale returned and took his seat without saying anything.

“Mrs. Fletcher and George are meeting with Sheriff Davis in the morning,” Bruce said.

The lifting of forks to mouths stopped. Tennessee spoke.

“I have been extremely patient,” she said, looking directly at George and me. “I’ve allowed you into my home because Bill had asked you to come here before he took his life, and because his son, my stepson, wanted you here. But I now find the intrusion to be a burden. I do not need either of you speaking with our law enforcement officers about Bill’s unfortunate demise. I’m well aware that you are a famous mystery writer, Mrs. Fletcher, and that you work for Scotland Yard, Mr. Sutherland. But you have no official capacity where Bill’s death is concerned, and I insist you stop poking your noses into what are family matters.”

George spoke. “As Mrs. Fletcher said at a previous dinner, Mrs. Ladington, we will be happy to leave. You’re right. We have no official reason for being here.” He stood and added, “Frankly, Mrs. Ladington, I find you and your family and friends to be insufferable.” He looked down at me. “Come, Jessica. I need some air.”

As George led me from the dining room, Bruce followed.

“Please don’t leave,” he said as we headed down the main hallway to the front door. “The hell with them.”

“We didn’t come here to be insulted,” George said. “Their behavior is deplorable.”

“I know, I know,” Bruce said as we reached the door and opened it. It was a dull night, with low gray clouds obscuring the moon and stars; mist in the air filtered the light from outside fixtures mounted high on steel stanchions.

“I’m going back and straighten them out,” Bruce said.

We ignored him and stepped outside, the mist moistening our faces as though we were sprayed with an atomizer.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Nothing to be sorry about. I know one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“If one of them is a murderer, I’d like to be the one to hang him.”

“Him?”

“Or her.”

We walked slowly along the edge of the moat, heading toward where Ladington’s body had been found. George lit his pipe; the smoke thickened the mist and swirled around our heads. The grass was wet and glistened in the artificial light, until we turned the corner of the castle and were in darkness. We reached the place we’d examined earlier. The grass in that area was matted and scuffed from the activity of pulling Ladington from the moat, and any police investigation that had taken place. The steady drone of the hundreds of windmills across the valley was like a one-note Gregorian chant.

“He stood right here,” George muttered.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Let’s go back inside, get our things and—”

It happened so suddenly my reaction was delayed. One moment I was standing next to George, the next moment he was gone. The earth at the moat’s edge had given way beneath his weight. He’d slid straight down into the moat, his pipe flying into the air, a garbled, involuntary groan trailing behind him.

“George!” I yelled. I took a step closer to the edge, realized that I, too, might slip, stepped back but leaned forward. Although there was virtually no light, I saw him looking up at me from ten feet below. He appeared to be standing.

“George, are you all right?”

His response was another groan, longer and sustained this time.

My concern was the water in the moat. At the moment, because he was standing, he didn’t seem to be in danger of drowning. From what I could see, the water was up to his thighs. But what if he collapsed, keeled over, went under?

“I’ll get help,” I said. I ran to the front of the castle, tried the door, opened it, and burst inside. I ran down the hall, and went to the dining room where everyone was standing and yelling at each other.

“I need help,” I shouted.

“What’s the matter?” Stockdale asked.

“George has fallen into the moat.”

“He
what?”
Grosso said.

“He’s in the moat. Please, come quick. We have to get him out of there.”

They followed me out of the castle to where George had fallen. Grosso had grabbed a flashlight on his way and trained its beam down into the moat. George’s face was illuminated. He still stood there, the front of him pressed against the moat’s wall.

“Get a rope,” someone said. Raoul ran off, returning a minute later with a coil of stout clothesline.

“Are you hurt, George?” I asked.

“My back,” he replied. Pain was evident in his voice.

“I’ll lower you down,” Grosso said to Raoul. “Bring him up.”

My heart pounded and my throat went dry as I watched them prepare to bring George up from the water. Grosso tied one end of the rope around Raoul’s waist. The winery’s driver got to his knees, backed to the edge, and lowered his legs. Grosso held the other end with both hands. “Easy now,” Grosso said. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you fall.”

There was silence as Grosso lowered Raoul over the edge and down to where he stood next to George.

“How deep is it?” Bruce asked.

“Up to my hips,” the shorter Raoul responded loudly.

“Put the rope around him,” Grosso commanded.

Once Raoul had secured the rope about George’s waist, Grosso asked, “Can you grab hold of the rope, Inspector?”

“Yes,” George said, “but I don’t think I can pull myself up.”

“You won’t have to,” Grosso said. “We’ll do all the pulling.”

The vineyard manager turned to us. “Come on now, grab the rope and pull with me,” he said, laughing. “Just like tug-of-war. Remember? Ready? Okay, here we go. One—two—three—
pull
!”

I winced as George’s pained cry assaulted my ears, but I kept pulling along with the others. Although it seemed an endless process, he was up over the edge within a minute. He lay on his stomach on the wet grass, his body heaving from exertion and the pain he was experiencing. I knelt beside him. “We’ll get you inside, onto a bed. You’ll be fine.”

My assumption at that moment was that we might need a stretcher of sorts to move him. To my relief, he turned onto his back and, with a hand from Grosso and Raoul, sat up, moaning as he did. I touched his trouser leg. It was wet from the water he’d been standing in.

“Maybe we should call an ambulance,” I said.

Instead, again with help, George got to his feet. He was bent over from the spasms in his back, but other than that he didn’t seem the worse for wear. I walked at his side as we went back inside the castle and up the stairs to his bedroom.

“You’re lucky you didn’t hit one of the rocks,” I said.

“I know,” he managed. “I need to stretch out. And get these wet pants off.”

Bruce pulled George’s shoes, socks, and trousers off and draped a sheet over him. Bruce, Laura, and I were the only ones in the room with him.

“Feeling better?” I asked.

“Yes, much, thanks. Clumsy fool is what I was. I shouldn’t have gotten so close to the edge.”

“It’s a good thing the moat wasn’t filled,” Bruce said.

“That’s for certain,” I agreed. “George, do you think you should go to a hospital, get an X ray, have a doctor look at you?”

“No, no need for that, Jessica. I’ve had my back go out on me before, too many times as a matter of fact. Usually, a good night’s sleep on a hard mattress, like this one, straightens everything out.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I really think—”

“I can take care of him,” Laura said, surprising me. “I was going to be a nurse but—”

“Laura knows a lot about medicine,” Bruce offered.

“I’m sure you do, Laura,” I said. “But George seems to be all right, and I can tend to any needs he might have. Thank you for offering.”

She nodded and left.

“Anything I can do?” Bruce asked.

“No, thank you,” George responded.

“I told everybody to lay off you. I told them we’re fortunate to have you as guests and to start treating you with respect.”

“Thank you,” I said, wondering whether anyone cared what Bruce wanted.

“Well, I’m glad you weren’t hurt,” Bruce said. “Bad, that is. I’ll be going. Do you want Mercedes to bring you up some food? You didn’t eat much at dinner.”

“Thank you, no,” I said. “We’re just fine.”

He backed from the room, wanting to stay but knowing it wasn’t what we wanted. When he was gone, I sat on the edge of the bed and placed my hand on George’s. “Are you okay?” I asked.

“No, but I will be by morning. Do you know what I was thinking, Jessica?”

“What?”

“While I was down in that damnable moat, I was thinking—no, wondering is more accurate—whether Ladington fell into the moat, or was pushed.”

“A possibility,” I said, “although the assumption is that whatever poison he ingested took effect and caused him to fall.”

“Whatever poison,” George said to no one in particular. “That assumption exists, Jessica, because an empty pill bottle and an alleged suicide note were found in his study. There hasn’t been an autopsy finding as yet. Maybe he didn’t ingest poison. Maybe he was simply pushed into the moat and died from impact with those rocks.”

Mention of the huge holders in the moat sent a chill down my spine. If George had fallen headfirst and ... it was too grim to contemplate. “Maybe we’ll find out more in the morning when we meet with Sheriff Davis,” I said.

I went to the window and looked out. The mist had turned to a drizzle, slow but steady.

“Can I get you anything, George?”

“No, thank you, Jessica.”

I looked at him. His eyes were closing.

“I’m going to go read,” I said. “I think we both can use a good sleep.” I came to the side of the bed, leaned over, and kissed his forehead. “See you at breakfast?” I asked.

“Absolutely,” he said, grabbing my hand and squeezing it. “Eight o’clock?”

“In the dining room.”

“In the dining room.”

The following morning, I waited until 8:10 before leaving the dining room, going upstairs, and knocking at George’s door. His “come in” sounded pained.

He was dressed except for shoes. He was on the bed, his body twisted into a question mark.

“Your back,” I said. “It’s worse.”