Blood on the Vine (2 page)

“It’s all a pretentious game, Jessica,” my friend of many years proclaimed, “especially in restaurants. That silly ritual of sniffing the cork, smelling the wine, taking a tiny sip and holding it in your mouth, then sending the bottle back because it lacks bouquet or some other such thing.”

Although I tended to agree with him—to an extent—I was glad the whistling kettle summoned me to the kitchen. When Seth becomes adamant about something, I’ve learned it’s best to change the subject.

When I returned with our tea on a tray, he was perusing printed material we’d been given at the course. “When are you off for California?” he asked absently.

“Day after tomorrow.”

“You’ll be spendin’ all your time at Margaret and Craig’s bed-and-breakfast?”

“No. I’m staying at the Westin St. Francis in San Francisco for a few days, then going to Napa.”

“Maybe you’ll run into that old coot, Ladington, while you’re there.”

“Maybe I will,” I said, refilling our cups.

Seth laughed. “John is probably partial to Ladington’s wines because he wishes he was like him,” Seth said. “You know, bigger than life, a woman’s man.”

“I doubt it,” I said. “John St. Clair would never allow sentimentality to influence his selections. He’s a purist when it comes to wine.”

Seth looked at his watch. “Better be heading home,” he said. “I’ve got a full house of patients tomorrow. Thanks for the tea. It had a sweet jammy nose, lingers nicely on the palate.”

“Don’t be so cynical,” I said, walking him to the door.

“I was tempted to quote something else to John about wine,” he said.

“Which was?”

“Disraeli. He said, ‘I rather like bad wine ... one gets so bored with good wine.’ ”

“I’m glad you didn’t. Thanks for the ride. We’ll talk before I leave.”

 

 

I sat in bed and reread letters I’d received from former Cabot Covers, Craig and Margaret Snasdell. No matter where I travel, there always seems to be someone who’s spent at least a portion of their lives here, and who enjoys touching base with current residents. Craig and Margaret were a popular, attractive couple in Cabot Cove. He was tall and solidly built, with a strong chin and reddish hair; there was a resemblance to the actor Robert Redford. Margaret, too, was tall and willowy, five feet nine inches, with an impressive mane of blond hair and a smile that melted snow in midwinter Maine. When they’d lived in Cabot Cove, Margaret was a nurse, Craig an independent insurance agent specializing in auto insurance.

They’d always talked of owning and operating a bed-and-breakfast, preferably in an area with less severe weather than we experience in Maine. They’d made their wishes known to real estate agents in northern California and waited patiently until the right property came on the market, a 10,000 square foot, 1892 manor house, Cedar Gables, designed by a British architect named Ernest Cox-head to reflect the Shakespearian era. They were thrilled when their bid was accepted, and we held an elaborate going-away party for them the night before they moved.

Their letters and occasional phone calls always ended with an invitation for me to be their guest at Cedar Gables Inn. The photographs they sent of the inn showed every aspect of it, inside and out, and the more I looked at them, and thought about it, the more I wanted to take them up on their offer. I was between writing books in October, and had been sneezing and coughing since the beginning of the month. This was a perfect time to get away for a week or two. There was an added incentive, however. I’d been toying with the idea of setting my next mystery novel in a winery, and this would give me a chance to do some research while enjoying myself.

“Lovely,” I thought as I put the letters and pictures on my night table and turned off the light. A few days in one of my favorite cities, San Francisco, and then a relaxed, peaceful week in California’s famed wine country.

Just what the doctor ordered.

“That’s it, Jess, trim the nose up a little and keep her flying straight and level.”

I sat in the right-hand seat and did as Jed Richardson instructed, trimming up the nose of his Cessna 182 S single-engine airplane. I’d taken flying lessons from Jed a year ago and had received my private pilot’s license. That didn’t mean I was completely comfortable at the controls of an aircraft, although I’d passed my FAA test flight with flying colors, pardon the pun, and had aced the written exam, as the saying goes. My friends found it amusing that I’d learned to fly a plane but had never learned to drive a car. I suppose there is a certain irony in it, but that doesn’t matter. I’d taken flying lessons as a challenge, much to Seth Hazlitt’s chagrin, and was glad I had.

Jed was a former airline pilot who’d retired to start up his own small charter airline in Cabot Cove. This morning, he was flying me to Boston where I would catch a nonstop flight to San Francisco.

With the plane properly trimmed, we settled back and allowed the autopilot to take over.

“Sounds like a nice trip you’re off on,” he said.

“Yes, I’m really excited. It’ll be wonderful seeing Craig and Margaret Snasdell again. From everything I hear about their bed-and-breakfast, it’s lovely. And, of course, I’m looking forward to doing some wine tasting at all those vineyards.”

“I suggest you have a designated driver with you,” Jed said, laughing.

“I always have a designated driver, Jed. I don’t drive.”

“That’s right—forgot about that.”

“Seth and I were talking with John St. Clair last night about William Ladington.”

“Is he still alive?”

“That’s what we wondered. He hasn’t been in the news for quite a while.”

“Probably still kicking around. Damn fool with all those marriages. And that rape and murder of that actress.”

“He was only charged, Jed,” I said. “That doesn’t mean he did it.”

“I know, I know,” he said, shaking his head. “Innocent till proved guilty and all that. Still, I wouldn’t put it past him. You’d think he’d learn after two or three marriages didn’t work. Of course, I give him credit for his successes. Everything he touches seems to turn to gold.”

“Or wine in this case.”

We passed the remainder of the flight making small talk. Then, as we entered the Boston air traffic control system, Jed disconnected the autopilot and navigated the intricate, busy Boston air space down to a smooth touchdown at Logan International. He taxied up to the private aviation area of the airport, took my bags from the rear of the plane, and walked me into the small terminal.

“You planning to stay in Boston awhile?” I asked after requesting ground transportation to the main terminal.

“Nope. Heading right back. Got an early-afternoon charter to Burlington. But I’ll be here to meet you in ten days.”

“And I’ll be looking for you.”

I watched him leave the terminal and stride to his plane. A few minutes later, an airport minibus took me to where the major airlines operated and I checked in for my San Francisco flight.

Although I travel a great deal, there’s always a feeling of anticipation as I climb aboard a large jetliner and head for a favorite place. San Francisco certainly ranks as one of those, although there are plenty of other places I love to visit in this vast country of ours. San Francisco’s physical beauty has always inspired me—the steep hills in the city that challenge even the strongest legs, the glittering bay beneath the Golden Gate Bridge, and the rugged mountains that form an exquisite scrim about the city. But it is the history of San Francisco that defines for me the spirit that permeates this magnificent jewel of a city. Even today, the rugged individuality of the Gold Rush and the dogged determination to survive after the 1906 earthquake say a lot about the character of the men and women living there. And the vast array of coin-operated newspaper boxes on many of the city’s street corners are symbolic of the free and open attitude the residents of San Francisco seem to have toward one another.

Six hours later, as our captain banked left on our approach to San Francisco International Airport, I looked down from my window at the magnificent Golden Gate Bridge, shrouded in fog as happens virtually every late afternoon, its impressive span backlit by an enormous orange globe as the sun dipped toward the horizon.

My head cold seemed suddenly to disappear.

I felt wonderful.

I checked into the Westin St. Francis Hotel, on Union Square, and had dinner in the Compass Rose Bar with Marsha Monro, an executive at the St. Francis with whom I’d become friendly during a book promotion tour a few years earlier. It was a relaxed, leisurely dinner; the conversation was easy, the laughs frequent.

“I think it’s time for this lady to get to bed,” I told Marsha after a superb rice pudding. “My circadian rhythms are acting up.”

We stood in the opulent lobby waiting for an elevator.

“You know, you really didn’t have to give me that wonderful suite,” I said.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Marsha said. “Looking forward to some serious wine tasting in Napa?”

“As long as it doesn’t interfere with some serious relaxing. Actually, I’ll be making notes about the wineries I visit. I might set my next novel in one. Other than that, I intend to sleep late, nap in the afternoon, and get to bed early.”

An elevator arrived. “Well, Jess,” Marsha said, “just don’t get involved in the Ladington murder in Napa.”

“Ladington, as in William Ladington?” I asked in surprise.

“Yes. Remember him?”

“I was talking about him with friends just a few days ago. Was he murdered?”

“No. A waiter who worked at a restaurant that Ladington owns was killed a few months ago. I guess the press was looking for a shorthand way to describe it. It’s become the Ladington murder.”

“Is he a suspect?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I haven’t been following it closely. You can read about it upstairs. All the newspapers are in your suite, along with some goodies to munch on. Pleasant dreams. Call if you need anything.”

“I will, and thanks for your hospitality.”

My suite was Number 1120—a spacious living room with couch, easy chairs, and desk, a large bedroom with a king-sized sleigh bed, two marble baths the size of my living room back home, and magnificent antique furniture everywhere. Two dozen red roses graced a coffee table in the living room, along with an overflowing platter of snacks, and a bottle of champagne, California vintage, of course. The hotel was built in 1904, badly damaged in the 1906 quake, and rebuilt to its present level of grandeur.

I spent more time than usual lingering in one of the luxurious baths, slipped a hotel terry cloth robe over my night-gown, and went to the desk. The drapes were open, revealing the city’s lights. On the desk was a pile of newspapers and magazines, including the
Chronicle
and the
Examiner.
I picked up the
Examiner
and flipped through its pages. The Napa Valley murder was covered in an article on page three.

 

 

The article went on to briefly describe the murder. The victim was a young waiter at Ladington’s Steak House, in Yountville, a town noted for its excellent restaurants. He’d been stabbed to death, receiving a single fatal wound to his heart. The writer then gave a capsule background of William Ladington, rehashing highlights of his Hollywood career and his success as a vintner in northern California. A bed-and-breakfast owner in the area was quoted as having received a few cancellations because of the murder. That solitary comment certainly didn’t represent a downward trend in tourism, although I know how such things can mushroom. But because murders are rare in places like California’s wine country, I suppose even one tends to evoke a reaction from the public. In big cities, where murders are more common, there’s less tendency to panic.

The final line said that Ladington had been questioned but was not considered a suspect at this time.

I was about to put down the paper and head for bed when a small boxed article at the bottom of the page caught my eye.

 

 

“I don’t believe it!” I said aloud.

George Sutherland and I had met years ago when I traveled to England to address a mystery writers’ conference. I’d been a guest during that trip at the manor house of Dame Marjorie Ainsworth, then the reigning queen of mystery writers. Marjorie had been in ill health and was quite frail that weekend, and I silently wondered how long she might have to live. But her life was cut even shorter when someone stabbed her to death in her bed.

Because of Dame Marjorie’s esteemed position in British society, Scotland Yard was brought in to assist local police in solving the crime, and George Sutherland was assigned the case. He was a handsome widower, tall and distinguished with steel-gray eyes that failed to conceal a hint of mischief. I suppose it’s safe to say that we developed an almost immediate attraction for each other, although because I was among the suspects—everyone staying at the house that weekend fell into that category—our personal feelings for each other didn’t surface until we’d managed to solve the murder and I was about to leave London for Cabot Cove.