Blood on the Vine (20 page)
Authors: Jessica Fletcher
“I understand.”
“Personally, what I’d like to see is this end up a simple case of suicide. It would make my job a lot easier.”
“But?”
“But it’s looking more and more like Bruce Ladington is right, that his father was murdered.”
“He’s been steadfast in that belief.”
“Yeah, I know he has. You and your buddy are staying in the castle. What’s going on there?”
“You’re not the only person who’s been asking me that.”
“Really? Who else?”
“A friend of mine, Neil Schwartz. He’s a writer who—”
“I know all about Mr. Neil Schwartz. He’s been bugging me day and night looking for information about the waiter from Ladington’s restaurant who was stabbed to death.”
“Is there a connection?” I asked.
“None that I can see. You could do me a big favor and tell your writer friend to back off.”
“I doubt he’d listen to me. What is new in that case?”
“You too?”
“Seems fair to ask. You’re suggesting that I help you by passing on what I learn by virtue of being a houseguest at the winery. Information flows two ways.”
“Fair enough. There’s a drug connection with the waiter’s murder.”
“Bill Ladington mentioned that when I first met him. It’s definite?”
“Looks that way.”
“Was the young man selling drugs?”
He nodded. “Nothing big time. Started out supplying friends, that sort of thing. But it appears he started going beyond that. I suppose the money was too tempting. It usually is. The big question is who
his
supplier was. The state police undercover cops are investigating that end of it. The drugs are coming in from San Francisco, no surprise.”
his
supplier was. The state police undercover cops are investigating that end of it. The drugs are coming in from San Francisco, no surprise.”
A uniformed officer interrupted us. “This fax just came in,” she said, handing it to Davis.
He scowled as he read it.
“I suppose I should be going,” I said.
His response was to hand me the fax. It was from the California forensic lab in Sacramento.
The substance found in the recently deceased William Ladington has been confirmed to be tetrodotoxin, a powerful poison, a nerve toxin, commonly found in fugu, or puffer fish. It is produced in the fish by a bacterium, and is almost always fatal when attacking the central nervous system. Puffer fish is a popular sushi ingredient in Japan. Certain portions of the fish are edible, provided the sushi chefs are skilled and knowledgeable in preparing it. Because of the potential danger it poses, fugu chefs in that country are licensed by the government.
Recommendation: Investigate the recent diet of the deceased to determine whether it included sushi that might have contained puffer fish.
It was signed by the chief of the forensic lab.
“Was Ladington a sushi lover?” the sheriff asked.
“Judging from meals I saw him eat, I doubt it,” I said.
“Never touch it myself,” he said.
“May I have a copy of this?” I asked.
“Keep it to yourself?”
“Myself, and George.”
“All right.”
He had a photocopy made.
“You said you had a ride here this morning,” Davis said as he walked me to the lobby.
“Yes. I’ll need a taxi.”
“I’ll have someone call you one. It’ll be here in a minute or two.”
He went to the desk officer, told him to get me a cab, and joined me outside on the front steps.
“Tell your friend I hope his back is better.”
“I will. In your investigation, have you come up with any information about relationships the murdered waiter might have been involved with?”
“Sexual relationships? Romantic? No. Why?”
“I just wondered whether anyone has told you that Bill Ladington’s wife, Tennessee, might have been having such a relationship with Louis Hubler.”
Davis stared at me.
“Just wondered.”
“Were did you hear that?”
“From a former girlfriend of the waiter. She worked as a waitress at Ladington’s Steak House until the night of his murder. She left immediately afterward.”
“You believe her?”
I shrugged. The taxi pulled up. Davis waved the driver away.
“I’ll be happy to drive you wherever you want to go, Mrs. Fletcher, just as long as you keep talking.”
Chapter Twenty-four
“Where to?” Sheriff Davis asked after we’d gotten into his unmarked car.
“I was planning on going back to the Ladington castle to look in on George.”
“Mind if we take a detour?”
“Depends on where to,” I said.
“I thought you might like to meet our ME.”
“I’d like that very much.”
“Great. Maybe you’ll tell me more on our way about this alleged affair between Tennessee Ladington and Louis Hubler.”
“I’m afraid I’ve told you all I know.”
“I doubt that, Mrs. Fletcher. What about this former waitress who told you the story?”
I recounted what I knew about Mary Jane Proll and her accusation that Tennessee had been sexually involved with Mary Jane’s boyfriend, Louis Hubler.
“Did she say anything about her boyfriend using and selling drugs?” he asked as he pulled up in front of the local hospital two minutes later.
“No. Bill Ladington was the one who brought it up to me. What’s your medical examiner’s name?”
“Bill Ayala. Came here from Chicago ten years ago. He’s good.”
“I’m sure he is.”
Davis led me through the admitting area to the rear of the hospital utilized by Dr. Ayala and his staff. The ME was reading a newspaper in his office when Davis poked his head through the open door. “Catching up on the news, or reading your horoscope?” he asked with a chuckle.
“Both,” Ayala said, dropping the paper to his desk and standing. He was a light-skinned black man with a youthful face and engaging smile, and wore a white lab coat over a blue button-down shirt and gold tie.
“I’d like you to meet Jessica Fletcher,” Davis said.
“This is a real pleasure,” Ayala said. “I read you were vacationing in Napa Valley.”
“It’s turned out to be not much of a vacation,” I said.
“Oh?” He invited us to take seats across the desk from him.
“Mrs. Fletcher has been looking into Bill Ladington’s death,” said Davis. “She and a friend from Scotland Yard are houseguests out at the Ladington castle.”
“Is that so?” Ayala said. “Scotland Yard? What’s their interest in it?”
“Strictly unofficial,” I said. “Mr. Ladington’s son, Bruce, is convinced his father was murdered.”
“So the sheriff has told me. You’re functioning on behalf of Bruce Ladington?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” I responded. “I’d met his father the day he died. I, ah—”
“Mrs. Fletcher writes murder mysteries,” Davis said.
“I’m well aware of that,” Ayala said. “I saw you on the Larry King Show.”
“My goodness. That was a couple of years ago.”
“But I remember it well. I’ve read some of your books. I’m impressed with your grasp of medical forensics.”
“Thank you. I have a good consultant back home in Maine, a doctor friend.”
“Aha. I’d be happy to consult with you.”
“And I may take you up on it one of these days. The sheriff told me this morning that a substance was found in Ladington’s body, some exotic poison from puffer fish.”
Ayala looked quizzically at Davis.
“Mrs. Fletcher seems to have a penchant for coming up with information, Bill, and is willing to share it with me. Only fair to share with her what I know. I gave her a copy of the fax that came through this morning from Sacramento.”
“Interesting, wasn’t it?” Ayala asked.
“I’d never heard of such a poison,” I said.
“I’m aware of it, but don’t know much about it. That’s why I sent it to Sacramento.”
“Did your autopsy of Bill Ladington indicate he had cancer?” I asked.
Ayala frowned. “No. No sign of any disease, aside from the results of high blood pressure, and an ulcer the size of a quarter in his stomach. Cancer? Why do you ask?”
“One of his employees told me that Ladington had a doctor in Los Angeles, an older man now deceased, who’d informed Ladington of the cancer a year ago.”
“What sort of cancer?” Ayala asked.
“He didn’t specify.”
“I’m sure this doctor was wrong,” Ayala said. “There was no sign of cancer in Bill Ladington. There was the head injury.”
“Head injury?” I said, surprised.
“I didn’t mention that to you,” Davis said to me.
“What sort of head injury?” I asked.
“Blunt force injury,” the sheriff said. “To the left side.”
“Perhaps it happened when he fell into the moat,” I offered. “Those rocks in there look menacing.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Unless someone hit him on the head,” Sheriff Davis offered.
“Which would rule out suicide,” I said.
“A reasonable assumption,” said the sheriff.
“Judging from an external examination of the wound, I’d say it was a rock that caused the injury,” Ayala said. “The discoloration on his left temple and cheek was widespread, consistent with having struck his head on a rock.”
A buzzer sounded on Ayala’s phone.
“Yes?” he said. He frowned. “Tell him I’m busy,” he said and hung up the receiver. He shook his head. “That writer from San Fran, Neil Schwartz, calling again,” he said to Davis.
“Your buddy,” Davis said to me.
I smiled.
“He is tenacious,” Ayala said. “You and he are friends, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Yes. We go back a long way.”
“He’s for real?” Ayala asked pleasantly.
“Oh, yes. He was a police officer in New York City. A good one, I’m told. He turned to writing when he retired, mostly poetry. He has a contract from Vanity
Fair.”
Fair.”
“About the murder of the waiter from Ladington’s Steak House.”
“I believe that started it for him. But I’m sure Bill Ladington’s death, especially if it was murder, has taken center stage.”
“You’d never know that by talking to him,” Sheriff Davis said.
“What do you mean?”
“All his questions have to do with the waiter,” Ayala replied.
“All his questions to me have been about Ladington,” I said.
“Well,” Davis said with a sigh, “you never can tell about writers.” He quickly added, “Present company excluded.”
“No need to exclude me,” I said. “Tell me more about the blow to Ladington’s head.”
“As I said, a broad injury to his head,” Ayala said. He consulted his autopsy report and read from it: “Gross discoloration of left side of face, including temple, cheekbone, and jaw line. Significant swelling and bruising. Some bone fragments invaded soft tissue. Internal bleeding between the dura and inner surface of the skull. I’d say he died somewhere between nine-thirty and eleven.”
“Was the blow to the head the cause of death?” I asked. “As opposed to the poison?”
“Hard to say,” the ME responded. “Tetrodotoxin is a pretty potent poison, although the level found in Ladington was small. The blow to his head caused intracranial damage. It’s my professional opinion that it was the chief cause of death, although the poison might have done it, too, if he’d lived a little longer.” The ME got up from behind the desk. “You’ll have to excuse me. I have a meeting to get to. It was a real pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“For me, too,” I said, shaking his hand. “Does the family know of your conclusions about how Bill Ladington died?”
“I intend to call them later today,” Davis said.
“Is there a phone I can use to make a local call?” I asked Dr. Ayala.
“Use this one,” Ayala said, pointing to the one on his desk on his way out.
“I want to see how George is doing,” I said, fishing the Ladington Creek Winery’s number from my purse.
Mercedes, the housekeeper, answered.
“This is Jessica Fletcher,” I said. “I’m calling to see how Inspector Sutherland is feeling.”
She said nothing in response. Bruce came on the line a few seconds later.
“He’s doing fine,” he told me. “Laura’s been looking in on him. She brought him some tea. She says his back is a little better.”
“That’s certainly good to hear,” I said. “I shouldn’t be much longer.”
“Do you need someone to pick you up?”
“No, thank you. Sheriff Davis is driving me.”
“He is?”
“Yes. Please tell George hello from me and that I’ll be back as soon as possible.”
“I will.”
“How’s your friend?” Davis asked as we left the hospital and went to his car.
“Feeling better.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“I should go back.”
“Sure, only I was wondering whether you were up for another detour.”
“Someone else for me to meet?”
“No. Someone
I’d
like to meet.”
I’d
like to meet.”
“Who might that be?”
“The waitress who told you about the affair between the waiter and Tennessee Ladington. Mary Jane is her name?”
“Yes, but—”
“I could go up to Calistoga alone,” he said, starting the car, “but since you’ve already met her, she might be more willing to talk to me if you make the introduction.”
“I doubt that,” I said.
“Why?”
“We didn’t part on the best of terms. She tried to boil me alive.”
“Whoa.”
“In the mud bath. She’s an unpleasant young woman. At least she was with me. She’s frightened of Ladington’s people.”
“Did she tell you why?”
“No. She just turned up the heat. She didn’t appreciate the questions I was asking.”
I looked at my watch. Ten-thirty.
“All right,” I said, “I’ll go with you, but I would like to be back in time to have lunch with George.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” he said. “I just want you to know how much I appreciate this, Mrs. Fletcher.”
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