Blood on the Vine (23 page)

“Why did you say ‘poisoned himself’?” George asked.

“That’s what they’re saying.”

“That’s what
who’s
saying?” George pressed.

“Everybody in the valley.”

So much for the autopsy results remaining secret,
I thought. Either the sheriff s department, the ME’s office, or both were sieves.

“Do they say what sort of poison?” I asked.

“Not that I’ve heard.”

“You and Mr. Ladington certainly weren’t friendly neighbors,” I offered.

His guffaw said it all.

“And I understand that Halton Mountain might be at the root of it,” I added.

Jenkins screwed up his face in thought before saying, “Come with me.”

We followed him from the office, past the tasting room and gift shop, and out through a back door that led to the vineyards. Jenkins said nothing as he led us along the narrow paths between hundreds of stakes supporting the vines. We kept walking until we reached the end, at the foot of Halton Mountain. Jenkins stopped, looked up at the barren hillside, turned to us, and said, “If it wasn’t for Bill Ladington, my vineyard would stretch up to the top of Halton. Shelton Reserve’s cabernet would be the best in the world.”

“Who owns that mountain?” George asked.

“It’s mine,” Jenkins responded. “It was grandfathered into my deed for this property. The Jenkins family has owned this land for generations. Nobody contested my right to Halton Mountain until Ladington arrived, set his sights on it, and started challenging my claim. He and his goddamn lawyers—he’s used dozens of them—have tied up the ownership of Halton for years. When things didn’t go his way in some hearing, he’d storm over here and threaten me.”

“Physical threats?” I asked.

“You bet. He’s pointed guns at my head, told me he’d bury me up there on Halton under his vineyard. Not friendly neighbors? I hated the man! When I heard he was dead, the first thing I did was pour myself a big, stiff drink and toast the news.”

A small groan came from George, and he twisted his torso against discomfort in his back.

“We should go,” I said. “My friend’s back is acting up.”

“From falling into Ladington’s stupid moat?” Jenkins said.

“Word does get around, doesn’t it?” I said.

“First thing I’d do if I had that property is fill in that damn moat.”

“Is there a possibility you might one day end up with Ladington Creek?” I asked.

“Depends on what his estate decides to do with it.”

I paused before suggesting, “If you owned Ladington Creek’s vineyards, you’d also own Halton Mountain.”

“That’s right. But if you think that would be a reason for me to kill Ladington, you’re making up stories like in your books. I’ve got to get to work. Thanks for stopping by.”

He turned and headed back toward the main building, with us falling in line behind. It was obvious that George’s back was going into spasms again, and I wanted to get him to his room as quickly as possible.

Jenkins said good-bye to us at the main entrance. As he turned to go inside, George asked, “Have you been to Curaçao lately?”

Jenkins frowned. “No. Why would you want to know that?” he asked.

“Just curious,” George said. “A pleasure meeting you, Mr. Jenkins.”

Tennessee was in the foyer when we entered the castle.

“I saw you over at Jenkins’s vineyard,” she said. “Have a pleasant chat with the charming Mr. Jenkins?”

“Very pleasant,” I said. “Excuse us. George isn’t feeling well.” He was now bent into a pretzel.

We went up the stairs to his room where George removed his shoes and sport jacket, loosened his tie, and got on top of the bed. He let out a sigh of relief.

“Feel better?” I asked.

“Yes. Too long on my feet. Jessica, I’m sorry for being such a hindrance.”

“You’re nothing of the sort. Now relax, close your eyes, take a nap.”

“What will you do with the rest of the day?”

“I think I’ll kick off my shoes, too, put my feet up and make some notes. I can usually think more clearly when I put things on paper.”

I went to the side of the bed, touched his hand, kissed him on the forehead, and left.

I didn’t realize how tired I was until I’d removed my shoes, sat in an easy chair, and rested my head against the chair’s back. I had to fight to keep my eyes from closing. A quick trip to the bathroom and some cold water splashed on my face made a difference. I pulled a yellow legal pad from my overnight bag, returned to the chair, and started noting my thoughts.

 

 

I
stopped
writing, sat back, and tried to think of
other possible suspects. Of course.

 

I took another break and paced the room. I couldn’t identify what was nagging me at that moment, couldn’t put a finger on the vague, shadowy shape that floated in my head, almost discernible but not quite.

I read over my notes, then decided to go downstairs and see who might be around. I wandered into the kitchen where the housekeeper, Mercedes, and the husband-wife team of Fidel and Consuela were sitting at the table drinking coffee and tea.

“Can I help you?” Mercedes asked in her usual antagonistic tone, not looking up.

“Just restless,” I said. “A cup of tea sounds appealing.”

“Help yourself,” she said, pointing to a kettle on the stove that was still steaming; a small bowl of teabags was next to it. I considered leaving the kitchen; her manner was off-putting. Instead, I made myself a cup of tea and joined them. Fidel and Consuela finished what was left of their black coffee and left. I expected Mercedes to do the same. Instead, she displayed a rare smile, which softened her round face. She sat back, crossed her large arms across her sizable bosom, and said, “Well, now, Mrs. Fletcher, have you solved the murder?”

Her question took me by surprise and I had to pause before answering with my own question: “Are you sure Mr. Ladington was murdered?”

“I just know what I hear, Mrs. Fletcher. Seems to me Bruce is hell-bent on proving the old man was done in by somebody.”

“He is convinced that’s what happened,” I said, sipping my tea. “But what do
you
think? You’ve worked here in the castle for a long time. You obviously know the people who live and work here as well as or better than anyone.”

“I’ve seen a few things in my years here.”

She closed her eyes and pursed her lips as though tasting an unpleasant thought. I waited. She opened her eyes and spoke plaintively, capturing a bittersweet reflection.

“It was good here,” she said, more to the room than to me. Mr. Ladington bought this place and made it into something he could be proud of. I worked for him in Hollywood and he brought me here.” Her smile was small. “Those Hollywood days were wild, Mrs. Fletcher. The man seemed hell-bent on destroying himself. Nothing but parties and drinking and women, so many women.”

“His wives,” I said.

“And others,” she said, shaking her head. “He didn’t seem to care about whether the movies he made were good or bad, just as long as they made enough money to keep him and his crazy lifestyle going. But then something happened.”

I waited.

“He changed, he did. He packed up his production company and house and left without as much as saying good-bye to his friends. He came up here, bought this place, and called me.”

“How long after he left did he call you?”

“Not long, a month or so. I was so surprised. I’d decided to leave Los Angeles and go live with my son and daughter-in-law in Oregon. But Mr. Ladington was persuasive, I’ll say that. He said he couldn’t survive without me running his house. I suppose I was flattered. I came here and made sure everything ran right, that he had good meals and didn’t go back to his old ways, carousing and drinking and all the rest. But then—”

“Then what?”

“Then that woman came.”

“Tennnesse?”

“That’s the one. A real gold digger is what she is, Mrs. Fletcher, a scheming, conniving manipulator. Wrapped him, the old fool, around her finger. And that son of his. Well, I suppose he’s blood and that counts for something, but everybody around Bill Ladington sucked the life out of him. You might say they all killed him.”

“How so?” I asked.

“They’re all takers, Mrs. Fletcher, not a giver among them. That Mr. Stockdale is a thief if I ever saw one.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at her bluntness.

“He’s got his eye on the missus, too. I see things like that. I may not have a fancy education, but I know people.”

“I don’t doubt that for a minute,” I said, meaning it. “It may be true that the people he surrounded himself with, as you put it, ‘sucked the life out of him,’ but someone
really
killed him—physically. You still haven’t told me who you think might have done it.”

She started to say something, stopped, stood, wiped her large, red hands on her apron, and went over to where her purse lay on a cupboard. She took something from it, returned, and handed me a photograph. It was of a young man and woman. The woman held an infant.

“A nice-looking family,” I said.

“My son, daughter-in-law, and grandson in Oregon.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond. The whole conversation was out of character for her, including sharing something about her family with me.

“Do you see them often?” I asked.

“I’ll be seeing a lot more of them,” she said, taking the picture from me. “I’m leaving here—for good!”

“Oh? When?”

“Day after tomorrow. My son’s coming down to pick me up. I’ll be staying with them. His wife wants to go back to work, so I’ll watch the little one.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

“I can’t stay here, not with this gang of vultures. Good riddance to them, I say.”

“I understand,” I said.

She slipped back into her uncommunicative mood.

“Thanks for the tea,” I said, standing and moving toward the door. “I wish you well in your new life.”

I was in the hallway and on my way to the stairs when the thing that had eluded me earlier in my room suddenly snapped into sharp focus. It was the photograph of Mercedes’s son and family that did it. A photograph! There was a photo I’d seen that had meaning. What was it? Where was it?

I was trying to come up with the answer when Roger Stockdale appeared. “You have a phone call, Mrs. Fletcher.”

I went into the office area where a receiver lay next to a phone. Stockdale pointed to it.