Blood on the Vine (25 page)

“Hello,” I said, approaching Tennessee and Raoul.

“Friend of yours?” Tennessee asked. Raoul glowered at me, his usual expression.

“Yes,” I said. “An old friend. I see I’m in time for cocktails and dinner.”

“I’d like a word with you,” she said.

“Of course. Let me see how George is doing and—”

“He’s fine. Please.”

“All right.”

I followed her to a wing of the castle where the bedrooms were located, segregated by heavy wooden double doors leading to a long corridor. The master bedroom was at the end; we passed four other bedroom doors on our way, all shut.

The master bedroom was very large. A white, frilly, lightweight comforter covering a king-sized bed was in perfect concert with the rest of the room’s decidedly feminine decor, which was somewhat incongruous with the masculine image Bill Ladington had presented. Tennessee noted my interest in the room.

“Everything
wasn’t Stetson hats and stuffed animal heads on the wall with Bill, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said. “He had his soft side, too.”

“I’m sure he did.”

“He was pleased to let me decorate this room. When we married, this space looked like an army barracks. He gave me carte blanche with our bedroom and loved what I did with it. We spent many wonderful intimate moments here.”

She invited me to sit in a small upholstered chair in front of an elaborate makeup table.

“I’m afraid I owe you an apology,” she said.

“For what?”

“For the way you and the inspector have been treated here.”

“We both understand the strain you’ve been under.”

“I appreciate that,” she said, sitting on the bed’s edge. She crossed her long legs and sighed. “I never smoke in this room. I promised Bill I wouldn’t.”

“It certainly makes for a sweeter-smelling bedroom,” I said.

“It was always sweet in here, Mrs. Fletcher. Bill was getting old, but he remained a very virile man right up until he died.”

I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. I felt like George having a man-to-man talk with Bruce about Bruce’s sterility problems. Was I about to be engaged in a woman-to-woman talk about her deceased husband’s virility? I hoped not.

“I’m sure you’re finding us a different breed of people than you’re probably used to, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Would you call me Jessica? Or Jess?”

“Yes, I’d like that.”

“A different breed?” I said. “I’m not sure that’s true, although there are things that have—well, that have surprised me.”

“Beginning with me?”

“No. I find it interesting that you allow Ms. Saison and Mr. LeGrand to stay here considering their designs on the winery.”

It was more of a snort than a laugh. “Excuse me,” she said. She left the room and returned smoking a cigarette. “With Bill gone, it doesn’t make much difference whether I smoke in here or not.”

I didn’t say I would have preferred that she honor the deal they’d had.

“You were talking about Edith and Yves,” she said, balancing an ashtray on her knee as she sat on the bed.

“That’s right. She says they’re entitled to ownership of Ladington Creek by virtue of their partnership with your husband.”

“Well, they’re wrong,” she said, blowing a thick, blue cloud of smoke into the air and snuffing out her cigarette. “As far as having them here, it gives me a chance to keep an eye on them. Bill taught me that. Stay close to your enemies.”

“I suppose there’s wisdom in that,” I said, “although I’m sure it’s not easy for you.”

We didn’t say anything for a few moments. Finally, she said, “You haven’t asked me whether I murdered Bill.”

“Did you?”

“No. No one did. He committed suicide.”

“With poison?”

“Yes. But then he fell into the moat and hit his head. Sheriff Davis called and told me what the autopsy revealed.”

“I see,” I said.

“I’m sure you do. If you research your murder mysteries as thoroughly as you’ve looked into Bill’s death, they must be very good books.”

“I like to think so. Tennessee, neither George nor I believe that your husband intended to kill himself. We’re convinced that someone gave him the poison. Whether that was the proximate cause of his death or not is irrelevant.”

“Irrelevant? He died of an accidental head injury.”

“Not if the poison caused him to fall into the moat. Even if it didn’t—even if he simply lost his balance—someone
attempted
to poison him. That’s attempted murder.”

“Are you looking at me, Jessica?”

“Should I be?”

“I didn’t try to poison Bill.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “How does the murder of Louis Hubler fit in with all of this?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea. Do you have ideas about it?”

“Were you having an affair with Hubler?”

She reacted by smiling and slowly shaking her head. “What powerful things rumors are,” she said softly, lighting another cigarette.

“Were you?” I repeated.

“If I were,” she said, “that would make you suspect me in that death, too, wouldn’t it?”

“Those powerful rumors you mentioned involve you in an affair with Hubler, your husband knowing about it, him killing Hubler, and you killing your husband because he’d murdered your lover.”

“My goodness,” she said with exaggerated surprise. “Shakespeare couldn’t have done better.”

I laughed. “Now that I’ve told you what I’ve been hearing, Tennessee, I’d better look in on George. I’ll see you at dinner?”

“Yes, of course.”

I stood and was halfway to the door when it opened. Roger Stockdale glanced at me in surprise and confusion.

“Jessica and I were just having a heart-to-heart,” Tennessee said.

“You were?” Stockdale said.

What struck me was that he evidently was comfortable simply walking into her bedroom. No knock on the door, no asking whether she was “decent.”

“I must be going,” I said.

I went directly upstairs. George’s door was open. He was standing in front of a mirror straightening his tie.

“I see you’re feeling better,” I said.

He turned and nodded. “Much better, thank you. Did you find what you were looking for at your friends’ B-and-B?”

“Yes.”

I showed him the photograph I’d taken from Cedar Gables.

“Familiar faces,” he said.

“Aren’t they?”

“And?”

“They told me this was the first time they’d been to Napa Valley. Obviously, it isn’t.”

“I wonder why they bothered to stretch the truth.”

“I intend to ask them.”

“I’ll be interested in their answer.”

“So will I. I need to freshen up. Cocktails at the usual time?”

“So I’m told by Laura. She’s been quite solicitous, playing nurse to me. I like her.”

“Did you discuss her pregnancy?”

“Of course not. It wouldn’t have been gentlemanly of me to probe such a delicate subject.”

“I’ve come to the conclusion, George, that the only delicate subject around here is the relative quality of the wine. Give me ten minutes.”

Everyone was in the drawing room when George and I arrived. Raoul stood at his usual place behind the bar; others clustered in various parts of the room. Bruce noted our entrance and came immediately to us.

“Hi,” he said. “Is your back feeling better, Inspector?”

“Much, thank you. I took it easy today.”

“I guess that’s the best way,” Bruce said. He appeared to be even more nervous than usual. There was perspiration on his forehead and upper lip, although the room was somewhat chilly. I saw that Laura stood at the opposite end of the room talking with Roger Stockdale.

“How is your wife feeling?” I asked.

“No more headaches, thank goodness. Sheriff Davis called this afternoon. He said you’d been with him.”

“That’s right.”

“He said Dad probably died from hitting his head on the rocks.”

“So he told me.”

“But there was poison in his system, too. Somebody did murder him. He probably fell into the moat after the poison started to work.”

“That’s one possibility,” George said.

“You said you and Laura enjoyed going to your father’s steak house,” I said.

“That’s right, until that waiter was murdered.”

“And your stepmother said she never went there.”

“She’s a liar. I know she used to stop in there at night for a drink. Plenty of times.”

I considered asking him whether he was aware that his stepmother had been having an affair with Louis Hubler, but thought better of it. His hatred of her had been so apparent from the beginning that it would be difficult to give any credence to anything he might say about her.

Yves LeGrand and Edith Saison joined us.

“You look lovely,” I told her.

“Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher. I understand you’re the one to ask about progress in the investigation of Bill’s death.”

“That’s hardly accurate,” I said.

George tossed a conspiratorial glance at me and said to Bruce, “Let me get you a drink.”

“Get me a—?”

He took Bruce’s arm and led him to the bar, leaving me alone with Edith and Yves.

“I stopped in at Cedar Gables Inn this afternoon,” I said. “It’s a B-and-B owned by friends of mine. Do you know it?”

Frowns creased their brows.

“It’s a lovely place. They have a diary of sorts, a scrap-book, in one of the rooms, the Churchill Chamber. People who spend time there, many of them honeymooners, write in the book. Some even include pictures of their stay in Napa Valley.”

“Interesting,” Yves said in his alluring accent. To Edith he added, “We must stay in this charming place Mrs. Fletcher speaks of the next time we visit.”

“Excuse us,” Edith said, turning and walking away. Yves nodded, and went after her.

“Well?” George asked me when he returned to my side.

“I wasn’t direct,” I said, “but I’m sure they knew what I was saying, and why I was saying it.”

“They continue to deny they were here in Napa Valley before?”

“By inference, yes.”

We didn’t have a chance to discuss it further because Roger Stockdale joined us. “Good evening,” he said. “Was your visit with the sheriff this morning fruitful?”

“To some extent,” I replied. “I also spent time with the medical examiner.”

“Oh?”

“The autopsy on Bill Ladington didn’t show any sign of cancer.”

“Interesting.”

“I thought so. Was your only source of information Bill himself?”

He thought before answering. “Yes. He was the one who told me, but that’s no surprise. No one else knew.”

“He shared it with you but not with his wife or son?”

“Bill trusted me implicitly, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m the only person in his inner circle who can claim that.”

George spoke. “I understand you were promised some sort of partnership by Mr. Ladington.”

“I wouldn’t call it a partnership, Inspector, but he did assure me that I would become a participant in the vineyard’s profits once the new varietals bore fruit and produced the quality of cabernet they promised.”

“But only if he died,” I said. “I think that’s what you told me.”

“You’re wrong. I was to share in the profits whether he was dead or alive. His concern was that if he were to die, I was not to be cut out by the vultures around him.”

George laughed. “I always enjoy vultures with names,” he said.

Stockdale looked around the room. “Take your pick,” he said. “There wasn’t one of them who cared whether Bill lived or died, and he knew it. He didn’t trust anybody. Is that paranoia? Sure it is, but there’s that old saying that just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean someone isn’t following you. He built the moat, had guns around, hid money in different places to keep it out of their hands.” He swept the room with his own hand to indicate that he was referring to them all. “He was a very unhappy man.”

“He seemed happy to me,” I said.

“He put on that façade, Mrs. Fletcher. Underneath, he was miserable.”

“Dinner is served,” Tennessee announced from the doorway.

We went to the dining room and took our seats at the large table. Everything seemed the same—until the kitchen door opened and salads were brought to us, carried not by the soon-to-depart Mercedes, or by Fidel and Consuela, but by Nick, the chef whose routine had been to cook lunch at the house, then go to the restaurant bearing Ladington’s name to handle dinner there. He wore kitchen whites and a tall white chef’s hat. He was a handsome man, no older than thirty-five, with a dark complexion and a heavy twelve-o’clock shadow.

When he’d left the room, I asked, “To what do we owe the presence of the chef this evening?”

“For what he’s being paid, we might as well have him cook decent dinners for
us,”
Tennessee said from the head of the table. “The sous chef is handling dinner at the restaurant. I’m selling the joint as soon as the estate is settled and I can find a buyer.”

“I understand Mercedes is leaving,” I said nonchalantly, taking a bite of salad.

“You seem to know everything,” Tennessee said. She had changed into a sequined red halter top and tight white slacks for dinner, and had pulled her long blonde hair back into a taut ponytail. She wore less makeup than I was accustomed to seeing on her.

“Unfortunately, I don’t,” I said. “Know everything. I wish I did.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, I’m sure I share what all of you desire, to know what really happened to your husband.”

“We already know that, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said, her lip curling. “Frankly, I find you and your charming British friend to be more amusing than efficient. Sheriff Davis told me what happened when he called today. Bill took poison, but before that could work he fell and struck his head.”