Blood on the Vine (29 page)

“I’ll get to the bottom of it,” he promised.

“I’d appreciate knowing how it comes out.” I handed him my business card with my Cabot Cove address and phone number on it.

“Count on it,” he said.

I pulled the small green leather address book from my blazer pocket and handed it to him.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“I took it when we were going through Ms. Proll’s apartment. I shouldn’t have, I know, but my friend’s phone number was included with others on a back page. I wanted to ask him about it before turning it over to you.”

“Concealing evidence,” George said playfully. “She ought to be arrested.”

Davis ignored the quip and looked at the back page. His face creased into a multitude of lines. “Your friend the writer, Schwartz?”

“Yes. Neil Schwartz.”

“What did he tell you?”

“He said he had no idea why his number was there. I believe him.”

I suddenly had the disconcerting feeling that the sheriff was withholding information. “Is there a problem?” I asked.

“No, no problem. Thanks for returning this to me.”

“Of course. I shouldn’t have taken it in the first place.”

“No harm done. What are your plans for the rest of the day?”

“Go back to the Cedar Gables Inn. The rooms we had when we first arrived are vacant again. Our good fortune. Relax a little. Have a quiet dinner—alone. Then, if we can do it, arrange for a hot air balloon ride tomorrow.”

“I can set that up for you,” he said. “I’ll call Ken Custis at Napa Valley Balloons. They run the best operation in the valley. Want to go up with a group, or just the two of you?”

“Just the two of us,” we said in unison.

We didn’t go directly to Cedar Gables. Instead, we drove leisurely on side roads, enjoying the scenery and expressing our respective reactions to what had happened back at Ladington Creek.

When we did walk through the inn’s front door, Margaret was there with a large greeting. “How great to see you,” she said, hugging me with enthusiasm, showing a little more reticence with George. The rich baritone tones of Bob Dalpe singing
I’m Beginning to See the Light
came from the room’s speakers.

Margaret noted my smile at hearing it and said, “I love it. We play it all the time. The guests love it, too. I called the record company and ordered a dozen to sell here at the inn.”

“Very smooth style,” George said.

“How are you, Inspector?” Margaret asked.

“Quite well, thank you, Mrs. Snasdell.”

“So, what’s happening out at Ladington Castle?”

George and I looked at each other before I replied, “William Ladington was killed by his son, Bruce.”

Margaret gasped.

“He didn’t intend to kill his father,” I said. “He pushed him into the moat in a fit of anger. Bill Ladington hit his head on some rocks. The son is a pathetic story, Margaret. It’s too lurid to replay, I’m afraid.”

“How did you?—were you?—did you solve it, Jess?” Margaret asked.

“George and I played a small role. But that’s all behind us. What we need are our wonderful rooms back, dinner at a nice, quiet spot, and—Oh, by the way, Sheriff Davis is going to set us up for a hot air balloon ride in the morning.”

“I know,” Margaret said. “He called a minute before you arrived. You’re all set with Napa Valley Balloons. They’ll pick you up at six.”

“A.M.?” I said.

“They can only go up in the very early morning because of winds,” Margaret said. “You have to call them at four-thirty to confirm that the weather’s okay for a launch.”

“Four-thirty?” I said. “In the morning?”

Margaret laughed. “Believe me,” she said, “it’s well worth it.”

The ringing phone drew Margaret to the office.

“Let’s unpack,” I suggested.

Margaret reappeared. “It’s for you, Jess. Neil Schwartz.”

“I’ll take these up to our rooms,” George said, grabbing our suitcases.

“Watch your back,” I said.

He went up the stairs without any apparent discomfort, and I took the call.

“Hello, Neil.”

“Jess, I have to see you.”

“I’d love to see you, too, but I don’t think I’ll have time before I head home. Where are you?”

“Home. Sausalito. I can drive up right now.”

“Neil, I’m sorry, but I’ve had an exhausting week. George and I intend to relax and—”

“I wouldn’t think of interrupting your plans if it wasn’t necessary. Please. Just a half hour.”

I sighed and thought about the next forty-eight hours. “We’ll be driving down to San Francisco the day after tomorrow to catch our flights,” I said. “Maybe we can find a few minutes at the airport.”

He said dejectedly, “I guess that’ll be okay. When’s your flight?”

“Three-oh-five. United. George is flying Virgin Atlantic. His flight leaves at four-thirty. You know me. I love to be early. We plan to get to the airport by one.”

“I need to see you alone, Jess. It’s a very private matter.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem. We can meet in United’s club. I’m a member.”

“All right. I’ll be there at one.”

That night, George and I enjoyed a quiet dinner at Pasta Prego, recommended by Margaret, who called the owner and chef, Marco, to reserve a table for us. We ate lightly—grilled salmon, a salad, and sautéed spinach. Naturally, part of the evening was spent rehashing the week.

“And you have no idea why your friend, Neil, is so desperate to see you,” George said.

“None whatsoever. I’m concerned. I wish I hadn’t taken that address book from Ms. Proll’s apartment and pointed out to the sheriff why I did. I have a feeling Neil is in some trouble because of it.”

“You’ll find out soon enough. Are you sure I can’t convince you to change your plans and fly to London with me? Virgin Atlantic is a unique flying experience, the way flying used to be. They even give you a neck and head massage in first class before landing.”

“Sounds lovely, but I have to get home. Maybe in a month or so I can break away and spend a long weekend with you.”

“We keep making these tentative plans and never seem to follow through on them.”

“We will,” I said, hoping it wasn’t an empty promise.

Four-thirty the next morning came quickly. George placed the call to confirm the balloon ride and was told the weather was perfect. At six, a young man named David, who said he was a student balloon pilot, picked us up and drove us to a restaurant where others scheduled for flights had gathered. After coffee and donuts, and a briefing about the flights, a professional photographer took orders and we opted for one. We then got back in the vans and drove to the launch area. There were a dozen or so balloons of varying sizes being readied for flight, the gas burners sending hot air up to inflate them. The passengers were expected to pitch in to right the large wicker baskets, and we helped with our rig. We’d been told to wear hats or caps, especially George who, because he’s tall, would find his head and hair painfully close to the blasts of hot air that would be activated during the flight.

“All set?” our pilot asked.

“I’m ready,” George said, “although I have to admit I
hae nae brou o this.”

“What?”

“Scottish. I said I’m not sure I have a liking for this.”

“Why didn’t you say something before?” I asked.

“Because you seemed keen on the notion. I didn’t want to be a spoilsport.”

A few minutes later we were airborne, slowly drifting up into the early-morning sky over Napa Valley, the loud whoosh of hot air being fired into the balloon the only sound to break the stillness. When we’d reached the right altitude, the super-charged flame was turned off and we were in total silence. Dozens of other brightly colored balloons, some larger and carrying six or eight passengers, some smaller like ours with only two or three people in them, were all around us.

“This is so peaceful,” I said.

“Great morning to fly,” the pilot said.

We chatted about many things, interrupted only when a loud blast of flame and hot air was needed to maintain our altitude of two thousand feet. Below was the lush valley; the vineyards looked as though they’d been painted into the landscape, thousands of rows of vines snaking around and over hillsides, stately buildings set in the middle of them or along roads at their front entrances.

George put his arm around me when I felt a chill in the morning air.

“It’s so beautiful,” I said.

“Look,” George said, pointing over the side of the basket. I followed his finger. It was the castle at Ladington Creek Vineyards.

“Nice to be up here and not down there,” I said.

The pilot heard me and laughed. “The famous Ladington Castle. He died, you know. Murdered. His son killed him.”

“Really?” George said.

“Heard it on the news this morning,” the pilot said. “They solved another murder, too.”

“What other murder?” I asked.

“Ladington owned a restaurant in Napa. A steak house. Pretty good food. Anyway, a waiter there was murdered a couple a months ago. Stabbed to death.”

He sent another deafening blast of hot air up into the balloon.

“You say they solved the waiter’s murder?” George said when there was quiet again.

“That was on the news, too. Looks like drugs were involved. No surprise. Those damn drugs are at the root of most crimes these days. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes, of course,” I said. “Who are they charging with the murder?”

“Some drug dealer from San Francisco.”

“Oh?”

“There were always rumors about drugs being sold out of Ladington’s place. This waiter—I forget his name—evidently was holding out on this dealer and got killed for it. What a bunch of animals.”

“Certain two-legged animals,” I said. “Let’s not give our four-legged furry friends a bad name.”

The pilot laughed, produced another shot of hot air, and said, “You’re right.”

“Did they give the name of the drug dealer they’ve arrested?” I asked.

“Yes, but I don’t remember what it was.”

We eventually set down in a large parking lot connected to a college. A chase team pulled up in a station wagon, and the crew went through the process of packing up the balloon and wicker basket for use tomorrow. We were driven to another restaurant where a champagne brunch was served. The photographer who’d taken our photo leaning out of the basket as we were about to ascend, gave us a receipt and said the picture would be sent to me in Cabot Cove. We were dropped off at Cedar Gables where we freshened up and spent some time with Margaret and her assistant, Barbara. I called Sheriff Davis from there and asked about Louis Hubler’s murderer having been apprehended. He confirmed it was a drug dealer from San Francisco named Jason Morris.

George and I spent the rest of the day visiting vineyards, including the spectacularly beautiful Sterling Vineyard where we finally got to enjoy the aerial tram ride, the stunning views of the valley, and, of course, wonderful wines to sample.

Margaret and Craig treated us to dinner that night at Domaine Chandon, a lovely French restaurant. The following morning, after a hearty breakfast of Margaret’s signature almond French toast, we packed our bags into George’s rental car and headed for San Francisco, turning in the car at the airport a little before one.

We both had ambivalent feelings during the drive. We’d managed to salvage a little time to relax and enjoy the valley’s abundant pleasures. It had been good being with George, even in the chaotic situation that existed at Ladington Creek. But it would soon be over. In a few hours we’d be on planes flying to our respective homes; no telling how long it would be before we saw each other again.

I tried to put my meeting with Neil out of my mind during the trip but was only partially successful. I turned on the radio twice and tuned to an all-news station, but the apprehension of Hubler’s murderer wasn’t mentioned. My call the previous day to Davis had eased my mind considerably; I couldn’t help but feel that the thing Neil wanted to discuss with me was linked to that murder in some way. Perhaps it still was. But at least his being a suspect in Hubler’s murder had been ruled out. Anything else paled in comparison.

Neil was waiting in the United frequent flyer club when we walked in. The woman at the desk confirmed that he was my guest, and we went to a secluded comer of the room. Neil looked at George and started to say something, but George preempted him. “I’ll leave you two alone,” he said, “and find a good book—and, hopefully, a place where I can smoke my pipe.”

“Well, Neil,” I said when George was gone, “you sounded upset when you called. Sorry I can’t spend more time with you but—”

He drew a deep breath before saying, “Jess, I’m in trouble.”

I drew a breath, too, before asking, “What sort of trouble?”

His lip trembled.

“Louis Hubler?”

He nodded. “No, not in the way you think. I mean, it doesn’t have to do with his murder.”

I waited for him to continue.

“Well, maybe it does.”

“Neil, you don’t have to tell
me
anything. We’re friends. Whatever you’ve done won’t change that. Are you in trouble with the law?”

Another nod.

“Then you should be talking with a lawyer, not a friend.”

“I intend to. It’s just that—”

“Just that
what?”

“That I need a friend right now.”

“I’m here.”

“I delivered drugs to Ladington’s restaurant, Jess.”

I was stunned. It was inconceivable to me that this gentle, dear man, who’d worked the mean streets of New York as a cop yet wrote poetry in his spare time, who had been devoted to his wife and daughter and grandchildren, could become involved in something so shabby.

I broke our silence. “Why?” I asked.