Blood on the Vine (3 page)

Since then, we’d stayed in touch by phone and through the mail, but time spent together had been limited by distance and our respective professional schedules. The most prolonged period of time we shared was when George hosted me and a dozen Cabot Cove friends at his small family castle in Wick, Scotland, situated on that magnificent country’s most northern tip. He’d turned the castle into a hotel and we spent a wonderful week there, although the murder of one of his dining room staff tended to take the edge off any frivolity we might have been enjoying.

Neither of us had looked to advance our relationship—if that’s what you could call it—beyond that of close friends, although George had taken a few tries at moving it to another level. Were I interested in a romantic involvement, George Sutherland certainly represented everything I would look for in a man—bright, sensitive, caring, and with a subtle sense of humor which, once you tuned into it, could have you laughing until tears ran from your eyes. As it stood, we were content being friends.

I glanced at a small clock on the desk. It was ten in San Francisco, one in the morning in Maine, six a.m. in London. I was reluctant to call George at that hour, and made a mental note to get up early to call first thing in the morning. As I went to the bedroom and slipped off my robe, the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Jess?”

“George? My goodness, I can’t believe it’s you. I was just reading that you’re coming to San Francisco to address a group. I was going to call you except the sun’s just coming up where you are.”

“Yes, it is. I’ve been up working a case. This trip to San Francisco is very much a last-minute thing.”

“So I read. A shame about Sir Malcolm breaking his leg.”

“Nasty experience for him. He’s getting on in age and probably shouldn’t be driving. At any rate, I’ve been pressed into service and am leaving for San Francisco tomorrow.”

“How did you know I was here?” I asked.

“When I was told to go to San Francisco, I decided I might be able to arrange my return trip to include your Cabot Cove. I reached your answering machine and heard your message that you would be out of town for ten days, so I took a chance and called your sheriff friend, Metzger. He told me you’d gone to San Francisco, of all places, and I wanted to make sure we could touch base, have a chance to see you if only for a short time.”

“That would be lovely, George, except I’m only going to be here in the city for another day. I’m heading up to the wine country to stay with old friends from Cabot Cove who have a bed-and-breakfast there. I suppose I could stay in San Francisco a little longer, but I hate to change plans and disappoint them. Any chance of you joining me there after you’ve given your talk?”

“I don’t know, Jess. Things have gotten terribly busy here. The murder rate is going up, or down, depending upon which politician is speaking. My personal observation is that it’s definitely on the rise.”

I laughed. “I suppose you can make statistics do whatever you want them to do, but you can’t prove anything by me. The murder rate in the California wine country seems to be going up, too. I was just reading about a murder that took place there in the past few months. It’s being treated by the press like a crime wave.”

This time he laughed. “There you go again, Jess, always traveling to where murders are taking place. Or do they take place
because
you’re coming?”

“I certainly hope not. Can you manage to stay a few extra days and join me in Napa? I would love to see you.”

“I’ll do my best. I’ll give you a call at the hotel tomorrow when I arrive.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

Talking with George energized me and I sat up for another hour before finally feeling sleepy and succumbing to it. I climbed into bed and looked out the window at lights on a distant hill outside the city. All I hoped as I slipped into slumber was that there would be a chance to see this dear man, who, though we saw so little of each other, brought a spark to my life and enriched it, even from afar.

“Margaret, it’s Jessica.”

“Hi, Jess. Are you calling from San Francisco?”

“Yes, I got in last night.”

“I know, you’re coming up a day early.”

“No, that’s not why I’m calling.”

“It’s okay if you do, Jess. Come early, that is.”

“I’m really not calling about that. I’m still planning to arrive tomorrow. What I was wondering was whether you had an extra room.”

“As a matter of fact we do. Are you bringing someone with you? An old friend from Cabot Cove?”

“Actually, a dear friend of mine from London, George Sutherland—he’s a chief inspector with Scotland Yard—is coming to San Francisco to speak to a law enforcement . group. I convinced him to join me for a few days in Napa.”

There was silence on the line.

“Margaret, are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here, Jess. Tell me more about this Mr. George Sutherland.”

“Not much to tell. As I said, he’s a good friend I met in London years ago and—”

“Just how good a friend, Jess?”

“Oh, Margaret, it’s nothing like that. I’m just happy he’s going to be in the area the same time I am and I want to spend a couple of days with him.”

Her laugh was slightly wicked. “Sure you’ll be needing a second room?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Naturally, George will pay his way.”

“How exciting, meeting a real live Scotland Yard detective. Of course we have a room for him, and we’ll be delighted to have him as a guest. Is he driving up with you?”

“No. He’ll be coming up a day or two later. Thanks, Margaret. I can’t wait to see you and Craig.”

“Same here. Enjoy your time in San Francisco.”

The wonderful coincidence that George would be in California when I was had me walking with a light step all morning. He’d reached me on the cell phone provided to all guests by the hotel, a wonderful convenience—no need to miss incoming calls when away from your room, or to search for a pay phone to make outgoing calls. I was having breakfast in the dining room when his call came through. Although we had only a brief conversation, he’d said what I wanted to hear, that he had arranged to take a week’s vacation while in California and would join me in the wine country.

I had a relatively free day ahead in San Francisco, my only real commitment a dinner date with an old friend from Cabot Cove, Neil Schwartz, a former New York City policeman who wrote poetry in his spare time. He’d moved to Cabot Cove after retiring from the force. Neil and I had developed a kinship shortly after his arrival in town because we both lost our spouses within six months of each other and found ourselves spending considerable time together, sharing many dinners at my house or at his, to the point that people began to gossip. There was never any romantic interest between us. It was simply a matter of two grieving people finding solace in each other’s company.

Neil was never successful as a writer, at least not if defined by income. He and his wife, Sandy, lived on his police department pension and the occasional assignments he received from small magazines. Until she became ill, Sandy had worked as a nurse’s aide. Neil eventually decided to move to Wisconsin, where his daughter and a grandchild lived. While there, he wrote a book called Scarlet Sins, a collection of true and startling murder cases. He sent me the manuscript hoping I would provide a quote for the cover, which I happily did. That put us back in touch.

Neil called me one day to announce he was moving to Sausalito, across the bay from San Francisco, where he had landed a job as adjunct professor at a local community college. Naturally, when making plans to travel to San Francisco, I let him know I was coming and we arranged to get together for dinner at Morton’s steak house, directly across Union Square from my hotel.

I was surprised Neil chose to have dinner there. I’d been to Morton’s in Georgetown and New York City and knew it was expensive. But Neil insisted, ending our conversation with a lighthearted “Things have turned around financially for me, Jess. I even have a mutual fund.”

I was a few minutes early and waited for Neil in the small, cozy bar. My first impression as he came down the stairs from the street was that if dress reflects relative financial success, his nicely cut blue suit, sparkling white shirt, and muted burgundy tie certainly mirrored what he’d told me on the phone. I think the only time I’d ever seen Neil in a suit was at his wife’s funeral in Cabot Cove. He was strictly a jeans and sweater type, with an occasional corduroy jacket with patches on the elbows thrown in when an occasion demanded more formal attire.

“Jess, how wonderful to see you,” he said, wrapping his arms around me.

“It’s been too long, Neil,” I said. “You look dashing in that suit. Is it new?”

“As a matter of fact it is,” he said, smiling broadly. He sported a beard, which he had occasionally done when living in Cabot Cove. His green eyes were very much alive, with a twinkle that hadn’t been there for a long time after his wife’s death.

“Feel like a drink at the bar before dinner?” he asked.

“Why don’t we go right to our table? I’m famished.”

We were shown to a corner table by the maitre d’, and our waitress, a perky young woman with a big smile, took our drink order: a dry martini straight up for Neil, a glass of Sterling Reserve pinot noir for me.

“Have a pleasant day?” he asked.

“I always do when I’m in San Francisco. I just walked—my calf muscles are feeling those hills—and stopped in shops, bought a few gifts for people back home. I ended up having lunch at the Buena Vista.”

“One of your favorite places.”

The Buena Vista, on Fisherman’s Wharf across from the turntable for the Hyde Street cable car line, was where Irish coffee was introduced in 1952 by the San Francisco columnist Stan Delaplane. The bartenders serve thousands of Irish coffees each day, more than 20 million since Delaplane returned from Ireland with the recipe. What I especially love are the communal tables where you always seem to end up eating with interesting people. I’d sat at a table with couples from New York, Los Angeles, and Napa Valley. At one point, the latter pair had brought up the murder of the waiter at Ladington’s restaurant.

“Just another drug hit,” the young man said.

“How do you know drugs were involved?” I asked.

“Aren’t they always?” his girlfriend replied.

I didn’t challenge their assumption, for two reasons. First, I was in too good a mood to get into a debate with anyone. Second, from all I’d read lately, drugs certainly were at the root of myriad crimes. I contented myself with chatting about less weighty matters and enjoying the convivial atmosphere at our table and in the bustling bar and restaurant itself.

Now, I tasted the wine and declared it satisfactory, although I knew I would never send back wine unless it was blatantly bad. I thought of Seth and his jaded view of the ritual of wine sniffing and tasting, and had to smile.

“What’s new with my favorite poet?” I asked Neil.

“Let’s see,” he said, raising his glass and clicking it against the rim of mine. “What’s new with me? Well, I’m no longer teaching.”

“That certainly is news. How long ago did you leave?”

“It’s been about a month.”

“What brought it about?” I asked, hoping he hadn’t been asked to leave.

“A magazine assignment. Remember
Scarlet Sins?”

“Of course I do. I gave you a quote for the cover.”

“Yes, you did, and I’ll always be grateful. Anyway, a top editor at
Vanity Fair
got interested in the murder of a waiter in Yountville because of William Ladington’s connection to it. He owns the restaurant where the victim worked.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“They offered me a big advance, no haggling, and wired me the first half. Of course, it might not be big by your standards, but it’s the biggest payday I’ve ever seen. Poetry doesn’t pay much, you know.”

Nor do magazines,
I thought, although I hadn’t tested those waters for years.

“This is really exciting news, Neil. I read a short piece in the paper last night about the murder.”

“I’ve been spending a lot of time up there recently,” said Neil. “It’s not easy getting information from people in Napa Valley. They tend to be an insular bunch, pretty much stick together and don’t like talking to what they consider outsiders. Being there as a journalist labels me as one of those.”

I laughed. “I know what you mean. We have a few insular types in Cabot Cove, too, I’m sure you remember. But I know you’ll keep digging. Have you made any headway? Who do people up there think did the killing?”

“Not one of their own—that’s for sure. Had to be some nut passing through. I don’t argue with them because I’m trying to get them to open up, but some of them are downright nasty, like Ladington himself. He’s a crusty SOB if I’ve ever met one. Maybe you remember him from all the press he used to get.”

I laughed.

“What’s funny?”

“Ever since I decided to spend a week in Napa, his name has been coming up with regularity. I suppose it’s akin to deciding to buy something, say a certain new car model, and all you see on the streets are that same car. We were wondering back home whether he was still alive. Obviously, he is. Are the police considering him a prime suspect?”

“Not officially. He was at the restaurant the night of the murder but claims he knew nothing about it, says he’d left for home before it happened. He lives in a castle at his vineyard. At any rate, I stopped by to ask him a few questions.”

“And?”

“And Ladington told me in no uncertain terms to get lost. The shotgun he carried helped make the point.”

“I don’t blame you for getting out of there. I’ll be doing some research for my next novel while in Napa, although I’m not committed to setting it in a winery. Any suggestions where I might go?”