Blood on the Vine (6 page)

“Like you to see my place. A real castle, built back when the Spanish ran things in Napa Valley. Got a chef who puts all those fancy French chefs to shame.”

“I—”

Margaret came from her office. “Jess,” she said with a smile, “a call for you. Heavy British accent.”

“Oh?” I said to Ladington, “I’m afraid I have another call. It was nice speaking with you.”

“Go ahead and take it,” he said. “I’ll hold on till you’re through.”

Exasperated, I placed the receiver on the table and went to the office, where Margaret handed me the phone.

“George?” I said.

“Yes. Glad I caught you. I’ll be delayed a bit.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. How long?”

“I’ve been roped into a panel discussion later today. I should be able to pick up the rental car by three. What is it, two hours to Napa?”

“Approximately.”

“Look for me about five, in time for a quiet drink and dinner. Sorry, love, but it can’t be helped.”

“Of course. I understand. I’ll do some things on my own for the day and be here when you arrive.”

“Splendid. Can’t wait to see you. Cheerio.”

“He’s not coming?” Margaret said.

“Later. About five.”

“Who are you on the phone with out there?” she asked, pointing to the main parlor.

“William Ladington.”

“What does he want?”

“Wants me to have lunch with him at his winery. He sent an emissary to bring me.”

“Oooh, sounds intriguing. You’re going, right?”

“No, I’m not. He’s arrogant.”

“But now you’re free until five when your Scotland Yard friend arrives. Go to lunch. See what’s up. You can bring back all the gossip, tell me what’s going on with Ladington.”

I left the office and went to where the phone still rested on the table. Raoul stood in the parlor with Barbara.

“Hello?” I said.

“Got rid ’a that other call, huh? Good girl.”

I started to say that I wasn’t a “girl.” Instead, I said, “I’ve decided to accept your luncheon invitation.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear. You tell Raoul to stay around until it’s time to head over here, take you anywhere you want to go, give you anything you need.”

“I have to be back early this afternoon,” I said.

“Whatever you say. Got a new book out? Bring it along, sign it for me and the wife. We don’t read much but like to have signed books on the shelves, especially hardcovers. They look a lot better. Make it to Bill and Tennessee.”

“Tennessee?”

“That’s her name. Ever hear anything so dumb? But she’s a real stunner, a real beauty.”

We ended the conversation and I hung up. Margaret and Barbara stood looking at me, smiling.

“Satisfied?” I asked.

“As long as you tell us everything that happens,” said Margaret.

“I’m only doing it for research,” I said, sounding defensive, like an alcoholic who claims to drink only for medicinal purposes. “I may set my next book in a winery. What better way to learn than to be hosted by the owner of one of the better wineries?”

“Of course,” Margaret said.

“If George arrives early, tell him I’ll be back as soon as possible.”

“Don’t worry,” Margaret said. “And if you don’t come back, you’ll have Scotland Yard on your case.”

Her comment caused me to remember what Neil Schwartz had told me: that William Ladington owned the restaurant where the waiter had worked before being knifed to death, and that he had a vile temper.

“Yes,” I said, “that will be comforting in case I don’t come back.”

I said to Raoul, “I’ll be ready to leave at eleven-thirty.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What are you going to do between now and then, Jess?” Margaret asked.

“Go upstairs, get out my book on growing grapes and making wine, and bone up on those subjects before meeting Mr. Ladington. I’d hate to look stupid.”

“Breakfast at nine,” Barbara called as I headed up the staircase.

“My special almond French toast,” Margaret added.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said over my shoulder without missing a step.

The vehicle driven by Raoul was a red four-wheel drive Jeep Grand Cherokee. I don’t pay much attention to cars, but this sort of Jeep is familiar to me because we get so much snow in Cabot Cove. Four-wheel drives, with their ability to handle slippery conditions, are the most popular vehicles in town—perhaps in all of Maine, for that matter.

Raoul held open a rear door for me, but I opted for the front passenger seat, from which I’d have a better view and could more easily converse with him.

We left Napa City on Route 121, but quickly turned onto what Raoul said was the Silverado Trail. “Mr. Ladington told me to bring you this way, Mrs. Fletcher,” he explained. “It takes longer but the views are prettier.”

“I’m glad he did,” I said. “Pretty views are always appreciated.”

The Silverado Trail wound along the eastern edge of Napa Valley, running parallel to the more congested and commercial Route 29, the main artery from the valley’s southern boundary to Calistoga at the northern end. Raoul had handed me a map shortly after leaving town. On it were listed all the major wineries in the valley. Ladington Creek was almost at the end of the Silverado Trail, near the town of St. Helena. Two mountains were noted on the map: Howell Mountain, and the one that Craig and Margaret had mentioned at dinner, Halton Mountain. Ladington Creek was located at the base of the latter.

Bill Ladington had been right. The views along the Silverado Trail were spectacular. I looked down over the valley and its thousands of symmetrical rows of grape trellises that followed the contour of the land as far as the eye could see. Some vineyards were relatively flat; others twisted up hillsides and disappeared over their crests. All were brightened by lovely yellow wildflowers called mustard flowers, which inspire a number of festivals throughout California’s wine country. Besides the trellises, the other distinguishing feature across the sprawling landscape were windmills, hundreds of them spaced throughout the vineyards.

“Do those windmills generate power?” I asked.

“No, ma’am,” Raoul replied. “The vineyards turn them on when the temperature gets cold enough at night. The air above the ground is warmer than the air at the ground. The breeze created by the windmills circulates the warmer air over the vines.”

“Seems like a sensible, low-tech solution to a problem,” I said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Some of the wineries we passed looked like European estates, with huge iron gates, and access roads lined with poplar trees reaching far into the vineyards’ inner recesses. Others, more recently built—at least the main buildings looked more contemporary—were closer to the road, and large signs invited visitors to come sample the product.

When we reached Halton Mountain, Raoul turned off onto a very narrow, winding macadam road edged with tall, thick bramble bushes. Then, suddenly, he made a sharp left turn and we were on a dirt road wide enough for only a single car. I looked up and was surprised to see tall, swaying palm trees along the sides of the road; had we left northern California and driven to sunny Los Angeles?

I looked ahead. Looming large on a rise of land was a castle, obviously the one inhabited by William Ladington that, according to him, had been built by the Spanish. I don’t know enough about architecture to question any castle’s origins, but I knew one thing for certain about this one: It was huge. And as we got closer, I realized we were about to cross a drawbridge over a moat.

“A moat?” I said.

“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Ladington had it dug years ago.”

“For security purposes?”

“I wouldn’t know, ma’am. I don’t question what Mr. Ladington does. Ever!”

I glanced at Raoul, whose face was set in what appeared to be anger, although he was such a serious, unsmiling young man that it was hard to gauge. I looked down and saw that the moat, which I judged to be twelve feet wide, was half filled with brackish, green water; huge boulders lined the bottom.

I didn’t have time to ponder it because we were over the bridge and on a circular gravel drive in front of the castle. Massive black wooden doors opened and the lord of the manor stepped through them and stood at the top of the steps. There was no doubt it was William Ladington; I’d seen his picture in enough tabloids to recognize him immediately—six feet, four inches tall, broad shoulders, square, tanned, and deeply lined face, and a full head of steel-gray hair. He wore tight jeans, a little too tight considering the overhang of his stomach, a white gauze shirt open halfway down his chest, and highly polished cowboy boots. He stood with his hands on his hips and a smile on his craggy face.

I opened my door before Raoul had a chance to come around to do it for me, and stepped out of the Jeep. Ladington didn’t bother to come down to greet me. He simply motioned for me to join him on the steps, which I did.

“Well, well, well,” he said in a loud, hoarse voice, “the famous Jessica Fletcher. You bring that book for me and Tennessee?”

“No. I didn’t have one with me.”

Ladington turned to Raoul. “Hey, get yourself over to town and buy up some of the lady’s books. Go on. Get going. Fletcher. Jessica Fletcher. Get the ones with hard covers on them.”

Raoul, who had been standing next to the Jeep, got back in it and drove off.

“Come on in, sweetheart,” Ladington said.

I didn’t move.

“You planning on standing out here all day?”

“Mr. Ladington, if we’re going to get along, I prefer that you not call me sweetheart or any other term of endearment.”

He laughed. “One of those fem libbers, huh?”

“No, just someone who believes in and demands respect between people.”

His face screwed up into exaggerated shock at what I’d said. Then he broke into a wide grin again. “Fair enough. What would you like to be called? Mrs. Fletcher? Jessica? Jess?”

“Jessica will be fine,” I said, extending my hand.

“And I’m Bill. Plain ol’ Bill,” he said, shaking my hand and guiding us through the huge doors.

He led me into a foyer the size of my home in Cabot Cove. Here, the Spanish influence was more evident to my untrained eye. Huge, colorful oil paintings, heavy tapestries, and sizable wall ornaments made of steel or wrought iron lined the walls. We made our way down a lengthy hallway to the rear of the castle. He opened glass doors and we stepped out onto a broad brick patio that overlooked an Olympic-sized pool, and an expanse of vineyard that stretched to the base of a barren hill. Separating us from the vineyard was the moat, narrower at the back than in front. A wooden footbridge that could be raised and lowered by hand spanned it. It was down. An armed security guard sat in a yellow director’s chair next to it.

“Is that Halton Mountain?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am, Jessica, that’s exactly what it is. How do you know about Halton?”

“Friends told me about it last night at dinner.”

“They tell you it’s the finest piece of land in the whole damn valley?”

“They said it was a good place to grow grapes.”

“Your friends are fond of understatements.” He pointed to his right, to another mountain on which grape trellises were strung up to its crest. “That’s Howell Mountain. It’s almost as good as Halton.”

“Why aren’t there vineyards on Halton Mountain?” I asked, returning my attention to the bare hillside.

“There will be, Jessica,” he said sternly. “There will be.”

I pointed in the direction of another vineyard that seemed to butt up to the southern edge of Ladington Creek. The trellises were different from those on the Ladington property. “Is that your land, too?” I asked.

“No. It belongs to a rotten SOB named Jenkins.”

“I take it you and Mr. Jenkins aren’t friends.”

“I’d like to see him dead. That’s how friendly we are. Talking about Robert Jenkins just sets my blood pressure off, and it’s high enough as it is. Come on inside and meet some of my people.”

Some of my people.
This was an arrogant man used to being in control of his world, including its human inhabitants.

The dining room easily accommodated a table with thirty chairs, as well as massive pieces of furniture along the walls. I noticed that seven places had been set for lunch, all at one end of the table. There were three chairs on each side of the table, and one at the end that was more of a throne, obviously Ladington’s place of honor.

There were two people in the dining room when we entered, a short, chubby man whom I judged to be in his late forties and a woman a foot taller than he. Her brunette hair hung loosely over her cheeks and neck. She wore a loose-fitting, ankle-length, multicolored dress that would have looked very much at home on a Caribbean beach. Although they stood together at the far end of the room, their body language said all was not well between them. The woman kept her back to us.

“Hi, Dad,” the man said, smiling and quickly circumventing the table.

“Hello, Bruce,” Ladington said.

Bruce extended his hand to me without any introduction from his father.

“I’m Jessica Fletcher,” I said, shaking a pudgy, soft, sweaty hand.

“The mystery writer?”

“Yes.”

“Jessica is joining us for lunch,” Bill said.

“That’s great,” said Bruce.

“You take care of that business this morning?” the elder Ladington asked.

“No,” his son replied. “I thought I’d—”

“I suggest you stop thinking and start doing. Go on, take care of it now!”

“Sure, Dad.” Bruce turned to where the woman continued to stand with her back to us. “Come on, Laura.”

She responded by giving us a wide berth and leaving the room. Bruce smiled weakly at me, mumbled something about being back in time for lunch, and left.