“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?”
“Sure. Stop by Ladington’s place. He doesn’t shoot women, just marries them.”
Although I try to be prudent in what I eat these days, opting for red meat only now and then, I dug into the huge, tender porterhouse that was big enough for two. If I was home and had a dog, I would have requested a doggie bag. As it turned out, Neil did have a dog, and the waitress packaged up what we both had left over for what would undoubtedly be a very happy canine.
We parted on the street.
“If I can be of any help while you’re here, Jess, just yell. Where are you staying in Napa?”
“A bed-and-breakfast owned by Margaret and Craig Snasdell. Remember them?”
“Vaguely. They moved out here?”
“They bought a beautiful place, Cedar Gables Inn. You can reach me there.” I almost mentioned that George Sutherland would be joining me but decided not to. People tend to assign romantic motives to such situations, which I wanted to avoid.
“I’m really pleased for you, Neil,” I said. “Vanity Fair is such a good magazine.”
And a generous one, I thought, again wondering how much magazines paid these days for lead articles.
I walked back to the hotel and went to my suite where the little red light on the phone flashed to indicate someone had left a message. It was Seth Hazlitt. I would have returned the call were it not for the time difference.
I settled on the couch and resumed reading a book I’d started on the plane. It was called Sunlight into Wine, by an Australian viticulturist, Dr. Richard Smart. I wanted to learn all I could about growing grapes and making wine, but I bogged down in early technical material and found my eyes closing. When that happens, I seldom fight it.
I climbed into bed and thought of the dinner conversation with Neil Schwartz. What a coincidence that Bill Ladington had surfaced and had some connection to a murder, as innocent as the connection might be. But I decided to put any such thoughts out of my mind. Murder was of interest to me only in the books I wrote.
The real thing was none of my business.
Chapter Five
“We have two choices how to go to Napa, Mrs. Fletcher. We can go over the Golden Gate Bridge and head up 101, or we can take the bridge to Oakland and use Route 80.”
“I’ll leave that up to you. You’re the professional.”
“Six of one, half a dozen of another,” he said. His name was Harry, a pleasant, middle-aged man who wore a gray uniform, black tie, and black chauffeur’s cap. I’d hired him through a car service in San Francisco. Margaret and Craig Snasdell had offered to come down to the city to pick me up, but I didn’t want to impose any more than necessary. As it was, they were being gracious enough to put me up for a week.
“On second thought,” I said, “let’s take the Golden Gate. I remember going over the bridge to Oakland a few years ago. It was terribly congested. Besides, I love the view from the Golden Gate.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” he said, smiling and opening the rear door of a Lincoln Town Car. He got behind the wheel and we pulled away from the hotel. Fifteen minutes later, he joined sparse traffic on the famous bridge that links the city of San Francisco with Marin County to the north. The bridge was the symbol of home for thousands of GIs returning from the Pacific Theater during World War II. I looked back through the window over the bay and city. It was a sparkling clear day, the sun shining brightly, visibility unlimited. People who live in places with such stunning beauty are indeed fortunate, I thought, as we reached the end of the bridge. Down to our right was the picturesque waterfront village of Sausalito where Neil Schwartz lived. What a joy it must be to wake up every morning and sip your coffee while taking in the unique vista that is the Bay Area. If I ever decided to move from Cabot Cove, it could easily be to this part of the country. Then again, London has always appealed, too. But thoughts of leaving the town I love so much have always been just that, pleasant, fanciful thoughts, moments of idle daydreaming, what-if exercises.
An hour later we had passed from the congestion of lower Marin County into the beautiful and unique farmland that is California’s famed wine country. I looked out over tree-topped mountains and luxurious valleys, with thousands of acres of tilled fields creating what looked like giant quilts. We followed Route 101 to a town called Petaluma, then headed east on Route 116, which took us across the southern end of the Sonoma Valley, one of Northern California’s five primary wine districts, or appellations. Each appellation has a different topography, climate, and soil, which gives the grapes grown in those areas their own special properties. The Sonoma Valley dates back earlier than Napa, but the wines produced in Napa Valley have become more popular over the years, perhaps because of the more favorable conditions, but more likely due to aggressive marketing.
“It’s such an unusual landscape,” I said to Harry. We’d been chatting throughout the trip, and he demonstrated knowledge not only of the wine country, but also of the wine-making process.
“Yes, it is,” he said over his shoulder. “All the trellising gives it a different look. I’ve always found it interesting, Mrs. Fletcher, how the early settlers came here and realized conditions were perfect for making wine. And it hasn’t been that long, you know. Thirty-five years ago there were only something like twenty-five wineries in all of Napa Valley. Last count, I think, there were about a hundred and sixty-five, and the state of California must have more than seven hundred by now.”
“Funny,” I said, “but I tend to think of wineries as being small businesses. Obviously, it’s big business in California.”
“It certainly is,” said Harry. “Ranks right up there with making movies.”
“Those early settlers who established the first vineyards must have been rugged individualists,” I said. “You have to ha
ve a lot of faith to take a patch of land and plant grapes on it, then hope Mother Nature will be good to you before it’s time to harvest them and turn them into a wine that people will like and buy.”
“I suppose so,” he said. “Lots of faith—and lots of money.”
We both laughed.
“Do you know anything about Ladington Creek wine?” I asked.
“They produce very good wines,” Harry said. “My wife and I enjoy a bottle of Ladington Creek cabernet on special occasions.”
“I understand there’s been some excitement in Napa the past month.”
“You mean the murder.”
“Yes. What have you heard about it?”
“Just what I’ve read in the papers, and that isn’t much. I suppose you’re interested in it because you’re a mystery writer.”
“No, not at all. But since I’ll be spending a week here it caught my attention.”
Eventually, we ended up on Route 12, and not long after that we entered the city of Napa. I handed Harry a map the Snasdells had sent me, and after one false turn we pulled up in front of 486 Coombs Street, the bed-and-breakfast my friends from Cabot Cove had traveled three thousand miles to buy. The impressive house was set back from the road with a brick pathway leading to a front door covered by a portico supported by six white columns. To the left was a flagstone circle containing curved stone benches and a bird-bath. Parking for four cars was located to the right of the house.
“Nice place to spend a week,” Harry said.
“It’s charming, isn’t it?” I said. “Picture perfect.”
Harry got out and took my luggage from the trunk. I stepped from the car and stretched against a knot in my back. The sun warmed my face—the temperature was in the seventies—and a slight breeze ruffled my hair. “I’ll bring these right inside for you,” Harry said, picking up my two heavy bags as though they were empty and leading the way to the front door. He stepped aside and I prepared to knock when the door opened and Margaret Snasdell was facing me, a wide, familiar smile on her pretty face.
“I made it,” I said, grinning.
“So I see. My goodness, you haven’t changed a bit, Jess.”
“You have,” I said. “California must agree with you. You’ve gotten younger.”
“And you’re as diplomatic as ever. And don’t kid a kidder. These silver streaks among the gold tell the tale.”
“This is Harry,” I said. “He drove me from San Francisco.”
“Thank you for bringing this dear friend to us safely. Come in, please.”
Harry carried the luggage through the open door to a large foyer with gleaming black and white tile. He put the bags down and said, “It was a pleasure meeting and driving you, Mrs. Fletcher. I wonder if I could ask a favor?”
“Of course.”
He pulled a paperback edition of one of my books from his jacket pocket and held it out for me. “My wife loves to read, and when I told her I’d be driving you, she gave me this to see if you’d be kind enough to sign it for her.”
“I’d be delighted. What’s her name?”
“Marie.”
I inscribed the book and handed it back to him.
“Stay for tea, Harry?” Margaret asked.
“That’s kind of you, but I’d better get back to the city. There’ll be another assignment, I’m sure.” He thanked me again and left.
“This is such a lovely place,” I said, taking in what I could see from my vantage point in the foyer, which included what Margaret termed the main parlor, a large room with dark paneling and dense, wall-to-wall raspberry carpeting. A small red couch and a window bench were in front of leaded windows overlooking Coombs Street. In the center of the room stood a table containing a vase of fresh-cut flowers and a guest registry. A chandelier hung gracefully above it. At the far end of the room was a fireplace flanked by high-backed chairs. Between them was a silver tray on a stand holding etched red cordial glasses and a pitcher. The overall impression was of a warm and inviting place from a bygone era.
“Want to see your room?” Margaret asked. “Freshen up after your trip?”
“Sounds like a good idea.”
A woman appeared from the dining room.
“This is Barbara,” Margaret said. “She manages the inn when Craig and I are away. Couldn’t survive without her.”
We shook hands.
“I’ve been looking forward to your arrival,” Barbara said. “I’ve enjoyed your books.”
“That’s very kind.”
“I was just about to take Jess to her room,” Margaret said. They each grabbed a piece of my luggage and led me up a wide staircase to the second floor.
“We decided to put you in the Churchill Chamber, Jess,” Margaret said as we went down a short corridor lined with antique photographs to a room at the end. “We have two very special and, I must say, popular rooms—the Churchill, named after Alice Ames Churchill—this house was built for her—and Count Bonzi’s Room.”
“Count Bonzi? Who was he?”
“He lived here at Cedar Gables back in the twenties. I thought your Scotland Yard friend would enjoy that room. Some guests leave believing it’s haunted. It even has a secret back stairway. When is he arriving?”
“Tomorrow.”
“I’m sure he’ll enjoy sleeping where the count slept. Here we are.”
She opened the door and I stepped into the Churchill Chamber, my home for the next week.
The room was large and furnished with heavy, ornate furniture including a queen-size feather bed set between a thick, dark wood head and footboard. A gas-fired fireplace occupied one end of the room. At the other end was the door to the bath, in which there was a whirlpool tub large enough for two, framed with dark, aged wood, and a shower.
“Did you and Craig create all this?” I asked.
“Pretty much. We remodeled a room at a time. Like it?”
“Love it. I may never leave.”
“And miss all those good wine tastings? Why don’t you relax, Jess, unpack, and grab a quick nap. We serve wine and cheese in the den at five. You can meet our other guests then, and Craig should be back. We’ve made dinner reservations at seven. The Napa Valley Grille. The chef, Bob Hurley, is a good friend. His herb-crusted sea bass melts in your mouth.”
“I have a feeling my diet is about to go out the window,” I said lightly.
“No dieting allowed, Jess. This may be health-crazed California, but the rules have to be broken now and then. Relax. If you need anything, just yell for me or Barbara.”
I explored the room more closely, then unpacked, hanging my things in an oversized armoire and placing folded items in the drawers of a chest. I went to the window and looked out on a large house next door that appeared to be empty. The sun was now behind clouds that had rolled in since my arrival. I felt a chill and examined the gas fireplace, figured out how to start it, and stood in front of it for a minute to allow its heat to wash over me. The feather bed looked inviting so I kicked off my shoes, pulled down the comforter, slid beneath it, and was asleep in seconds.
According to my watch, I’d slept almost an hour. I freshened up, changed clothes, and wandered downstairs where Margaret, Barbara, and two young women who worked part-time at the inn were busy laying out the wine and cheese to be served at five, a half hour away.
“Caught twenty winks?” Barbara asked.
“Yes,” I said. “It felt good.”
Cedar Gable’s den was an eclectic mix of high-tech and antique furniture. A large projection TV dominated one corner, and there was a shelf containing videos of dozens of movies for guests to watch. Comfortable chairs and couches were scattered throughout the great room. There was a fireplace and a grand piano, and three imposing black Triumph motorcycles, buffed to a mirror finish, stood amid the furnishings like in a motorcycle showroom.
“Craig’s?” I asked, pointing to the cycles.
“Yes,” Margaret said, laughing. “You know him, always has to have a projec
t going. There was a Harley before these, and an Austin Mini he rebuilt. We don’t have a garage so they end up in here. They serve a purpose, though. They’re a great conversation topic. When men check in and see them, they sigh with relief that they haven’t been dragged by their wives to some frilly B-and-B.”
I wandered around the rest of the downstairs, pausing to admire individual pieces of furniture, taking in the dining room with its long table exquisitely set, and a hutch on which books on wine and the region, colorful neckties and T-shirts, and CDs of local jazz musicians were for sale. The CDs were played throughout the house through small speakers in every public room, creative, relaxing music that added to the overall feeling of well-being. A male singer in the Sinatra vein was singing Fly Me to the Moon.
“Who’s he?” I asked.
“His name is Bob Dalpe. He did a few weekends recently here in Napa. He usually works the Compass Rose Bar at the St. Francis in San Francisco.”
“I’ll make a point of hearing him next time I’m there. My kind of music.”
Magazines and newspapers were laid out on a table in the main parlor. I scanned them until the front page of a local weekly paper that had been delivered that day stopped me cold. Staring up at me was me—my photograph. A headline beneath it read: J.B. FLETCHER, NOTED MYSTERY WRITER, VACATIONING IN NAPA.
I took the paper into the den and showed it to Margaret.
“That devil,” she said.
“Who?”
“Winston.” She pointed to the byline on the article—Winston Wallace. “I bumped into him at the post office and told him you were spending a week with us. I never dreamed he’d turn it into a story. Hope you’re not upset to be losing your anonymity.”
“No, of course not.”
Truth was, I would have preferred that my week in the Napa Valley go unnoticed, but it really didn’t matter. I returned to the main parlor, sat in one of the chairs next to the fireplace, and read the article. It consisted of nothing more than information the reporter had taken from the jacket of my latest novel, mentioning a few things about me and listing other books I’d written. The piece ended with a line that I’d be spending my week at Cedar Gables, owned by old friends from Maine.
Blood on the Vine Page 3
