Blood on the Vine

by Jessica Fletcher

  As he asked it, Tennessee arrived, followed closely by Edith Saison and Yves LeGrand. Tennessee took her usual spot at the head of the table; Edith and Yves sat across from me.

  “All packed?” Edith asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Who’s doing the cooking this morning?”

  They all looked at Tennessee.

  “Nick. He’ll be doing three meals a day here until he leaves for San Francisco. I’ve closed the restaurant. Nick has another week before he leaves.”

  “That’s good to hear,” I said. “It must be a real luxury to have a professional chef on hand.”

  “We’ll manage when he’s gone,” said Tennessee.

  Bruce and Laura walked in as Tennessee was telling Consuela what she wanted for breakfast. Consuela evidently knew Edith’s and Yves’s preferences because she didn’t bother asking them.

  Tennessee called after Consuela: “Take Mrs. Fletcher’s and Inspector Sutherland’s order.” To us she added, “I’m sure you want to be on your way as early as possible.”

  Before I could respond, Raoul came through the door. “The sheriff is here,” he said.

  “The sheriff?” Stockdale said in some surprise.

  “I should have mentioned,” I said. “I invited him to have breakfast with us. I was sure you wouldn’t mind.”

  There were puzzled looks around the table before Tennessee said, “Happy to have him. Maybe he has something new to report on the investigation, although his call yesterday seems to have wrapped things up.”

  “We’d like breakfast, too,” Bruce said, obviously annoyed that he and his wife had been ignored.

  “Go tell Nick what you want,” Tennessee said flatly. “It’s not a resort.”

  As Bruce went to the kitchen, I observed Laura. She avoided my eyes, which was understandable considering the revelation she’d made to me the previous day.

  “Good morning,” Sheriff Davis said.

  “Good morning, Sheriff,” Stockdale said, standing. “A pleasure having you here. Please, sit down and join us.”

  He sat next to me.

  “Catch the murderer yet?” Grosso asked through a mouthful of scrambled eggs.

  “No,” Davis replied. He glanced at me. “But I think we’re getting close.”

  “That’s good news,” Edith said.

  “Only if it’s not you,” Tennessee said. “Who heads the list?”

  Davis started to respond but I said, “I’m sure the sheriff has a busy day and would like breakfast.”

  “Go get Nick,” Tennessee told Stockdale, who dutifully got up and went to the kitchen. He returned with the chef, who took Davis’s order for pancakes, bacon, orange juice, and coffee.

  “Much obliged,” Davis said after placing his order.

  Bruce cleared his throat, coughed, and asked Davis, “Has it been determined, really determined, what killed Dad? You said it was his head hitting rocks in the moat. Is that a proven fact?”

  “Yes,” Davis said. “Dr. Ayala, the ME, now confirms it was the blow to the head that killed your father, Bruce.”

  “What about the pills?” Stockdale asked.

  “They weren’t any pills,” Davis answered. “He was also poisoned by puffer fish.”

  “What the hell are they?” Grosso asked.

  “A rare fish that’s often used in sushi, at least in Japan. Very deadly if it isn’t handled right. Your father had some in his system, but because he was such a big man, and the amount of poison was small, it wasn’t sufficient to kill him. No, he died from a brain hemorrhage, either because he slipped into the moat and hit his head, or—”

  “Or what?” Stockdale asked.

  “Or was pushed into the moat by someone. If that’s the way it happened, whoever did it is a murderer.”

  “Sushi,” Grosso grumbled. “Raw fish. How anybody can eat that stuff is beyond me.”

  Yves stood and came around behind Edith’s chair. “You’ll excuse us,” he said. “Obviously, none of this involves us.”

  “I think you ought to sit down and stay a while,” Davis said with an edge to his tone.

  I touched his arm and said, “It’s all right if they leave, Sheriff.” I then said to Yves and Edith, “But before you go, there’s one question I’d like answered.”

  Yves’s eyebrows arched.

  “Why did you lie about never having been to Napa Valley before this trip?”

  “You’re calling us liars?” Yves said, forcing indignation into his voice.

  “I’m saying you were here a previous time.” I pulled the photo I’d taken from Cedar Gables from my purse and held it up for them to see. “There’s no crime in saying you weren’t here before. But why bother denying it?”

  Grosso snarled, “This is nonsense. Whether they were here before or not doesn’t mean a damn thing.”

  George and I had discussed why Edith and Yves might have lied, and had come to a conclusion that George now expressed to Grosso, then extended it with his eyes to everyone else at the table. “We know Ms. Saison and Mr. LeGrand had been in Napa Valley before. Do any of you remember seeing them here at the vineyard?”

  Silence indicated their denials until Grosso spoke. “I knew they were here,” he said.

  “Did you?” George said. “Did they stay here at the castle?”

  “You know they didn’t,” Grosso said. “They were at that inn.”

  “Cedar Gables,” I said.

  “Whatever,” Grosso said with a shrug.

  “What were you doing here the last time?” I asked the French couple.

  “Come,” Yves said to Edith, pulling out her chair.

  “You know damn well why you were here,” Grosso growled.

  “Why don’t you tell us, Mr. Grosso,” George suggested gently.

  “Halton Mountain,” Grosso said. “They were trying to cut a deal with that bastard, Jenkins, to get control of the mountain.”

  Stockdale slapped his hand on the table. “You knew that?” he demanded of Grosso.

  “Yeah, I knew it.”

  “Did Bill know?”

  Grosso looked at the empty plate in front of him and said nothing.

  “Of course you knew it,” Edith said, venom in her voice. “You couldn’t wait for the deal to go through so you could get your cut.”

  “Cut? What cut?” Tennessee demanded.

  “For helping us gain control of Halton Mountain,” Edith replied.

  “With Jenkins?” Tennessee said. “Is that true, Wade?” she asked.

  He maintained his silence.

  “I can’t believe this,” Stockdale shouted at Grosso, getting to his feet. “You sold us out to these—to these—these foreigners?”

  Bruce Ladington suddenly came to life. “Is that why you killed my father?” he shouted, first at Edith and Yves, then at Grosso.

  “I didn’t kill anybody,” Grosso said.

  Yves and Edith headed for the door.

  “Au revoir,” George said.

  “You’re letting them just walk out?” Bruce said to the sheriff. “They’re murderers.”

  “No, they’re not, Bruce,” I said.

  “Then he is,” he said, pointing to Grosso.

  “No,” George said.

  The room fell into a profound silence.

  “Who, then?” Bruce asked.

  “You, I’m afraid,” I said.

  “Me?” He shook his head and forced a laugh. “That’s crazy. I’m the one who brought you here because I was the only one who believed my father was murdered. I’m the only one who fought to keep the investigation going.”

  “Exactly,” George said.

  “I can’t believe this,” Bruce said, standing. He glared at me. “Why do you think I killed my father?”

  I sighed; this sort of confrontation has always been dismaying to me. “First, Bruce, you certainly had motive.”

  “Motive? I loved my father.”

  “But he didn’t return that love, did he?”

  “That isn�
��t true. He—”

  “Bruce,” I said, also standing and facing him, “you know full well what your father did to you. I’m talking about the final blow, the ultimate display of his lack of love and respect for you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Laura told me,” I said.

  He looked down at his wife, who sat with her elbows on the table, her head buried in her hands.

  “Did you?” he asked her.

  “Yes.” Her response was barely audible.

  “What are you talking about?” Tennessee demanded.

  “Bruce can tell you if he wishes,” I said. “The important thing is that your husband angered him to the point of murder.”

  “Doesn’t make sense,” Stockdale said. “He’s the one’s been preaching murder all along.”

  “Which is why we decided he could be the murderer,” I said. “I’ve always had a theory that those who make the most noise about a murder are often the guilty parties. Not always, of course, but enough times to convince me it was true in this case.”

  George added, “Mrs. Fletcher expressed her theory to me, and I immediately concurred. My experience investigating hundreds of homicides has led me to the same conclusion. These people do it for one of two reasons, either to deflect suspicion from themselves—which, I might add, worked quite well for Bruce in the early stages—or out of a neurotic need to assuage their guilt by calling for justice.”

  “I didn’t poison him,” Bruce offered weakly. “I didn’t even know he’d been poisoned when I—”

  “When you pushed him?” I asked.

  “I—I just went out to tell him I was tired of being treated like dirt. I was his son, for God’s sake. He barely acknowledged me and never did. And then when Laura told me what had happened, I—”

  “What are you talking about?” Tennessee fairly snarled. “What did Bill do to make you so mad that you killed him?”

  For a moment, I thought Bruce was going to tell her. He started to shake. His hands were tight fists at his side, and his face became beet red, as though pressure was being exerted from within that threatened to explode his head. Then he began to cry and slumped back down into his chair. He managed to say through his tears, “I never meant to kill him. I just wanted to hurt him the way he’s hurt me. He was standing at the edge of the moat. He seemed drunk, unsteady on his feet. His voice was slurred. I was so disgusted with him and—no, disgusted with myself for taking it all these years—I pushed him. That’s all. I didn’t hit him or anything. I just pushed him and he went down. I heard him hit the water and the sound of his head hitting something solid. A rock.”

  All eyes were on him.

  “Why did you put the empty pill bottle on his desk and write that supposed suicide note?” George asked.

  “I guess I panicked. I didn’t want anyone to know what I’d done so I decided to make it look like a suicide.”

  “You didn’t even know whether he was dead,” I said.

  “I just figured he was. I came inside, went to his study, and emptied some sort of pills down the toilet. Dad had that little Canon typewriter next to his desk. He always wrote notes to himself on it. I typed the note and put it on the desk with the empty bottle.”

  “But didn’t you realize that an autopsy would show that he didn’t have any medication in his system?” I asked, unable to keep from sounding astonished at his naiveté.

  “It turned out he did have a foreign, toxic substance in his system,” George offered.

  “I didn’t poison him,” Bruce repeated. “I never wanted to kill him.”

  I looked around the table and received in return a succession of blank stares.

  The sheriff called for his men on his cell phone. A few minutes later, two uniformed officers entered the room.

  “Arrest Mr. Ladington for the murder of his father,” Davis instructed.

  As they pulled Bruce’s arms behind his back and secured his wrists with handcuffs, he said, “You don’t know how terrible he was to me. So terrible. He hated me. Hated me. All I wanted was for him to love me, respect me as a man. I’m so sorry.”

  I ached for him as the officers led him away. His final words trailed off, “I loved him...”

  Everyone in the dining room was stunned into stillness.

  “His own son,” Tennessee muttered. “How dreadful.”

  “I suppose I’d best be going now,” Sheriff Davis said.

  “You haven’t eaten yet,” I said.

  “Not hungry,” he said. “Thanks, Mrs. Fletcher, Inspector Sutherland.”

  He took a few steps toward the door, stopped, turned, and said, “If you don’t think Bruce tried to poison his father, who did?”

  “Mrs. Ladington certainly had motive,” I said. “And she has established a connection with a fish purveyor in Curaçao. Is that where you got the tetrodotoxin, Mrs. Ladington?”

  “This is outrageous,” she said. “Get out of here! At once!”

  Roger Stockdale spoke up: “The poison is irrelevant,” he said. “Bruce killed his father when he pushed him into the moat. Poison didn’t kill him.”

  “Absolutely correct,” I said. “But there is such a thing as attempted murder.” I said to Davis, “I’m afraid I don’t have any proof that Mrs. Ladington attempted to kill her husband, but maybe if we had a few more days here we could come up with the answer.”

  “I don’t doubt that you would;” Davis said. “All of you here are suspects in the attempted murder of Bill Ladington. You’re not to leave until I’ve had a chance to question each of you at length. Understood?”

  “Coming, George?” I asked.

  He stood.

  “I can’t say this has been a pleasant week,” I said to those left at the table, “but it certainly has been an interesting one. I wish you well, and hope this year’s vintage is especially good.”

  We retrieved our bags from our rooms and stepped outside where the squad car containing Bruce Ladington and the two officers was pulling away. Sheriff Davis stood alone looking up into the sky.

  “Beautiful day,” he said when we joined him.

  “Yes, and we intend to take full advantage of it,” I said.

  “Do you really think Tennessee Ladington was the one who tried to poison her husband?” he asked us.

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but I think it’s a pretty good bet. My suggestion is to follow the puffer fish trail from Curaçao to Ladington’s Steak House, and to the castle. Nick might be helpful. The same with the Japanese chef who manned the sushi bar. His name is Ye. I’m sure Nick can put you in touch with him. Fortunately, Bruce cracked easily. Tennessee will be a lot tougher.”

  “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.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  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.”