Blood on the Vine (19 page)

“Yes, damn it!” he replied without changing position. “It felt better when I got up. But while I was showering it tightened up again.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “We’ve got to get you to a doctor.”

“Nothing they can do for it. I’ve been to doctors back home. They prescribe a muscle relaxant. I brought some with me, took two tablets this morning. It doesn’t help. Rest. That’s the only thing that helps.”

“Then you must rest. We’ll stay here at the castle today. You’ll put your feet up, and I’ll read a good book. I’ve brought several with me.”

“No,” he said, struggling to straighten out and propping himself up against the headboard. “You’ve got the meeting with Sheriff Davis this morning.”

“That can wait. The important thing is you and your—”

“No, Jessica. I want you to keep that date with the sheriff.”

“And leave you here alone? Absolutely not.”

“I insist. Go see what the sheriff has to say. We’ve come this far. I’d hate to drop the ball now. I’ll be fine, waiting here for you to return. The young Mrs. Ladington offered to be of help should I need it, although I doubt if I will.”

“All right,” I said. “I’ll bring you up some breakfast.”

“Just something light. Juice, tea, a piece of Danish. Nothing with marmalade. Why the British love marmalade so much is a mystery to me.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “No marmalade,” I said.

I returned to the dining room where Bruce, his wife, Laura, and Roger Stockdale were having breakfast.

“Where’s your friend?” Stockdale asked between forkfuls of scrambled eggs.

“Not feeling well,” I said. “His back still hurts.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Bruce said. “Anything we can do?”

“Yes. Keep an eye on him. I’m off to meet with the sheriff. Actually, there are two things you can do for me. I’ll need a ride to Sheriff Davis’s office.”

“I’m heading into town anyway,” Stockdale said. “I’ll be happy to drop you off.”

“Thank you,” I said. “And I wondered, Laura, whether you’d be good enough to check in on George now and then. I don’t want to impose on your day but—”

“Of course,” she said. “Don’t worry about him.”

“I won’t, knowing he’s in capable hands. Thanks.”

Laura’s response heartened me. It was the first spark of life I’d seen in her. Maybe she was one of those people who need to be needed and who rise to such an occasion. Regardless of why, I was comforted knowing someone would be tending to George while I was away.

I brought a tray to George’s room, told him I’d be back as quickly as possible, and returned downstairs where Stockdale waited. We went to the front courtyard and got into the black BMW. Wade Grosso, who was digging up a tree that had died, lowered the drawbridge. I gave him a wave of thanks but he didn’t return my gesture.

Stockdale was in a talkative, expansive mood as we drove to Napa.

“Sorry about George,” he said. “A bad back can really cripple you. I’ve had a few bouts with a bad back myself.”

“Fortunately, I never have,” I said. “You seem to spend all your time at the winery. Do you have a family?”

“Had one. It ended in divorce. I was spending too much time on business and not enough time at home.”

“That’s always a difficult situation. Do you have children?”

“Two. My former wife raised them. I didn’t argue. It was better for them.”

I’d learned that he, Grosso, Raoul, and the household staff all lived at the castle. Obviously, working for William Ladington was an all-consuming occupation, not unusual when the boss is as powerful a personality and as demanding as Ladington had been. But I also knew that people who willingly put themselves in that position expected large rewards for their dedication. What was Stockdale’s payoff? From what I could ascertain, he wasn’t in line to inherit any part of the Ladington winery, nor was Raoul, or Grosso, or the serving staff.

Or were they?

According to Tennessee, her dead husband hadn’t updated his will since divorcing his fourth wife. I had trouble accepting that. Men who’ve achieved significant financial success don’t go through life without having put in place appropriate legal documents to ensure an orderly disposition of their assets.

Then again, a will doesn’t have to be formally drawn. In many states, a handwritten letter suffices. When I was having my will drawn up years ago, I remember my Cabot Cove attorney mentioning that California was one of those states. If that was true, it was possible Ladington had made his wishes known in just such a letter. If he had, where was it, and who did he designate as beneficiaries of his years of work and success?

“You know, Mrs. Fletcher,” Stockdale said, “all this talk about Bill being murdered is unnecessary.”

“Oh?”

“It just muddies the waters. The fact is, he killed himself because he knew he was dying anyway.”

“I wasn’t aware of that,” I said.

“Yeah. Cancer. He had a year at most.”

“Who diagnosed it?”

“His doctor in Los Angeles.”

“He didn’t have a local physician here in Napa?”

“No. He and his L.A. doctor go back years.”

“Is the doctor still in Los Angeles?”

“He sure is. Six feet under. He died.”

How convenient,
I thought.

“Was Bill Ladington given a written diagnosis concerning his cancer?”

“I don’t think so. Bill confided in me soon after returning from Los Angeles. He wanted me to know because he’d promised that I’d receive a financial stake in Ladington Creek if he died.”

I fell silent. I didn’t want to challenge what he’d said because I didn’t have anything upon which to base a challenge. At the same time, I had to wonder whether Ladington had, in fact, made such a verbal promise. Tennessee was claiming ownership of the winery by virtue of being Ladington’s wife. Edith Saison and her partner, Yves LeGrand, said the winery belonged to them because of their partnership with Ladington. And there was Bruce.

“What was Bill’s doctor’s name?” I asked as Stockdale pulled up in front of the Napa sheriff’s office.

“I forget,” he replied, not at all convincingly.

“I’m sure his wife will know,” I said, not wanting to let him off the hook so easily.

“Tennessee?” he said scornfully. “The only thing she knows is when her next hair and facial appointments are. Sorry to be so blunt, Mrs. Fletcher, but that’s the truth. Here we are. How will you get back?”

“I’m sure I can arrange something,” I said, opening the door.

“How come you don’t drive?” he asked. “I thought everybody drove these days.”

“Just never got around to it,” I said. “Thanks for the ride. I’ll see you later in the day.”

I watched him drive off, then entered the building and told a uniformed officer at the desk who I was, and that I had an appointment with Sheriff Davis. He made a call. A minute later Davis entered the lobby. He was as casually dressed as when I’d first met him. This day he wore jeans, sneakers, a navy-blue T-shirt, and a tan safari jacket. The bulge of a handgun in a holster was visible through the jacket.

“Good morning,” he said, smiling and extending a beefy hand. “Where’s your buddy?”

“George hurt his back. He fell into the moat last night at Ladington Creek.”

“How did that happen?”

“An accident. He got too close to the edge and the ground gave way beneath him.”

“Not too serious I hope.”

“No. He just needs a day or two of rest, flat on his back. I know you invited us to be here this morning because George is a Scotland Yard inspector. I hope you’re not disappointed in just me showing up, a mystery writer.”

“Of course not,” he said. “It’s a privilege to have someone of your stature, Mrs. Fletcher, as a guest of the department. Come on in my office and have a cup of coffee.”

His office reminded me a little of our sheriff’s office back in Cabot Cove. Sheriff Metzger, whom I count among my closest friends, didn’t dress as casually as Sheriff Davis—he liked wearing an official uniform—but Mort’s office reflected a laid-back approach to law enforcement.

Piles of file folders took up most of Davis’s desktop; he had to clear some from a chair for me. A dozen photographs, presumably of family, and with a couple of posed shots of Davis with local politicians, hung crookedly on the walls.

“Coffee?” he asked, going to a half-filled pot on a file cabinet.

“Thank you, no,” I said, not adding that I’m a bit of a coffee snob, not unlike wine snobs who insist upon certain standards. I’d convinced Mort Metzger to allow me to buy coffee for his office back home, and to teach him how to make a decent cup. He was a good sport about it, and the quality of his jailhouse brew had improved considerably. Before that, it was barely drinkable.

Davis took a seat behind his cluttered desk, propped his feet on its edge, flashed a wide grin, and said, “So, Mrs. Fletcher, you think Bill Ladington was murdered.”

I returned his smile. “That’s not the case,” I said. “I haven’t come to any conclusion.”

His grin turned to a frown. “That’s not what I hear from Bruce Ladington.”

“If Bruce told you that, he’s mistaken. George Sutherland and I came to Ladington Creek at Bruce’s behest. He’s convinced his father was murdered and asked us to help him prove it.”

“Making any progress?”

“Some, although we’re not leaning in any one direction. I’m counting on you to help me decide in which direction to lean. Has the autopsy been completed?”

“You like to get right to the point, huh?”

“I might as well. George and I aren’t planning to stay until there’s a resolution, but I’d like to have some answers before we leave.”

“I can understand that. The autopsy. Yes, it’s been completed, including a preliminary toxicology report.”

I waited, eyebrows raised, for him to continue.

“Bill Ladington did ingest a poisonous substance.”

“A prescription medicine?”

“Evidently not. It’s some sort of bacterial poison that’s found in certain species of fish.”

“So unusual a substance that your local medical examiner can’t identify it?”

“He’s still doing research to be sure. In the meantime, tissue and blood samples have been sent to the state police lab in Sacramento.”

“How long will it take that lab to confirm what it is?”

“I don’t really know, Mrs. Fletcher. That’s beyond my area of expertise.”

I thought for a moment before asking, “Why are you sharing this with me? I mean, I appreciate it, Sheriff, but I’m wondering if you have a purpose behind it.”

He grinned and lowered his feet to the floor. “I’m getting some pressure to resolve Ladington’s death.”

“Political pressure, I assume.”

“That’s right. Ladington was a pretty powerful force around here. He donated big sums to plenty of candidates, including me.”

“It’s my understanding that he wasn’t especially well liked.”

“True. He could be pretty gruff, wasn’t big on subtlety.”

“If Mr. Ladington
did
ingest a poisonous substance, that would give credence to the suicide theory, wouldn’t it?” I asked. “Unless, of course, someone else poisoned him.”

“Uh huh. If the ME had identified some pills, you know, sleeping pills, antidepressants, ordinary prescription drugs, I’d say that it would be hard to disprove suicide. But this exotic substance complicates it. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I follow you. Someone might have
fed
such a substance to him. There was a suicide note, wasn’t there?”

“An ambiguous one, Mrs. Fletcher. Typewritten.”

“Signed by Ladington?”

“No.”

“Did it mention that he’d been diagnosed with cancer, and had a year to live?”

Davis’s laugh was involuntary, a short burst. “Ladington had cancer?”

“That’s what his business manager, Roger Stockdale, told me a few minutes ago. He drove me here from the winery.”

“That’s news to me. No, the note didn’t mention that.”

“Any chance of my seeing the note?”

“No, but I’ll let you read a photocopy. The original is secured in our evidence section.”

He pulled a sheet of paper from a pile on his desk and handed it to me.

 

 

“That’s it?” I said.

“That’s it.”

I handed the paper back to him.

“I can’t imagine William Ladington bothering to type such a short note,” I said. “Can you?”

“Seems unlikely. It was written on the Canon portable typewriter we took from his study. No doubt about that.”

“Anyone could have used it,” I said. “What about the empty pill bottle? Was that checked for residue?”

“Yes, it was. Clean.”

“Nothing to match up with what the ME found in his body.”

“Right.”

“Prints on the empty bottle or note?”

“Ladington’s prints on the bottle. Partials on the note, not enough to come up with an ID.”

“Sheriff, there’s some debate about whether there was a glass on the desk along with the empty pill bottle and note.”

He shrugged. “Who says there was?”

“No one,” I replied. “George and I simply assumed that there would be if Ladington had swallowed a sizable number of pills.”

“No, no glass. At least I didn’t see one.”

“Bruce Ladington also says there wasn’t a glass. From his perspective, that means it had to have been a murder. Of course, he’s wrong to assume that.”

“I’d say he is. Look, Mrs. Fletcher, can I be perfectly straight with you?”

“I hope you would be.”

“I wasn’t thrilled that you and your Scotland Yard friend arrived in the midst of an ongoing investigation. It’s been my experience that the fewer people snooping around the better.”