machines.
"When's your flight?" she asked gently.
" Ten. The red-eye special."
Spraggue took her arm to lead her to the library, a courtesy only. At seventy, Mary Spraggue Hillman looked frailer than she was. The red still warred with the creeping silver in her hair. She settled in her usual chair, a green velvet wing-backed job near the bow window. Spraggue sprawled on the matching couch. Pierce heated brandy, served it in crystal snifters.
" To business," Mary said, shifting gears after a single sip. "I want to help. I like Kate. I'm good at asking questions, mostly because no one takes us dithery old ladies seriously."
"I take you seriously."
" You'd be a fool not to. I'm a damn good financial adviser. Do you think Brent's wife was really holding out on you?"
"Ex-wife. She seemed uncomfortable. She kept her own counsel."
"Works in a hospital? I feel an urge for volunteer work coming on."
" Be subtle. But let me know if she's planning any sudden vacations."
" I'm always subtle when I have the time."
"And speaking of hospitals . . ." Spraggue's voice trailed off momentarily. "Still have your WATS line?"
"Where do you want me to call?"
" Napa. Phone hospitals, clinics, every health-care facility within a fifty-mile radius, and find out if Grady Fairfield was a patient within the past six months."
" Just whether or not she was a patient?"
"What I'm after is admittance records: Was she brought in as an emergency case or scheduled?"
" Just for my own curiosity . . ." Mary began.
"An abortion or a miscarriage."
"Ah . . . I suppose I could impersonate a Blue Cross bureaucrat."
" I'll nominate you for a Tony award."
"What else can I do?"
"Get me the gossip on corporate takeovers in the wine industry."
"Simple enough."
"Pay special attention to United Circle Industries. And a Mr. Baxter. Kate says he's been nosing around, making offers—"
" On Holloway Hills?"
"Right. She said he was persistent."
"No doubt why they employ him."
"Excuse me." Pierce could have been standing in the doorway for two seconds or two hours, so silently did he open and close doors. "A collect call for Mr. Spraggue. From someone named Howard. The gentleman sounds a bit—"
" Frantic? Unglued? He always is," Spraggue said. "Could be anything from a stuck fermentation to a sliver in his little finger."
"You could take it upstairs, Michael. Or I could move to the solarium."
" I'll get it here. Stay put." Spraggue crossed the room to his great-grandfathers desk, a hunk of mahogany that hadn't been moved since the six vanmen first set it in the center of the oriental rug. He picked up the receiver and slid into the leather swivel chair.
" Everything okay, Howard?"
"Is that you, Mr. Spraggue? Thank goodness. I didn't know . . . Operator? I have my party now. Operator?"
" Howard," Spraggue said firmly. "What can I do for you?"
"Uh . . . thank you for taking the call, for accepting the charges, I mean. I'm at home, you see. At the Inn .... "
"Any problem?"
" The police . . ." Howard's voice cracked. "The police have been at the winery . . . almost all day. Poking and prying. They won't say what they want, and I can't keep them out. They say they've got a search warrant . . . or they can get a search warrant .... "
"It's okay, Howard." Spraggue raised his eyes to the high-beamed ceiling.
The winemaker's next words came out in a rush. "Is it true Lenny's dead? Murdered?"
"Yes."
" And Miss Holloway's in jail."
"Kate didn't kill him."
"Of course not . . . uh . . . I didn't mean . . .What I wanted to say is . . . It's one thing taking over if Lenny's missing . . . but if he's dead! I . . . uh . . . I'm going away, Mr. Spraggue."
"Going away?"
" Up to Ukiah, maybe. Start somewhere else."
"Because Lenny's dead?"
"You don't understand, Mr. Spraggue. Someone's killing people here in the valley, and I'm . . . I'm too nervous to take that. I see things . . . hear things . . . Everyone looks like a killer to me, people I've known
"When's your flight?" she asked gently.
" Ten. The red-eye special."
Spraggue took her arm to lead her to the library, a courtesy only. At seventy, Mary Spraggue Hillman looked frailer than she was. The red still warred with the creeping silver in her hair. She settled in her usual chair, a green velvet wing-backed job near the bow window. Spraggue sprawled on the matching couch. Pierce heated brandy, served it in crystal snifters.
" To business," Mary said, shifting gears after a single sip. "I want to help. I like Kate. I'm good at asking questions, mostly because no one takes us dithery old ladies seriously."
"I take you seriously."
" You'd be a fool not to. I'm a damn good financial adviser. Do you think Brent's wife was really holding out on you?"
"Ex-wife. She seemed uncomfortable. She kept her own counsel."
"Works in a hospital? I feel an urge for volunteer work coming on."
" Be subtle. But let me know if she's planning any sudden vacations."
" I'm always subtle when I have the time."
"And speaking of hospitals . . ." Spraggue's voice trailed off momentarily. "Still have your WATS line?"
"Where do you want me to call?"
" Napa. Phone hospitals, clinics, every health-care facility within a fifty-mile radius, and find out if Grady Fairfield was a patient within the past six months."
" Just whether or not she was a patient?"
"What I'm after is admittance records: Was she brought in as an emergency case or scheduled?"
" Just for my own curiosity . . ." Mary began.
"An abortion or a miscarriage."
"Ah . . . I suppose I could impersonate a Blue Cross bureaucrat."
" I'll nominate you for a Tony award."
"What else can I do?"
"Get me the gossip on corporate takeovers in the wine industry."
"Simple enough."
"Pay special attention to United Circle Industries. And a Mr. Baxter. Kate says he's been nosing around, making offers—"
" On Holloway Hills?"
"Right. She said he was persistent."
"No doubt why they employ him."
"Excuse me." Pierce could have been standing in the doorway for two seconds or two hours, so silently did he open and close doors. "A collect call for Mr. Spraggue. From someone named Howard. The gentleman sounds a bit—"
" Frantic? Unglued? He always is," Spraggue said. "Could be anything from a stuck fermentation to a sliver in his little finger."
"You could take it upstairs, Michael. Or I could move to the solarium."
" I'll get it here. Stay put." Spraggue crossed the room to his great-grandfathers desk, a hunk of mahogany that hadn't been moved since the six vanmen first set it in the center of the oriental rug. He picked up the receiver and slid into the leather swivel chair.
" Everything okay, Howard?"
"Is that you, Mr. Spraggue? Thank goodness. I didn't know . . . Operator? I have my party now. Operator?"
" Howard," Spraggue said firmly. "What can I do for you?"
"Uh . . . thank you for taking the call, for accepting the charges, I mean. I'm at home, you see. At the Inn .... "
"Any problem?"
" The police . . ." Howard's voice cracked. "The police have been at the winery . . . almost all day. Poking and prying. They won't say what they want, and I can't keep them out. They say they've got a search warrant . . . or they can get a search warrant .... "
"It's okay, Howard." Spraggue raised his eyes to the high-beamed ceiling.
The winemaker's next words came out in a rush. "Is it true Lenny's dead? Murdered?"
"Yes."
" And Miss Holloway's in jail."
"Kate didn't kill him."
"Of course not . . . uh . . . I didn't mean . . .What I wanted to say is . . . It's one thing taking over if Lenny's missing . . . but if he's dead! I . . . uh . . . I'm going away, Mr. Spraggue."
"Going away?"
" Up to Ukiah, maybe. Start somewhere else."
"Because Lenny's dead?"
"You don't understand, Mr. Spraggue. Someone's killing people here in the valley, and I'm . . . I'm too nervous to take that. I see things . . . hear things . . . Everyone looks like a killer to me, people I've known
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