bar where I asked Raoul for a glass of sparkling water while George selected a single-malt Scotch, on the rocks. Consuela passed through with a tray of canapes.
“I’m so happy you’re here,” Bruce told me.
“I feel a little awkward,” I said, “being here the day after your father’s death. And I wasn’t expecting a cocktail party.”
“That’s Tennessee for you. I’m surprised she didn’t book a band to celebrate Dad’s passing.”
George changed the subject by asking, “What did your sheriff have to say this afternoon?” He sipped his Scotch and sighed in appreciation.
“That clown? He didn’t like it that you and Mrs. Fletcher were staying here.”
“Why, for heaven’s sake?” I asked.
“He said he doesn’t want anybody making more out of Dad’s death than it was. ‘Just a suicide,’ was what he said.”
“I trust you informed him of your feelings on the subject,” George said.
“Of course I did, but he’s not interested in hearing them.”
I looked around the room and was struck with the reality that if Bruce Ladington was right, and his father was murdered, that murderer was likely enjoying cocktails in that very room. Unless, of course, the killer had managed to vault the moat, come in from the outside, and leave the same way.
Roger Stockdale broke away from his group and joined us next to the bar. “Good evening,” he said.
“Good evening,” I replied.
“I hope all the ringing phones haven’t disturbed you,” he said.
“Ringing phones? I wasn’t aware of any.”
“Good. The damn media vultures have been calling nonstop about Bill’s death. Oh, by the way, Mrs. Fletcher, there was a call for you.” He fished in his shirt pocket and handed me a slip of paper. Written on it was Neil Schwartz’s name and phone number.
“Your pesty friend?” George asked, reading the paper over my shoulder.
I laughed. “Yes. From Cabot Cove. He’s the writer and poet I told you about. I had dinner with him in San Francisco before coming to Napa. He has a contract to write an article for Vanity Fair about the murder of that young waiter at Bill Ladington’s restaurant.”
“I suppose Mr. Ladington’s death makes the story even more compelling,” George said.
“Or kills interest in it if he committed suicide,” I countered. I asked Stockdale if there was a phone I could use.
“Of course.”
I followed him from the drawing room to a small office down the hall. “You can use this one,” he said.
He closed the door. I settled behind the desk and dialed Neil’s number. He answered on the first ring.
“Neil, it’s Jessica.”
“You got my message. I was afraid they wouldn’t give it to you.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m obviously part of the dreaded media. I called Cedar Gables Inn. Your friend Margaret told me you’d moved to Ladington’s castle. You’re staying there?”
“It’s a long story, Neil, but yes, I’m staying here along with my friend from London, George Sutherland.”
“The Scotland Yard inspector.”
“Right.”
“You’re there because Ladington died?”
“Right again. I’d been here as his guest for lunch yesterday and he invited me to stay. I declined the invitation, but Margaret at Cedar Gables had a last-minute request for rooms and Ladington’s son, Bruce, arrived and asked me to come and—as I said, it’s a long story.”
“Did he really commit suicide?” Neil asked.
“Ladington? I don’t know. That’s the official word so far.”
“But you suspect he didn’t.”
“I’m told he did.” I debated telling Neil that Ladington’s son thought otherwise, but held my counsel.
“All the press reports say it was suicide. I spoke with my editor at Vanity Fair. She says that if Ladington did commit suicide, it waters down the murder story about the waiter. But if Ladington was murdered, that’s an even bigger story.”
“I have to get back to a cocktail party, Neil.”
“Cocktail party? The guy just
“I’m so happy you’re here,” Bruce told me.
“I feel a little awkward,” I said, “being here the day after your father’s death. And I wasn’t expecting a cocktail party.”
“That’s Tennessee for you. I’m surprised she didn’t book a band to celebrate Dad’s passing.”
George changed the subject by asking, “What did your sheriff have to say this afternoon?” He sipped his Scotch and sighed in appreciation.
“That clown? He didn’t like it that you and Mrs. Fletcher were staying here.”
“Why, for heaven’s sake?” I asked.
“He said he doesn’t want anybody making more out of Dad’s death than it was. ‘Just a suicide,’ was what he said.”
“I trust you informed him of your feelings on the subject,” George said.
“Of course I did, but he’s not interested in hearing them.”
I looked around the room and was struck with the reality that if Bruce Ladington was right, and his father was murdered, that murderer was likely enjoying cocktails in that very room. Unless, of course, the killer had managed to vault the moat, come in from the outside, and leave the same way.
Roger Stockdale broke away from his group and joined us next to the bar. “Good evening,” he said.
“Good evening,” I replied.
“I hope all the ringing phones haven’t disturbed you,” he said.
“Ringing phones? I wasn’t aware of any.”
“Good. The damn media vultures have been calling nonstop about Bill’s death. Oh, by the way, Mrs. Fletcher, there was a call for you.” He fished in his shirt pocket and handed me a slip of paper. Written on it was Neil Schwartz’s name and phone number.
“Your pesty friend?” George asked, reading the paper over my shoulder.
I laughed. “Yes. From Cabot Cove. He’s the writer and poet I told you about. I had dinner with him in San Francisco before coming to Napa. He has a contract to write an article for Vanity Fair about the murder of that young waiter at Bill Ladington’s restaurant.”
“I suppose Mr. Ladington’s death makes the story even more compelling,” George said.
“Or kills interest in it if he committed suicide,” I countered. I asked Stockdale if there was a phone I could use.
“Of course.”
I followed him from the drawing room to a small office down the hall. “You can use this one,” he said.
He closed the door. I settled behind the desk and dialed Neil’s number. He answered on the first ring.
“Neil, it’s Jessica.”
“You got my message. I was afraid they wouldn’t give it to you.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m obviously part of the dreaded media. I called Cedar Gables Inn. Your friend Margaret told me you’d moved to Ladington’s castle. You’re staying there?”
“It’s a long story, Neil, but yes, I’m staying here along with my friend from London, George Sutherland.”
“The Scotland Yard inspector.”
“Right.”
“You’re there because Ladington died?”
“Right again. I’d been here as his guest for lunch yesterday and he invited me to stay. I declined the invitation, but Margaret at Cedar Gables had a last-minute request for rooms and Ladington’s son, Bruce, arrived and asked me to come and—as I said, it’s a long story.”
“Did he really commit suicide?” Neil asked.
“Ladington? I don’t know. That’s the official word so far.”
“But you suspect he didn’t.”
“I’m told he did.” I debated telling Neil that Ladington’s son thought otherwise, but held my counsel.
“All the press reports say it was suicide. I spoke with my editor at Vanity Fair. She says that if Ladington did commit suicide, it waters down the murder story about the waiter. But if Ladington was murdered, that’s an even bigger story.”
“I have to get back to a cocktail party, Neil.”
“Cocktail party? The guy just
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