died.”
“I know. Unusual, isn’t it? These are unusual people.”
“Jess, any chance of getting me in there?”
“Here? At the castle?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know, Neil. There hasn’t been any press as far as I can determine—yet. I don’t think you’d be especially welcomed.”
“Will you try?”
“Let me play it by ear. I really should get back. I’ll stay in touch.”
“Great. I can’t believe you’re actually there. I’d sell my soul to be in your shoes right now. Go back to the party. Party! Jesus! What a weird crowd.”
Weird crowd stayed with me as I rejoined the assembled in the drawing room.
“Is there a problem?” George asked when I rejoined him.
“No. Neil wants me to see if I can arrange for him to visit the castle.”
“For his article?”
“Yes.”
Edith Saison, who’d been huddled with Roger Stockdale, interrupted us. She looked stunning in a floor-length, low-cut white dress. It was hardly attire for grieving, but then again, no one seemed to be in an especially somber mood. Weird crowd indeed!
“Mrs. Fletcher, I wonder if we could find some quiet room where we can talk.”
“All right.”
George raised his eyebrows, turned, and asked for a refill. Edith escorted me from the drawing room to the same office from which I’d called Neil. She took the chair behind the desk; I sat in the room’s only other chair, upholstered in gray.
“We only have a few minutes before dinner,” she said in her charming French accent, “so I’ll be direct. What did you and Bill talk about yesterday?”
My initial reaction was to be offended. It was no business of hers what Bill Ladington and I discussed. But since our conversation was certainly innocuous enough, I saw no reason not to repeat it. No state secrets were exchanged, no confidences passed on with an admonition to keep them secret.
“We talked about growing grapes and making wine mostly,” I said. “He said he wanted to create the world’s best cabernet, and that you were coming to help him do just that. Were you to be partners?”
She closed her eyes, drew a deep breath, opened them, and said wistfully, “Yes. We signed the papers not long ago.”
“I’m sorry you’ve lost your partner,” I said. “Does this affect ownership of Ladington Creek Winery?”
“Of course. I suppose it will be a tangled legal mess, lawyers fighting with each other, Bill’s estate claiming outright ownership. His wife, that dreadful woman, is already staking her claim by virtue of having married him.”
“A wife does have rights,” I said, not wishing to engage in a debate on the subject but compelled to state the obvious.
“Rights! Pooh!” Edith said, fairly snarling. “She’s been nothing to Bill but a garish blonde thing on his arm. She may have rights, Mrs. Fletcher, but she deserves nothing. They were about to divorce, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know.”
“He didn’t mention it to you during your talks?”
“Talk. Singular.” I glanced at my watch, stood, and said, “I’d better get back to George, Ms. Saison. Once again, I’m sorry for the loss of your partner, and I’m sure, your friend.”
I felt her eyes on me as I left the office and returned to the drawing room where George was talking with Wade Grosso.
“Have plans been made for Mr. Ladington’s funeral?” I asked the vineyard manager.
“Probably not,” he replied. “There’s the autopsy and all that. I suppose Tennessee will get around to it when she has to. I see you and Edith Saison had yourselves a little talk.”
“Just a chat, getting to know each other. I understand she and Mr. Ladington were partners in developing a new cabernet.”
“Over my objections.”
“Why did you object to it?” I asked, feeling comfortable enough to probe.
“You wouldn’t understand,” he said. “Making wine is a complicated process. Edith and her French partner think they know it all and sold Bill on it. Frankly, I think they’re a
“I know. Unusual, isn’t it? These are unusual people.”
“Jess, any chance of getting me in there?”
“Here? At the castle?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know, Neil. There hasn’t been any press as far as I can determine—yet. I don’t think you’d be especially welcomed.”
“Will you try?”
“Let me play it by ear. I really should get back. I’ll stay in touch.”
“Great. I can’t believe you’re actually there. I’d sell my soul to be in your shoes right now. Go back to the party. Party! Jesus! What a weird crowd.”
Weird crowd stayed with me as I rejoined the assembled in the drawing room.
“Is there a problem?” George asked when I rejoined him.
“No. Neil wants me to see if I can arrange for him to visit the castle.”
“For his article?”
“Yes.”
Edith Saison, who’d been huddled with Roger Stockdale, interrupted us. She looked stunning in a floor-length, low-cut white dress. It was hardly attire for grieving, but then again, no one seemed to be in an especially somber mood. Weird crowd indeed!
“Mrs. Fletcher, I wonder if we could find some quiet room where we can talk.”
“All right.”
George raised his eyebrows, turned, and asked for a refill. Edith escorted me from the drawing room to the same office from which I’d called Neil. She took the chair behind the desk; I sat in the room’s only other chair, upholstered in gray.
“We only have a few minutes before dinner,” she said in her charming French accent, “so I’ll be direct. What did you and Bill talk about yesterday?”
My initial reaction was to be offended. It was no business of hers what Bill Ladington and I discussed. But since our conversation was certainly innocuous enough, I saw no reason not to repeat it. No state secrets were exchanged, no confidences passed on with an admonition to keep them secret.
“We talked about growing grapes and making wine mostly,” I said. “He said he wanted to create the world’s best cabernet, and that you were coming to help him do just that. Were you to be partners?”
She closed her eyes, drew a deep breath, opened them, and said wistfully, “Yes. We signed the papers not long ago.”
“I’m sorry you’ve lost your partner,” I said. “Does this affect ownership of Ladington Creek Winery?”
“Of course. I suppose it will be a tangled legal mess, lawyers fighting with each other, Bill’s estate claiming outright ownership. His wife, that dreadful woman, is already staking her claim by virtue of having married him.”
“A wife does have rights,” I said, not wishing to engage in a debate on the subject but compelled to state the obvious.
“Rights! Pooh!” Edith said, fairly snarling. “She’s been nothing to Bill but a garish blonde thing on his arm. She may have rights, Mrs. Fletcher, but she deserves nothing. They were about to divorce, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know.”
“He didn’t mention it to you during your talks?”
“Talk. Singular.” I glanced at my watch, stood, and said, “I’d better get back to George, Ms. Saison. Once again, I’m sorry for the loss of your partner, and I’m sure, your friend.”
I felt her eyes on me as I left the office and returned to the drawing room where George was talking with Wade Grosso.
“Have plans been made for Mr. Ladington’s funeral?” I asked the vineyard manager.
“Probably not,” he replied. “There’s the autopsy and all that. I suppose Tennessee will get around to it when she has to. I see you and Edith Saison had yourselves a little talk.”
“Just a chat, getting to know each other. I understand she and Mr. Ladington were partners in developing a new cabernet.”
“Over my objections.”
“Why did you object to it?” I asked, feeling comfortable enough to probe.
“You wouldn’t understand,” he said. “Making wine is a complicated process. Edith and her French partner think they know it all and sold Bill on it. Frankly, I think they’re a
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