couple of frauds. I tried to get Bill to see it, but he could be the most stubborn man ever born. Excuse me. I want to get another drink before dinner.”
“Interesting,” George said. “I assume you’ve come up with your own thoughts about Ms. Saison’s character.”
“Not yet,” I said. “She seems pleasant enough. Mr. Grosso is right. I’d have to know a lot more about growing grapes and making wine to make that sort of judgment. I—”
Mercedes entered the room and announced in a distinctly unwelcoming voice, “Dinner is served!”
Chapter Fourteen
We were spread out at the dining room table, which left plenty of space between us. George was to my right, Wade Grosso to my left. Directly across was Laura Ladington, whose uncommunicative solemnity hadn’t changed. Her husband, Bruce, tried to engage her in small talk but she managed only an occasional grunt and nod of the head. I felt sorry for both of them. She was a pretty young woman, but much of her natural attractiveness was lost in what seemed to be a pervasive depression. Her light blue eyes were lifeless and dull. She seemed to be a dreadfully unhappy person, which must be difficult for her husband to cope with.
Tennessee sat at the head of the table where her husband had been the previous day. Conversation during the early portion of dinner, which we were told had been cooked by Mercedes and was being served by Consuela and Fidel—a tomato and onion salad, pot roast, glazed carrots, thin home fries, and raspberry pie for dessert—was directed by Tennessee, who spent most of it complaining about how much work would be involved in settling her husband’s estate. “He wasn’t very organized, you know. He never changed his will after his fourth divorce, although Lord knows I urged him to hundreds of times. It isn’t fair to those who have to wade through everything when a disorganized person dies.”
It seemed to me from my observation of Bill Ladington that he was an extremely organized man. I mentioned that.
Tennessee answered me in a tone usually reserved for a teacher correcting a slow student. “Bill could show many sides to many different people, Mrs. Fletcher. He certainly was organized when it came to his business. When it involved his personal life, he was—”
“Go ahead and say it,” Stockdale said. “When it came to his personal life, William H. Ladington was a mess.” He looked to me and quickly added, “I speak from experience, Mrs. Fletcher. Supposedly, I handle the vineyard’s business and finances. But Bill brought me into his personal affairs on a regular basis. I told him as recently as a few days ago that he should update his will. His answer was to wave his hand and say he’d get to it. He never did.”
“If I’m out of line asking about his will, please say so,” I said. “Who benefits from the existing, out-of-date will?”
“His fourth wife,” Tennessee responded. “Isn’t that wonderful? My attorney says I have every right to fight it. Obviously, Bill didn’t intend for anything to go to her.” Was she about to cry? She didn’t, saying in a voice tinged with exaggerated sweetness, “Of course, Bruce here is in that will, aren’t you Bruce, dear?”
“Dad left me a little.”
“The lawyers will sort this out,” Stockdale said.
“And take their huge fees,” Tennessee said.
Edith Saison, who’d sat silently during this conversation, suddenly spoke up. “His intentions were very clear,” Edith said. “He wanted our partnership to survive, wanted this winery to continue under his name—and under my leadership.”
“Rubbish!” Tennessee said.
“Any word on when the autopsy will be completed?” Stockdale asked, more to head off further confrontation between the two women than because he cared.
“No, but it can’t be soon enough,” Tennessee answered. “Bill always said he wanted immediate cremation, and that’s what he’ll have.”
“No service?” Bruce asked.
“If you
“Interesting,” George said. “I assume you’ve come up with your own thoughts about Ms. Saison’s character.”
“Not yet,” I said. “She seems pleasant enough. Mr. Grosso is right. I’d have to know a lot more about growing grapes and making wine to make that sort of judgment. I—”
Mercedes entered the room and announced in a distinctly unwelcoming voice, “Dinner is served!”
Chapter Fourteen
We were spread out at the dining room table, which left plenty of space between us. George was to my right, Wade Grosso to my left. Directly across was Laura Ladington, whose uncommunicative solemnity hadn’t changed. Her husband, Bruce, tried to engage her in small talk but she managed only an occasional grunt and nod of the head. I felt sorry for both of them. She was a pretty young woman, but much of her natural attractiveness was lost in what seemed to be a pervasive depression. Her light blue eyes were lifeless and dull. She seemed to be a dreadfully unhappy person, which must be difficult for her husband to cope with.
Tennessee sat at the head of the table where her husband had been the previous day. Conversation during the early portion of dinner, which we were told had been cooked by Mercedes and was being served by Consuela and Fidel—a tomato and onion salad, pot roast, glazed carrots, thin home fries, and raspberry pie for dessert—was directed by Tennessee, who spent most of it complaining about how much work would be involved in settling her husband’s estate. “He wasn’t very organized, you know. He never changed his will after his fourth divorce, although Lord knows I urged him to hundreds of times. It isn’t fair to those who have to wade through everything when a disorganized person dies.”
It seemed to me from my observation of Bill Ladington that he was an extremely organized man. I mentioned that.
Tennessee answered me in a tone usually reserved for a teacher correcting a slow student. “Bill could show many sides to many different people, Mrs. Fletcher. He certainly was organized when it came to his business. When it involved his personal life, he was—”
“Go ahead and say it,” Stockdale said. “When it came to his personal life, William H. Ladington was a mess.” He looked to me and quickly added, “I speak from experience, Mrs. Fletcher. Supposedly, I handle the vineyard’s business and finances. But Bill brought me into his personal affairs on a regular basis. I told him as recently as a few days ago that he should update his will. His answer was to wave his hand and say he’d get to it. He never did.”
“If I’m out of line asking about his will, please say so,” I said. “Who benefits from the existing, out-of-date will?”
“His fourth wife,” Tennessee responded. “Isn’t that wonderful? My attorney says I have every right to fight it. Obviously, Bill didn’t intend for anything to go to her.” Was she about to cry? She didn’t, saying in a voice tinged with exaggerated sweetness, “Of course, Bruce here is in that will, aren’t you Bruce, dear?”
“Dad left me a little.”
“The lawyers will sort this out,” Stockdale said.
“And take their huge fees,” Tennessee said.
Edith Saison, who’d sat silently during this conversation, suddenly spoke up. “His intentions were very clear,” Edith said. “He wanted our partnership to survive, wanted this winery to continue under his name—and under my leadership.”
“Rubbish!” Tennessee said.
“Any word on when the autopsy will be completed?” Stockdale asked, more to head off further confrontation between the two women than because he cared.
“No, but it can’t be soon enough,” Tennessee answered. “Bill always said he wanted immediate cremation, and that’s what he’ll have.”
“No service?” Bruce asked.
“If you
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