Trick or Treachery (23 page)

“That’s right,” Peter Mullin said. “Look!”

“I see her!” Beth Mullin said.

I turned. Standing there in the cemetery—almost floating was more like it—was Hepzibah Cabot, the Legend of Cabot Cove, only I knew it was the actress, Sophia Pavlou. I smiled to myself. “Good job, Sophia,” I muttered under my breath. “Go on now, walk away, disappear, the way I instructed you.”

She was gone.

“I told you,” Tremaine said, triumph in his voice. “Maybe now people will believe me in this town.”

“Oh, Dr. Tremaine,” I said, “I wouldn’t be too quick to claim credit for anything.”

I faced the cemetery. “Legend, come join us.”

“What are you saying?” Tina Treyz said to me. “You’re asking the Legend of Cabot Cove to join us? I saw her.” She turned to her husband, Doug. “I saw her,” she repeated.

“So did I,” he said.

I called again. And again. But Sophia didn’t appear. She must have forgotten she was to remain for a curtain call—to show up Lucas Tremaine for the fraud that he was.

“Well,” I said, “it doesn’t matter. I can explain. What you saw wasn’t The Legend. It was an actress I hired to play the part of The Legend. In fact, some of you know her, Sophia Pavlou. I asked her to dress up like The Legend. Her timing was really wonderful, wasn’t it.”

“Well, now, that certainly explains it,” Seth Hazlitt said. “Should put to rest all the silly talk about there even bein’ a legend.” He looked Tremaine’s way. “Should convince folks to stop givin’ you money, sir, for bein’ conned by you. Might be time for you to pack up your things out on the quarry road and find another place to hang out your bogus shingle.”

Seth drove me home from the Marshall estate. I’d been filled with adrenaline at Rose Cottage, but now I felt as though a plug in my body had been pulled and every ounce of energy had drained from it.

“You’ve got messages,” Seth said, noticing the flashing light on my answering machine.

“I don’t want to talk to anyone, Seth. I was going to make a cup of tea, but I think some brandy is what I really want.”

I poured a snifter for both of us, and we settled in my library.

“You sure put Tremaine in his place,” Seth said, lifting his glass in a toast, which I returned. “To say nothing of putting Mr. Warren Wilson in his place, too—prison.”

“I feel pretty good about it all,” I said. “I’m glad Paul Marshall wasn’t behind Tony Scott’s death, or Matilda Swift’s, although he wanted that formula for himself. I think that’s pretty obvious. Warren Wilson knew that, went after it, but got greedy. Maybe he planned to sell the trademark back to Paul for a hefty price.”

“Wilson thought he’d get Erica in the bargain,” Seth said, chuckling.

“Not a match made in heaven, Seth. But Jeremy might make things turn out all right if he and Paul can come to an agreement. After all, Jeremy has a stake in the company, and I think he might want to take on Paul’s daughter, too.”

I sighed. “This whole episode revealed a less than flattering side to the Marshall family and its business dealings.”

“Ayuh, that it did. Looks like Tony Scott wasn’t such a sterlin’ fellow either.”

“Well, he obviously was disturbed. A paranoid genius.”

“Clever devil, that Tremaine, with the dog whistle. Funny how natural things take on a mystical quality when you start believin’ clap-trap like Tremaine’s been handin’ out. Know how folks in town started thinkin’ that the clothes that have been disappearin’ from their clotheslines had something to do with Matilda Swift’s arrival here in town?”

“Yes?”

“Seems one o’ those runaway kids down at the shelter was helpin’ himself to a new wardrobe.”

“That’s what happened?”

“Ayuh.”

“But the dog whistle, and clothes disappearing from clotheslines, doesn’t explain why the phones became fouled up right after Matilda Swift arrived in town.”

“Had Phil Wick in the other day. Came down with the flu.” Wick is field manager of our phone company’s Cabot Cove operations center. “Said he hadn’t seen anything like what happened to the phones in thirty years with the company. Static just started up one day, then stopped as suddenly as it began.”

“Stopped the minute Matilda Swift died.”

“Just a coincidence,” Seth said.

I told him about the photos Richard Koser had taken of Matilda, and how she was an ethereal figure in them while all around her was clear and in focus.

“Just another coincidence,” said Seth. “Richard must have bought himself a defective roll of film.”

“And Erica saying she was mysteriously drawn to Matilda.”

A grunt this time from Seth, although I judged from his face that he was doing some serious thinking.

I said nothing, and we sat in silence for a minute.

“Well,” I eventually said, “I might as well see who called.” I got up and pushed PLAY on my answering machine.

The first message was from Joan Lerner, inviting me to another party, a post-Halloween, let’s-toast-the-solving-of-the-murder celebration. I pushed PAUSE while I jotted down her number, then pressed PLAY again for the second call.

“Mrs. Fletcher, it’s Sophia Pavlou. I am so sorry to have let you down, but I couldn’t help it. I was getting dressed to go to the cemetery when I tripped and fell. I broke my ankle. I spent the evening in the emergency room having a cast put on. I hope you understand that there was nothing I could do, and that I didn’t completely ruin your party.”

She hung up.

Seth and I looked at each other.

“She wasn’t there,” I said.

“Appears that way.”

“Which means—”

“Just as soon not think about it, Jessica.”

“I saw The Legend,” I said.

“So did I.”

In the next
Murder, She Wrote
mystery, Jessica encounters an activity deadlier than a little wine tasting in
Blood on the Vine
. . . .

My trip to California’s famed Napa Valley, home to hundreds of vineyards, was to be pure vacation. Not only did I look forward to seeing Craig and Margaret Snasdell, old friends from Cabot Cove who’d opened Cedar Gables, a lovely Band-B, there was the added pleasure of spending time with my friend from London, George Sutherland, a chief inspector with Scotland Yard, who’d come to San Francisco to address a seminar on criminal investigation, and who was extending his stay to join me for some relaxed wine tasting.

Unfortunately, this idyllic holiday turned into a murder investigation.

On my first day in Napa I was introduced to William Ladington, owner of Ladington Creek Vineyards, a charismatic older man who’d been a Hollywood producer before becoming a vintner. Oft-married, gruff, and controversial, he also owned a restaurant in town where a young waiter had recently been stabbed to death. Then Ladington was also found dead, floating in a moat he’d had built around his castle at the vineyard. An empty pill bottle, and an alleged suicide note, had been found in his study. His son, Bruce, was convinced his father had been murdered, and brought George and me to the castle to help him prove it. We found ourselves the first night there with Bruce in his father’s study.

 

“Are you sure we should be here?” I asked. “This is where he was found, isn’t it?”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Fletcher. He was found in the moat.”

George and I looked at each other.

“You said there was an empty bottle of pills on his desk,” George said.

“There was. But he was found in the moat. That’s strange, isn’t it?”

“Not necessarily,” George said.

“A bigger concern is whether the police will want to come back and do a crime scene investigation in this room,” I said.

“They won’t,” said Bruce. “To those clowns it’s just a suicide.”

Bill Ladington’s study was decorated, and furnished, as I would have expected it to be, a reflection of a larger-than-life character. But unlike his office, this room was more personal, a quiet refuge where he could retire and indulge in more reflective thought, read a book, think about things other than the day-to-day running of the winery. One wall was dominated by huge blowups of posters for the movies he’d produced, with dozens of photographs of him with recognizable movie stars interspersed between the posters. The walls were Southwestern tan stucco; the carpet, thick and plush, was a deep purple, the color of royalty. The cherrywood desk was easily twelve feet long, the large swivel chair behind it in tan leather. The wall behind it displayed stuffed animal heads—elk, tiger, leopard, and a half dozen deer. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases, an elaborate bar, and a tan leather couch and armchairs completed the room.

George went to the bookcases and perused what they held while I sat in one of the armchairs. The desk was immaculately clean of papers and other signs that a busy person had been using it. The only items on it were a fancy telephone with a dozen buttons, and a single black leather portfolio.

“This is where the empty bottle of pills was found?” I asked Bruce.

“Yes.”

“Was it a prescription drug?”

“No. It didn’t have any label on it. One of those amber-colored bottles.”

“The autopsy will determine what was in that bottle—if anything,” I said.

George took a chair next to me. “Your father had quite a collection of technical books on wine making,” he said.

“Dad was serious about making wine. Lots of people didn’t think he was, that Ladington Creek Vineyard was just a hobby of his. But he was determined to create the world’s finest cabernet sauvignon.”

“So he told me,” I said.

“The moat,” George said absently.

“What?”

“I was thinking about the moat where Mr. Ladington was found. Unlikely he would take an overdose of some sort of pills for the purpose of killing himself, then get up from behind his desk, leave this room, and go to the moat to die.”

“Exactly!” Bruce exclaimed, coming to his feet for emphasis.

“Who was here last night when he died?” George asked.

Bruce screwed up his face in an exaggerated attempt to remember. “Let’s see,” he said, rubbing his round chin. “There was my stepmother, Tennessee; Roger Stockdale, the vineyard’s business manager; the driver, Raoul; my wife, Laura; Wade Grosso, who runs the production end of things; Mercedes, Consuela, and Fidel—they’re staff; some of the vineyard workers who met with dad; the security staff and . . . oh, right, Madame Saison.”

“The French vintner,” I said. “Your father told me she was coming. They were involved in some sort of joint venture, I believe.”

“Yeah, something like that,” Bruce said, not attempting to disguise his displeasure.

“And security staff?”

“Three of them. They live in their own quarters at the back end of the main vineyard.”

“On the other side of the moat,” George said.

“Right, although one of them was here at the house last night. They take turns at the night shift.”

“The suicide note,” I said. “I assume the police took that.”

“Sure they did,” Bruce replied.

“What did it say?” George asked.

“I didn’t see it,” Bruce said. “They just took it.”

“Then how do you know it was a suicide note?” I asked.

“Because that’s what they told me.”

Bruce was called away, leaving George and me alone. He went behind the desk, placed his hands on it, and leaned forward, a chairman of the board about to break news to stockholders.

“You’re thinking?” I asked.

“I’m thinking that your newfound friend, Mr. Ladington, did not take his own life.”

“Based upon?”

“Common sense. Pretend I’m Ladington. Pretend I’ve decided to end my life by ingesting some sort of pills. I sit here staring at the pill bottle. Yes, I tell myself, it’s time to leave this world. I swallow the pills. Washed down with what?”

“Water, I suppose.”

“Was there a glass found along with the bottle?”

“I intend to ask about that.”

George came around the desk.

“I’ve taken the pills. Now what do I do? Leave this room in which I’m supremely comfortable, surrounded by meaningful things from my life? Why would I? Death by pills is a quiet, tidy way to die. If I were William Ladington, I would simply remain in my comfortable chair and spend my last few minutes on earth reflecting on what I’d accomplished.”

“Go on,” I said. “You’re making sense so far.”

We left the study, walked down the long hallway, stepped outside, and went to the edge of the moat Ladington had had dug, one of many signs of his well-known paranoia. We looked down into the brackish water.

“How deep is it?” George asked.

“I have no idea, although it looks deeper than when I first saw it yesterday.”

George nodded, took his pipe from his tweed jacket, and went through the ritual of filling and lighting it. The smoke that drifted in my direction smelled good. I turned and looked into the distance.

“That’s Halton Mountain,” I said.

George looked to what I was seeing. “Is that part of the vineyard?” he asked.

“No, but it might have something to do with Bill Ladington’s death—if it was murder.”

“How so?”

“There’s evidently a dispute over ownership of land on that mountain. Ladington explained to me that vines thrive in rocky, pitched hill-sides. Margaret and Craig Snasdell told me Halton Mountain is considered the most perfect grape-growing land in the whole valley. There’s almost a mystical reverence for it.”

“Did Ladington own part of it?”

“I’m not sure of the details, but I don’t believe he did. He certainly wanted to own it.”

“Along with someone else, I take it.”

“His neighbor, Robert Jenkins, has been fighting with Ladington for quite some time, I’m told.”

George grunted and drew on his pipe.