Read Blood on the Vine for Free Online

unnoticed, but it really didn’t matter. I returned to the main parlor, sat in one of the chairs next to the fireplace, and read the article. It consisted of nothing more than information the reporter had taken from the jacket of my latest novel, mentioning a few things about me and listing other books I’d written. The piece ended with a line that I’d be spending my week at Cedar Gables, owned by old friends from Maine.
    I returned the newspaper to the table and rejoined Margaret in the den.
    “Wine?” she asked, indicating the tabletop that offered a variety of cheeses and crackers, raw vegetables and dip, and bottles of red and white wine. Some of the bottles were labeled Cedar Gables.
    “Your own vineyard?” I asked.
    “No. Wineries custom-label wines for private use. This chardonnay is a favorite of mine.”
    It was a lovely wine, with a buttery taste that lingered on the tongue and ...
    I thought back to my evening with Seth Hazlitt at John St. Clair’s wine-appreciation seminar. Despite Seth’s cynicism about those who took wine tasting seriously, I was committed to using this week to sharpen my palate and heighten my appreciation of wine.
    I held up my glass: “Cheers!”

Chapter Six
    The Napa Valley Grille was everything Margaret had said it would be. We were greeted warmly by a handsome maitre d’ named Joel who obviously knew Craig and Margaret well. “He’s the best dancer in the valley,” Margaret said as the tall, lithe man led us to a table in a prime area of the restaurant. Craig ordered a bottle of sauvignon blanc, and we settled in for a leisurely dinner.
    “It is so wonderful having you here,” Craig said. He was tanned and fit, and wore a brown suede jacket, chinos, and a yellow shirt. “Brings back all those memories of Cabot Cove—”
    “And Maine winters,” Margaret added with a chuckle.
    “All in the mind,” I said.
    “The mind?” Craig said. “I felt those winters in my bones.”
    They recommended a special appetizer, breast of duck in a cabernet sauce, and we caught up on our respective lives, including mutual friends from back home. It was over endive and frisée salads that the topic of murder was raised.
    “Been reading about our murder?” Craig asked me.
    “Yes,” I replied. “Have you had any cancellations because of it? I understand your mayor is concerned about the impact on tourism.”
    “Our mayor,” Craig said, not attempting to disguise the displeasure in his voice. “No, no cancellations—yet. Our mayor is a good man with good intentions, but the notion that someone might be murdered on his watch is anathema. I suppose his concerns about what it might do to tourism are justified, but there is such a thing as reality.”
    “I understand William Ladington owns the restaurant where the victim worked,” I said.
    Craig and Margaret looked at each other, raised their eyebrows, and shook their heads. “Bill Ladington,” Craig said. “The original angry man.”
    “I thought he was a lover,” I said, “not an angry man.”
    “Bigger than life,” Margaret said. “And powerful. We’ve only run into him a few times. A big, gruff older man with a perpetual scowl and not a kind word in his vocabulary.”
    “Is he married?” I asked.
    “I don’t know,” Craig said.
    “Yes, he is,” Margaret said, “to a woman in her late twenties, early thirties at best. He must be close to seventy-five, eighty.”
    “What number wife is that?” I asked myself aloud. “Number seven?”
    “An honorable man,” Craig quipped. “Believes in the sacred act of marriage. No one-night stands for Mr. Ladington. I will say this. Ladington Creek wines are among the best coming out of Napa Valley. He’s got a wall in his tasting room filled with awards. Planning to visit him while you’re here, Jess?”
    “No, but if his wine is as good as everyone says, maybe I ought to do a little tasting.”
    “He’s got quite a place out near Halton Mountain,” Margaret said.