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next to Craig’s book, silently apologized to my friend for being distracted from starting his novel, turned out the light, and snuggled in for the first of what I anticipated would be many peaceful nights in Napa Valley.

Chapter Seven
    I answered a knock on my door the next morning.
    “Someone here to see you,” Barbara said.
    “Thank you. I’ll be right down.”
    I hadn’t expected George to arrive so soon, although I knew he was an inveterate early riser. I checked my watch. Not that early after all. Eight o’clock. I’d been up for an hour, and after showering and dressing had been sitting by the window reading Craig Thomas’s book. Now, I stood in front of the mirror and fluffed my hair and scrutinized my makeup and outfit—heather tweed skirt, coffee-and-cream blouse, pale green cardigan sweater, and sensible walking shoes.
    I left the room, walked down the hall, and descended the stairs, stopping once to say good morning to a life-sized suit of armor guarding the first landing. I continued and reached the foyer, expecting to see George. Instead, another man stood in the main parlor. He was short, no taller than five feet, five inches, but he was solidly built with a short neck, and a chest that pushed against the front of his shirt and jacket. He wore a black suit, white shirt, and brightly colored tie and held a hat in his hands.
    My first instinct was to return upstairs. Obviously, he was not there to see me. I’d never seen him before.
    But he turned, spotted me standing on the staircase, and approached.
    “Mrs. Fletcher?”
    “Yes.”
    “My name is Raoul Sebastian.”
    “Yes?”
    “Mr. Ladington sent me.”
    “Mr. Ladington? William Ladington?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Why—why did Mr. Ladington send you to me?”
    “He wants you to be his guest at lunch today.”
    I wasn’t sure how to respond. After a pause that seemed endless, I said, “Why does Mr. Ladington want me at lunch?”
    “I don’t know, ma’am, but he instructed me to bring you to the winery.”
    “What if I don’t wish to go to lunch at his winery? Did it ever occur to Mr. Ladington to call and issue a proper invitation?”
    “I can’t address that, ma’am. All I know is that he’s expecting you for lunch. I’ll be happy to wait until it’s time to go. You’re due there at noon. We should leave here at eleven-thirty.”
    “I don’t wish to be rude, Mr. Sebastian, but I find Mr. Ladington’s approach to be out of line, even offensive. I have no intention of joining him for lunch at his winery today, or any other day for that matter. I happen to be waiting for someone to join me, and my schedule does not include lunch with Mr. Ladington.”
    Barbara had been standing in the dining room doorway, listening to our conversation. Sebastian turned to her: “May I please make a phone call?” he asked.
    “Local?” Barbara asked.
    “Yes, ma’am. To Ladington Creek.”
    “The phone is over there,” she said, pointing to the single phone in the inn for guest use. As he went to it, Barbara and I looked at each other, raised our eyebrows in unison, and moved a little closer to hear what he was saying.
    “Mr. Ladington, it’s Raoul. I’m at Cedar Gables Inn. Mrs. Fletcher refuses to come for lunch.”
    He held the phone away from his ear, and Ladington’s shouting could be heard across the room. Sebastian turned to me and held out the receiver. The look on his face was one of pleading. I crossed the main parlor and took the receiver from him.
    “Hello?” I said.
    “Jessica Fletcher?”
    “Yes.”
    “Bill Ladington here. Glad you can make it.”
    “Make it? No, I’m sorry. I’m not free for lunch.”
    “Nonsense! I’d like to meet you, get to know you, get your advice about something.”
    “I’m sorry, but I won’t be at lunch,” I said. “I have other plans.”
    “I won’t take no for an answer, Jessica.”
    I considered suggesting that since we didn’t know each other, his informality was annoying.