its crest. “That’s Howell Mountain. It’s almost as good as Halton.”
“Why aren’t there vineyards on Halton Mountain?” I asked, returning my attention to the bare hillside.
“There will be, Jessica,” he said sternly. “There will be.”
I pointed in the direction of another vineyard that seemed to butt up to the southern edge of Ladington Creek. The trellises were different from those on the Ladington property. “Is that your land, too?” I asked.
“No. It belongs to a rotten SOB named Jenkins.”
“I take it you and Mr. Jenkins aren’t friends.”
“I’d like to see him dead. That’s how friendly we are. Talking about Robert Jenkins just sets my blood pressure off, and it’s high enough as it is. Come on inside and meet some of my people.”
Some of my people. This was an arrogant man used to being in control of his world, including its human inhabitants.
The dining room easily accommodated a table with thirty chairs, as well as massive pieces of furniture along the walls. I noticed that seven places had been set for lunch, all at one end of the table. There were three chairs on each side of the table, and one at the end that was more of a throne, obviously Ladington’s place of honor.
There were two people in the dining room when we entered, a short, chubby man whom I judged to be in his late forties and a woman a foot taller than he. Her brunette hair hung loosely over her cheeks and neck. She wore a loose-fitting, ankle-length, multicolored dress that would have looked very much at home on a Caribbean beach. Although they stood together at the far end of the room, their body language said all was not well between them. The woman kept her back to us.
“Hi, Dad,” the man said, smiling and quickly circumventing the table.
“Hello, Bruce,” Ladington said.
Bruce extended his hand to me without any introduction from his father.
“I’m Jessica Fletcher,” I said, shaking a pudgy, soft, sweaty hand.
“The mystery writer?”
“Yes.”
“Jessica is joining us for lunch,” Bill said.
“That’s great,” said Bruce.
“You take care of that business this morning?” the elder Ladington asked.
“No,” his son replied. “I thought I’d—”
“I suggest you stop thinking and start doing. Go on, take care of it now!”
“Sure, Dad.” Bruce turned to where the woman continued to stand with her back to us. “Come on, Laura.”
She responded by giving us a wide berth and leaving the room. Bruce smiled weakly at me, mumbled something about being back in time for lunch, and left.
“Is he your only son?” I asked Ladington when we were alone.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
I didn’t comment on the callousness of the statement, and if I hoped he wouldn’t have more to say about his son, I was disappointed.
“Got his mother’s genes—that’s for sure. Weak-willed, half a backbone, no spunk.”
“What ah ... which of your wives is his mother?” I asked, knowing I shouldn’t but having decided that what would be considered inconsiderate to most other people probably didn’t apply to Ladington.
“Second, I think. Wasn’t the first—I’m sure of that.”
“How many ...”
“How many women have been Mrs. Ladington?” he said with a laugh. “Tennessee’s number eight. I finally got lucky and found somebody who wasn’t crazy or drugged or drunk, and who wasn’t after my money.”
Quite a testimonial to seven previous women, I thought.
“He married that pitiful excuse for a woman,” Ladington added, referring to the woman who’d just left. “Ever see anything so pathetic? Got the personality of a dead clam.”
I was spared having to respond when an older woman of Latino origin entered the dining room from a door at the far end. She carried a tray on which a selection of breads was displayed, placed it on the table, and left without saying a word.
“That’s Consuela. She and her husband, Fidel—like Castro—they help around the house, do some
“Why aren’t there vineyards on Halton Mountain?” I asked, returning my attention to the bare hillside.
“There will be, Jessica,” he said sternly. “There will be.”
I pointed in the direction of another vineyard that seemed to butt up to the southern edge of Ladington Creek. The trellises were different from those on the Ladington property. “Is that your land, too?” I asked.
“No. It belongs to a rotten SOB named Jenkins.”
“I take it you and Mr. Jenkins aren’t friends.”
“I’d like to see him dead. That’s how friendly we are. Talking about Robert Jenkins just sets my blood pressure off, and it’s high enough as it is. Come on inside and meet some of my people.”
Some of my people. This was an arrogant man used to being in control of his world, including its human inhabitants.
The dining room easily accommodated a table with thirty chairs, as well as massive pieces of furniture along the walls. I noticed that seven places had been set for lunch, all at one end of the table. There were three chairs on each side of the table, and one at the end that was more of a throne, obviously Ladington’s place of honor.
There were two people in the dining room when we entered, a short, chubby man whom I judged to be in his late forties and a woman a foot taller than he. Her brunette hair hung loosely over her cheeks and neck. She wore a loose-fitting, ankle-length, multicolored dress that would have looked very much at home on a Caribbean beach. Although they stood together at the far end of the room, their body language said all was not well between them. The woman kept her back to us.
“Hi, Dad,” the man said, smiling and quickly circumventing the table.
“Hello, Bruce,” Ladington said.
Bruce extended his hand to me without any introduction from his father.
“I’m Jessica Fletcher,” I said, shaking a pudgy, soft, sweaty hand.
“The mystery writer?”
“Yes.”
“Jessica is joining us for lunch,” Bill said.
“That’s great,” said Bruce.
“You take care of that business this morning?” the elder Ladington asked.
“No,” his son replied. “I thought I’d—”
“I suggest you stop thinking and start doing. Go on, take care of it now!”
“Sure, Dad.” Bruce turned to where the woman continued to stand with her back to us. “Come on, Laura.”
She responded by giving us a wide berth and leaving the room. Bruce smiled weakly at me, mumbled something about being back in time for lunch, and left.
“Is he your only son?” I asked Ladington when we were alone.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
I didn’t comment on the callousness of the statement, and if I hoped he wouldn’t have more to say about his son, I was disappointed.
“Got his mother’s genes—that’s for sure. Weak-willed, half a backbone, no spunk.”
“What ah ... which of your wives is his mother?” I asked, knowing I shouldn’t but having decided that what would be considered inconsiderate to most other people probably didn’t apply to Ladington.
“Second, I think. Wasn’t the first—I’m sure of that.”
“How many ...”
“How many women have been Mrs. Ladington?” he said with a laugh. “Tennessee’s number eight. I finally got lucky and found somebody who wasn’t crazy or drugged or drunk, and who wasn’t after my money.”
Quite a testimonial to seven previous women, I thought.
“He married that pitiful excuse for a woman,” Ladington added, referring to the woman who’d just left. “Ever see anything so pathetic? Got the personality of a dead clam.”
I was spared having to respond when an older woman of Latino origin entered the dining room from a door at the far end. She carried a tray on which a selection of breads was displayed, placed it on the table, and left without saying a word.
“That’s Consuela. She and her husband, Fidel—like Castro—they help around the house, do some
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