arrived.”
“Yes, I did. I’d never seen a real moat before.”
“Stupidest thing I’ve ever seen. Cost a fortune to have it dug. Made us the laughingstock of the valley.”
I started to say that I’d been told Ladington Creek had an impressive tasting room—I had a sudden urge for a glass of wine, alone—when loud voices in the hall caused me to turn in that direction. The dominant voice belonged to Bill Ladington, who yelled, “I’ll be damned if that mealy-mouthed low life is going to intimidate me. You go back and tell him I’ll break his damn neck if he tries it again.”
Ladington’s large frame filled the open doorway. He said to his wife in the same bellowing voice, “Jenkins is out there telling Wade he’s going to bring in some new French rootstock and plant it alone, no grafting to American stock. Damn fool will kill every vine in the valley if he does that.” He looked at me: “Tennessee take care of you?”
“Oh, yes. I had a tour of the house—the castle—and—”
“You hungry? I sure as hell am. Tennessee, tell the cook to get things moving. We’ve got a hungry guest here. Can’t have a hungry murder-mystery writer, can we? Where the hell is Raoul with those books? Bruce back yet?”
Ladington continued to bark questions and orders as he led me back to the dining room where his son, Bruce, and daughter-in-law, Laura, stood where they had when I first encountered them.
“Hey, Mercedes, let’s get some food out here,” Ladington shouted through an open door to an unseen person.
Roger Stockdale, the vineyard’s business manager, joined us along with Wade Grosso, who’d removed his rubber boots and replaced them with carpet slippers. As expected, Ladington took his place at the head of the table and we occupied chairs on either side. Tennessee sat to my left, the seat furthest from her husband.
A woman who I assumed was Mercedes appeared from the kitchen followed closely by Consuela. Both carried platters of food that they placed before us. One platter overflowed with meaty ribs and chicken glazed with barbecue sauce; the other contained steaming vegetables, a large bowl of mashed potatoes, and a silver gravy boat with extra barbecue sauce. I looked across the table at Laura, who looked as though she might become ill at any moment.
“Come on, dig in,” Ladington said, attacking one of the salads that had been put on the table earlier.
“Do you always eat this big a meal at lunch?” I asked, laughing.
“Always,” Stockdale said.
“Do you serve American food at your restaurant?” I asked.
“Of course,” Ladington replied through a mouthful of food. “It’s a steak house. Steak and lobster and chicken.
“The chef is Greek,” Tennessee said.
“But no Greek food,” Ladington said. “Not at my steak house. His name’s Nick. Never can tell what he’ll come up with for lunch. Ladington’s Steak House is the best damned restaurant in the valley. When Nick’s cooking for me, he keeps it simple, like ribs and chicken. He whips up lunch for us here at the castle, then heads over to the restaurant to make dinner. I’ll take you over there myself tonight, Jessica, let you see for yourself.”
“That’s kind of you,” I said, “but I have dinner plans.”
“With who?”
“Maybe Mrs. Fletcher doesn’t want to—”
Ladington interrupted his son with, “Don’t be telling me what to ask anybody, Bruce.”
“Sure, Dad, I—”
“Where the hell is Raoul with those books?” Ladington growled as he filled his plate with ribs and chicken.
It didn’t take me long to adapt to the conversational flow at the table, which was virtually nonexistent. Ladington pontificated while we listened. I asked a few questions early in the meal but soon stopped and ate in silence along with the others. Laura Ladington nibbled on a small piece of roll before excusing herself. “I’m not feeling well,” she said, which prompted Ladington to say when she was gone, “Of
“Yes, I did. I’d never seen a real moat before.”
“Stupidest thing I’ve ever seen. Cost a fortune to have it dug. Made us the laughingstock of the valley.”
I started to say that I’d been told Ladington Creek had an impressive tasting room—I had a sudden urge for a glass of wine, alone—when loud voices in the hall caused me to turn in that direction. The dominant voice belonged to Bill Ladington, who yelled, “I’ll be damned if that mealy-mouthed low life is going to intimidate me. You go back and tell him I’ll break his damn neck if he tries it again.”
Ladington’s large frame filled the open doorway. He said to his wife in the same bellowing voice, “Jenkins is out there telling Wade he’s going to bring in some new French rootstock and plant it alone, no grafting to American stock. Damn fool will kill every vine in the valley if he does that.” He looked at me: “Tennessee take care of you?”
“Oh, yes. I had a tour of the house—the castle—and—”
“You hungry? I sure as hell am. Tennessee, tell the cook to get things moving. We’ve got a hungry guest here. Can’t have a hungry murder-mystery writer, can we? Where the hell is Raoul with those books? Bruce back yet?”
Ladington continued to bark questions and orders as he led me back to the dining room where his son, Bruce, and daughter-in-law, Laura, stood where they had when I first encountered them.
“Hey, Mercedes, let’s get some food out here,” Ladington shouted through an open door to an unseen person.
Roger Stockdale, the vineyard’s business manager, joined us along with Wade Grosso, who’d removed his rubber boots and replaced them with carpet slippers. As expected, Ladington took his place at the head of the table and we occupied chairs on either side. Tennessee sat to my left, the seat furthest from her husband.
A woman who I assumed was Mercedes appeared from the kitchen followed closely by Consuela. Both carried platters of food that they placed before us. One platter overflowed with meaty ribs and chicken glazed with barbecue sauce; the other contained steaming vegetables, a large bowl of mashed potatoes, and a silver gravy boat with extra barbecue sauce. I looked across the table at Laura, who looked as though she might become ill at any moment.
“Come on, dig in,” Ladington said, attacking one of the salads that had been put on the table earlier.
“Do you always eat this big a meal at lunch?” I asked, laughing.
“Always,” Stockdale said.
“Do you serve American food at your restaurant?” I asked.
“Of course,” Ladington replied through a mouthful of food. “It’s a steak house. Steak and lobster and chicken.
“The chef is Greek,” Tennessee said.
“But no Greek food,” Ladington said. “Not at my steak house. His name’s Nick. Never can tell what he’ll come up with for lunch. Ladington’s Steak House is the best damned restaurant in the valley. When Nick’s cooking for me, he keeps it simple, like ribs and chicken. He whips up lunch for us here at the castle, then heads over to the restaurant to make dinner. I’ll take you over there myself tonight, Jessica, let you see for yourself.”
“That’s kind of you,” I said, “but I have dinner plans.”
“With who?”
“Maybe Mrs. Fletcher doesn’t want to—”
Ladington interrupted his son with, “Don’t be telling me what to ask anybody, Bruce.”
“Sure, Dad, I—”
“Where the hell is Raoul with those books?” Ladington growled as he filled his plate with ribs and chicken.
It didn’t take me long to adapt to the conversational flow at the table, which was virtually nonexistent. Ladington pontificated while we listened. I asked a few questions early in the meal but soon stopped and ate in silence along with the others. Laura Ladington nibbled on a small piece of roll before excusing herself. “I’m not feeling well,” she said, which prompted Ladington to say when she was gone, “Of
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