Blood on the Vine Read Online Free PDF Page A

of the country. Then again, London has always appealed, too. But thoughts of leaving the town I love so much have always been just that, pleasant, fanciful thoughts, moments of idle daydreaming, what-if exercises.
    An hour later we had passed from the congestion of lower Marin County into the beautiful and unique farmland that is California’s famed wine country. I looked out over tree-topped mountains and luxurious valleys, with thousands of acres of tilled fields creating what looked like giant quilts. We followed Route 101 to a town called Petaluma, then headed east on Route 116, which took us across the southern end of the Sonoma Valley, one of Northern California’s five primary wine districts, or appellations. Each appellation has a different topography, climate, and soil, which gives the grapes grown in those areas their own special properties. The Sonoma Valley dates back earlier than Napa, but the wines produced in Napa Valley have become more popular over the years, perhaps because of the more favorable conditions, but more likely due to aggressive marketing.
    “It’s such an unusual landscape,” I said to Harry. We’d been chatting throughout the trip, and he demonstrated knowledge not only of the wine country, but also of the wine-making process.
    “Yes, it is,” he said over his shoulder. “All the trellising gives it a different look. I’ve always found it interesting, Mrs. Fletcher, how the early settlers came here and realized conditions were perfect for making wine. And it hasn’t been that long, you know. Thirty-five years ago there were only something like twenty-five wineries in all of Napa Valley. Last count, I think, there were about a hundred and sixty-five, and the state of California must have more than seven hundred by now.”
    “Funny,” I said, “but I tend to think of wineries as being small businesses. Obviously, it’s big business in California.”
    “It certainly is,” said Harry. “Ranks right up there with making movies.”
    “Those early settlers who established the first vineyards must have been rugged individualists,” I said. “You have to have a lot of faith to take a patch of land and plant grapes on it, then hope Mother Nature will be good to you before it’s time to harvest them and turn them into a wine that people will like and buy.”
    “I suppose so,” he said. “Lots of faith—and lots of money.”
    We both laughed.
    “Do you know anything about Ladington Creek wine?” I asked.
    “They produce very good wines,” Harry said. “My wife and I enjoy a bottle of Ladington Creek cabernet on special occasions.”
    “I understand there’s been some excitement in Napa the past month.”
    “You mean the murder.”
    “Yes. What have you heard about it?”
    “Just what I’ve read in the papers, and that isn’t much. I suppose you’re interested in it because you’re a mystery writer.”
    “No, not at all. But since I’ll be spending a week here it caught my attention.”
    Eventually, we ended up on Route 12, and not long after that we entered the city of Napa. I handed Harry a map the Snasdells had sent me, and after one false turn we pulled up in front of 486 Coombs Street, the bed-and-breakfast my friends from Cabot Cove had traveled three thousand miles to buy. The impressive house was set back from the road with a brick pathway leading to a front door covered by a portico supported by six white columns. To the left was a flagstone circle containing curved stone benches and a bird-bath. Parking for four cars was located to the right of the house.
    “Nice place to spend a week,” Harry said.
    “It’s charming, isn’t it?” I said. “Picture perfect.”
    Harry got out and took my luggage from the trunk. I stepped from the car and stretched against a knot in my back. The sun warmed my face—the temperature was in the seventies—and a slight breeze ruffled my hair. “I’ll bring these right inside for you,” Harry said, picking up my two