Blood on the Vine Read Online Free PDF

heavy bags as though they were empty and leading the way to the front door. He stepped aside and I prepared to knock when the door opened and Margaret Snasdell was facing me, a wide, familiar smile on her pretty face.
    “I made it,” I said, grinning.
    “So I see. My goodness, you haven’t changed a bit, Jess.”
    “You have,” I said. “California must agree with you. You’ve gotten younger.”
    “And you’re as diplomatic as ever. And don’t kid a kidder. These silver streaks among the gold tell the tale.”
    “This is Harry,” I said. “He drove me from San Francisco.”
    “Thank you for bringing this dear friend to us safely. Come in, please.”
    Harry carried the luggage through the open door to a large foyer with gleaming black and white tile. He put the bags down and said, “It was a pleasure meeting and driving you, Mrs. Fletcher. I wonder if I could ask a favor?”
    “Of course.”
    He pulled a paperback edition of one of my books from his jacket pocket and held it out for me. “My wife loves to read, and when I told her I’d be driving you, she gave me this to see if you’d be kind enough to sign it for her.”
    “I’d be delighted. What’s her name?”
    “Marie.”
    I inscribed the book and handed it back to him.
    “Stay for tea, Harry?” Margaret asked.
    “That’s kind of you, but I’d better get back to the city. There’ll be another assignment, I’m sure.” He thanked me again and left.
    “This is such a lovely place,” I said, taking in what I could see from my vantage point in the foyer, which included what Margaret termed the main parlor, a large room with dark paneling and dense, wall-to-wall raspberry carpeting. A small red couch and a window bench were in front of leaded windows overlooking Coombs Street. In the center of the room stood a table containing a vase of fresh-cut flowers and a guest registry. A chandelier hung gracefully above it. At the far end of the room was a fireplace flanked by high-backed chairs. Between them was a silver tray on a stand holding etched red cordial glasses and a pitcher. The overall impression was of a warm and inviting place from a bygone era.
    “Want to see your room?” Margaret asked. “Freshen up after your trip?”
    “Sounds like a good idea.”
    A woman appeared from the dining room.
    “This is Barbara,” Margaret said. “She manages the inn when Craig and I are away. Couldn’t survive without her.”
    We shook hands.
    “I’ve been looking forward to your arrival,” Barbara said. “I’ve enjoyed your books.”
    “That’s very kind.”
    “I was just about to take Jess to her room,” Margaret said. They each grabbed a piece of my luggage and led me up a wide staircase to the second floor.
    “We decided to put you in the Churchill Chamber, Jess,” Margaret said as we went down a short corridor lined with antique photographs to a room at the end. “We have two very special and, I must say, popular rooms—the Churchill, named after Alice Ames Churchill—this house was built for her—and Count Bonzi’s Room.”
    “Count Bonzi? Who was he?”
    “He lived here at Cedar Gables back in the twenties. I thought your Scotland Yard friend would enjoy that room. Some guests leave believing it’s haunted. It even has a secret back stairway. When is he arriving?”
    “Tomorrow.”
    “I’m sure he’ll enjoy sleeping where the count slept. Here we are.”
    She opened the door and I stepped into the Churchill Chamber, my home for the next week.
    The room was large and furnished with heavy, ornate furniture including a queen-size feather bed set between a thick, dark wood head and footboard. A gas-fired fireplace occupied one end of the room. At the other end was the door to the bath, in which there was a whirlpool tub large enough for two, framed with dark, aged wood, and a shower.
    “Did you and Craig create all this?” I asked.
    “Pretty much. We remodeled a room at a time. Like it?”
    “Love it. I may never