Blood on the Vine Read Online Free PDF Page B

leave.”
    “And miss all those good wine tastings? Why don’t you relax, Jess, unpack, and grab a quick nap. We serve wine and cheese in the den at five. You can meet our other guests then, and Craig should be back. We’ve made dinner reservations at seven. The Napa Valley Grille. The chef, Bob Hurley, is a good friend. His herb-crusted sea bass melts in your mouth.”
    “I have a feeling my diet is about to go out the window,” I said lightly.
    “No dieting allowed, Jess. This may be health-crazed California, but the rules have to be broken now and then. Relax. If you need anything, just yell for me or Barbara.”
    I explored the room more closely, then unpacked, hanging my things in an oversized armoire and placing folded items in the drawers of a chest. I went to the window and looked out on a large house next door that appeared to be empty. The sun was now behind clouds that had rolled in since my arrival. I felt a chill and examined the gas fireplace, figured out how to start it, and stood in front of it for a minute to allow its heat to wash over me. The feather bed looked inviting so I kicked off my shoes, pulled down the comforter, slid beneath it, and was asleep in seconds.
    According to my watch, I’d slept almost an hour. I freshened up, changed clothes, and wandered downstairs where Margaret, Barbara, and two young women who worked part-time at the inn were busy laying out the wine and cheese to be served at five, a half hour away.
    “Caught twenty winks?” Barbara asked.
    “Yes,” I said. “It felt good.”
    Cedar Gable’s den was an eclectic mix of high-tech and antique furniture. A large projection TV dominated one corner, and there was a shelf containing videos of dozens of movies for guests to watch. Comfortable chairs and couches were scattered throughout the great room. There was a fireplace and a grand piano, and three imposing black Triumph motorcycles, buffed to a mirror finish, stood amid the furnishings like in a motorcycle showroom.
    “Craig’s?” I asked, pointing to the cycles.
    “Yes,” Margaret said, laughing. “You know him, always has to have a project going. There was a Harley before these, and an Austin Mini he rebuilt. We don’t have a garage so they end up in here. They serve a purpose, though. They’re a great conversation topic. When men check in and see them, they sigh with relief that they haven’t been dragged by their wives to some frilly B-and-B.”
    I wandered around the rest of the downstairs, pausing to admire individual pieces of furniture, taking in the dining room with its long table exquisitely set, and a hutch on which books on wine and the region, colorful neckties and T-shirts, and CDs of local jazz musicians were for sale. The CDs were played throughout the house through small speakers in every public room, creative, relaxing music that added to the overall feeling of well-being. A male singer in the Sinatra vein was singing Fly Me to the Moon.
    “Who’s he?” I asked.
    “His name is Bob Dalpe. He did a few weekends recently here in Napa. He usually works the Compass Rose Bar at the St. Francis in San Francisco.”
    “I’ll make a point of hearing him next time I’m there. My kind of music.”
    Magazines and newspapers were laid out on a table in the main parlor. I scanned them until the front page of a local weekly paper that had been delivered that day stopped me cold. Staring up at me was me—my photograph. A headline beneath it read: J.B. FLETCHER, NOTED MYSTERY WRITER, VACATIONING IN NAPA.
    I took the paper into the den and showed it to Margaret.
    “That devil,” she said.
    “Who?”
    “Winston.” She pointed to the byline on the article—Winston Wallace. “I bumped into him at the post office and told him you were spending a week with us. I never dreamed he’d turn it into a story. Hope you’re not upset to be losing your anonymity.”
    “No, of course not.”
    Truth was, I would have preferred that my week in the Napa Valley go