By Donald Bain, Jessica Fletcher
Victim within the Vineyard
Jessica Fletcher is traveling the Napa Valley wine state whereas doing learn for her subsequent ebook, and invitations her outdated pal, Scotland backyard detective George Sutherland to affix her at a comfortable mattress and Breakfast. No do they come than they locate the valley abuzz over the homicide of a waiter on the eating place owned by means of notorious ex-Hollywood heavyweight invoice Ladington. Ladington's blatant womanizing and involvement in a sour winery land dispute have already marked him as a doubtful character--and a potential suspect. but if Ladington turns up useless himself from a intended "suicide," Jessica understands assassin is at the loose--and with a bit support from George, she needs to try to bottle up a rationale for homicide from an in depth checklist of less-than-vintage suspects...
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Additional resources for Blood on the Vine (Murder She Wrote, Book 15)
It was a regular radio play for me from then on with sound effects and all. I saw nothing; heard everything. And I heard plenty. Raftner was speaking and his voice was soft, pleasant. “I heard about you, Armin—One Man Armin. Yes, one man—running a great racket; building up for this great racket until you became head of it. I thought Frank Morse was at the top. When he died I thought Gentle Jim Corrigan was head of it, and when he died—I knew the real head. The last man to be suspected because you built up the one-man idea, the working-alone idea.
And I made it—at least I was lying on my stomach on top of it. Getting inside was another thing. One leg at a time didn’t seem to work, but I finally managed to get on my feet, straddling with one foot on either side of the thick circular rim around the top of the neck. Why so fancy? Well, I wanted another chance to look inside that vase, with the flash directed straight in. I felt for my flash; the vase wobbled. I regained my balance, breathed a sigh of relief, then stuck my feet together and dropped right into that vase.
I have seen the real thing. Criminals turned into mad dogs by dope, murders and tortures, decent women leaving their husbands and children and walking the streets because of it. Young lives ruined, old lives taken by a jump from a window. Of course I couldn’t let lugs like Armin or Raftner tell me where to get off but when I reached Conklyn Lee’s old brown-stone front, I like to think there was something else beside that urging me—something of the crusader if you want to go DeMille on me. Lee let me in himself and I followed him down the hall to the library.