Chapter One of Murder Will Travel

Half a dozen bottles of exquisite wine flowed freely, but the baby turned out to be the real icebreaker.

The infant was beautiful, even at twenty paces, peering out of her mother's arms through tiny dark brown eyes, her dark wisps of hair covered by a lacy little cap. When mother and daughter appeared on the edge of the patio, the group gradually hushed, as more and more of them became aware of the newcomers. Silence held for a few moments, broken only by soft classical music coming from hidden speakers.

"This is my daughter, Stephanie Isabella," Angela Rutledge announced.

She was their thirtyish hostess here at Villa Belladuce—slim and gracious and brimming over with nervous energy. Her own white lace trimmed a frilly high-necked Elizabethan blouse tucked neatly into a long, royal purple skirt. Sleek black hair fell forward in graceful wings as she bent down and dropped a light kiss on her daughter's head.

A rustling breeze crossed the patio, and the moment ended. In a gentle sybillant rush of oohs and ahs, five of the women descended on mother and child, leaving three bemused husbands to their own devices.

Lynne Montgomery was not one of those women.

Not that Lynne didn't like babies. She did indeed. She was a card-carrying, photo-toting grandmother herself, and had both met and appreciated six-month-old Stephanie earlier in the day.

Right now, however, she was working. These fifteen men and women were guests on the Sonoma Sojourn tour run by her travel agency, Booked for Travel. They had gathered here today from around the country for a week-long visit to California's premiere wine country, and this was the first opportunity she'd had to meet them all in one place.

Lynne had been systematically chatting up her clients for hours, getting a firsthand understanding of their special needs, foibles, interests, mannerisms, and awkward prejudices. She knew how crucial it was to get a tour group to jell, and knew also that you could tell in the first hour of the first-day reception whether this was going to happen naturally. If your group flowed gently together, or at least formed into a couple of comfortable subgroups, then you were more than halfway home.
If they didn't, you had a struggle ahead of you, and not a pretty one at that.

So far this group seemed to be coalescing nicely. The Sonoma Sojourn members had spread comfortably around the stone patio, clustered in small groups around dark green wrought-iron tables. A handsome young man tended the wine bar and an equally attractive young woman circulated with clever canapes, many involving local cheeses. An antique wine press, artfully entwined with dried grapevines, sat in the middle of the patio, surrounded by stone planters spilling cascades of pastel annuals. More planters were scattered artfully around the irregularly shaped outdoor room. The sweet and spicy scent of roses wafted up from the ends of the vineyard rows below the patio.

The group would stay here at Villa Belladuce all week, making individualized daily explorations around Sonoma County: wineries, golf, cooking classes, wineries, hot-air balloon rides, wineries, historic sites, mud baths, wineries, redwood groves, shopping... and wineries. By night they would visit a succession of fine restaurants, beginning tonight with the legendary Marino's, just half a mile down the winding country road. And throughout it all, the Booked for Travel clients would put away enough wine to float any of the funky antique limos they'd be using for tomorrow's grand vineyard tour. Lynne had led this tour several times, and knew that the average guest on the Sonoma Sojourn gained at least five pounds.

Villa Belladuce, their home base, was steeped in history and tradition. For over a hundred years, the venerable family-owned Sonoma Valley vineyard had survived phylloxera, the 1906 earthquake, Prohibition, drought and, most recently, the IRS. A badly-timed entry into the high-end bed-and-breakfast business and a dogged tax-evasion investigation had pushed the Belladuce debt over the top.

The new owners were Silicon Valley billionaires Jeff and Angela Rutledge. Angela Rutledge, now seated in a loveseat gently rocking that beautiful baby girl, had no interest in routinely hosting strangers at her home, and at first had intended to cancel all bookings made prior to the property purchase. Lynne had flown north in a mild panic to argue her case, taking Angela to lunch and systematically charming the young woman—who was almost the same age as Lynne's own daughter Jenny—into acquiescence. It was the sales job of a lifetime: part sympathetic fellow businesswoman, part entertaining raconteur, part career counselor, all seasoned with a generous dose of mom. In retrospect it was an absolutely shameless performance and it left Lynne exhausted. But it worked.

Lynne had convinced Angela that the B&B concept might be occasional fun, and because there were half a dozen posh cottages already in place on the grounds, Angela had agreed to honor Booked for Travel's standing reservation for the first week in August.

Now Lynne returned her attention to Ruth Atherton, 75, a widowed former teacher from Wisconsin who'd been reminiscing about a trip she had taken to this same area as a young woman, half a century earlier. Ruth hadn't sampled any of the proffered wines, because alcohol interacted badly with her medications.

Ruth picked up her mineral water bottle. "Calistoga. Is that an Indian name, Lynne?"

Lynne laughed. "Not at all. There was a fellow named Sam Branner who made a fortune selling picks and shovels during the Gold Rush. Then he developed the first spa in this area in the mid-nineteenth century, using the local hot springs, and patterning the place after Saratoga Springs, back in New York. The story has it that Sam was a bit of a drinker. Which is how he happened to say that his resort would be the 'Calistoga of Sarnifornia.'"

Ruth Atherton chuckled appreciatively. Though she was talking to Lynne, her eyes remained on her grown grandchildren across the patio.

"Your grandson's quite the center of attraction," Lynne noted.

Not surprising, really. This particular Sonoma Sojourn group was unusual in that so many of its members were young, in the same general age range as Lynne's own kids. The Atherton twins were only 26, and the trio of young women traveling together appeared to be just a few years older. They had homed in on Ryan Atherton immediately, a logical choice, Ryan being both cute and unattached, with a wide-eyed midwestern charm, soft brown eyes, and a shock of thick blond hair. His twin sister Kelly—who shared his wholesome good looks and had probably spent years of her life watching females goggle over Ryan—had broken away to fuss over baby Stephanie.

Ryan sat on the low stone wall that surrounded the patio, idly swirling a glass of Cabernet Franc and grinning appreciatively at something one of the Atlanta paralegals had said. Sara Connor, the dark vivacious one, perched beside Ryan on the wall, both of them with their backs to the spectacular panorama behind them.

A stunning expanse of grapevines spread out behind and below the patio, trellissed in graceful, undulating rows that hugged the curves of the low hills. The vines hung heavy with ripening fruit-pale golden green Chardonnay grapes, dusky red pinot noir, purply-blue Merlot. Véraison had come to Sonoma quite recently, giving the thick clusters of grapes their final push toward sweet ripeness. Sweet, of course, was a relative term here; most of the wine grapes that Lynne had sampled over the years had been puckeringly tart.

Sara's sister Ginger, a San Diego executive for a cellular phone service, sat facing the vineyard. Ginger was on her fourth glass of wine, and she hadn't taken any of the different offerings in minimal "taster" splashes, either, as had most of the others. It was a full glass each time for Ginger, who showed absolutely no effects of the alcohol.

Lynne, whose appreciation for fine wine had grown with each of the four years she'd led this tour, was keeping her own consumption to a minimum. This allowed her to maintain an informal tally of how much each of her charges had been drinking, information which would be critical once she began shepherding them around to different wineries tomorrow. Part of the appeal of this tour was that none of the guests had to do any driving and all could therefore get quite thoroughly schnockered. Lynne needed to know who'd throw up, who would pass out and who could put away a case without appearing more than slightly buzzed.

Hake and Heidi Sandstrom, so far making no effort whatsoever to mingle, seemed to fall into the case-capacity column. They were Texans, and Lynne knew she'd have a hard time convincing Hake to ride in the van with the masses. Hake was the kind of self-absorbed dictator who didn't let anybody tell him what to do, and his presence on this tour frankly baffled her. He was a partner at a major Dallas law firm, 53, driven and intense. Heidi, his 28-year-old trophy wife, was a classic beauty and former Miss Texas runner-up. Neither seemed the type to join in group activities with strangers, and neither objected—or really even seemed to notice—when Lynne excused herself to move on to Ruth Atherton.

"Ryan's such a dear boy," Ruth was saying now. "I raised them, you know."

"It's the first thing Kelly told me when she called," Lynne said. The second thing that Kelly had said was, She's dying of cancer. "She told me that when their parents died they went to live with you in Appleton."

"Such a dreadful thing, that accident." Ruth Atherton shook her head. She was wearing a wig and had penciled eyebrows onto skin left translucent by her most recent round of chemotherapy. "Both of them wiped out in an instant. The twins had just turned seven and but for the grace of God, they'd've gone too." Her eyes took on a faraway look of pain and memory and maternal sorrow. "But I've come to realize that there's something to be said for going quickly, without warning."

Just like Monty. Lynne felt her throat close and her heart constrict as she forced down the memory of her own sudden widowhood five years ago. She willed herself to concentrate on the job at hand, breathing deeply as she watched a longhaired calico cat saunter across the patio, jump onto the stone wall and disappear into the vineyard.

There was never an easy way to die, she believed, either for the one leaving this life or for those remaining to mourn. She had taken an instant liking to Ruth Atherton and appreciated her no-nonsense midwestern sensibility. She knew that it would be a terrible, heart-stopping loss for Kelly and Ryan when this anchor to their childhood was gone.

"Have you decided if you'd like to join us at dinner, Ruth? I can bring you back early if you want."

Ruth shook her head. "Actually, I was about to ask Kelly to walk me back to our cottage. These little cheese-puffy things filled me up pretty well, so I think I'll quit while I'm ahead. It's been a long day." She'd been traveling for three days, actually. Ryan had brought from Wisconsin to Chicago, where she rested for a day and a half in Kelly's high rise apartment before the three of them had flown into San Francisco this morning.

"Here, let me walk you over," Lynne offered. Kelly was leaning in close to Angela and her daughter, entranced. "She's enjoying the baby."

But Kelly Atherton sprang to attention when her grandmother rose to her feet, and was going to insist on taking Ruth back to the cottage.

"For heaven's sake," Ruth told her fondly, "I'm going to bed, not to San Francisco. Besides, I'm enjoying talking to Lynne."

And though Kelly didn't argue, Lynne was aware of the girl watching till the two of them were out of sight, as her grandmother painstakingly and deliberately used a handsome hardwood cane to navigate the path across to Tuscany, the Atherton cottage.

When Lynne returned to the patio ten minutes later, the group had rearranged itself again. This was an excellent sign. A certain fluidity in social dynamics would enormously simplify the week to come.

Maria Ambrosino, wearing a beatific smile, now held the baby and Angela supervised closely, with apparent approval. Maria Ambrosino was a warm, white-haired, pillowy woman, someone who would bond immediately with any baby, anywhere.

Hake and Heidi Sandstrom had not moved and nobody had joined them. Not a problem yet, though it could develop into one.

Kelly Atherton was still hovering over the baby, but Jessica Kincaid, the more quiet and reserved of the Atlanta paralegals, had rejoined Ryan Atherton and the Connor sisters at the stone wall. All but Jessica were now drinking red wine. The bartender came around at regular intervals offering new bottles, varietals which had grown progressively more robust through the social hour.

Meanwhile, her two friends from Floritas had returned to their husbands at a large round table near the stone wall and Maria's husband, Guido Ambrosino, had pulled a chair over to join the foursome and Eleanor Whitson, a Pasadena widow. Alice and Don Harper were traveling with Pat and Mark Martell. The two couples were regular Booked for Travel clients and longtime friends of Lynne's. Retirees in their sixties who had reaped the benefits of some extremely well-timed genetic engineering stock options, the foursome were enjoying their retirement with a vengeance.
Lynne stopped by the wine bar for a glass of the latest offering, a five-year-old Zinfandel, then pulled a chair over to their table.

"We'll have to have some kind of a party, Lynne," Pat Harper announced without preamble. "You didn't tell us the Ambrosinos are here to celebrate their fiftieth anniversary!"

Guido shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He shook his head and waved a hand dismissively in front of him. "No, no. We are just like all of you, guests on the tour." He spoke with an old-country accent and, of all the group, looked the most likely to have a vineyard as his natural habitat. In fact, if you cut out the others and got the light right, you could take a picture of him right here, overlooking the vineyard, that would make a fine cover for Travel and Leisure.

"Well, you're a few years ahead of us," Mark Martell told him. Mark was a pale man, neat and reserved and normally rather prim. The wine had loosened him up considerably. "Pat and I are just coming up on our fortieth." He winked at the Boston tailor. "And if these gals tell you they're going to throw you a party, you might just as well lean back and enjoy it. Because it will happen, I by golly guarantee it. There's nothing they like better than an excuse for a party."

As the bartender approached the table with a tray of clean glasses and a freshly opened bottle of a private reserve merlot, Lynne heard a car engine coming up the drive fast. She had a clear view down the path to the parking area and watched in surprise as a fiery red Miata squealed to a halt and a handsome young man jumped out, wearing black jeans and a butter-soft palomino-colored leather jacket.

Now this she hadn't expected. And neither, apparently, had Angela Rutledge, whose eyes opened wide and lips shrank into a tight, grim line as the man strode onto the patio, acting for all the world as if he owned the place.

"Having a party and I'm not invited?" he asked in a deep sultry voice, flashing a sexy smile that showed dazzling white teeth.

Not altogether unreasonable, that proprietary air, since Lance Belladuce's family had owned this place for over a century. Lynne had recognized Lance immediately. He was not a man that most women would easily forget. He stood insouciantly in the center of the patio now, his left hand resting on his hip, and surveyed the physical plant slowly and deliberately, looking up at the stone mansion, over toward the guest cottages, out across the rolling acres of grapevines. His thick, loosely curled jet-black hair was cut slightly longer than the current fashion, and his skin glowed warm and golden in the setting sun. His profile would have made a dandy ancient Roman coin, and there was no doubt that he understood he was one very good looking guy.

Lynne noticed she was holding her breath, and realized that all conversation had stopped.

Lance Belladuce was clearly enjoying himself. He sauntered over to the wine bar, glanced at the various opened bottles, and picked one up with a delighted grin. "One of our best cabernets ever," he announced to nobody in particular as he poured himself a glass.

Angela Rutledge stood and moved slowly toward him, her eyes narrowed. She walked with a slight limp, a residual effect of an automobile accident that had nearly killed her as a teenager. "Lance, I don't think—"

He leaned down to kissed her cheek and she shrank back in apparent dismay, bringing the back of her hand up to touch her cheek, brushing the skin distractedly as if to banish cooties.

"Angela, you look positively delectable. Purple is definitely your color." Lance turned his attention to Maria Ambrosino, holding the baby protectively. "And is this little Stephanie? Why, she's just the spitting image of you, isn't she?"

As he started toward the baby, Angela stepped into his path to block him, a mother grizzly protecting her cub. "You aren't supposed to be here," she said firmly. "I think you'd better leave now."

He threw back his head and laughed. "I'm being evicted? That's rich now, isn't it?" He swirled the wine, held it up against the setting sun, inhaled deeply and then sipped. When he'd finished, he offered a contented sigh. "Excellent," he pronounced.

For the first time he seemed to notice that the party had specific members, wasn't merely an abstraction. He looked around at his fascinated audience. "Angela and I are both forgetting our manners," he apologized, charm seeping effortlessly into his tone. "I'm Lance Belladuce, and once upon a time, I used to live here. And—" his eyes halted at Lynne and flashed recognition—" you all must be the Sonoma Sojourn Tour! It's Lynne, isn't it?"

Lynne nodded and stood, extending a hand. Angela Rutledge might be unhappy, but she had no quarrel with this handsome, cocky young man. "That's right. Lynne Montgomery. Nice to see you again, Lance."

He cupped his left hand over their clasped hands, his grip warm and gentle. When he bent down to kiss her cheek, Lynne offered it willingly. "Lovely as ever. Sorry I won't be doing the honors at the winery this time out, being persona non grata and all that, but I'm sure that Angela and Jeff will show you a perfectly splendid time."

Lynne could have sworn that Angela was ready to start growling. And then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone coming down the outside staircase that led to the mansion's second floor above the garage. He was moving fast, a gaunt young man with long legs and a gangly, disjointed stride. He wore belted khakis, a white t-shirt and wire rimmed glasses, sported an unruly cowlick and looked about fourteen. Lynne had seen his picture in business magazines, had always assumed that Jeff Rutledge would appear more stately and mature in person.

She'd been mistaken.

The legendarily shy billionaire electronics genius was walking so quickly he almost seemed to run. He screeched to a halt on the patio about six feet from Lance Belladuce, who'd been watching his approach with a bit of a smirk. As Rutledge glowered at him, Lance glanced at Lynne and winked.

"Jeff! Great to see you, my man!" Lance held out a hand in greeting.

"I am not your man," Jeff Rutledge replied in short clipped syllables, ignoring the proffered handshake. "And you are not welcome here. As a matter of fact, you're trespassing. These people are guests at a private party and you're disturbing them."

Lance clapped a hand to his chest in feigned dismay. "Disturbing your guests? Why, I wouldn't dream of it, Jeffers."

There was an element of little boys on the playground at work here, of neener-neener-neener and your-mother-wears-Army-boots. Somebody was likely to end up with a bloody nose and a session in the principal's office.
Time to get the Booked for Travel show on the road.

Lynne backed away slowly, working at nonchalance. Whatever was happening here had nothing to do with her or her people, and the smartest thing she could do right now would be exit stage right, immediately. She caught the eye of the waiter. He was also their driver for the evening, so that Lynne herself could drink with her guests. He'd be taking them down the road to Marino's for dinner at the end of this wine reception.

The reception, she realized now, seemed to be pretty effectively over.
Lynne tilted her head and rolled her eyes toward the parking area and the van. The waiter offered a quick nod of understanding, quietly setting down his tray and discreetly backing off the patio, pulling keys from a pocket and heading toward the van.

"Our dinner reservation's at seven, everyone," Lynne announced brightly, "so we'd better get going. We're eating just down the road at an utterly fabulous Italian restaurant. We'll go in two shifts in the van. Who's up first?"

Don Harper, a take-charge kind of guy, jumped right up. Don was bald and well-rounded, and Lynne knew from years of socializing with the Harpers that he let very little get between him and dinner. "I'm starving," he said. "Alice, let's eat." Don read voraciously and loved Calvin Trillin, whose book title he'd just quoted. His wife Alice also got to her feet, and was followed a moment later by Pat Martell, who murmured something about running back to the room for her purse.

Lance Belladuce, meanwhile, held up two hands placatingly and backed away from Jeff Rutledge. Rutledge seemed to take heart at his adversary's retreat, and moved forward in what he clearly considered a menacing fashion. He might be a geek, but he understood the mechanics and occasional rewards of bullydom.

"Beat it, Belladuce," Rutledge said. His voice was deeper and stronger than his appearance suggested.

"Oh, I can tell I'm not welcome, Jeffers."

Rutledge bristled at the trivializing nickname. "Just get the hell off my property. And do it now or I'm calling the police."

Lance offered a shiver of exaggerated fear. "Not the cops, sir, oh please, anything but that!"

The girls from Atlanta tittered and Lance cocked his head toward the sound. Now he slowly looked around at the others on the patio, his gaze lingering reflexively on the younger women. Even under duress, Lance took the time to assess them all appreciatively. He cocked a finger at Hake Sandstrom, looking surprised, and said, "Hey, sport, fancy meeting you here!" He winked at Heidi, then turned finally to Lynne. "So sorry to interrupt your evening, Lynne, everyone. It's been a pleasure, of course."
Then, as abruptly as he'd arrived, Lance Belladuce ambled off the patio and climbed back into the Miata. The engine roared into life and the tires spat gravel as he executed a snappy three-point turn and shot back down the driveway.

Jeff Rutledge turned and walked away, not even acknowledging his wife and daughter, leaving the patio as quickly as he'd arrived.

Angela retrieved baby Stephanie from Maria Ambrosino and suddenly everybody was very busy. Excited voices babbled all at one, folks ran to fetch sweaters and handbags and somebody knocked a wineglass onto the flagstone patio, where it splintered into a hundred crystal shards.

All content © 2005-11 by Taffy Cannon.