“Maybe we shouldn’t have come here,” I said. “We were supposed to enjoy a leisurely week together. Instead, we end up sticking our collective noses into what might be a murder.”
He laughed. “No,” he said, “I rather think I’d like to stay. Interesting group of characters, perplexing situation, many questions but few answers, and so much to learn about turning grapes into fine wine.”
“Have you noticed how everyone is acting?” I said. It’s absolutely bizarre. It’s as if no one has died, no talk of funeral plans, no grieving, except for Bruce.”
“Maybe they’re in shock,” he said.
“Or denial.”
“Or they’re all glad to see him gone.”
“What a sad thought,” I said. “I wonder—”
“Yes?”
“I wonder whether the murder of the young waiter at the restaurant Ladington owned is in any way linked to his death?”
“One of many things to find out while we’re here,” he said, looking up into a mixed sky, patches of blue interrupted by residual fast-moving clouds. “The weather here is like Scotland.” He exaggerated his Scottish brogue. “V-e-r-y changeable.”
Like my life,
I thought.
Later, we dressed for dinner in our respective guest rooms and met at the top of the stairs. George was wearing a handsome blue suit, white shirt, and burgundy tie. I wore a simple black sheath that I affectionately call “my traveling uniform.”
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready as I’ll ever be for cocktails and dinner the day after the man of the house has died. These are very weird people,” I whispered.
“Bloody bonkers is the way I’d put it. You look beautiful, Jessica, as usual.”
“Thank you.”
He held out his arm, which I took, and we descended the wide staircase together. I glanced over and saw the trace of a smile on his lips, which made me smile, too. He was enjoying this in a pixyish way, a side of him I found appealing, among many things.
It turned out to be a week I’d never forget.