Tangled Vines

by Janet Dailey

  She sprang to her feet. “You only gave me twenty dollars.”

  “So?” he challenged. “Where’s the food?”

  “Twenty dollars doesn’t buy much,” she protested in an emotion-choked voice, and immediately swung away to drag the wastepaper basket closer to the mess.

  “I am not stupid,” he declared as she snatched paper napkins from the plastic holder on the table and bent down to begin cleaning up the floor again. “Twenty dollars buys more than eggs and a can of chili.”

  “Not much more,” she muttered under her breath, thinking of all the nonedible items on her list, like toilet paper and toothpaste.

  “What did you say?” His voice was low and threatening.

  She froze for a split second, then answered, “I said I could fix you some pancakes.”

  “And burn them like you did the last time? No thanks.” Abruptly he shoved the chair back-from the table. Instantly she drew back, cringing away from him. But he wasn’t coming toward her; he was walking over to the kitchen cupboards.

  When she saw him opening a door and rummaging through the contents on the top shelf, she knew exactly what he was looking for – the bottle of whiskey she’d found earlier and emptied into the drain. In a panic, she bowed her head and concentrated on scooping up the mess, using both hands and sandwiching chunks of food and fragments of pottery between the paper napkins.

  “Okay, what the hell happened to the bottle of whiskey I had up here?” His voice cracked over her like a whip. She stiffened under it.

  “Bottle of whiskey.” She tried to strike an innocent note as she kept her eyes on the floor. She’d gotten up the worst of the spill; it would take a mop to clean up the rest. She dumped the nearly shredded paper napkins in the wastebasket and stood up, brushing at her knees. “Are you sure?”

  “You’re damned right I’m sure. I put it up there myself.” His eyes suddenly narrowed on her. “You’ve been snooping around in there, haven’t you? All right, what did you do with it?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t even know it was there,” she lied, and hurried on to conceal it. “But I did find an empty bottle next to your chair in the living room earlier tonight. It’s here in the wastebasket somewhere. Maybe you forgot you drank it already.”

  “I didn’t forget anything, I’m not stupid like you. That bottle was up there, and it was practically full,” he declared, repeatedly jabbing a finger at the cupboard’s top shelf.

  “If you say so, I guess it was.” She feigned an idle shrug and walked over to the sink. “Since you can’t find it, why don’t I put on some coffee.”

  She picked up the electric percolator and held it under the faucet, turning on the cold-water tap. He slammed the flat of his hand on the Formica countertop. She jumped sideways, startled by the explosive sound.

  “Don’t you lie to me, dammit! I want to know what you did with that bottle.”

  She tried to laugh off his demand, but the sound came out nervous and thready. “I told you I don’t know anything about it. I’m not lying.” She turned off the water and set the filled percolator on the counter. “Honest, I’m not.” She knew somehow she had to get him off this subject. “I have an idea,” she said brightly and headed toward the stove as she spoke. “Why don’t I fix you a fried-egg sandwich with cheese on it? Remember, you always said I make the best ones you ever tasted.”

  “I don’t want any egg sandwich with cheese.” Heavy footsteps punctuated his words. “And I don’t want any damned coffee!”

  Hearing the slosh of water in the percolator, she turned back. Too late she saw his arm uncock in an arcing, backhanded swing directly at her, his ringers clutching the coffeepot’s handle. She ducked and instinctually threw up her hands to protect her face and head.

  The heavy pot rammed into her left forearm. Something snapped audibly. Blinding pain shot up her arm, ripping a scream from her throat. She staggered backward into the counter next to the stove, then her legs gave out, her knees buckling as she sank to the floor. The jarring stop unleashed more pain until her head seemed to roar with it.

  “My arm,” she moaned and tried to cradle the injured limb. “You broke my arm.”

  “Too bad I didn’t break your goddamned neck.”

  The jeering voice was close. She opened her eyes and saw him standing there, his face all twisted and cold.

  “Come on, get up, you disgusting slut.”

  She shook her head, afraid if she moved too much, she would, throw up.

  “Get up or you’ll get more of the same, slut.” The threat wasn’t an idle one; she realized that the instant she saw him draw his leg back to kick her.

  She couldn’t take any more pain. She couldn’t.

  She lashed out with her foot, catching him squarely in the ankle. Off balance, he fell against the kitchen table, howling in pain. There was a crash and clatter of chairs falling. There he was, all tangled up in them, a steady stream of obscenities pouring from him.

  This was her chance, possibly her only chance to escape. Cushioning her broken arm against her body as best she could, she managed to get to her feet. She crossed the kitchen to the back door and staggered outside into the blackness of night.

  Unconsciously Kelly rubbed the forearm that had been broken that long-ago night. It had been morning before he had sobered enough to take her to the hospital to have it set. She shuddered when she recalled the long hours of pain she had shared with the warm night.

  With an effort, Kelly dragged her thoughts out of the past and focused on the taped interview. The past didn’t matter, only the present.

  Katherine had just finished speaking when DeeDee’s voice came from off camera. “One of your workers was killed by a freak accident. Would you tell us about that, Katherine?”

  It wasn’t unusual for a producer to interrupt a taped interview to ask a question of her own, but her choice of questions had taken Kelly by surprise. At the time, she had been too startled to catch Katherine’s reaction. Now, watching the tape, she had time to observe it.

  She went still at the question, then sent a glacial look in DeeDee’s direction. “That happened long ago. Almost sixty years now.”

  “But he was killed here in the cellars,” DeeDee persisted. “Did it happen near here?”

  “Not far,” Katherine admitted, her expression still composed in stiff lines. “It was a very tragic thing for all of us.”

  “What happened?”

  “No one knows. A barrel was found not far from his body. There was blood on it. The sheriff believed it came loose from the rack and fell, killing him instantly. As you said, it was a freak accident.”

  DeeDee sighed audibly when she heard Katherine’s response to her questions again. “I think we can count on editing all of that out, Kelly. No wonder you didn’t ask her about that clipping on the accident Research dug up. I hoped there might be an interesting story behind it. Ah, well.” She sighed again and rose up on her knees, pushing a button on the VCR and fast-forwarding through the cutaway shots.

  No comment seemed to be expected from Kelly, so she made none. DeeDee released the button, letting the tape resume normal play on a shot of Katherine in the bright sunlight, the vineyard in the background stretching away from her like dark green corduroy.

  Kelly heard her own voice say, “You were a woman in a business that was dominated by men. You were a woman in business at a time when a woman’s place was in the home. Yet you built Rutledge Estate. How? The obstacles had to be monumental.”

  Even before she heard Katherine’s answer, she felt the flesh raising on her arms. “There are always obstacles to everything,” Katherine replied. “You must either go around them, over them, or through them. If the desire is strong enough, you will always find a way to attain what you want. However, if it is no more than an idle wish without the willingness to strive, to work, to sacrifice to achieve it, then you will
only find excuses why you cannot.”

  Katherine couldn’t possibly have known it, but she had once spoken almost the exact same words to Kelly when she was an overly plump adolescent with glasses and stringy hair. She hadn’t forgotten them, not once in all these years.

  Yet, hearing them again, Kelly had the feeling she had come full circle – from the past to the present, and from the present back into the past again.

  Bright sunlight flashed on the collection of gray buildings of The Cloisters. The structures housing the winery and offices were designed with a monastic simplicity that gave them an imposing look of severe grandeur. Len Dougherty stood in the shade of the main office and gazed at the paycheck in his hand. Old Gil Rutledge had hired him to be a security guard and keep the tourists from straying into areas of the winery where they weren’t allowed. His wages didn’t amount to much considering the horde of tourists that went through The Cloisters every day, at five bucks a head.

  Dougherty folded the check neatly in half and planned on what he might do with it. Maybe buy some new clothes, or pay his back phone bill and get his number reconnected. He definitely wanted to get a big bouquet of flowers to put on Becca’s grave. She had always liked flowers.

  As he slipped the check in his shirt pocket, he heard the powerful puff of a Mercedes engine. Looking up, he saw the sleek blue-gray car Gil Rutledge always drove whip into the paved parking lot.

  “I wonder what his hurry is?” Dougherty watched the Mercedes skid to an abrupt halt in the reserved stall.

  Gil Rutledge charged out of the driver’s side and gave the door an angry push, slamming it behind him. Dougherty took one look at his face and knew the man was livid. But he didn’t stride into the office as Dougherty expected. He struck out across the lot, straight for the crimson Ferrari parked two spaces away.

  It was the first time Dougherty noticed Rutledge’s son had come outside the building. Rutledge intercepted him, stopping him from climbing into the low-slung sports car.

  Something was wrong. Dougherty could smell it. Worse than that, he had an uneasy feeling it had something to do with Rutledge’s deal with the baron. If it did, he had a right to know. He left the building’s shade and hurried over to see what it was about.

  “...he called me not thirty minutes ago.” Rutledge’s voice was low with fury. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me things were going sour? You’re the one who claimed you knew what was being said behind closed doors.”

  “But,” Clay Rutledge said with a stunned look, “it’s impossible. I played tennis with Natalie this morning. According to her, everything was fine.”

  “The hell it was!” Gil exploded, then broke off when he saw Dougherty hovering near the hood of the sports car. “What do you want?” He glared.

  “This is about the baron, isn’t it?” Dougherty guessed. “Your deal with him fell through, didn’t it? She beat you out of it.”

  “That remains to be seen,” he said curtly.

  “What about my money? I need it.”

  “I’ll tell the baron that. I’m sure it’ll make a difference to him.” His voice was riddled with sarcasm. In the next breath, he waved Dougherty away. “Go on, get out of here.”

  Dougherty hesitated a moment, then took off, making a beeline for the Buick he’d left parked in the shade. Gil watched long enough to make certain he was leaving, then turned back to Clay.

  “Dammit, I had that man in the palm of my hand. I know I did.” Gil closed his fingers over his open palm and shook it in emphasis.

  “What made him change his mind? Did he say?” Clay continued to frown in disbelief.

  “No. When I asked, he would only say it was a business decision. It was impossible to press for a more specific answer over the phone.”

  “I think I’ll go over there. Maybe Natalie can tell me what this is all about.” Clay reached for the Ferrari’s door handle.

  “Don’t bother. They’ve checked out,” Gil informed him tightly. “I just came from there myself.”

  “Checked out?”

  “Yes.” Gil smiled with cold anger. “The baron asked the desk clerk to forward his mail, messages, everything to Rutledge Estate.”

  Clay’s shoulders sagged. “You’re joking.”

  “Hardly.” He exhaled the word in a disgusted breath. “Only one person is doing any laughing right now,, and that is Katherine. But I promise you, it won’t be for long.”

  “What about the party tonight?” Clay remembered. “You won’t go now, will you?”

  His mouth curved again in a smile. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “You’re serious,” he said, realizing.

  “You’re damned right I am. And I want you there, too.” He jabbed a finger in Clay’s direction. “Get his wife aside. Katherine has poisoned the baron’s mind. Find out how. Got that?”

  “Right.”

  “I want this deal, Clay. And I’m going to get it. One way or another.” He stalked off.

  Clay stood beside his car for a long moment, his initial shock slowly turning to anger. This was all Katherine’s fault. She had made his life miserable for as long as he could remember. God, he hated that woman.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Frosted lights were strung over the terrace, forming a lattice like canopy that cast a soft glow over the entire area. Below, there was the gleam of china and crystal on white linen, the series of long tables arranged in a horseshoe design to accommodate the fifty-odd guests at the party.

  Torcheres blazed at strategic intervals in the garden, their flames dancing to the strains of Mozart that the string quartet played. Background music to the friendly chatter of voices. The atmosphere was California casual, Napa Valley style. The warm September night dictated the dress: lightweight sports jackets and open collars for men; dresses of chiffon, crepe de chine, and ethnically embroidered gauzes for women. The satins, taffetas, and lame were left at home, along with the diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, leaving a predominance of pearls, silver chokers, and gold jewelry for adornment.

  With the camera balanced on his shoulder, Steve Gibbons wandered through the throng of guests, capturing vignettes of the party scene. Kelly trailed after him, on hand to do the occasional interview and identify to DeeDee anyone of importance she recognized.

  The vast majority of the guests were vintners and their spouses, with a noted wine critic, a world-renowned chef, two reporters for the trade, and the occasional celebrity or two thrown in for variety. The spice, in Kelly’s opinion, was being supplied by the presence of Gil Rutledge and his son, Clay. It made for an interesting scene, all the players on stage at one time – Katherine, Baron Fougere, Gil.

  When Steve stopped to get a shot of a laughing group, Kelly let her gaze stray back to Gil Rutledge. He looked relaxed, completely at ease in his surroundings, the charm turned on full force as he indulged in the pre-dinner socializing of cheek kissing, glad-handing, and wine chatting.

  Kelly wondered what kind of comments they might get from Gil about Katherine. She turned to mention the thought to DeeDee – and found Sam Rutledge at her elbow. She struggled to ignore the quick frisson of response to his nearness.

  “Hello.” Kelly smiled. The last time she’d seen him, Sam had been part of the informal receiving line, made up of himself, Katherine, the baron, and his wife, welcoming the arriving guests. “All finished meeting and greeting guests?”

  “Unless someone decides to crash the party, the last of the guests has arrived.” Sam made another brief survey of her. The chamois-soft texture of the sand-washed silk she wore seemed to invite the stroke of his hand, the rich aquamarine color of it intensified the green of her eyes. Her auburn hair was piled atop her head, a few wisps escaping. Sam idly wondered how many pins held it in place.

  “You don’t really think anyone would crash the party, do you?” She sounded more amused by the unlikeline
ss of it than the likeliness.

  He shrugged. “You never know.”

  Sam could think of one – Len Dougherty. Although his foreman, Ramon Rodriguez, had mentioned to him just this morning that Dougherty was a security guard at The Cloisters. Sober, Dougherty wasn’t a problem. It was only when he drank that he caused trouble.

  Yet it was curious that of all the wineries in the valley, Dougherty was working for The Cloisters. Sam wondered if Gil knew Dougherty was on his payroll or if it was purely chance. He cast a speculating glance in Gil’s direction and took a sip of the iced Calistoga water in his glass.

  “Have you taken your plane up lately?” Kelly asked.

  His gaze came back to her, regret pulling at his half smile. “I’ve been too busy these last couple weeks to do any flying.” He seemed pleased that she had remembered his interest in planes. “I thought I might slip away for a couple hours on Sunday and put the Cub through her paces. I have a vacant passenger seat, and the view of Napa Valley from the air is a sight that shouldn’t be missed.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for it,” she replied with a quick smile and a shake of her head. “I went to an air show back in Iowa once. There were a couple of those small little biplanes in the show, very similar, I suspect, to the kind you have. They used them in an old-time barnstorming act, complete with wing walkers, mock dogfights, and smoke tails trailing behind them. I remember watching those little planes, spinning and diving, skimming over the tops of cornfields upside down. I have a fairly strong stomach, but I don’t think it could take all those rolls and dives and loop-the-loops.”

  “What if I promise to keep the wings straight and level the whole time?” His tone was teasing but his look was serious. Disturbingly so.

  Kelly found herself wanting to accept his promise and his invitation. That was impossible, of course. She was leaving tomorrow. She didn’t know why she didn’t tell him that; instead, she said, “Maybe another time I’ll take you up on that,” and instantly shifted the subject. “I remember the pilots of those other planes wearing goggles when they flew. Do you?”