by Janet Dailey
“Sam. Sam, I want to talk to you,” she called out and quickened her steps.
He stopped, throwing her a half-irritated glance. “I’m taking Kelly Douglas back to the Darnell place. I’ll be back in a half hour or so.”
“It will not hurt her to wait a few minutes.” Her response was sharp. Somehow her own temper had grown short. “Come inside.”
Her arbitrary tone stung and Sam stiffened under it. A muscle leaped along the line of his clenched jaw as he opened a terrace door for her and followed her inside. He stopped within the marbled entry hall and faced her, unconsciously assuming a combative stance.
“What is it that can’t wait?”
“I spoke to Emile -”
“And the two of you have reached an agreement. I know. I heard the announcement at dinner.” Sam didn’t try to temper the hardness in his voice, the memory of it cutting through him again. “You could have mentioned it to me before you told the world, Katherine. I think I deserved that much from you.”
“I had every intention of telling you. Emile and I had agreed that an announcement would not -” She stopped and impatiently waved off the rest of the sentence. “That is not what I wish to discuss with you. Emile told me a few minutes ago that you resent the idea of a Rutledge wine carrying the Fougere name. Is this true?”
“It is.” He started to leave it at that, then changed his mind. “Frankly, Katherine, I don’t understand why the hell you don’t. From the time I was a little boy I heard you say over and over again that one day the name of Rutledge Estate would be spoken in the same breath with Petrus, Mouton-Rothschild, and Margaux. You devoted your whole life to that. The vines, the grapes, the wine – nothing else mattered to you. Now it’s over. Gone.” He looked at her and shook his head. “There is no Rutledge Estate anymore, not after tonight. Only Fougere-Rutledge, or Rutledge-Fougere. But no Rutledge Estate.”
“And that matters to you.” She wore a strange expression as she searched his face.
A short, bitter laugh escaped him. “My God, Katherine, I’m a Rutledge. We all have wine in our veins, not blood.” He turned and walked off, leaving her standing in the hall.
When Kelly came out of the house, she expected to see Sam’s Jeep parked in the circular drive. But he was standing next to a Jaguar convertible, painted an English racing green. Reaching down, he opened the passenger door for her.
“Now this looks like the car a successful vintner would drive,” she said in a half-jesting voice.
“I bring it out whenever I want to impress someone.” He waited until she was seated and her skirt was out of the way, then pushed the door shut.
“I’m impressed,” Kelly assured him as he walked around to the driver’s side.
“Good.” He opened his door, keys in hand. “If you want, I can put the top up.”
She shook her head. “It’s a beautiful night. Leave it down.” The wind and noise would mean less conversation during the ride; Kelly preferred that.
Once away from the house and its shine of lights, Kelly saw the stars were out and a half-moon rode high in the night sky. There was little traffic on Silverado Trail. The sports car zipped along it, handling its curves effortlessly. The wind tunneled in the car’s open sides, bringing the muffled roar of the engine and the smells of the valley. She turned her face into the rush of air and let it blow over her, not thinking, not feeling.
Soon, the car slowed and Sam turned off the highway onto a side road that would take them into the outskirts of St. Helena. The last two miles went fast. Kelly almost regretted it when he pulled into the driveway and stopped, switching off the engine and the lights.
“That didn’t take long.” He turned in the seat to face her, laying an arm along the back of it.
“Not long at all.” She unfastened her seat belt and started to reach for the door handle to make her escape. “Thanks for the ride. I -” She caught the faint sound of music drifting across the still night air and paused to listen, trapped by the familiar sound of it, the memories of all other times she’d heard it. “Spanish guitars,” she murmured.
Sam lifted his head to listen for an instant. “Some migrant workers must be camped nearby.”
“I guess,” she agreed softly, still intent on the intricate play of notes.
“How much longer will you be staying?” He hadn’t meant to ask that.
“I leave tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow?” His brow furrowed in surprise. “I thought you were going to be here a few more days yet.”
“The others are. They have more scenes of the valley they need to get. The migrant workers in the vineyards, the trucks mounded with grapes on the highways, the activity at the wineries during crush – that sort of thing, but they don’t need me for that,” she explained. “My job is done.”
“I guess this is good-bye then.” Sam brought a hand to her face, skimming the wisps of dark hair back with his fingers, then fitting his hand to the slope of her neck, stroking the line of her jaw with his thumb.
“I guess it is.” Her voice was a little breathy, not as steady as she wanted it to be with his eyes on her.
She saw the change in them, the deepening of them, the darkening. Emotion swarmed through her, stirring up again all those needs. She raised a hand to his wrist, telling herself she didn’t want this, but that was a lie. She did.
Still Kelly murmured, “I have to pack yet. I should go in.” But she didn’t pull away from him.
“You should,” he agreed and leaned closer, his free hand sliding up her throat to frame her face.
Beneath his thumb, he could feel the fast thud of her pulse, a match to his own. It, and her stillness, were the only encouragement he needed.
Gently Sam rubbed his lips across hers, creating a moist, delectable friction. It warmed him; it warmed her as her mouth moved against his in tentative answer. He wanted more and took it, pulling her closer, his fingers in her hair, plucking pins and dragging down barriers better kept up.
Sam didn’t know when her lips had parted, when their tongues had come into play, but he knew she tasted fresh and clean, like rainwater. He knew he could drink and never get enough. But the need was there to try, hot like the night, like the distant throbbing notes of a Spanish guitar – like the demanding pressure of her mouth against his. Yet, at the core of all that heat, he sensed he would find peace.
Drawing back, Kelly let her head dip down to avoid his searching glance while she fought through a storm of useless longings. She was leaving in the morning. Nothing would come of this; nothing could.
She breathed in deeply, inhaling all the warm, earthy scents she identified with him. She had slid her hands inside his jacket. She left them there a moment to steady herself, feeling muscle and sinew, the hard strength of him. It gave her the resolve she needed.
“Good-bye, Sam.” She got out of the car and walked swiftly to the house.
Sam watched her, not moving until the front door shut behind her. Then he opened his closed hand and looked at the pins lying in his palm. There were five pins. He curled his fingers around them again, then slipped them in his pocket and started the sports car, the growl of the engine drowning out the distant sound of a lonely guitar.
Katherine continued to stand at the window, watching the circular drive long after the Jaguar’s red taillights had disappeared. The party and her duties as hostess’ were forgotten as her mind went over and over her conversation with her grandson. The fire was gone from her eyes and her shoulders drooped as she leaned heavily on her cane, looking like what she was – a confused old woman.
“What have I done?” she murmured of the night.
Something moved in the shadows near the drive. She watched it with a certain vagueness, slow to recognize a man’s shape, and slower still to realize it was Emile.
What was he doing out there alone? Why wasn’t he with their
guests? Her frown deepened when she saw him swing onto the old bridle path and disappear into the tunnel of trees.
She had to talk to him. But Katherine stood at the window for another long minute while the thought gained sufficient strength to propel her into action. With her cane tapping the floor in sharp accompaniment to her steps, she left the front salon and crossed the marbled hall to the mahogany door.
Outside, Katherine cut across the driveway and the narrow stretch of lawn between the drive and the wide trail. The instant she ventured beyond the reach of the glow from the house lights, her eyes failed her. She had long known that she had difficulty seeing at night. Now the darkness seemed impenetrable, and she stopped, surrounded by it, black shadows blending together to form a solid wall.
Katherine hesitated, then started to turn back to the house. But she had to talk to Emile; the need had become imperative, something she refused to postpone. Hadn’t she told Kelly Douglas that she knew this old bridle path well enough to travel it blindfolded? It had been true when she said it, and it was still true. Guided by instinct, memory, and her cane, Katherine moved slowly and cautiously forward.
Gradually the sounds of the party on the terrace faded and the hush of the wooded trail closed around her. Twice Katherine thought she heard voices ahead of her, and stopped to listen. Each time she was forced to conclude it was the whisper of the night breeze through the leafy branches overhead.
A rock rolled from underfoot. She lost her balance and nearly fell, but the cane saved her, steadied her. She pressed a hand to her wildly thumping heart.
“You stupid old woman,” she whispered to herself. “Wandering about in the dark without a flashlight, you deserve to fall and break your neck.”
But she pushed on, although with considerably more care. The trail seemed much longer than it had in the light of day. She began to worry that she had somehow strayed off it. Katherine stopped more often to peer ahead, expecting to see the blackness broken by the gleam of the security lights in the winery yard.
Suddenly, there they were, winking at her through the branches. She drew a breath of relief, no longer concerned that she had lost her way. Only then did she pause to wonder why Emile had gone to the winery, and how he had known about this old bridle path. She mentally shrugged off the questions; she would have answers to them soon enough.
She moved on, confident of her destination now, the security lights serving as beacons to guide her. Several yards farther on, Katherine heard voices somewhere ahead of her.
“Emile?” she called in a questioning voice. There was instant silence. Katherine frowned, certain she hadn’t imagined them. “Who is it? Who is there?” she demanded, and received no answer.
There was a rustle of movement off the trail, but she saw nothing, only more blackness. Quietly she moved forward, listening intently for any other sound, an uneasiness growing.
At last she reached the light-bathed clearing of the winery yard. She scanned it without seeing any sign of Emile. Deciding he had gone into the winery itself, she headed toward the big timbered doors and blocked out the thought of her own ghosts.
A muffled curse came from the shadows at the building’s far corner. She saw the black shape of a man crouching low.
“Emile? Is that you?” she called out, taking a step toward him. The figure straightened abruptly, the head jerking up, his face clearly visible in the wash of the security light. Startled, Katherine stopped, demanding instantly, “What are you doing here?”
At the sound of her voice, he dropped the object in his hand and bolted, running into the darkness behind the building, the swift beat of his footsteps breaking the stillness.
What had he dropped? She started forward, then noticed the large black shape on the ground, nearly hidden by the building’s deep shadows. It looked like...Katherine raised a hand to her throat. Dear God, it looked like a body.
Inwardly Katherine reeled from the sight, and the images flashing through her mind, even as she pushed herself forward. It was a man, lying facedown, unconscious. She sank down and touched a black-jacketed shoulder. It moved limply under the pressure of her hand.
“Emile.” She choked off the cry in her throat.
He wasn’t unconscious. He was dead.
Katherine knew it even before she searched for a pulse. She looked up. Instantly she was gripped by something much worse than deja vu.
Chapter Fourteen
The pounding continued, loud and insistent. Kelly buried her head under a pillow and tried to block it out. It didn’t work. She groaned a sleepy protest before catching a muffled voice calling her name. She threw the pillow off and groggily lifted her head, pushing the hair out of her face. Her contacts were sticking. She blinked to clear them and cast a bleary eye at the window and the pearl gray tight of dawn coming through it.
“Kelly. For God’s sake, wake up!” The pounding came again at her door, rattling the solidness of it against the frame.
Kelly recognized DeeDee’s voice and called an answer, her voice husky with sleep. “I’m coming.”
She crawled out of bed and grabbed her silk robe from the foot of it, slipping it on as she crossed to the door, frowning in irritation. She hated waking up like this. She unlocked the door and opened it. DeeDee burst into the room.
“Hurry up and get dressed,” she said to Kelly. “We don’t have much time. The baron was killed last night.”
“What?” Instantly awake, Kelly again pushed her hair back.
“You heard me, the baron was killed, as in ‘murdered.”’ She walked over to the suitcase Kelly had packed the night before and began pulling out clothes. “A suspect has been arrested. The guys are down at the jail now. I talked to Hugh and he wants us to cover it.” She tossed a peach silk camisole trimmed with lace onto the bed, along with a pair of matching panties.
“When did it happen? Where? How? Why?” This was no time for modesty, and Kelly stripped off her robe and nightie, leaving them lying where they fell, and tugged on her underclothes.
“Last night. Not long after you left the party.” DeeDee pulled an oatmeal skirt and a gold blouse out of the suitcase and piled them on the bed. “Katherine found his body down by the winery. He’d been hit over the head with a quote blunt instrument unquote. As for the why, you’ll have to ask whoever did it.” She dragged a pair of panty hose out of the lingerie bag and tossed them to Kelly, then dropped a pair of beige heels by her feet. “A satellite van’s on its way from the Bay Area. I’ll get us some coffee and meet you in the car.” She was out the door, her long skirt whirling, the same one she’d had on the night before the party.
In five minutes flat, Kelly was dressed. She ran down the stairs to the front door, her hair loose and flying, her heavy canvas bag slung over one shoulder, weighted down with makeup, brushes, combs, and hairspray.
DeeDee was in the car, the engine running, when Kelly slid into the passenger seat. “Fill me in on the rest.” She balanced a mirror on her lap and began putting on her makeup, something she had learned to do quickly and expertly. “What was the baron doing at the winery?”
“Either no one knows or no one’s telling.” She reversed out of the driveway and headed up the street.
“Katherine has to know,” Kelly reasoned as she patted a matte powder over her foundation and blush. “You said she found him, which means she had to know he would be at the winery. It couldn’t be a coincidence they both went there.”
“Good point. But Katherine’s not talking to anyone but the police. I think she saw it. One of the officers on the scene all but admitted she’s the one who ID’d the guy they’ve arrested.”
“Who is he?” She traced the outline of her lips with a coral pencil, added lipstick, then went to work on her eyes.
“They haven’t released his name yet.”
“Until he’s formally charged, they probably won’t. It wasn’t someone fr
om the party?” She stroked the mascara wand over her lashes, darkening their brown color.
“No. The police questioned everyone before they let them leave. I got the impression it was definitely not one of the guests they arrested.”
“It’s the motive that puzzles me.” With nimble fingers, Kelly twisted her long strands of hair into a French braid. “Why would anyone want to kill Baron Fougere?”
“Maybe it was a simple mugging that went bad,” DeeDee suggested with an idle shrug of her shoulders.
“Robbery.” Kelly considered that without much enthusiasm.
“Why not? There’s an abundance of poor migrant workers in the valley right now.”
“I know.” But her instinct was to discount that.
There was no more time for conversation as DeeDee pulled up at the city hall building that also housed the police station and jail. Kelly counted at least three other television crews milling around on the sidewalk. According to the logos on the vehicles parked at the curb, they were all from the Bay Area.
Kelly spotted Steve and Rick off to one side and made her way over to them. DeeDee was right behind her. “Anything new?” she asked, a notebook and pen in hand.
“In a way,” Steve replied and gave a nod of his head at something.
Kelly turned as Linda James left her crew and came striding over, hostility in every line of her body. “What are you doing here?” she snapped. “I cover the West Coast.”
“We’re doing a feature on Rutledge Estate, where the murder happened.” She didn’t even try to sound conciliatory. It was too early in the morning and she had yet to have her first cigarette or more than a sip of coffee.
“Stick to your feature. I’ll do the reporting on this story,” Linda informed her.
“You do your job and leave us alone to do ours,” Kelly retorted.
Linda raked her with a scathing glance. “You can do it...for as long as it lasts.” She pivoted on her heel and walked off.
