Tangled Vines

by Janet Dailey

  There was a light rap on her door, followed by DeeDee’s voice saying, “Kelly, it’s me. Can I come in?”

  Kelly shook off the remnants of self-pity and gathered up her defenses, squaring her shoulders as she swung away from the window. “It’s unlocked.” At the click of the latch, she walked to her suitcase and dragged out the thick folders on John Travis. “Hugh asked me to give you these.”

  DeeDee hesitated, then took them from her. “I’m sorry about this, Kelly. Hugh’s concerned about the show. A lot of jobs are riding on it.”

  “What’s one job compared to many? I can’t fault the logic of that. But this is my job. My career.”

  “He only wants you to take a leave of absence, Kelly. This whole thing could blow over in a couple of days and you’ll be back to work. You haven’t lost your job.”

  “And I’m not going to,” she vowed as she began to rearrange the clothes in her suitcase.

  “This has to be hell for you.” There was pity in DeeDee’s gaze. Kelly hated that. “What are you going to do?”

  She lifted her shoulders in a telling shrug. “I don’t know. Hugh wants me to disappear for a while.”

  “Are you?”

  It was a tempting thought. Only God knew how tempting it was. “Most of my life I’ve been hiding, lying, pretending. What has it gotten me?” Yet she felt trapped, restless, her nerves jagged and raw.

  “If you stay, it better not be here. Right now everyone thinks you’ve gone to visit your father in jail.” By everyone, it was understood she meant members of the various news media sent to cover the baron’s murder. “Once they find out differently, they’ll be camped outside.”

  Kelly had already considered that. “I’ll need the car.”

  DeeDee shifted the folders to the crook of one arm and dug in her pocket for the car keys. “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Kelly admitted. “Right now I need to think.” She curled her fingers around the keys, aware she held freedom in her hand. But was it freedom?

  The wind whipped at the pale brown ends of Sam’s hair, bringing with it the sharp smell of fermenting grapes mixed with a faint tang of sea air as it blew in through the Jeep’s open sides. The iron gates that marked the main entrance to Rutledge Estate were closed, barring reporters and camera crews from entry. Sam turned off onto an unmarked side lane before he ever reached it.

  Bone-weary from lack of sleep, Sam headed straight to the house. He left the Jeep parked outside and walked in the front door. The staircase was off to his left, making its grand sweep to the second floor. He angled toward it, intent on a shower and a few hours’ sleep.

  When he was halfway to the steps, the housekeeper, Mrs. Vargas, stopped him. “Madam is in the morning room. She requested that you meet her there when you returned.”

  Tired and irritable, he started to snap a reply, then dragged in a deep breath and said, “Tell her I’ll be there after I shower and change.”

  He went up the stairs and down the hall to his room. He kept his mind blank as he walked into the adjoining bath and flipped on the shower. Water gushed from the shower head, ice-cold at first then gradually warming.

  Without wasting motion, Sam stripped off his clothes and tossed them in a heap on the mosaic-tiled floor. He tested the temperature of the water. It was hot and he stepped beneath the spray, swinging the glass door shut behind him. He stood beneath the pulsing jets of water, letting them beat the tiredness from his muscles, the water sluicing over his broad shoulders, down his back and chest to reach onto his narrow hips and strong legs.

  Water pelted the tiled sides of the shower stall; the hiss of it surrounded him like the billowing steam. Cupping a bar of soap in his hands, Sam rubbed it over his arms and chest, working up a lather that the coursing water immediately washed away, leaving his tanned skin slick and glistening.

  As he ran his hands over his body, Sam caught himself thinking of Kelly and the way she’d reacted when she learned it was her father who had been arrested for killing the baron, the initial shock that had drained the color from her face, leaving her looking exposed and vulnerable, the way her hands had balled, into fists as she fought to control her emotions and face the onslaught of reporters. That had been much more appealing, in its way sexier, than hysteria or sobbing flight.

  Swearing softly, he lifted his face to the spray and closed his eyes, trying to shut her out of his mind, but he only succeeded in conjuring up the image of her sitting beside him in the Jeep, all that magnificent hair plaited in that damnable braid. He scraped his fingers through his hair, pushing the wet strands off his face. That braid had been like knowing she wore a woman’s lacy things under those tailored clothes.

  He stood motionless beneath the pulsing jets, his mind caught on that erotic thought. He tried to tell himself that he’d slept alone for so long that any woman could stir him. God knows out there in the Jeep he had wanted to take her in his arms, hold her, comfort her.

  But he hadn’t. He hadn’t because it wouldn’t have stopped there. It wouldn’t have stopped with a kiss either, and sex wasn’t what she had needed from him then.

  He hadn’t because he had never felt so damned protective toward another human in his life, even to the extent of protecting her from himself. It was a new emotion for him and Sam wasn’t sure he liked it, but that didn’t lessen the feeling.

  Ten minutes later Sam walked into the morning room, dressed in khakis and a chambray shirt, his face clean-shaven and smooth, his hair still damp from the shower. Katherine sat at the breakfast table looking fresh and rested, every strand of white hair perfectly in place. Only the faint shadows below her eyes indicated that she had been deprived of any sleep the night before.

  “Good morning.” Sam walked to the sideboard, ignored the silver coffee service and filled a glass with freshly squeezed orange juice. “How’s Natalie?” He pulled out a chair and sat down.

  With her lips curving in faint amusement, Katherine took a sip of her coffee. “Clay called an hour ago to make the same inquiry.” She lowered her cup. “She is still in bed. Mrs. Vargas took a tray up to her earlier, but she refused it. I suspect Natalie will spend most of the day in her room.”

  Whether from guilt or grief, Katherine chose not to speculate. Just as she had chosen not to speculate to the police when they had asked her why Emile had left the party and gone to the winery last night. But she had her suspicions. And fears. Both would be kept totally to herself.

  “Emile’s death has naturally nullified all agreements we made. Perhaps that is best. Our wines will continue to carry only the Rutledge Estate name,” Katherine stated. “There is a sad irony that something good can come from such a terrible tragedy.”

  “A very sad irony.” He drank down a swallow of juice and stared into the glass, his expression closed.

  If only he had let her know how strongly he felt about Rutledge Estate, she thought. If he had, she would never have gone to Emile, he would not have come to Rutledge Estate, there would have been no party, and Emile would still be alive. That was the real tragedy of all this. But there was nothing to be gained by dwelling on it, and Katherine turned her mind back to the present concerns.

  “Did the police indicate how soon they would be taking down their barriers?” she asked. “They have combed the area thoroughly. Surely by now they have collected all their evidence and have taken all the necessary pictures of the scene.”

  “I wasn’t able to talk to anyone. There was a mob of reporters at the police station when, I arrived,” he explained, then paused a beat. “They transferred Dougherty to the county jail.”

  “Yes, I heard on the radio that he was officially charged with murder.”

  He cocked his head toward her. “Then you must have heard about Kelly, too.”

  Katherine nodded. “The report made much of the fact Dougherty was her father.”

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p; “She’s one tough, gutsy lady.” He swirled the juice in his glass and watched it ride up the sides. “It’s hard to believe she’s his daughter.”

  “Guts,” she mused as if testing the word that sounded so strange coming from her. “That describes Evan Dougherty, her grandfather, very well. Her intelligence and determination probably came from him as well. The green eyes, the red hair perhaps I should have seen the resemblance, though it hardly matters.”

  “No, it doesn’t.” He didn’t give a damn who her parents were, but he remembered her wariness around him. Her father hated anyone connected to Rutledge Estate. Did Kelly see him as her enemy, too? Dammit, he wanted her to trust him.

  “Did I mention the weather forecast calls for showers to move into our area in the next day or two?” Katherine said.

  “That’s the last thing we need right now,” Sam muttered in frustration.

  “Unfortunately they are calling for a seventy percent chance.”

  He sighed heavily at that. “I’ll get the crews out this morning and start checking the vineyards to make sure there’s plenty of room for air to circulate around the grape clusters. That should help some.”

  “I quite agree, Jonathon. Sam,” she said, catching her mistake and correcting it at once. “Mold can form so quickly on wet grapes after a rain, especially if the rain is followed by hot days.”

  Aware of that and the crop loss that mold would cause, Sam pushed his chair back from the table. “I’d better call Murphy and arrange to have his helicopters on priority standby.”

  “Helicopters,” Katherine repeated sharply. “What possible use would we have for them?”

  “After the rain stops, Mother Nature might not send us strong enough winds to dry the grapes. I plan on using the helicopters to give her a helping hand.”

  “Really, Sam,” she murmured in disapproval. “I know you have always had an interest in aircraft. No doubt it is a diverting hobby for you, but the vineyards are no place to indulge your hobbies.”

  “This has nothing to do with my interest in flying, Katherine.”

  “Please do not insult my intelligence.” She gave him a cold, angry look. “If it was not for your interest in flying, this foolish notion would never have occurred to you.”

  “There is nothing foolish about it.” Sam fought to keep his voice level. “On the contrary, it is both logical and practical. The rotating blades of helicopters hovering over a vineyard act like a giant fan blowing air directly onto the plants. I admit there has been limited use of them in situations like this, but when they have been employed, they have proven to be fairly effective, especially when the leaves around the grape clusters have been cut back.”

  “Perhaps.” But her expression showed she was unconvinced. “But we have never used them before and I see no reason to begin now.”

  “I do.” Sam rose from his chair and walked over to the telephone.

  “What are you doing?” Katherine demanded when he picked up the receiver.

  “Calling Murphy.” He began punching out the numbers on the touch-tone phone.

  “Did you hear nothing I said?”

  “I heard.” He held the receiver to his ear.

  “And you would deliberately go against my wishes in this?” she challenged indignantly.

  “I would. I don’t intend to lose half our crop to mold the way we did a few years ago just because you can’t see the advantage of a new method.”

  Stung by his open defiance, Katherine reacted sharply. “Hang up that telephone at once!”

  “Hold on a minute, Murphy.” Sam said into the phone, then lowered it, cupping a hand over the mouthpiece. “Are you making that an order, Katherine?” He studied her with a hard, level gaze. “Because if you are, I’m going to ignore it. It’s my job to do what’s best for the vineyards, and if that angers you, so be it.”

  The good of the vines. The phrase echoed from her past. She looked at Sam for another long second, then waved a hand. “Arrange for the helicopters if you must. We shall see how they do.”

  He lifted the phone back to his ear. “Murphy, this is Sam Rutledge. Looks like we might need your helicopters.”

  The high school, the thrift shop where she’d gotten nearly all her clothes, the crumbling brick tavern where her father had spent most of his time, the restaurants where she’d worked as a dishwasher – never slim enough or pretty enough to wait tables – Kelly drove slowly by all of them. Not running from the memories this time, but facing them. Remembering all the pain of not belonging, not wearing the right clothes, not being pretty or popular, not being asked out on dates, of being different, being ashamed of who and what she was, who her father was and what he was, the snickers, the snide remarks.

  But there was the town library with its shelves of books that had given her so many, many hours of escape, the newspaper office where her article on the wine history of Napa Valley had been published, the house where her English teacher had lived, and there was her friendship with Ollie. Bright spots among all the darker memories.

  Somehow they made it easier when Kelly turned off Main and traveled West on Spring Street. There was little traffic. The road was straight and clear, but she drove slowly, just the same. There was no hurry as she retraced the route by car that she had made so often on foot.

  Near the outskirts of town, she came to the cemetery. A dozen long-stemmed roses, as red as the ruby wine from the valley’s grapes, lay on the seat beside her, a yellow ribbon tying them together. Kelly gathered them up in her arms and left the car parked outside the entrance. She could have driven in, but she wanted to walk the last yards to her mother’s grave.

  The cemetery was as old as the town, a mixed collection of weathered gravestones, crypts, and family vaults. Now and then Kelly paused along the way to read familiar names chiseled in granite and marble.

  Her steps slowed as she approached her, mother’s grave. A vase filled with a mixed bouquet of daisies, carnations, and baby’s breath stood on the ground next to the marker engraved with the name REBECCA ELLEN DOUGHERTY and the epitaph BELOVED WIFE.

  “He brought them, didn’t he?” Kelly glared at the flowers. An anger swept through her, so hot and strong she shook with it. She wanted to pick them up and hurl them from her sight. She wanted to, but she didn’t. Her mother wouldn’t have liked it.

  She crouched down and gently laid the roses next to the headstone. “Oh, Momma.” Her voice cracked a little. “How could he do this to us? How could he?”

  The minute she said it, Kelly knew what she had to do. Not for him. For her mother – and for herself.

  Framed law certificates shared wall space with a photograph of the governor and the state seal of California. The chunky desk was cluttered with yellow legal pads, a haphazard stack of thick file folders, a black telephone, and a posed picture of two little dark-haired girls wearing glasses. A white paper sack sat squarely in the midst of all of it, a half-eaten ham and cheese sandwich on rye lying atop a matching white wrapper. The swivel office chair creaked when Ollie stood up to greet Kelly, hurriedly wiping his hands on a paper napkin.

  Kelly saw the sandwich and hesitated. “Is it lunchtime already?”

  “I was having an early one.” He stuffed the sandwich back in the sack and shifted to a corner of his desk near the computer terminal. “I didn’t have time to grab any breakfast this morning.”

  His remark reminded her of the reason she was here. She looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “It’s okay. Honestly.” He smiled in reassurance, giving her a glimpse of the boy who had been her friend. “Have a seat, Liz. Sorry. It’s Kelly now, isn’t it?”

  She sat down on the edge of the leather-backed chair facing his desk, the only one without papers stacked on seat cushions. “I had it legally changed nine years ago.”

  “You look great, Kelly.”
The swivel chair creaked again, taking his weight.

  “Thank you.” She searched for something to say, something that would make this awkwardness go away. “You knew who I was right away, didn’t you?”

  “Your voice,” he said with a faint shrug. “It’s pretty unmistakable. Maybe because I listened to it so often.”

  “We used to talk a lot, didn’t we?” She smiled in remembrance. “You don’t know how many times I’ve thought about you, wondered where you were, what you were doing. I assumed you had-moved away from here long ago. When I saw you today at...” She let the sentence trail off, unfinished. Now wasn’t the time and this wasn’t the place to reminisce or try to bridge the gap of intervening years. “Ollie, is it possible for me to see him?”

  “I can arrange it.” He nodded and studied her closely. “If you’re sure that’s what you want.”

  “It isn’t what I want. It’s what I have to do.” She looked down at her linked fingers, then lifted her head. “Does he have a lawyer?”

  “No. The court can appoint one for him.”

  “Yes, but the charge is murder.” Unable to sit any longer, Kelly pushed out of the chair and walked over to the window, hugging her arms around her waist. “He’ll need a good one, Ollie. I know it’s improper to ask the prosecutor to recommend a defense lawyer, but I don’t know who else to ask,” she said tightly.

  Kelly turned back around. For a long time Ollie was silent and she couldn’t think of anything to break the silence. Finally he reached for one of the yellow legal pads on his desk.

  “I’ll give you some names. You can take it from there.” He began writing on the pad, in that awkward upside-down way of left-handers. When he finished, he ripped off the sheet and held it out to her. Kelly hesitated then walked over to take it from him.

  “Thanks.” She folded it and slipped it inside her clutch purse.

  He adjusted his glasses higher on his nose. “You know I always wondered if we’d ever meet again. To be honest, I never thought it would be in a situation like this.”

  “Neither did I.” Kelly ran her hand over the top of her purse, then sat back down on the chair. “Did he make a statement?”