Tangled Vines (25 page)

They had chosen a spot in the underground cellars where two tunnels intersected, the camera angle showing both stretching back. Wine barrels of French oak, stacked three high, lined both sides of each limestone tunnel. Lights were mounted at regular intervals along the arching walls of the man-made eaves, but they threw as much shadow as they did light. She stood in the foreground with Katherine and Claude Broussard, talking, and sampling the wine Claude had extracted from the barrel with his wine thief.

But it wasn't her own performance, good or bad, that held Kelly's attention. It was the cellar caves – the coolness of them, the earthy smell of them, and the memories of all the times she had roamed them as a young girl, slipping into them when no one was looking to escape the heat of a summer day, hiding in the deep shadows to avoid discovery when a worker happened by, thinking about all the people who had worked in these tunnels in the last century, imagining their ghosts still walking those underground corridors. She had been fascinated by the caves, their rich history, their heady smells, their eerie yet soothing silences. For a time they had been a refuge for her from her own stormy world.

Just as the darkness of night had later become her refuge, ready to conceal her and hide her from his unreasoning wrath. The way it had that one night when she had been sitting in the kitchen. She had turned the radio up to catch the lyrics to a new song. She hadn't heard the front door open. She hadn't known he was there until he spoke from the doorway to the kitchen.

“There you are sitting on your fat ass again.” He said it loudly, saying each word carefully the way he always did when he'd been drinking.

The chair clattered backward as she hurriedly pushed out of it and swung around to face him, every nerve screaming with alertness. “I didn't hear you come in.” Wary of him and his uncertain temper, she made sure the chair was between them, and wished it were the table.

“I'm surprised you could hear yourself think with that radio blaring like that.” He waved a hand at the radio sitting on top of the refrigerator. “Turn that damned thing down. Better yet, turn it off.”

Welcoming the excuse to put more distance between them, she ran to the refrigerator and reached up, switching off the radio. In the sudden silence, she heard the scrape of chair legs on the linoleum floor behind her, followed by the heavy plop of his body on the chair seat.

“How come you don't have supper on the table?”

She wanted-to tell him that it had been ready two hours ago, but she bit back the words, unwilling to antagonize him.

“It's in the oven. I kept it warm for you.” She grabbed a pot holder off the top of the stove and lowered the oven door.

Reaching inside, she gripped the plate of food on the middle rack using the pot holder and lifted it out. When she turned back to the table, she avoided looking at him. She didn't want to see the meanness in his face.

“Here you are.” Leaning across a chair, she slid the plate onto the table in front of him, then drew back, out of reach. “I'll get you some silverware.”

She hadn't taken more than a step toward the silverware drawer when he said in disgust, “You call this dried-out slop food?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the swing of his arm as he swept the plate off the table. Peas flew, a grilled hamburger patty tumbling through them. Only the macaroni and cheese stuck to the plate when it crashed to the floor and broke, scattering pieces and chunks of sticky macaroni.

For an instant, she stared at the mess on the floor and fought to swallow back a sob of frustration. She wanted to walk out of the house and leave it for him to clean up. But she knew he wouldn't do it. It would still be there in the morning, all dried and crusted to the floor.

Skirting his chair, she went around the table and bent down to start picking up pieces of the broken plate. “I can scramble some eggs for you or heat up a can of chili,” she offered, then sucked in a sharp breath, dropping the first large fragment of ironstone plate still hot from the oven.

“Chili or eggs,” he complained as she bit at her burned finger, closing her eyes against the threatening tears. “Is that all we got in this house to eat? What did you do with all that money I gave you for groceries? Spend it on candy bars?”

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.