Tangled Vines (28 page)

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.

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 from 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.

“The bitch,” DeeDee muttered.

Kelly silently echoed the thought as she glanced at the Jeep pulling up to the curb. Sam climbed out, spotted all the media, and hesitated. No one else seemed to notice him. Kelly excused herself and walked over to him. He looked tired and drawn, like a man who hadn't slept all night, the shadow of a beard darkening his tanned, hollow-cheeked face.

“I should have known you'd be here.” There was something grim and hard in his expression, the strain of a long night showing in the faint irritability in his voice.

“How's Katherine?” she asked.

“Fine.”

“And the baroness?”

“Don't pump me for information, Kelly,” he warned, making it clear he was in no mood to deal with more questions from the press. She could well imagine the way they had swarmed over Rutledge Estate when word of the baron's murder had gone out.

“I was concerned, Sam,” she said quietly.

His straight glance explored her face. Then he nodded, a small, tired sigh escaping from him. “The doctor has her under sedation. She took it pretty hard.” He paused, then added grimly, “This shouldn't have happened.”

She heard the self-blame in his voice and laid a hand on his arm, the first time she had initiated contact between them. “Even if you had been there, Sam, there was nothing you could have done to prevent any of this.”

He started to say something, then stopped and looked at her, a wariness back in his eyes, aimed as much at her profession as it was at her. Still, it hurt. She wanted Sam to trust her. She didn't know why it was suddenly important.

Finally he said, “Maybe I could have. And maybe not.”

A tan car drove up and parked in a space reserved for official vehicles only. A man in a dark suit and tie stepped out, then reached back in the car to drag out a briefcase. His arrival triggered a mass rush of reporters straight to him.

“Who's that?” Kelly stared curiously. As the man straightened, the light from the rising sun glinted on the wire rims of his glasses. A lock of brown hair fell across his forehead. He pushed it back and turned to face the oncoming reporters before she could see more of his face.

“Zelinski, the county prosecutor,” Sam replied.

Kelly shot him a startled look, then just as quickly swung her glance back to the attorney. Zelinski. He couldn't possibly be Ollie Zelinski, could he? Ollie had been her best friend – her only friend – while she was growing up. He had talked about going to law school.

Her legs carried heir over for a closer look, without any conscious direction from her. She wasn't even aware that Sam came along with her. She had eyes only for the tall, slim man in the suit and tie.

She finally saw his face. It was Ollie, tall and gangly Ollie, his Adam's apple still bobbing up and down in his throat when he talked, the corrective lenses in his glasses still thick, magnifying his hazel eyes, making them look even bigger, rounder. Ollie the Owl, the other kids had called him.

What a pair they had been – Ollie the Owl and Lizzie the Lump. She almost smiled at the memory of the two of them, one fat and one thin, objects of ridicule by their classmates, banding together out of self-defense and becoming fast friends as a result.

Now look at the two of them, Kelly thought, Ollie was a county prosecutor and she would soon have her own show on national television. She felt proud – for both of them.

Ollie certainly seemed to be handling the impromptu press conference well. Microphones were thrust in his face; questions came at him from all sides; some he fielded, the rest he ignored. She stopped thinking about the past and began to listen to his firm, baritone voice.

“...been charged with murder.”

“Have you talked to him?” a reporter in the back shouted. “Has he said why he killed the baron?”

“Any discussion of motive at this point in our investigation would be sheer speculation,” Ollie replied. “And to answer your first question, no, I haven't personally spoken with him.” His glance swept over the faces of the news media, touching briefly on Kelly as he anticipated more questions.

Linda James fired the next one. “Does he have any family?”

“He -” Ollie stopped, his glance racing back to Kelly, a sudden and warm glow lighting his eyes. He recognized her. She hadn't expected that, although who else had known her so well? Abruptly he glanced down, breaking the contact. When he lifted his head, his gaze sought her again, this time with a pained look in his eyes. She had a sudden, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. “He has a daughter. She left the area years ago. To my knowledge, he has no other relatives.”

Somewhere behind them, a man's voice complained loudly. “Quit pushing me. I'm going.”

“There he is,” a reporter cried, drowning out the small, protesting sound Kelly made in her throat.

Only Sam was close enough to hear it. He glanced at her as all eyes centered on the gray-haired prisoner being escorted by three officers to a police cruiser. Sam's gaze narrowed on her ashen face, her eyes wide with shock.

The others flocked toward the prisoner, his wrists handcuffed behind his back. But Kelly remained frozen in place and stared, unable to move, to run.

Linda James aggressively pushed her way to the front of the media mob and shoved her microphone past the flanking officers. “What's your reaction to the murder charge, Mr. Dougherty?”

“I didn't do it. I'm innocent, do you hear?” Len Dougherty shouted the answer to all of them as he balked under the hands that propelled him toward the wailing cruiser. “It's all a frame. They're trying to hang something on me that I didn't do. I've never killed anyone and anybody who says I did is a liar.”

“Can you prove that, Mr. Dougherty?” Linda James challenged.

“I...” His voice trailed off. For an instant he looked like a sick, scared old man. He recovered his anger and bravado when he saw Sam. “Those Rutledges aren't going to let me. They want my land and they're hanging this murder charge on me to get it. It's a lie. I'm no killer.” He saw Kelly and craned his head to keep her in sight. “You tell them, Lizzie-girl. They'll listen to you. You tell ‘em your old man isn't a murderer. You know I'm innocent, Lizzie-girl. You know.”

The rest of his words were cut off as the escorting officers forced him into the rear seat of the cruiser. By then heads were swiveling to discover who and where this “Lizzie-girl” was. Kelly was the only female in the immediate vicinity.

“He was talking to you, wasn't he, Kelly?” Linda James stated with a faintly pleased look. “You are Leonard Dougherty's daughter, aren't you?”

For a long second, Kelly said nothing, conscious of DeeDee's disbelieving stare and Sam's narrowed eyes. But she knew there was no escape from the truth, not now that Linda James had caught the scent of it. No more lies could hide it, no more pretense could make it easier. The reality of it had to be faced.

“Yes.” She sounded numb; she felt that way, too. There was no more dread, no more anger or resentment, just a leaden feeling of inevitability.

Suddenly she was bombarded with questions, voices hammering at her from all sides. A forest of microphones sprang up in front of her. Camera lenses were trained on her. There was a bitter irony in the memory of all the times she had been part of the encircling horde of press, and now she was the center of it.

“How long since you've seen your father?”

“Do you think he's guilty?”

“What's it like to have your own father charged with murder?”

She shook her head at all the questions, avoiding eye contact with any of the reporters. “I have nothing more to say,” she insisted and tried to walk away, but they followed her.

No matter which way she turned, someone was there with a mike or a camera, a notebook or tape recorder. Surrounded, jostled from all sides, Kelly tried to push her way through, but they were two and three deep.

Suddenly an arm gripped her shoulders and a body shielded her left side, an arm thrusting out to force a path through them, and Sam's voice demanded, “Move back. Let us through.”

Ollie joined him, flanking Kelly on the right. Together they hustled her through the corps of press straight to Sam's Jeep. Sam split off and Ollie helped Kelly into the passenger seat.

“Get her out of here, Sam,” Ollie said, then gave her hand a quick squeeze. “I'm sorry,” he murmured to her, then turned to block off the trailing reporters.