Tangled Vines (40 page)

“Let's just say I still have one or two doubts,” Kelly suggested, aware she was the only one in the group who did.

“Miss Douglas, where your father is concerned, we have motive, opportunity, and the proverbial smoking gun.” Harris ticked them off on his fingers and explained the last. “The murder weapon, seen in his hands and bearing his fingerprints.”

“Were there other fingerprints on it?”

“Of course.”

“Have you identified them?”

“We have one set of prints we haven't identified,” Ollie admitted. “The other two belonged to workers here at Rutledge Estate. The mallet-is a tool of their trade, so to speak.”

“Wouldn't it be ironic if the third set belonged to the person who really killed Baron Fougere?” Kelly suggested, more to irritate than out of any real belief they would.

“Kelly, we have a preponderance of evidence against your father,” Ollie began patiently.

“All of it circumstantial. You have a witness who can place him on the scene beside the body with the murder weapon in his hand. But you have no one who actually saw him commit the crime. Your so-called motive is the assumption that Baron Fougere caught him in the act of willful destruction of property. Which suggests he was surprised. If that's the case, why didn't he hit the baron with one of the gas cans he was carrying? Why did he put them down and pick up a mallet?”

“Maybe Fougere had it. He heard a prowler and picked it up for protection,” the lieutenant theorized. “Then the two struggled over it. Your father took it away from him and hit Fougere with it.”

“Or maybe there was a third person there. Someone who argued with the baron, then hit him.” Kelly returned to her father's story with growing stubbornness. “Have you been able to determine the whereabouts of all the guests at the party at the approximate time of the baron's death? Were any of them absent from the terrace then?”

“You and I were gone,” Sam reminded her. “I took you home.”

“But I can't swear you were with me when he was killed,” she countered. “I don't know what time we left the party. I wasn't wearing a watch that night and I didn't look at the clock when I got to my room. For all I know, you could have driven back to the winery instead of the house, seen the baron there, argued with him, then hit him.”

“You're reaching for straws,” Sam said roughly. “What possible reason would I have to kill him?”

But she had a point to make and she was determined to make it. “You tell me. I know when Baron Fougere announced before dinner that Fougere and Rutledge would be uniting in California, you looked far from happy about the news.”

“It came as a surprise.” The hardness was back in his features. “I knew it was being discussed, but I hadn't been informed an agreement had been reached.”

“And you were unhappy about it,” Kelly persisted.

“I wasn't entirely pleased, no.” The answer came out clipped, curt as the demand that followed it. “What the hell are you doing, Kelly?”

“Trying to prove a point.” She swung her gaze from him back to Ollie and the lieutenant. “There might be others who had reason to want the baron dead, who might have profited from it in some way. But it's much easier to accuse a known drunk, isn't it?”

Ollie found the diplomatic path. “His guilt or innocence will be for a jury to decide.”

“Beyond a reasonable doubt,” she reminded him. “And as of now, I still have reason to doubt.”

“I'm sorry you feel that way, Kelly,” Ollie said and meant it. He pushed back from the table. “I think we're finished here, Lew.”

“Right.” The lieutenant sounded almost relieved and quickly gathered up his things.

“I'll walk you to the door.” Kelly stood, already regretting some of the things she had said. Sam went with her when she accompanied the pair to the entry hall. “No hard feelings?” She extended a hand to Ollie, more to make peace than as a parting gesture.

“None.” He gripped it warmly.

“I guess somebody has to be the devil's advocate,” she said in defense of the unpopular position she had taken.

“Why not the devil's daughter?” Ollie smiled.

“Thanks. I should have known you would understand.” She smiled back, relieved that she hadn't alienated her childhood friend.

Sam added his good-byes to Kelly's and closed the door when the two men left. Smoothly he turned back. Kelly stood motionless against the backdrop of the hall's gleaming marble, her attention already inwardly absorbed by her thoughts. Yet, for all her stillness, there was an energy about her, restless and contained. It seemed to vibrate from her and make the house feel alive.

“Care to tell me what that was all about?”

“What?” She frowned blankly, then flashed him a faintly impatient look. “You surely didn't think I was serious when I suggested you could have killed Baron Fougere. I told you I was only trying to make the point that there might be others who had both motive and opportunity. I don't, for one minute, think you did it.”

“I'm more concerned that you are starting to believe your father is innocent. You're heading for a fall, Kelly,” he warned.

“It isn't that I believe he is. It's more that I have to find out whether he is or not, for my own sake, for my own sanity. I can't keep wondering.”

“What is it going to take? A confession?”

“I don't know.” She lifted her hands in a mixture of frustration and irritation. “I just know that right now there are holes in the case against him.”

“You hired a lawyer to defend him. That's MacSwayne's job. Not yours.”

“Have you ever taken a good look at the figure of Justice, Sam?” she asked, her lips curving in a faint smile. “Not only is she blindfolded but the scales are tipped, too. We both know he'll make a lousy witness in his own defense. And if I'm called to the stand, I'll have to testify that he got violent when he was drunk. What jury in the world will believe a man like that is innocent, even if he is?”

“So what are you saying?” His eyes narrowed on her.

“I'm saying he was a terrible father, and he isn't much of a man, but I don't want him convicted for that. If he goes to prison, I want it to be because he's guilty. Is that so difficult to understand?” She was half angry with him and showed it.

“No. What's difficult to understand is how do you propose to go about proving it? And why do you feel you have to be the one to do it?” he countered, matching the sharp edge in her voice.

“Who else will? And the only way to prove anything is by eliminating all other possibilities. The only way I know to do that is by asking questions.”

Katherine paused at the top of the stairs. “Asking questions about what?” One delicate hand slid along the rail as she began her descent.

“About who might have killed Baron Fougere.” Turning to face the staircase and Katherine, Kelly was once again in control of her emotions, something she had difficulty with around Sam.

Her reply had Katherine pausing in mid-step before resuming her descent. “What a question. As painful as it may be for you to accept, it was your father.”

“He insists he didn't. He says someone was with the baron, that they were arguing.”

Something flickered in her expression, but when Katherine spoke, her voice was smooth as glass. “That is ridiculous.”

“So everyone keeps telling me.” Kelly was still angry enough to want to provoke some kind of reaction. “But if -he didn't, who did? Someone named Rutledge, maybe?”

Katherine stiffened. “I hope you, don't expect me to reply to such an absurd question.”

“Are you satisfied now, Kelly?” Sam murmured.

Suddenly all the confusion and uncertainty came flooding back. What on earth was she doing? She sighed and shook her head. “I don't know what's the matter with me. Sam is right. I owe you an apology.”

“Nonsense.” Katherine touched her arm. “You have been under considerable strain these past few days. In such situations, we all tend to act and speak out of sheer desperation.”

Kelly wondered if Katherine knew what a powerful motivation desperation could be. She certainly did. Too much hinged on what would happen these next few days. Her job, possibly even her future. She couldn't sit silently by and wait. She had to act.

A playful wind tugged at the hem of Kelly's skirt when she stepped from the car onto the roadside's grassy verge. Her heel sank briefly in a small mound of gravelly soil before she moved to firmer ground and closed the car door. The solid thunk of it was a harsh-interruption of the vineyard's peaceful stillness.

Then all was quiet, dominated once again by the rustling wind whispering through the vine leaves and the distant hum of traffic. Kelly glanced at the Jeep parked in front of her rental car, a pair of large, smoke gray sunglasses masking her eyes from the brightness of the morning sun. A scarf of raw silk, patterned in gold's and rusts and greens, covered her hair, the long ends of it wound around her neck and knotted at the back to secure the scarf in place.

Kelly ran a finger along the inner edge of it where the silk brushed her cheek, and turned to took across the sea of vines. The setting was almost Eden-like, the bright sun shining from a crisp blue sky to warm it, and the ringing mountains to isolate it. There, in the middle of it, stood Sam wearing that old brown felt hat.

She reached inside the open window of her car and pushed on the horn once, twice, three times. When Sam turned to look, Kelly waved, then picked her way across the shallow drainage ditch, angling toward the end of the vine row he was in. There she paused and watched him come striding toward her, walking with that assured male gait, his arms swinging loose and easy by his sides.

“Hello.” His voice reached out to her, warm and rich. “What's up? Did something break?”

“No. He's still out there somewhere. No one's seen him.” Her father had become a touchy subject between them. Kelly switched to a safer one. “How are the grapes? Dry, I hope.”

“The ones I've checked seem to be.” Sam lifted a vine branch and revealed a cluster of tightly packed berries with purple-black skins.

With his finger, he probed the center, seeking traces of lingering moisture. The grapes were bunched so thickly on the stalk there seemed to be no opening that would permit any air to reach the center. Sam plucked one of the grapes from its stem and crushed it between his thumb and forefinger, then rubbed them together, testing the stickiness of the juice for an indication of the berry's sugar content.

“I'll have to test to be sure, but I think in another couple days this vineyard will be ready to harvest.” Small weather wrinkles deepened about his eyes as Sam turned his head to idly survey the vine rows.

“Which means crush will begin and you will be busier than ever.”

“Definitely busier than I want to be right now.” His gaze came back to her, a warm light in his eyes that made something intimate out of the moment. “Want a taste?”

Without waiting for her answer, Sam picked another grape from the cluster and carried it to her lips, his gaze shifting to them, his eyes darkening in a way that had her pulse skittering in reaction. Obediently, Kelly opened her mouth and he slipped the fruit between her parted lips, letting his juice-stained fingertip linger on the lower curve.

Kelly bit into the grape and felt the burst of tangy sweet juice even as her fingers curled over his hand to keep it there near her lips. It was something she did not consciously, but instinctively, a response to the feeling of intimacy that whispered around her, around them.

The pulpy juice and mashed skin slid down her throat. “Mmmm, good,” Kelly murmured automatically, then drew his finger into her mouth and let her tongue lave the juice stains from it. Finished, she gave the same attention to his thumb with all the innocence of a child licking icing from a spoon. Not until she looked into his eyes did the simple action become something else. Oddly enough for her, she felt neither self-conscious nor sorry.

“Damn you,” Sam said softly and with a smile. “Did you come out here to deliberately drive me crazy?”

“That was an afterthought. An unconscious one,” Kelly admitted and gave his fingers a last light kiss, then lowered his hand, releasing it.

“Why did you come out?”

“I was too restless to sit in the house another day, watching the reports on television and doing nothing.” It was the “doing nothing” part that bothered her the most. But that was something Sam couldn't, or wouldn't, understand.

“I was sure they'd catch him yesterday,” Sam remarked. “He couldn't have gotten that far from the house, not on foot. Although that is rough terrain east of his place. I hear they're combing it foot by foot today. Maybe they'll flush him out.”

“Maybe.” Kelly nodded and took in a breath. “Anyway.” She released it. “I came by so you wouldn't get all excited when you went to the house and discovered I was gone. I'll be back, so you don't have to come looking for me. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I'll see you later.” She took advantage of the opening to head back to her car.

“You never said where you were going,” Sam called after her.

Kelly turned and forced herself to laugh. “Wouldn't you like to know?” She waved and half ran the last few yards to the car, mentally crossing her fingers that he wouldn't press her for a more specific answer. She didn't want flatly to lie to him.

“Look me up when you get back.”

“I will,” she promised and climbed in the rental car. She waved to him one last time as she drove away.

Less than a mile from the estate, Kelly encountered her first roadblock. The line of cars was short and the delay no more than five minutes. When a pair of uniformed officers approached her car from two sides, Kelly fought off the spate of nerves and reached for the car-rental papers and her New York driver's license she had lying ready on the passenger seat.

One of the patrolmen stopped by her door, tall and unsmiling, dark glasses hiding his eyes and reflecting a distorted image of her. “My papers and identification.” Kelly handed them to him before he could ask.

He took them, saying, “Open your trunk, please.”

Conscious of the second patrolman peering through the rear side passenger window, Kelly reached across and opened the glove compartment to push the trunk-release button.

“You are Kelly Douglas?” the first officer asked, her driver's license in his hand.

“Yes.” She knew he couldn't fail to recognize her name or be unaware that she was the daughter of the, fugitive.

“Remove your sunglasses please.”

Nerves jangling, Kelly did as she was asked and waited interminable seconds while he compared her face with the driver's license photograph.

“Where are you going, Miss Douglas?” The question was quietly issued, but the suspicion behind it was obvious to her.

“To The Cloisters winery,” she replied, making certain her fingers maintained their loose curl around the steering wheel, not gripping it tightly as they wanted to. “I have an appointment with the owner, Mr. Gil Rutledge.”

There was silence while he thoughtfully considered her answer. Kelly could only hope he wouldn't call to verify it. Kelly Douglas had no appointment; Elizabeth Dugan did. The trunk lid closed with a solid thud and shook the frame a little. The rearview mirror reflected the second patrolman as he gave a one-fingered signal to the first, indicating he had seen nothing suspicious and it was okay for her to pass.

“You can go on, Miss Douglas.” The patrolman returned her papers and identification.

“Thank you.” She tucked them on the seat next to her and drove off, but in her rearview mirror, she saw the two men conferring, then one walked over to the cruiser and reached inside.

She could only guess that he intended to radio his superior and inform him she had passed through his checkpoint, just in case she hadn't been telling the truth about going to The Cloisters and planned to rendezvous with her father.

At the next roadblock, Kelly had the impression the officers had been expecting her. There was little reaction to her identification and only a cursory search of her car. She arrived at The Cloisters one minute before her scheduled appointment.

In contrast to the gray austerity of the abbey-like structure that housed the offices of the winery, there was a subtle luxury to the interior. The luxury was even more evident when Kelly entered the spacious executive office of Gil Rutledge.

A Persian rug in muted hues of burgundy, gold, and blue covered much of the flagstone floor. An ancient tapestry graced one wall, sharing space with old paintings depicting vineyard scenes. At the end of the room, mullioned windows stretched from floor to ceiling and looked out on a rolling vineyard scene. A massive antique desk of gleaming mahogany stood before them. Behind it Gil Rutledge sat in a tall, ornately carved, throne-like chair.

“Miss Dugan.” Smiling with typical charm, he rose from his chair and came around the desk to greet her. “I believe Mrs. Darcy said you are from Sacramento, with the health department, was it?”

“No. As a matter of fact, I'm not with any governmental agency and I'm not Elizabeth Dugan.” Kelly took off her sunglasses. “I'm Kelly Douglas.”

“Of course. I recognize you now.” His smile faded slightly, his expression changing to one of puzzled curiosity.

“I'm afraid I lied to your secretary. I wasn't sure you would see me and I didn't want my own name on your appointment calendar for one of your office staff to see and possibly leak to the press. I don't think either one of us wants a horde of reporters camped outside your building.”

“That's true. Please, have a seat.” He motioned to a pair of carved wooden chairs upholstered in a short-napped velvet. Kelly chose the closest one while Gil Rutledge made the long walk around the desk to his chair. “What do you want to see me about?” Immediately he held up a hand, stopping her. “If this is in regard to the wages your father has coming for the last few days he worked here, the way our pay periods fall, it won't be issued until the end of this week. I don't think, legally, it will be a problem to release it to you. However, I will check that out.”

Her father had worked here? Kelly carefully schooled her expression to show none of the surprise she felt. She remembered that when she had visited him in jail, he had mentioned that he had a job in a winery, but he hadn't named it. Neither had any of the news stories.

“I believe he worked for you as a security guard,” she recalled.

“The job title is a bit of a misnomer. As I told the police, his role was more that of a glorified baby-sitter for the tourists, to make sure they didn't wander into areas of the winery that are off limits to the public,” he explained. “I must admit, according to our records, we never had any trouble with him. He was sober every day he worked here as far as I know. We certainly never received any complaints about him.” He breathed out a heavy sigh. “Which makes the subsequent events so much more tragic.”

“Yes, I suppose it does.” She was missing something here, something she should be picking up on. “You were at the party that night, weren't you?” Kelly already knew the answer; it was a stall tactic to give herself time to think without allowing any dead air.

“Yes. Both Clay and I attended. I admit I was surprised to receive an invitation. It's no secret Katherine and I haven't gotten along for years now. I expect it was courtesy. After all, Baron Fougere had initially come to the valley at my invitation. It was only polite to include my name on the guest list. And if nothing else, Katherine is scrupulously polite. I suspect she didn't think I would come. Which was the very reason I went.” His smile had a touch of a naughty little boy in it.

“As I recall, you and Katherine were competing with each other to work some sort of joint-venture arrangement with Baron Fougere, weren't you? His announcement at dinner that night must have been a surprise to you.”

“Not at all. Emile had called me that afternoon to inform me of his decision. I anticipated there would be an announcement that an agreement had been reached. Of course, there wasn't time for it to be committed to writing before his tragic death.”

“Then it's all up in the air again?”

“In theory, I suppose.” His shoulders lifted in an idle shrug. “The final decision will obviously rest with his widow. She may choose to abide by Emile's decision.” He paused, then smiled in silent commiseration. “This must all be very distressing for you.”

“It is, yes.” Kelly nodded readily. “More so, I suppose, because I had been to the party, but I left before...You were still there, weren't you?”

“Yes. Clay and I had decided to leave. Actually you provided the impetus for our decision, Miss Douglas.” His eyes beamed at her from across the desk. “Pride wouldn't permit me to be the first to leave. When I saw you go, there was no more reason to linger. That's when Clay and I began making our rounds, saying our good-byes. That can be such a lengthy thing when you're at a party where you know practically everyone. I know I chatted awhile with the Fergusons. We have a croquet tournament coming up soon at Meadowwood,” he added as an aside. “I remember noticing the baroness sitting alone in the rose garden. We were working our way in her general direction. We hadn't gotten around to the point of looking for Emile. As a matter of fact, we were talking with Clyde Williams and his wife when we heard the police sirens. That was the first we knew something had happened.”

Despite the names of other guests that he'd thrown in, his alibi for the time of death was his son, and vice versa. Kelly thought that was very convenient, possibly even highly suspicious. But then, she wanted to think it was suspicious.

“I suppose it was shortly afterward that you learned the baron had been killed. Did the police mention who they thought was responsible for his death?”

“There was no announcement as such, but a friend of mine in the department told me there was an all-points out on Leonard Dougherty.” A thoughtful look stole over his face as he leaned back in his chair and gazed at the silver wine goblet on his desk. “I remember at the time thinking how ironic it was that of the two deaths that occurred at Rutledge Estate, both involved a Dougherty. Discounting my brother's untimely demise from natural causes, of course. An aneurysm according to the coroner's report.”