Tangled Vines (41 page)

“I'm afraid I didn't learn anything about the baron's death until the next morning.” Kelly carefully steered the conversation back, still nagged by this vague feeling there was something she was missing, something she needed to remember.

“It must have been a terrible blow, especially for someone in your position,” Gil sympathized.

“Sometimes I feel as if I'm still reeling from it,” she admitted, trying to think of something more to say.

“I'm sure you do.”

“I'm sure you've heard that he swears he didn't kill the baron. He's convinced Katherine has pinned it on him to prevent him from raising funds to pay back the money he owes her. He put up the ten acres of land he owns as security. If he doesn't pay, she gets the land.”

Money. That was it. Her father had told her that someone was going to give him the money to pay Katherine off, but his deal fell through. That's why he had started drinking that night. Had it been the loan that fell through, or Gil Rutledge's deal with Baron Fougere?

Taking a wild stab, Kelly said, “He was sure you were going to loan him the money to pay Katherine off.”

“He said that?” Gil Rutledge did a credible job of looking surprised. She might have believed him if he'd left it at that. But he laughed shortly, a hint of nerves in the sound. “He did ask to borrow some outrageous sum of money from me. Even if I was in the business of loaning money, I wouldn't have considered it. I don't mean to offend, but your father is an extremely poor risk. I may have brushed him off with some vague answer like, ‘I'll think it over.' But I assure you, I never had any intention of loaning him a dime. I'm afraid he was indulging in some wishful thinking.”

“But you might have had some satisfaction in keeping that land out of Katherine's hands.”

“If I could have stolen it from her for thirty-five thousand, I might have considered it. But the price was too high when there was nothing more to be obtained than satisfaction.”

Kelly noticed he mentioned the amount her father needed. Why would he remember it unless he had given serious thought to loaning her father the money? Maybe he had even agreed to make the loan, then backed out when the baron reached an agreement with Katherine.

“It would be expensive.” She stalled, trying to remember anything else her father had said.

“Very. As I said before, your father was indulging in wishful thinking.”

Another thought occurred to her. “He told me he went to the winery the night of the party to pour gasoline over the barrels in the aging cellars. He knew it would soak through the wood and taint the wine inside.”

“My God, what a diabolical way to obtain revenge. I never guessed your father had such a devious mind.”

“Assuming it was his idea -” Kelly paused deliberately for effect. “- and not yours.”

Anger darkened his whole face. “Are you suggesting I put him up to it?”

“Did you?”

“Katherine's behind this, isn't she?” In the blink of an eye, he was on his feet, rage mottling his face, the veins standing out in his neck. “That sanctimonious bitch! She is not going to get away with dragging my name into a murder case. If she thinks to ruin me and kill any chance I have to make a deal with Fougere's widow, she'd better think again.” He began shouting, vibrating with the force of his anger. “I know the truth about the legend of Madam. I know the secrets she's kept locked in the wine library all these years. I know about the accident that was no accident. She tries this and, by God, I'll blacken the name of Madam and her wines forever!” He slammed his fist on the desk and Kelly jumped at the explosive sound of it. “Now get out. Get out before I throw you out!”

Without hesitation, Kelly stood up and walked swiftly from the office, more frightened by the fury of his wrath than she cared to admit.

Gil Rutledge stood behind the desk, slow to regain control of himself. Still breathing heavily, he raised his shaking hands and smoothed them over his head, then gripped the back of his neck. When he had calmed himself sufficiently, he reached for the phone and punched Clay's extension.

When Clay came on the line, Gil wasted no time with preliminaries. “Katherine is trying to involve us in the murder case.”

“My God, did she-“

“Right now she's only trying to link us with Dougherty. I want you to start putting pressure on Fougere's widow. And get her the hell away from Katherine. I don't trust her. I don't trust either of them.” He slammed the phone down and stalked to the wall of windows, staring out.

All the way back to the estate, Kelly ran the scene in her mind over and over again, trying to make sense of the obscure statements – accusations, really – that Gil Rutledge had made. Finally she started with the first and analyzed it.

I know the truth about the legend of Madam. What was the legend of Katherine Rutledge? That she had carried forth the dream she had shared with her late husband to make wines in California that were equal to the finest from France. That she had replanted all her vineyards with cuttings of wine grapes at a time when others in the valley were tearing theirs up to replant with either hard-skinned shipping grapes or walnut and prune trees. That she had kept the winery going during Prohibition by making sacramental and medicinal wines. That she had kept the memory of her husband alive. That basically she had fulfilled her lifelong dream and the wines of Rutledge Estate were considered by many experts to be the equal of the best from Bordeaux.

That was the legend, but Gil's statement implied that was not the truth. All of it or part of it? It had to be part of it. Too much of it was documented fact: the vineyards had been replanted; many experts had rated the wines of Rutledge Estate in print; she had devoted her life to the winery; she had sold sacramental and medicinal wines during Prohibition. Where was the lie?

Confused, Kelly moved on to the next. I know the secrets she has kept locked in the wine library all these years. He had to be referring to the wine library in the cellar that housed a collection of all the wines Rutledge Estate had produced over the years. Secret implied something was hidden in there; secrets implied there was more than one. All these years implied they had been placed there quite some time ago. But what could be hidden there? She had been in the wine library. It was rack after rack of bottles stacked nearly to the ceiling. Nothing of any size could be concealed there. Could it?

The last one was a little simpler. I know about the accident that was no accident. Kelly knew of only two accidents, assuming Gil had meant the word in the context she was taking it. Katherine's husband, Clayton Rutledge, had been killed in a motoring accident in France, and Kelly's grandfather Evan Dougherty had died in a freak accident at the winery. If something wasn't an accident, then it was deliberate. If a death was caused deliberately, that made it murder. Whose? Committed by whom? Katherine?

Why was she driving herself crazy trying to figure it out? This had nothing to do with her father or the baron's death. Did it? It certainly had to do with Katherine, and Katherine was the one who had seen Kelly's father bending over the body of Baron Fougere.

Avoiding the gated main entrance to the wine estate, Kelly took the back road and drove straight to the winery The wine library was the only lead she had. She parked in the shade of the cinnamon-barked madronas. There was no sign of Sam or his Jeep.

The receptionist was away from her desk when Kelly went inside the office complex. She hesitated only a moment, then went behind the desk to the slim metal cupboard mounted on the wall. Hung on hooks inside it were duplicate sets of all the keys to the various locks on the estate. Kelly located the key to the wine library, removed it, and left without being seen.

With the key in hand, Kelly circled the winery building to the aging cellars. She entered the shadowed cool of the caves and paused, removing her sunglasses and pushing her scarf back. There was a silence, so absolute it was almost eerie. There were no voices, no sounds of workers, nothing. Just the lights strung along the walls of the hand-hewn tunnels, the mammoth shapes of the aging barrels and the racks of kegs lined along the walls.

The silence magnified the sound of her footsteps as Kelly made her way to the grated door of black iron, emblazoned with a scrolled R. Beyond its lattice of bars was the wine library, layer after layer of bottles lying on their sides.

Kelly inserted the key and turned it. A pull, and the door swung silently open on its well-oiled hinges. She walked in, closing it behind her, and paused, making a visual search of the long and narrow underground room. Bottles, hundreds and hundreds of them, lined the opposite wall, from floor to the curve of the arched ceiling. There was a small wooden table and chair, racks with empty slots for future vintages, a sturdy-looking stepladder; otherwise the room was bare.

A walk around it confirmed the walls were solid. There were no concealed side rooms, no obvious hiding places. Kelly scanned, the bottles again and sighed. If anything was hidden in here, it had to be small. Had some sort of documents or papers been secreted away here among the bottles? But that would be risky, dangerous. There were probably half a dozen workers, winemakers and their assistants, who would have reason to be in here, not to mention the visitors who were commonly brought here to view the collection. Any of them could accidentally discover the papers. And if the papers were somehow incriminating, why hadn't they been burned?

Why hide anything here at all? This room was strictly for storing the collection of wines the estate had bottled. If anything else were found among the bottles, it would arouse instant suspicion.

But something was hidden here. Kelly started working on the premise that if she wanted to hide something in this room, where would she put it? Not among the bottles. People were always pulling ones out to look at the labels. Inside a bottle? Yes.

“Locked away all these years,” Kelly murmured, repeating Gil's phrase. “How many years? Thirty years? Forty? Fifty?”

She tried to remember her dates Katherine had married Clayton Rutledge sometime near the end of World War One, and Gil had left Rutledge Estate in the early sixties. A span of roughly forty years.

Kelly shifted to the section of the collection that contained wines bottled at the end of the first war. She began pulling them out, checking to make sure they were filled with wine. When she reached the decade of the twenties, the era of Prohibition, she began to slow her pace as a nagging suspicion started to form.

Abruptly she skipped ahead to the latter part of the twenties, after Clayton had died. She pulled out a bottle and studied it. It looked the same as all the rest. But was it? There was only one way to find out.

Kelly took it over to the table and removed the cork. She smelled the contents and wrinkled her nose at the strong vinegary odor that advised her the wine had turned. She tried another bottle, with the same results. Uncertain now, she turned back to the rack. What if her suspicions were wrong? She didn't dare open every bottle trying to find that one.

One more. She would try just one more.

The leather strap dug into her shoulder, the weight of the two bottles Kelly had tucked inside her purse pulling it down. She held it close to her side to keep the bottles from clinking together as she walked into the house. The housekeeper was at the other end of the entry hall, moving noiselessly away from the terrace doom.

“Mrs. Vargas,” Kelly called to her. “Where's Katherine?”

The woman stopped. “Madam is having lunch on the terrace.

“Is Natalie with her?”

“Madame Fougere had a previous engagement.”

“Is Sam there?” Kelly walked quickly forward.

“Yes, miss. Will you be joining them?”

“Yes, but not for lunch. Will you bring some wineglasses, please?”

“Of course.”

Sam stood up when Kelly walked onto the terrace. “I was beginning to wonder what happened to you.” He pulled out the chair next to his.

“I told you I'd be back.” She sat down, careful to swing her purse onto her lap.

“You had an enjoyable outing, I hope.” Katherine smiled pleasantly and slipped a bite of poached salmon on her fork.

“Actually I had a very busy morning.”

“What did you do?” Sam's glance was idly curious.

With impeccable timing, the housekeeper walked onto the terrace with the wineglasses Kelly had requested. She saw the questioning frown on Katherine's face. “Miss Douglas asked me to bring these.”

“I thought we should have wine for lunch,” Kelly explained and took the wine bottles from her purse. “I stopped at the cellars before I came to the house and picked up these.” Kelly set them on the table, making sure the labels faced Katherine.

Katherine blanched slightly when she saw them. “Your choice is extremely poor. Take them away, Mrs. Vargas.”

“No.” Her fingers circled the neck of one bottle as Kelly firmly but quietly challenged, “I think we should try this wine. Will you open one, Sam?”

“I have no intention of trying it and there certainly is no reason to open that bottle,” Katherine stated sharply. “I know the wines of Rutledge Estate as well as I know my own children. This particular vintage went out years ago.”

Sam looked at the label. “Katherine is right, Kelly. This was a blended red wine, meant to be drunk when it was young. Like a Beaujolais, it has a very short life. It will be vinegar by now.”

“Let's open it and see. What's the harm?” Kelly reasoned. “If it isn't any good, we won't drink it.”

“This is pointless,” Katherine insisted, holding herself almost rigid.

“You're wrong, Katherine. There is a point.” Kelly kept her gaze leveled at Katherine. “You know it and I know it.”

Sam looked from one to the other. “What is this all about?”

“Do you want to tell him or shall I?” Kelly asked and received a small, trembling shake of the head from Katherine. “It's all about Prohibition, Sam, and a term paper I did years ago in high school about the history of the wine industry in Napa Valley. It was so good the local newspaper published it. To write the paper, I interviewed people who had lived through those years. They told me a lot of stories about bootleggers and the methods they used, everything from wild night rides to shipping jugs of wine in coffins. The wineries involved also had to find ways to account to treasury agents for the loss of inventory. Sometimes the owner would claim a hose broke and a hundred gallons of wine were spilled, or that a fire destroyed wine casks, and sometimes...sometimes barrels were filled with colored water so they would sound full when they were tapped by federal agents. When you open that bottle of wine, Sam, you'll find it's filled with colored water.”