Tangled Vines (6 page)

“As did a great many people.”

“With cause.” The waiter arrived with their entrees. Kelly withdrew her hands from the table, giving him room to set the plate in front of her. “When she signed on as the West Coast correspondent for NBC, I heard they planned to develop a prime-time news-magazine show around her.”

“Plans change.” Hugh nodded to the waiter as the man retreated.

“Obviously.”

Hugh lifted his glass in a toast. “To your exclusive news-breaking story.”

Kelly raised her wineglass, making sure to hold it by the stem as wine etiquette demanded. “And to the show ‘People and Places.”'

They touched glasses, then sipped. As always, Hugh savored his a little more, then nodded approvingly. “It has softened, mellowed perfectly.”

“Shall I offend you totally by saying it's very nice?” Kelly grinned at him wickedly.

“Please.” He feigned a shudder. “It is big and racy, with marvelous balance and a long finish. Never, but never, call it nice.”

“I stand corrected,” she said, still grinning. After a bite of wine-roasted chicken, Kelly returned to their previous subject. “I don't know what favor you called in or whose arm you twisted to get me on the show, Hugh, but thanks.”

“I did nothing more than put your name on the table. Your brief stint as guest host on the ‘Today' show, when Katie Couric was off on maternity leave, did the rest.” He lifted his wineglass and eyed her over its rim. “You do realize that by the end of the third show, the ratings had gone up almost a half point. And the credit for that certainly didn't belong to the guests on the show. The lineup was deplorable.”

“It was,” she agreed with a slight roll of her eyes in remembrance. “It's funny, but I hoped my exposure on the ‘Today' show might land me a position as a national correspondent. But a prime-time magazine show never-even though I knew yours was in development.” Kelly lowered her fork. “Seriously, Hugh, why did they pick me when Linda James has more experience and more national exposure?”

“Careful,” he chided. “Your insecurity is showing.”

But he knew few people in this business who weren't a mass of insecurities. In Kelly's case, however, she had an inferiority complex a mite wide. He doubted that anyone else had seen it but him. To the world Kelly projected an image of easy calm, an image totally at odds with the intense, organized, ambitious woman she was. A woman who rarely slept more than six hours a night and lived on the run. A woman hungry for recognition, desperate for approval, and emotionally starved. But she hid that well, under about three feet of steel.

She laughed, the sound coming from low in her throat, and lifted her wineglass, wagging it briefly. “Then be kind and stroke my ego a little.”

“Very well.” He liked those flashes of total honesty. “The format of our show is basically one of entertainment interesting people, interesting places. Linda's reputation for asking the so-called tough question actually goes against her. She lacks your warmth, your ability to put people at ease. You achieve the same results of getting them to talk, but without grilling them. And, you are a new face. Which is precisely what the powers-that-be decided they wanted.”

“I won't disappoint them.” It was almost a vow.

Hugh concealed a smile and covertly studied her. Wholesome was an adjective he would never use to describe her. Her features, taken together or separately, had a strong, earthy quality that was non-threatening. She was not the girl-next-door. More like a young Mother Nature with the red of the sun in her hair and the green of the grass in her eyes. The more Hugh thought about it, the more he liked the analogy.

“I had an idea for the show that I wanted to run by you before Monday's meeting.” Kelly speared a green bean from its bed of mixed vegetables. “A profile on Harry Connick, Jr., the singer who does those old Cole Porter songs and ones from the Big Band era. He's becoming quite popular.... . .

He listened to her expound on the idea, paying more attention to her voice than her words. More than once Hugh had fantasized about what it would be like to have Kelly whispering in his ear.

During the first few months he'd known her, he had taken her out with every intention of ultimately taking her to bed. When he hadn't met with early success, he hadn't minded. Being British, he knew the chase was often more exciting than the kill.

One night he had made his move. Kelly had stopped him with a simple and well-placed “No,” and pulled back to the outer edge of his arms.

“As much as I like you, Hugh, I don't want to become intimately involved with you. Lovers I can get. Friends are rare. Besides, an affair would be too tacky, don't you agree?”

With any other woman, Hugh would have dismissed the words as a token protest, made so that he would talk and kiss her into agreement to prove how much he wanted her.

Not Kelly. The determined look in her eyes, the firm lift of her chin, a dozen other things in her body language informed him that she meant every word. He laughed and released her, then lit a cigarette.

“I wouldn't call it tacky, precisely.” He smiled.

“A mistake certainly. We both know it isn't wise to get involved with anyone in the business. It was a mistake I made once.”

“Let me guess – your lover was a cameraman,” Hugh said and smiled wryly when he saw her startled look. “Nearly every female in television has a cameraman somewhere in her past. I've never understood the attraction, but obviously there is one. Care to tell good old Hugh about it?” he joked.

“There isn't much to tell. It didn't work. He thought his career was more important than mine. One day I woke up and realized I was in a destructive relationship. I broke off with him, which made things very awkward at the station.”

“Where was this?”

“Iowa. A couple months later I was offered a job in St. Louis and I left. So. . .” She took a deep breath and smiled at him. “I would rather have you as a friend, Hugh.”

“Friend.”

They had shaken hands on it.

At the time he had thought he wouldn't be seeing her again. What would be the point if he couldn't bed her? And for a while he hadn't. Then he had begun phoning her now and again, taking a vaguely proprietorial interest in her progress, regarding her as his discovery. He admired her drive, her intelligence and determination.

Hugh also suspected that if they had had an affair, he would never have suggested Kelly for the show. Which would have been a pity because she was perfect for it.

“...do you think of the idea?” she finished.

“Sounds like it could be interesting. Present it at the meeting.”

The sommelier returned to the table to top their wineglasses. Kelly covered hers, as usual limiting herself to one glass of wine. Hugh had never known her to consume more than two. She exercised equally strict control over her food intake, he noticed, glancing at the chicken she pushed around on her plate, barely half of it gone.

There was still half left when the waiter came to clear their plates. Kelly assured him the coq au vin had been delicious.

Over coffee they talked more about the new show, bandying about various ideas. Finally Hugh called for the check and the car.

It was two in the morning when Kelly walked into her apartment, a one-bedroom that she had furnished slowly, meticulously, and, most important, personally. She paused a moment, breathing in the faint scent of lemon oil and pine that told her Audrey had been in to clean. There was no smell of stale cigarettes, no sickly sweet odor of empty whiskey bottles. She had escaped that forever.

Turning, Kelly set to work on the door's trio of locks. When her fingers touched the last, a simple sliding bolt, they lingered. She stared at its shiny brass surface, seeing it and seeing another that had been very similar to it.

Suddenly she was ten years old again, confidently if ineptly – gripping a screwdriver in her right hand and struggling to attach the simple lock to her bedroom door.....

The point of the screwdriver slipped off the head of the screw, gouging a nick in the door's painted wood. She breathed in sharply at the mark it left, the breath hissing through clenched teeth. Hurriedly she fitted the screw driver back in the slotted head and began turning the grooved handle, leaning all her weight against it to drive the brass screw into the wood.

With one ear tuned for the sound of a car in the drive, she worked frantically to get the lock fastened in place. She had to get it done before he came back. She had to.

Finished, she stepped back and surveyed her handiwork, not with satisfaction, but with relief. Her bedroom had become a refuge now, a place where she could go, bolt the door, and be safe. She released a long shaky breath and smiled. She was safe now. Safe from his drunken rages . .

Or so she had thought, Kelly remembered and closed her eyes, hearing again the pounding on her bedroom door, the rattling of the doorknob, the bellow of anger when the door wouldn't budge, then the horrifying sound of a body throwing its entire weight against the door...

She sat all hunched up in the farthest corner of the bed, the covers pulled protectively around her as she stared at the small brass bolt, willing it to hold. Her mouth was dry, her throat tight, too tight to let a sound out, a breath out.

Again he rammed his body against the door. This time she heard the splintering sound of wood tearing and giving. She knew at once she shouldn't have done it – she shouldn't have put that lock on the door. Now he was mad and it was her fault. Another crash, and the door gave, sagging on its lower hinge. A well-placed kick and it swung drunkenly open, then clattered to the floor.

“A goddamned lock!” He advanced toward the bed, a big dark silhouette stumbling over the fallen door. “You put a goddamned lock on the door.”

The slurring of his voice told her what she'd already guessed – he was drunk again. “I didn't mean to.” Her hands came up to ward off the anticipated blows. “Honest, I didn't.”

“You're a goddamned liar.” He grabbed her wrist with one hand and swung with the other, the flat of his palm slamming into her cheek with a force that snapped her head to the side. The coppery taste of blood was in her mouth and the stench of his whiskey breath blew over her face as he hauled her up by the shoulders and shook her hard. “Don't you ever lie to me again.”

“I won't.” The promise was little more than a whimper.

“By God, you better not, or next time I'll take a belt to you. You hear?”

She nodded once, her eyes blurring with tears as she took care to do nothing and say nothing that might ignite his anger again.

Kelly opened her eyes and slowly slid the bolt home. It was that man at the park. He had reminded her of all this. As much as she tried to forget, the past was never more than a memory away.

A bold sparrow hopped closer, crossing the line from bright sunlight to cool shadow in its search for table crumbs. Sam Rutledge idly watched it as he sat crosswise on a wrought-iron chair, an arm draped along the back of it, one leg hooked over the other, his thick hair showing the tracks left by combing fingers. His weathered hat sat on the green-striped cushion of the chair seat next to him. Katherine occupied the one opposite him.

Lunching alfresco on the rear terrace was a Tuesday ritual weather permitting, which it usually did in California. It was one of the few meals they shared together, even though they lived in the same house.

But the Rutledge family had never made a practice of gathering together at mealtimes, not even when Sam was growing up and his parents were alive. Everyone had always been too busy – his father in the vineyards, Katherine at the winery, his mother with her paintings. When Sam was small, his meals had been brought to the nursery; later he had eaten in the kitchen with the servants. On the rare occasions when the whole family dined together, for Sam it had been like eating with strangers.

Even now Sam had his routine, Katherine had hers. Rarely did they coincide, and rarely did either attempt to make them coincide.

The land, the vineyards, and the winery composed the only bond between them, blood the only tie, and mutual respect the only emotion. As for affection, Sam had long ago found it impossible to give what he never received.

The vines came first; people and their feelings second. It was an unwritten law on Rutledge Estate, one Sam had been raised under by his father and by Katherine.

“I think Emile will find the terms of the proposal quite equitable,” Katherine remarked, drawing Sam's attention back to the table. “Do you have any comments on it?”

“No.” A draft of the proposal was on the glass-topped table. He had glanced through it before lunch, then laid it aside. Sam didn't reach for it now. Instead he dragged his iced tea closer and ran his fingers over the wet sides of the glass. “It seems to cover all the major points. I don't see anything that's been left out.”

“Then you approve?”

“What you've lined out makes good business sense,” Sam replied truthfully, aware it wasn't his personal approval she was seeking. Just as she had never consulted him before making the proposal to the baron, or asked whether he was in favor of it. If she had, she would have found out he didn't like the idea at all. If he thought it would change anything, he would have told her, but Katherine didn't care what his personal feelings were toward it. Sam knew that, too.

At this point it was no more than a proposal. With his uncle in the picture, it might never be more. Aware of that, Sam saw no reason to dwell on it, especially when he had other things on his mind.

“Flying in to New York on Thursday will give us Friday to rest and prepare for our meeting with Emile on Saturday morning. That should be ample time, I think.”

“It should.”

The slight breeze smelled of dust and roses. He swung his glance across the sweep of lawn flanked by flower gardens Katherine had created half a century ago out of a tangle of wild vines, scrub brush, and impenetrable manzanita.

The house stood on a wide shoulder of a mountain, its rear terrace facing Napa Valley. A concrete balustrade ran along the edge of the mountain's shoulder, marking the end of the gardens and green lawn. Beyond it stretched the valley and the opposite wall of mountains, seared yellow by summer heat and a long drought.

Dust hung in the air, a constant reminder of the tinder-dry conditions. One cigarette carelessly tossed by a tourist could easily start a major fire, and at this time of year, the roads in the valley were jammed with vacationers touring the multitude of wineries.

One carelessly tossed cigarette or one well-placed match: Sam hadn't been able to rid himself of that thought. Except for that one confrontation with Len Dougherty, there had been nothing. The man had been quiet. Too damned quiet, in Sam's opinion.

“Did I tell you we will be staying at the Plaza?” Katherine poured hot tea into a dainty porcelain cup, aromatic steam rising from it to add its scent to the air.

Sam frowned. “Isn't the wine auction at the Waldorf?”

“Yes.” She added a twist of lemon. “Which will ensure privacy for us at the Plaza.” She stirred her tea and watched the surface swirl as if absorbed by it. “Clayton and I stayed at the Plaza,” she said almost idly. It took Sam a second to realize she was referring to her late husband and not his cousin Clay who had been named after their grandfather. “He had wanted to take me to Europe on our honeymoon, but Europe was in the throes of the First World War so we spent a month in New York instead. We had a marvelous time.”

Her expression softened, as it always did when she spoke of her late husband, Sam's grandfather. Seeing it, Sam could almost imagine Katherine in love, yet he still found it difficult to imagine her deferring to anyone's wants and desires except her own.

“I remember we saw Will Rogers,” she mused. “He was starring in the Ziegfeld Follies at the time. That was before he went to Hollywood, of course, and -”

“Excuse me, Madam,” Mrs. Vargas broke in, the thick rubber soles of her shoes silencing any sound of her approach. “Mr. Rodriguez is here to see Mr. Rutledge. He insists it's urgent.”

Sam glanced past the housekeeper and saw Ramon Rodriguez standing outside the French doors to the terrace, anxiously fingering the hat he held in front of him, sweat running down his face. Ramon was one of a crew of three men Sam had sent out earlier to check and repair boundary fences.

“What is it, Ramon?” In one motion, Sam was on his feet. Something told him the quiet was over, even before Rodriguez answered.

“It is old man Dougherty. We were over by his place and he went loco, started shooting at us.” The words tumbled from him as he gestured, using his hands and his hat. “He's got Carlos and Ed pinned down. I got to the truck and got out of there as fast as I could.”

“Call the sheriff and get them out there.” Sam flung the order at Katherine as he grabbed his hat and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” She tapped her cane on the flagstones.

“To Dougherty's.”

“Why?” Katherine demanded. “There is nothing you can do. The sheriff will handle it when he arrives.”

Halting, Sam threw her an impatient glance. “I hired those men, Katherine. And I sent them out there to check the fences. I am not about to sit here while Dougherty is taking potshots at them.”

She didn't agree with his reasoning or his decision; that was evident from her expression. Sam didn't waste time arguing his case.

“Call the sheriff,” he repeated, and pushed through the French doors. The wide central hall opened before him and he broke into a run. Ramon was right behind him, the hall echoing the sound of their footsteps beating across its marbled floor.

Out the front door and down the steps, Sam headed straight for the estate pickup Ramon had left parked at the head of the drive. The key was in the ignition. He climbed into the driver's side and turned the key, stepping on the gas and gunning the engine. The door on the passenger's side was yanked open, Ramon's stocky frame filling it as he scrambled onto the seat. Sam waited a split second to make sure Ramon was all the way in the truck, then popped the clutch and peeled up the drive.

“What happened? Give me all of it this time.” Barely slowing, Sam swung the pickup onto a narrow dirt road, one of several that crisscrossed the property, linking the vineyards, pastures, and winery together.

“I don't know. It happened so fast.” Ramon struggled to arrange his thoughts in some semblance of order. “We were checking the fences, like you told us. When we get to the north side, we find a section down. A fence post, it had rotted -“

“Where on the north boundary?” Sam knew every inch of Rutledge land, every dip and rise, every tree and rock on it. Dougherty's ten acres formed a rectangular piece that butted Rutledge property on two sides, carving a corner out of it.

“You know where the fence runs halfway down the slope, above where Dougherty's house is? It is there, in the middle of it.” Using his hands, Ramon tried to illustrate the exact location. “When we find the rotted post, Ed and Carlos – they stay to dig it out and I go back to the truck to get a new one. On my way back, I hear somebody yelling – Dougherty, I think – then boom! boom! boom! – he starts shooting.”

“Ed or Carlos, were they hit?” Sam pictured the spot in his mind. It was a new vineyard, the young vines in the middle of their second summer's growth.

“I don't think so. When I called to them, Ed shouted they were okay.” He paused and shook his head uncertainly. “The last time I saw them they were on their bellies, making love to the ground.”

Hearing that, Sam felt a rising anger. It jumped along his jawline as he increased the truck's speed, dust plumes rising like rooster tails in the vehicle's wake.

“What about Dougherty? Where was he?” He didn't even try to guess the reason Dougherty had suddenly opened fire.

“Somewhere by the house, I think. I couldn't see.” Ramon lifted his shoulders in an expressive shrug.

Within minutes of leaving the house, they reached the point where the dirt road angled sharply to the right. Braking, Sam slowed the truck and pulled off the track onto the grassy shoulder. This was as close as they could get by road to the property line the estate shared with Dougherty, still one hundred yards distant. From here, they'd have to go by foot.

Beyond the road, the land rose gently to a rounded knoll, ringed with tiered rows of young vines and crowned by a high blue sky. Sam climbed out of the truck and paused briefly. With the rising terrain blocking his view of the trouble site, he strained to hear some sound that might indicate the current state of the situation. The stillness was broken only by the breeze whispering through the vines and the odd noise from the pickup's rapidly cooling engine. There were no gunshots, no shouts. Sam wasn't reassured by that.

“This way.” Ramon headed across the road toward the vineyard on the other side. Sam followed.

The plowed ground between the young vines formed an aisle that circled the swell of ground. The dry earth showed tracks of previous usage, confirming that this was the route the crew had taken. Sam spotted the fence line and slowed his steps when Ramon did. The sun was at his back, its searing rays burning through the cotton of his shirt and heating his flesh.

As they neared the corner post, Sam heard the sharp crack of a rifle shot. A yelp of pain followed it as he and Ramon hit the ground.

“You aren't going to get me to fall for a fool trick like that!” The shouted statement came from Len Dougherty. Sam recognized his voice at once. “You can tell the Rutledges for me that I'm wise to their ways.”

“How the hell are we supposed to tell them anything, Dougherty, if you keep shooting at us?” Ed Braiser shouted back, more anger than fear in his voice. But the appeal for reason was lost on Dougherty.

“Yeah, you'd like me to let you crawl outta there, wouldn't you?”

Crouching low and using what cover the young vines offered, Sam worked his way closer, moving past Ramon, Ed Braiser and Carlos Jones were a good fifty yards away, hugging the plowed ground next to the fence line. Carlos was closest, with Ed stretched out behind him, lying on his side and rubbing his right hand as if it pained him. A broken shovel handle lay in the next vine row, the ends of a knotted white handkerchief fluttering from the top of it. The other half of the shovel was on the ground near Ed. A surrender attempt that had obviously failed.

Satisfied that neither man appeared hurt, Sam slipped into the next row to get a better view of Dougherty's place. A narrow and rutted weed-choked lane led to the shallow valley high on the mountainside. Years of neglect had turned the once small but tidy cottage into little more than a shack. The paint had long since peeled from the boards, leaving them gray and rotted in places. The area immediately around the house resembled a junkyard of rusted and abandoned machinery parts. A jungle-thick growth covered the rest of the ten acres.

The neglect, the decay, the deterioration of the place was enough to anger Sam. Grimly he scanned the area and finally spotted Dougherty's wiry frame hunkered down behind his shiny Buick, using the hood for a gun rest. A whiskey bottle sat on the ground beside him.

“What do we do, boss?” Ramon crouched down next to him.

Sam had been mulling that same question over in his mind. Suddenly the rifle cracked again, kicking up a puff of dust directly in front of Carlos. Carlos flattened himself to the ground, covering his head with his hands.

“Dirty rotten snakes, you aren't going to crawl out of here after you tore down my fence!” Dougherty shouted. “Try that again and I'll put a bullet through you.”

“That settles it.” Sam's voice was lower than a murmur. After making one last thorough sweep of the area, he backed away. Any thought of waiting for the sheriff or his deputies to arrive and defuse the situation had been discarded the instant Dougherty had made his threat.

“What do you think?” Ramon joined him.

“Do you hear any sirens?”

Ramon listened a moment, then shook his head. “No.”

“Neither do I.” With the demands of the heavy summer traffic and the shortage of staff mandated by countywide budget cuts, there was no telling when a car might be dispatched to the scene. Whether it was two minutes or twenty, either seemed too long. Sam pressed a hand on Ramon's shoulder. “You stay here.”

“Where are you going?”

“Down there.” With a jerk of his head, Sam indicated Dougherty's place. “If I can, I'll create a diversion and, hopefully, distract him long enough for you to get those two out of there.”

“He will shoot you.” Ramon looked at him with widened eyes.