Tangled Vines (20 page)

“It would have been money well spent. You were too lenient.”

“So you said at the time.”

“I was right.”

Anger darkened his eyes, an occurrence so rare that it immediately captured her full attention. For an instant Katherine thought her grandson was going to come out of his chair. Unconsciously she held her breath and waited for the show of fire. But it didn't come. Instead the fire was banked as he rocked forward and picked up his phone messages.

“Your way is the only right way, isn't it, Katherine?” His cynical tone held the smallest trace of sarcasm.

“My way is the only right way for Rutledge Estate.” Disappointed in him again, she let it show. “Weakness can never be permitted.”

His head came up. “Don't mistake good judgment for weakness, Katherine,” he warned. “The poor soil and rough landscape of Rutledge Estate is a harsh environment, exposed to the full heat of the sun and an almost constant wind. It produces grapes that look small, maybe even puny. But all of them have developed the thick skins they need to survive in this climate.”

“I am fully aware of that, Jonathon.”

“Sam,” he corrected, breaking off their near argument, regarding it as futile. “Better not make that mistake around the baron or he'll think your mind is slipping.”

“I want this merger.” It was a flat, hard statement.

“And Gil is going to do his damnedest to take it away from you,” Sam reminded her. “It's a personal thing with him.”

A silence ran for several seconds before Katherine responded. “There is that personal aspect on his part, but he also needs it for financial reasons. All of his vine yards are infected with that new strain of phylloxera.” She spoke slowly, her voice full of thought. Sam was reminded of a computer sifting through all the data and compiling an answer. “Over the next four years, every single acre will have to be replanted, which will require an enormous influx of cash.”

“I assumed he got into the futures market to finance that.”

“True.” Her lips curved in the smallest of smiles. “But how much better it would be to have outside capital contributing to a large share of that cost. I wonder if Emile is aware of his situation,” she mused. “Perhaps I should mention it to him...just in passing, of course.”

“Of course,” he mocked. “Just out of curiosity, where is the baron staying while he's here?”

“Gil offered him the use of his guest house, but Emile has reserved a suite at Auberge du Soleil. Neutral ground,” she explained and turned from the window, a confident tilt to her head. “I must arrange to have a party to welcome the baron to the valley, perhaps while the television crew is here.”

“What television crew?” Sam frowned.

“I planned to tell you tomorrow at lunch. I talked to Hugh Townsend last week. He wants to do a story on California wines and feature Rutledge Estate.”

“And you agreed?”

“I wouldn't want Emile to have the impression that Gil is the only one who can generate publicity. We can do it as well, and it will be national in scope. Perhaps even international,” she added with a graceful lift of a shoulder. “Certainly it will be much more effective in elevating the name of Rutledge Estate than a lot of photographs and articles in trade publications and wine magazines. I understand that the crew will be here for several days. Who knows? Perhaps we shall have a major announcement to give them while they are here.” She started toward the door. “Lunch at one tomorrow.”

Privately Sam wondered whether Kelly Douglas would be among the crew. But he didn't ask. Instead, he nodded and confirmed, “Tomorrow.”

Alone, he stared at the door Katherine closed behind her. He wasn't sure why the memory of his meeting with Kelly Douglas in New York had stuck so fast in his mind. Maybe it was the contrast between the calm, smooth sound of her voice and the tension and restless energy he sensed vibrating from her. Maybe it was the strength and intelligence in her features. Or maybe it was the wariness he had sometimes seen in her eyes, a wariness that indicated she was somehow vulnerable despite the strength she showed.

Or maybe it was nothing more than the heat of that damned kiss.

Shaking off his wandering thoughts, Sam concentrated on the phone messages before him.

Rain pattered against the window in Kelly's office and ran in sheets down the panes. Traffic clogged the thoroughfares directly below, taxis splashing through the streets, horns blaring in impatience, people scurrying along the sidewalks beneath umbrellas, folded newspapers, or bravely facing the rain bareheaded. The pace, the energy of the city never slackened.

Kelly turned from her contemplation of the scene below and glanced at her desk. Idly she ran a hand over the edge of its walnut surface. The desk was one Kelly had discovered at a garage sale in St. Louis shortly before she moved to New York. Used as a worktable by its previous owner, it had been in sad shape, its top mottled with dents and black stains, several of its drawer pulls missing, its sides scratched and gouged, and one leg cracked. The moving company men had looked at her with raised eyebrows when they learned she wanted it shipped with the rest of her furniture.

Today eyebrows arched in silent admiration. All trace of its numerous scars and blemishes was gone. A damp cloth and a warm iron had eliminated the dents; colored wood filler had fixed the cracked leg and mended the scratches; two applications of wood bleach had removed even the worst discoloration's; a coat of walnut stain had brought out the wood's rich grain; and three coats of wax had given it a glow of deep luster.

Feeling the smoothness of the polished surface, Kelly thought of the hours she had spent rubbing the clear paste wax over every inch of the newly stained wood. Even now the smell of beeswax lingered, overpowered by the stronger fragrance of roses and violets that sprang from a lemonade pitcher of Pickard china. The pitcher was one of her finds at the flea market on Sixth Avenue and Twenty-sixth Street, along with a cast-iron black hare, once used as a doorstop, that now adorned her desk. Posters of paintings by Monet and O'Keeffe gave color to walls.

Her glance fell on the thick folder in the middle of her desk, a folder that Research had dropped off a few minutes ago, containing all the information and articles they had been able to gather on Katherine Rutledge and Rutledge Estate. In truth it wasn't as thick as she had expected it to be.

Kelly opened the folder and leafed through the contents, laying aside for the time being an eight-page typed summary of the information within. The rest was mainly copies of magazine articles, newspaper clippings, pages excerpted from books on the local history of wine making, and photographs, both old and new.

All of it was in chronological order, beginning with George Simpson Rutledge, who had made his fortune in the import-export business, during San Francisco's goldrush days. In 1879 he purchased the five-hundred-acre rancho that was to become Rutledge Estate. Like many other wealthy San Franciscans of his day, he built a summer home in the valley that, according to the flowery language of the time, was “every bit as grand as any European duchy.” In the same article, mention was made that in addition to raising cattle, sheep, and horses, he intended to plant several of his acres to vineyards and follow the lead of others in the valley “in the making of wine from grapes.”

A later article on the destructive effects of phylloxera in the valley included a line that read: “All fifty acres of vineyard owned by George Simpson Rutledge of San Francisco have been ravaged by this terrible plague. Mr. Rutledge states he will replant if a remedy can be found.”

There was an obituary notice on the death of his wife in the last year of the century. Another short article followed that one, only months later, stating that Mr. Rutledge had turned his San Francisco company over to his eldest son and had moved permanently to his home in the valley.

A grainy newspaper photograph showed damage suffered in the valley from the great quake that devastated San Francisco. The caption under it identified the rubble as the stone sheepshead on the property of George Rutledge. “Bricks were shaken loose from the chimneys of the main residence and the winery suffered minor damage. Mr. Rutledge feels fortunate the destruction was not worse.”

At his death, in 1910, there was a lengthy article chronicling the accomplishments of his life. The last paragraph stated that he was survived by two sons, a daughter, and four grandchildren. None of them were named.

That was followed by a 1917 article on the wedding of Clayton Rutledge and Katherine Leslie Fairchild. The reporter went on at length, describing the gowns worn by the bride and her attendants, the lavish reception, the refreshments served, and the wedding presents. “The groom's parents gifted the happy couple with the family summer home in Napa Valley.” Later the same year, a society column mentioned that the Clayton Rutledges had decided to live permanently in their Napa Valley home and “pursue the life of a gentleman farmer.”

An article on the proposed Prohibition legislation that threatened the burgeoning wine industry in the valley included a quote from Clayton Rutledge stating that he felt certain the making of wine would be exempted. Then came a clipping, dated after Prohibition had gone into effect, that mentioned the Rutledge Estate winery had been granted a permit to make sacramental wines as well as some for medicinal uses. The next article contained news of his death, six years later, in a motoring accident near Bordeaux, France. He was survived by his wife, Katherine, and two young sons, Jonathon, age eight, and Gilbert, age six.

Kelly sighed. So far there was nothing here that she hadn't already known. She started to skip ahead to more recent articles. Then her glance fell on the headline of the next article.

FREAK ACCIDENT KILLS MANAGER AT RUTLEDGE ESTATE

The body of Evan Dougherty was found early this morning in the cellar of the Rutledge Estate winery by a worker. Authorities surmise that a wine keg rolled from its rack and fell on the victim, crushing his skull. The county coroner believes the death occurred the previous evening. Other workers at the estate confirmed that Dougherty frequently made night checks of the winery. There were no witnesses to the accident.

It is indeed a tragedy for Dougherty's young wife, who is anticipating the birth of their first child.

Kelly stared at the clipping, surprised it was even included, although it did show that the researchers had been relentless in their quest for any information relating to the Rutledges. She glanced through the following sheets. The bulk of them were write-ups on awards won by the wines of Rutledge Estate in the ensuing years, and the acclaim given various vintages by wine critics. The few magazine pieces on Katherine Rutledge contained no new information.

As the door to her office swung open, Kelly glanced up. Hugh paused in the opening. “Am I interrupting?”

“You are. But no interruption has ever been more welcome.” She closed the folder and tapped it on her desk top, straightening the sheets inside. “I have just been doing some very dull reading.”

“On what?” He walked in, leaving the door standing open.

“The Rutledge family. There isn't much.” She slipped the folder in a desk drawer. “Katherine has given very few interviews and there's almost nothing on the estrangement with her youngest son. Obviously there has been more gossip than articles written about it.” Kelly paused and smiled. “Sorry, you came in here for something. What was it?”

“Just to let you know there has been a slight change in the schedule,” he said. “One I think you will like. The interview with John Travis has been pushed back two days due to a conflict in commitments that he has. Which means you will have two free days to spend in Napa when you wrap up with Katherine. It will be less expensive to hold you over there than to fly everyone back to New York, then turn around and fly to Aspen the next day.”

“Make those two days in San Francisco and you have, a deal,” Kelly countered as the phone rang and her assistant picked it up in the outer office. “We'll be that much closer to the airport.”

“No problem.” Hugh shrugged.

Sue stepped into the doorway and rapped lightly on the frame to catch Kelly's attention. “You have a call on line one, Kelly,” she told her. “It's a man, but he wouldn't give me his name. Do you want it or should I tell him you're busy?”

For a long moment, Kelly didn't say anything, struck by this flat feeling of inevitability. Somehow, she had known all along he would call again now that he knew where she was, how to reach her.

Hugh moved toward the door. “If you are free around three this afternoon, come by my office. I should have a demo on the proposed theme music for the show.”

She managed a nod, then reached for the phone. “I'll take the call, Sue.” Kelly picked up the receiver and waited, her finger poised above the blinking light. “Close the door, please.”

As it swung shut, she pressed the button. “Kelly Douglas speaking. Who is this?” she asked calmly. The worst had already happened; there was nothing left to dread.

“Miss Douglas, hello. This is Steve Gray with the United Gold Exchange. I'm calling to give you a rare opportunity to take advantage of a tremendous offer.”

With the first words, she wavered between laughter and anger. She chose a middle ground and broke in. “Steve, I am so glad you called. This is such a coincidence. This morning at our story meeting we were talking about doing an expose about the false claims made by telemarketing companies.”

There was a click and the line went dead. Kelly leaned back in her chair with immense satisfaction, and a belated feeling of relief that she had been wrong.

A hot wind blew through the open window of the green-and-white Buick as it roared down the Silverado Trail, its muffler dragging, striking sparks on the pavement. The deep green of well-tended grapevines stretched off to the right in neat, symmetrical lines. Len Dougherty couldn't help noticing them and comparing them to his own, which still had a wild, jungle look despite the hard week he'd spent, working from dawn to dusk, trimming and thinning to give some order without damaging too much of the crop.

Just ahead tall columns of poplar trees lined the short drive that led to the collection of monastic-style buildings housing the winery, tasting rooms, sales area, and offices of The Cloisters. Len drove past the entrance and continued down the road another mile to a private road that wound up the steep side of a mountain. He turned onto it.

Lofty stands of eucalyptus trees, redwoods, and oaks hugged both sides of the narrow road, their limbs arching over it to form a leafy green canopy. The rocky ground at their feet was a tangle of parched grass, poison oak, and tough, crimson-stalked manzanita.

As he neared the crest of the spiny ridge, he came to a set of ornate iron gates and slowed the car to a stop. The trailing dust swirled in the open windows and instantly began to settle in the still, hot air. He slapped it off the sleeves of his best suit – his only suit, a navy pinstripe he'd bought to wear to Becca's funeral.

The gates stood open. Dougherty debated whether to drive on through. At most it was probably another quarter mile to the house. He climbed out of the car and slammed the door, slipping the ignition key into his pocket. He started walking and the sweat started rolling. Cursing under his breath, he held his arms away from his sides. He didn't want to show up at the door with wet circles of sweat staining his underarms.

A short distance past the gate, the dirt road gave way to a paved drive of aggregate concrete, edged with red paving brick on each side. He followed it around a curve and spotted the stuccoed walls and tiled roof of the guest house, tucked in the side of the ridge slope.

Lush green grass surrounded the rock garden and mock waterfall at the rear of it.

The drive widened and made a looping circle around a marble fountain, ringed with bright flowers. At the apex of the circle sat the main house, low and sprawling, its red tiled roof baking in the afternoon sun.

Dougherty stopped and pulled a handkerchief from his hip pocket, mopped the sweat from his face and ran it around the neck of his collar, then stuffed it back in his pocket. As he started toward the house, he had a glimpse of the tall fence surrounding the tennis court off to his left, and more green lawn and flowers.

“The whole place takes up more than my ten acres,” he murmured with envy.

It was almost enough to make him want to turn around, but it was also enough to keep him walking all the way to the front door. There, he hesitated again and licked his lips, trying not to think how good a shot of icy-cold whiskey would taste right now. Before he lost his courage, Dougherty punched the doorbell and tried to peer through the lens-thick panes of glass that checkered the door from top to bottom. But they distorted the view. He had the impression of a dark shape moving toward the door seconds before it opened.

A Mexican dressed in the black suit of a servant gave him a quick once-over, followed by a cool stare. “How may I help you, senor?”

“I'm here to see Mr. Rutledge,” he said quickly, nervously.

Again the dark eyes examined him with skepticism. “Is he expecting you?”

Dougherty was saved from answering by a woman's voice calling from some room in the house. “Who is it, Luis? If it's Clay, tell him his father is at the croquet court.”

“The croquet court. Is that over there?” Dougherty jerked his thumb in the direction of the tennis court.

“No, senor. It is around the house on the lower lawn,” the Mexican replied, none too certain she should be telling him.

“Thanks.” Dougherty immediately set off to find it.

He rounded the corner of the house and dragged the handkerchief from his pocket again to wipe the sweat from his neck and brow. He ducked through a wisteria arbor and felt the breeze. He wished he could take his jacket off and enjoy it, but he needed to look businesslike. After all, it was a business proposition he was going to put to Rutledge.

As the ridge fell away from the house, he saw a swimming pool off to his left, complete with a bathhouse and cabana, lounge chairs and umbrellaed tables. He heard a cracking sound that reminded him of billiard balls breaking.