Tangled Vines (8 page)

“Kelly Douglas? One moment.” There was a brief pause. “Miss Douglas does not work here.”

With that, his control snapped. “That's a goddamned lie! She works there. I know she does. I just saw her on the news a couple days ago.”

“I'm sorry, but -” the voice attempted to continue.

“She told you to say that, didn't she?” His fingers throttled the metal cord as his face flamed red with rage. The operator said something, but he was beyond hearing. “You put her on this phone right now! Do you hear me? I want to talk to her.” He continued to shout his demands into the receiver. It was several seconds before he realized no one was listening; the phone was dead. In anger he rammed the receiver onto its hook. “She'll talk to me. By God, I'll make her talk to me,” he vowed.

But first he needed a drink.

The studio lights blazed, bathing the anchor desk and its occupants in hot light. Beyond the bright arc, the rest of the studio lay in shadows. The bulky studio cameras and their operators, the stagehands, sound technicians, makeup man, production assistants, and the studio stage manager were dimly lit shapes arrayed around the anchor set. All of them were mindful of the labyrinth of black cables on the floor, waiting to trip the unwary.

At the anchor desk, Kelly faced camera three and waited for a cue that she knew was only seconds away. Her long hair was plaited in a French braid, a few tendrils escaping to soften the look and conceal the ear-piece that kept her in direct contact with the control room and the technicians on the floor. A microphone was pinned to the lapel of her smoke blue jacket, an unobtrusive adornment next to the blue-and-gold paisley scarf at her throat.

The red light on camera three came on, followed by the anticipated hand signal. “Governor Cuomo was in New York today to” -- As Kelly began to read the copy on the TelePrompTer screen, strategically placed directly below the camera lens, the screen went blank. With no noticeable break in her delivery, Kelly referred to the papers in front of her, a printed copy of the TelePrompTer's script that she kept with her as a precaution against just such an eventuality. “- meet with city leaders and discuss the assistance the state might be able to provide to help the city out of its current budget crisis. John Daniels has more on that story.”

Facing the camera, Kelly continued to appear perfectly composed, but over her headset she could hear the executive producer in the control room shouting for pictures and the director repeating the order, adding a few choice obscenities. She glanced down, ostensibly at her papers, but in reality at the small monitor concealed in the anchor desk. She saw only her face.

On television, three seconds of dead air could seem like an eternity. With nerves on edge, Kelly switched papers to the next story in the lineup in case this one was shifted to later in the hour. Then her face faded abruptly from the monitor, replaced by that of John Daniels standing in front of City Hall.

“All right.” The stage manager's voice echoed the relief Kelly felt. “The tape runs a minute thirty, then we come back to you, Kelly, for the tag.”

Kelly nodded and leaned back in her chair, letting her arms hang. She raised her voice slightly to address everyone in the studio. “If you guys wanted to make my last broadcast memorable by turning a bunch of gremlins loose, you have succeeded.”

There were a few faint chuckles from behind the cameras, and Chuck, her co-anchor, grinned. “We just wanted to make sure you didn't forget the thrills of live television.”

“Thanks a lot,” she murmured dryly.

The first of the minor glitches had occurred minutes before they had gone on air. One of the production assistants had come up to Kelly while she was being miked by an audio technician. She informed Kelly that she wouldn't be interviewing Robert Mondavi; his flight had been delayed and he wouldn't make it to the studio in time for the broadcast.

“Then we'll be scratching that segment.” In her mind, she had been thinking they could insert a short tell story on Saturday's gala wine auction.

“No. Townsend showed up with a substitute. They're in makeup now.”

“Who is it?” Kelly hated to go into an interview cold, with no previous knowledge of the guest, his background, accomplishments, or the unique tidbits that might make him interesting to the viewer. There was too much risk of asking stupid questions that revealed her ignorance.

“I can't remember the name, but don't worry we'll write up an introduction and a list of questions for you.” The assurance had been barely out of her mouth when she had been called away, leaving Kelly with the uncomfortable feeling that she might have four very long and potentially awkward minutes of airtime to fill with an unknown guest.

Then three minutes into the broadcast a light had exploded, showering a corner of the anchor desk with glass fragments. Shortly after that, a fly had landed on Kelly's nose and taken an exploratory stroll across her cheek, an unwelcome distraction made worse by the fact that the subject of the story was the city's sanitation department. The latest mishap had, of course, been the sudden failure of the TelePrompTer.

It was almost enough to convince Kelly her final appearance on the show was jinxed. Still, she joked with the crew. “No more surprises, guys. Okay?”

“Guess we can forget about surprising her with that cake,” the cameraman Rory Tubbs spoke up.

The cake and the small farewell party the crew had planned for Kelly had been one of the worst-kept secrets in the building.

“A cake? Something sinful and rich, I hope.” Kelly grinned.

“Maybe not rich, but it will definitely be sinful,” Rory promised, drawing knowing chuckles from others in the crew.

“Just what kind of cake is this?” Kelly put a hand on her hip in mock demand.

“All right, ten seconds.” The stage manager issued the warning. Kelly saw the TelePrompTer was functioning again and quickly checked to make sure the opening words on her papers matched the large-print letters on the screen. They did. “Nine – eight --seven – six – five – four – three – two...”

At his hand signal, she addressed the camera. “While in New York, Governor Cuomo will also visit State Senator Dan Melcher. The senator is still hospitalized, recovering from a gunshot wound he suffered earlier this week. According to a hospital spokesman, the senator's condition is listed as ‘improved.' A full recovery is expected.

The attention shifted to her co-anchor as he read the lead-in for the next story, which would be followed by a commercial break. Off-camera, Kelly unclipped her microphone and slipped it from under her jacket, leaving it draped across her chair seat as she rose and silently exited the set. After the commercial came the weather, then Kelly's interview segment with her as yet unknown guest. She had roughly five minutes to learn everything she could and she intended to make full use of the time.

Sally O'Malley, one of the production assistants who regularly accompanied show guests into the studio, met her at the edge of the anchor set and passed two sheets of yellow paper to her.

“The intro and questions,” she said in a very hushed whisper, then motioned. “This way.”

Guessing that Sally was taking her to meet the guest, Kelly followed, picking her way carefully over the cables strewn across the floor. She spotted Hugh Townsend standing near the back of the studio with two other people. Her glance fell on the slim, straight woman on Hugh's right. Her summer suit in a soft pink pastel had all the marks of a Chanel, and the stylish cut of her white hair.

My God, it was Katherine Rutledge. Kelly froze, a sense of panic surfacing with a rush. She couldn't face her. She couldn't risk being recognized. She couldn't.

But how could Katherine Rutledge possibly recognize her? She wasn't the tall, overweight girl with glasses and stringy hair that Katherine would remember. She had changed. Changed her name, her appearance, her life – everything.

Yet that failed to lessen the high tension that gripped her as Kelly approached the trio. She was too experienced too well schooled, to let any of it show in her expression.

Hugh smiled a silent greeting at her, a faint gleam of triumph in his hazel eyes. Then, with impeccable manners, he turned to Katherine Rutledge. “Katherine, may I present Kelly Douglas. She will be doing your interview.” Then he reversed it. “Kelly, this is Katherine Rutledge.”

“It's an honor to have you as a guest, Mrs. Rutledge.” Up close, Kelly could see she had aged little in twelve years. The eyes were still as sharp and bright as ever, and the heavy stage makeup gave a smooth look to her face, concealing any new lines time might have added.

“Miss Douglas.” Katherine offered her a white-gloved hand, a regal quality to the gesture that Kelly remembered well. It was as unforgettable as her voice – like cut glass. When Kelly released her hand, Katherine used it to gracefully direct her attention to the third member of the group. “This is my grandson Sam Rutledge.”

Kelly turned and looked up to a face that was strong and lean, all lines and shadows, hollows and angles. The soft, boyish look that she remembered was gone, even though she had seen him only a few times. Not surprising considering they had hardly traveled in the same circles. Sam Rutledge had belonged to the vintner set with their sleek sports cars, festive lawn parties, and the latest fashions, while she had belonged to -no, she wasn't going to remember. She refused to remember. She had left that life far behind her.

“Welcome to New York, Mr. Rutledge,” she said, conscious of his eyes studying her with a detached interest. There was no recognition in his look, yet her tension went up a notch, along with her pulse rate. A reaction Kelly dismissed as purely nerves and nothing more, although it didn't explain her heightened awareness of him.

“Miss Douglas.” He didn't offer to shake hands, but simply smiled. The movement of his mouth caused the hollows to deepen and the shadows to shift, with attractive results.

“Will you be joining us for the interview, Mr. Rutledge?” she asked while silently wondering how she was going to get through it.

“No.” There was a small shake of his head, and another faint movement of his mouth. “I merely accompanied Katherine to the studio.”

Kelly thought it odd that he referred to his grandmother by her given name, but she was too preoccupied to give it more than passing notice.

Behind her, voices rose, signaling the beginning of a commercial break. Welcoming the distraction, Kelly looked back. Two cameras pulled away from the anchor desk, the operators kicking the attached cables out of the way as they maneuvered the cameras into position before the set to the right of the anchor desk. The overhead bank of lights came on, throwing their bright glare on the two chairs angled toward each other and separated by a solid round table. A stagehand hurried onto the set and added a wine bottle and stemmed glass next to the vase, filled with an arrangement of lilies and roses.

The young production assistant nudged Kelly. “Why don't you take Mrs. Rutledge to the set and get her settled before the interview?”

“Yes.” She hesitated a split second, fighting to control the nervous churning of her stomach and taking a silent vow to make this the best interview she had ever done. It was the focus she needed. “If you will follow me, Mrs. Rutledge.”

At the woman's nod, Kelly took the lead, avoiding the tangle of cables as best she could.

Hugh watched them make their way to the set he called the conversation pit. A shifting movement drew his glance to Sam Rutledge.

“Your grandmother is in good hands,” Hugh assured him. “Kelly is an incredible talent – with an incredible voice.”

“Yes.” But it wasn't her on-air voice he was thinking about, with its quietly firm tone, smooth around the edges, not crisp or officious. His mind kept turning back to the warm and friendly sound of her voice when she'd been joking with the crew during a break.

When the pair reached the set, the bulky studio cameras blocked them from view. “Let's move over there.” Hugh motioned to some unidentified spot. “We'll be able to hear better and still see the monitor.”

“Whatever you say.” Sam followed when Hugh Townsend walked to an area to the right of the cameras but still behind them.

The angle gave Sam an unobstructed view of the set and its occupants. Katherine was already seated in the far chair, her very posture giving it the look of a throne. Kelly Douglas was still standing, tapping a finger to her headset and shaking her head that she couldn't hear. In the shadowy corner of the studio, her auburn hair had looked almost black. Under the lights, Sam noted, it caught fire.

An audio technician rushed onto the set. Kelly presented her back to him – and to Sam. He raised her jacket up to check the battery pack attached to the waistband of her skirt, giving – Sam a glimpse of the ice blue silk and lace of the camisole she wore under it. He found it an interesting contrast to the tailored lines of her jacket.

Whatever adjustment the technician made, it worked. Almost immediately, she flashed him a smile. “It's loud and clear now. Thanks, Carl.”

The man responded with a one-fingered salute and retreated from the set as the stage manager called out, “All right, quiet. We'll be coming out of the break in twenty seconds.”

Kelly sat down and murmured something to Katherine that Sam couldn't catch. Then she was bent over the papers on her lap, her pen busy slashing and scribbling across them.

“Fifteen seconds” came the warning, followed quickly by the countdown.

Sam glanced at the monitor and idly watched faces give way to weather graphics. But his mind wandered, as always his thoughts drifting to the winery and vineyards, and the work to be done. He had postponed the thinning of Sol's Vineyard until he got back to supervise the work. The bottling of the two-year-old cabernet sauvignon was continuing, under Claude's watchful eye. The Merlot was scheduled for bottling as well.

Len Dougherty wasn't a concern, at least for the time being. Before they'd left for New York, the sheriff had called to tell them he had been arrested by the St. Helena police. He had pleaded guilty to a drunk-and-disorderly charge. Currently Dougherty was in the city jail, serving a four-day sentence.

Belatedly, Sam noticed a shot of Kelly Douglas on the monitor. A set of graphics flashed on the screen, promoting the gala wine auction, listing the time, the location, the ticket prices, and the charity that would receive the proceeds.

Privately he wished they could have their meeting with Baron Fougere, skip the auction, and fly home. But he also recognized this might be the last major function Katherine attended. God knows she had devoted her entire life, every bit of her energy, to Rutledge Estate, its vineyards and its wines, to the exclusion of nearly everything else. She deserved to bask in the glory her wines had achieved.