Entangled (7 page)

I frowned. “Ted Churchill? What did he want?
I’m not behind in my rent and I haven’t been smoking on the
premises like ole Betty does down the hall.”

“No, but you haven’t signed the new lease.
The rent was raised and additional charges added to pay for
remodeling of the public restrooms.” Jody sounded apologetic, as
though it were her fault. She had complained louder than most about
the dilapidated facilities.

“Great! Like the rent wasn’t high enough
already. They finally remodel something that should have been done
ten years ago, before I ever moved into the building, and now they
want me to help pay for it,” I grouched. I’d actually gotten rather
attached to the slate rock exterior and dark, dimly lit interior of
my office building. Like a bear returning to its cave in winter, I
traversed those familiar halls each day, my home away from home.
“So Churchill expects me to sign on for another year, huh?”

“Actually,” she said, “he wants you to sign
on for five. It’s the new policy.”

I closed my eyes and drew a deep breath. Five
years? I no longer felt sure what I would be doing in five weeks,
much less five years.

“Oh—I almost forgot,” she said quickly as
though just realizing she’d called long distance and was trying to
make up for lost time. “Kent called this afternoon. He wanted to
set up a date for Wednesday night to meet for dinner. I told him
you were still out of town and he asked where you went. I figured
you told him on Friday night, but he seemed surprised, said he
never met you Friday.” There was a pointed question in her
voice.

I was glad for the thousands of miles
separating me from the office because in person Jody would have the
entire story out of me in under a minute. She knew when I was being
evasive and became a pit-bull in her questioning. She should have
been a lawyer. I sat up and stared at my open purse beside me on
the bed. The edge of the letter stuck over the lip, begging to be
read.

“No, I was tired and went home instead.”

She was silent for a second as though letting
that information sink in. “Do you want me to go ahead and set up
the date or wait until you get home tomorrow night and you can talk
to him yourself?” she asked.

I chewed the inside of my jaw, my thoughts a
jumble of options. If I used my return ticket I would be home
tomorrow afternoon in time to deal with Kent, the Booths, my new
lease, and any other problems that cropped up in my absence. I
suddenly wished they’d all disappear.

I pulled the letter out and stared at it long
and hard, my finger itching to peel back the flap and have full
disclosure. Instead, I sat and held it in my lap, debating whether
it would be easier to solve the growing problems of home, or
familiarize myself with the winery and its potential problems.
Never having run from a difficult case, I found it strange to
suddenly feel insecure, desiring peace more than controversy.

I pushed my fingernail under the flap and
ripped the letter open. Two sheets of heavy paper were folded
together in thirds, stiff and crisply white with importance. I
slipped them out of the envelope and smoothed them open on the
bedspread. The pages held no words, only a key taped directly under
the second fold, a key that brought forth more questions than it
answered.

“I’m not flying home tomorrow after all.” My
sudden decision shocked even me. I held my breath a moment, waiting
for Jody’s response.

“Then when are you coming back?” she asked,
worry filling her voice.

“I’m not sure. There are things I need to
take care of first. Probably just a few days. If you want to close
up shop and take some time off, that would be fine. I know there
isn’t much for you to do when I’m gone, other than answer the
phone.”

Her girls were arguing in the background
again, their voices rose in consternation. Jody shushed them
loudly, not bothering to cover the receiver. “I could do that,” she
said, although I detected hesitation. She was probably worried
about the lack of income.

“Jody,” I said, “I’m going to have my mother
bring you a check when she returns tomorrow. I appreciate your hard
work, but don’t think you need to keep the office open while I’m
gone. Have the calls forwarded to an answering service and let me
know if there are any emergencies that need to be taken care of
right away. Don’t worry; I intend to pay you for your time off.
Have a good rest and I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Billie, is everything all right?” she asked,
before I could disconnect.

“Of course. Goodbye now.” I flipped my phone
closed.

Uncle Jack wanted me to have this key if I
made the decision to take over running the winery. Why? I shook my
head, simple reason eluding me. There were no instructions with the
key, no treasure map to guide me to a chest of gold, no word at all
of what it unlocked, just a brass key to secrets I might never
find.

~~~

CHAPTER FIVE

“
A
re you sure you
don’t want me to stay?” Mother asked once again as she waited in
line for her turn to go through the metal detector. She held a
small overnight bag, filled not with clothes but newspaper-wrapped
wine bottles. Just a few gifts for her friends at the Bridge Club,
she said. I hoped they would let her take it on the plane or she
would throw a fit. People with no carry on luggage bypassed the
line and went directly through the metal detectors on either side,
hurrying to their flights.

“You have to go home, Mom. You don’t want to
miss your dinner date tonight. They only get fewer and farther
between as a woman ages,” I teased. Her banker had asked her out
before we left; a middle-aged widower, average in every way except
for the uncanny ability to make her laugh. To Mother, laughter made
up for everything else that might be lacking.

She pulled me in for one last hug as we
neared the beginning of the line. “All right, smarty. I’ll go, but
if you need me don’t hesitate to call. I can be back out here just
like that,” she said, snapping her fingers.

“See you later, Mom.” I smiled as she placed
her bag carefully on the conveyor belt, slipped off her heels and
put them up there too, then walked in her stocking feet through the
detector to retrieve them on the other side. She slipped her shoes
back on, hoisted her bag and waved one last time before hurrying
off to board her plane.

I watched until she was out of sight down the
long hallway. I missed the freedom of pre 9-11 when family members
could go to the gate and say their goodbyes, watch men with huge
ear protectors out on the tarmac scurry around performing their
jobs like synchronized swimmers, the sound of engines roaring to
life, escalating until the plane began its slow roll toward a place
in the line near the runway, and then waving them off, although you
could never tell which window to wave at, everyone was so small at
that distance.

Handel had brought us to the airport, but
decided to wait in the car, circling endlessly so he didn’t have to
park. I was glad the weather was nice as I stood for fifteen
minutes waiting for his next round. I wore a short denim skirt and
t-shirt, summer attire in Minnesota, but fine for the month of May
here. The sun beat warmly down on my bare arms and I felt lethargy
seeping into my bones before I finally spotted the car pulling up
to the curb. I hurried over and climbed into the front seat. He
exited from the airport before speaking.

“I knew you’d stay.” Handel’s bold statement
was an absolute lie of course, but his surprise at my decision had
been masked well.

“Sure you did.”

He glanced my way and a car cut in front of
him.

“Watch the road!” I yelled, not yet used to
the traffic congestion or rude California drivers. “I’d prefer to
live long enough to enjoy my newfound wealth.”

He grinned and zipped into the flow of cars.
“You’ll live. I promise.”

“You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep,”
I said, remembering how my father gave up after realizing he wasn’t
really in control of anything.

Handel glanced my way again, his eyes
narrowed into slits against the sun. “Could you check in the glove
box for a pair of sunglasses? I forgot mine this morning.”

I pushed the button and let the little door
fall open. A flashlight, the car’s instruction manual, and a
package of tissues filled the small space. “Sorry. Don’t see any.”
I pushed it closed again.

“Terrific,” he grumbled, adjusting the visors
at the best possible angle.

I opened my purse and handed him my shades.
“Here, try these. You drive like a girl anyway.”

“Red?”

“They match your shirt.”

He smiled and put them on. “Thanks for
noticing. So - was the girl remark derogatory or
complimentary?”

“I said girl, not woman. You figure it
out.”

“Ouch. You’ve wounded me to the quick.” He
pressed his hand to his chest where his heart was supposed to
reside, and then accelerated, passing cars one after another until
I thought we’d suddenly run onto the Indy 500 track. I gripped the
door handle hard enough to turn my knuckles white.

“How’s this?” he asked, his lips curving into
a self-satisfied grin.

“Now you’re driving like a woman with a death
wish.”

He laughed and slowed down, moving into the
center lane. “Did you read the letter? Is that what changed your
mind?” he asked, his curiosity undisguised now.

I reached for my purse and pulled the
envelope out of the side pocket, holding it up for him see. “Is
this what you want to know about? Are you driving like a maniac so
I’ll spill my guts?” I asked. “No pun intended.”

“Nope, the driving is a bonus. I’m just
curious. You’re an attorney. Doesn’t it bother you when a client
leaves you completely in the dark, hiding information you might
possibly have used for their defense? Not that Jack needed
defending. You know what I mean.” He chewed at his bottom lip as he
drove, one hand guiding the steering wheel, the other resting in
his lap.

I watched him drive, his attention equally
divided between the task at hand and the information he was trying
to pull out of me, not even diverted by the length of my bare legs
stretched out beside him. I tugged at the edge of my skirt, my own
thoughts making me self-conscious. Did I want him to notice me?

He reached up and scratched at his jaw in
that slow way I’d noticed before when he was deep in thought. Of
course, I didn’t know if his deep thoughts were about the
exorbitant amount of road-kill on the highway this morning or
something deeper. “Don’t want to tell me, huh?” he finally asked
when I made no response.

I pulled the pages out and spread them open.
I’d taken the key off earlier and slid it into my coin purse, but
for some unknown reason kept the empty letter also. “You might be a
bit disappointed when you see what he wrote,” I said, turning the
pages toward him.

Handel looked down and his jaw tightened, a
frown forming tiny little lines of age that weren’t there before.
He made a scoffing sound and glanced back at the road. “What’s
this?” he asked, as though I were telling him a joke. “Where’s the
letter?”

I cleared my throat. “This is the letter. Two
pieces of blank paper.”

He suddenly looked like a small boy who
dropped his ice-cream cone upside down in the dirt. “No way. Jack
wasn’t a practical joker. What are you trying to pull?” He locked
his eyes back on the road, but his grip on the steering wheel had
tightened considerably, both hands now in place at eleven and two
o’clock.

I released an exasperated breath and stuffed
the blank pages back in the envelope, my movements deliberately
angry. Every time I felt the least bit of attraction for this guy I
instantly regretted it. “I’m not trying to pull anything. But
unless Uncle Jack wrote in invisible ink and thought I owned a
decoder ring, he didn’t leave any message in this envelope other
than a key.” I hadn’t meant to bring up the subject of the key, but
now it sat between us like a giant mime waiting to be
acknowledged.

I stared straight ahead, watching the bright
white lines of the highway unfurl before us, mile markers come and
go, vineyards, lush with leaves and blooms stretch off past my
peripheral vision. I felt his gaze on me more than once but he
didn’t speak, not until we turned into the long drive of
Fredrickson Vineyard and pulled up to the house, tires crunching on
gravel as dust stirred behind us and slowly settled back down,
leaving a layer of white on the once shiny black car.

“I’m sorry. It’s really none of my
business…” he began.

“No, it’s not.” I opened the door and climbed
out, then turned back to glare in at him. “My uncle left all of
this to me, and you hate me for it. What — did you think because
he paid your way through college he thought of you as a son?
Haven’t you heard? Blood is thicker than water.” I slammed the door
and started up the walk, fumbling in my purse for the house
key.

I heard the other car door slam as I fumbled
with the lock. I didn’t turn to look back but I knew he was
following me. I kicked the door shut and headed for the kitchen,
desperate for a cup of coffee and some aspirin.

My cell phone rang as I dropped my purse on
the dining table. I pulled it out and flipped it open on my way to
fill up the carafe with water. “Hello?”

“Billie? It’s me.” Kent’s familiar voice
stopped me in my tracks. I stood with the pitcher in hand, staring
out the window above the sink, as Handel knocked insistently at the
front door. I couldn’t say anything. “Are you there? Billie?”

Handel wasn’t stymied for long with an
unanswered door. He strode into the kitchen looking like a hellion
come to wreak havoc. Criminal lawyer and criminal were very close
to the same thing in my book. “Billie, I want to talk to you,” he
said, the apologetic tone replaced now with frustrated anger. He
didn’t seem to know what to be more upset about, the letter, my
accusations, or my shutting the door in his face.