What Doesn't Kill Her (Cape Charade #2)(2)
Retired Army Captain Kellen Adams did not intend to be caught. Not now. Not when she was so close to her goal—that small locked side door that led down the stairs and into the cool quiet wine cellar.
A sudden notion brought her to a halt. Had she brought the key? She groped at her button-up shirt pocket. Yes! The key was there. She breathed a sigh of relief—and her phone whistled, alerting her she had a text.
It was Birdie.
BIRDIE HAYNES:
FEMALE, 5'10", 130 LBS. AMERICAN OF COLOR: HISPANIC, AFRICAN AND FAR EASTERN. MILITARY VETERAN. RECENT WIDOW. LEAD MECHANIC. BIG RAW HANDS, LONG FINGERS. BEAUTIFUL SMILE IN A NOT-BEAUTIFUL FACE. BEST FRIEND.
She had sent a photo of her and the film star, Carson Lennex, leaning against a beautiful old car. Birdie had thoughtfully labeled it 1931 Bugatti Royale Berline de Voyager.
Beautiful! Kellen texted back. Like she cared about the car. It was the smile on Birdie’s face that warmed her, and Carson Lennex had put it there. God bless the man. After the death of Birdie’s husband, Kellen had feared she would never smile again.
Putting her phone back in her pocket, she started forward again. One meter remaining until she broke into the open. She knew from previous missions this was the tricky part; moving from the relative cover provided by the shrubs and into the open. She made a last reconnaissance, started forward—and a scattering of dirt, moss and debris landed on the last shrub in the line, then tumbled to the ground directly in front of her. In a split second, her brain registered the source.
From three stories straight up, something was falling off the roof of the Italian-style villa.
Kellen flung herself backward, away from the onslaught of baked terra-cotta roof tile that slammed to the ground and shattered like shrapnel. A jagged shard bounced and hit her, pierced her jeans and her hip.
Son of a bitch.
She grabbed the jagged shard and pressed, holding it in place—if she pulled it out, blood would gush—and rolled in agony.
Three stories above, someone screamed.
More debris followed, and more screams.
Still holding the shard, she scrambled out from the shrubbery, backed away from the building and looked up.
A stout man dangled off the roof, feet kicking, screaming wildly. She’d seen him two days ago, and earlier today, in the tasting room. Thank God for the Rolodex in her brain; she remembered all she had observed about him.
RODERICK BLAKE:
MALE, WHITE, 30-40 YO, BLOND HAIR, OVERWEIGHT, TOURIST GARB WORN BADLY. BRITISH ACCENT. GRIPED ABOUT PAYING THE TASTING FEE. PAID AND OVER-TASTED, PRIMARILY PINOT NOIR. LEERED AT HER AND THE FEMALE TOURIST, WHO HASTILY DEPARTED. LEFT IN A LEXUS, LOUDLY PROCLAIMING HIS INTENTION TO GO TO A GOOD WINERY.
Now he was hanging off the roof.
Guess he didn’t find a good winery.
She dialed the winery’s emergency number. As soon as Rita Grapplee picked up, Kellen said, “I’ve got a man dangling off the winery roof, back side of the building close to the cellar door.” The cellar door which I almost reached and thank God I stopped to check for the key or I would have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. A broken piece of terra-cotta tile piercing her hip was better than a six-pound roof tile slamming down on her cranium. She had enough trouble with her head... “I’m going to try to bring him down safely, but get the EMTs here ASAP.”
Rita gave a squawk that sounded like, “Whatnotrooffall?”
Kellen guessed they didn’t get emergencies like this very often. “Send help!” She hung up.
From above, she heard Roderick yell again. How much had he imbibed that he’d climbed onto the roof of a three-story building and almost fallen to his death?
The original estate on this site had been orchards surrounding an early twentieth-century farmhouse. A few towering cherry trees surrounded the now remodeled farmhouse and provided gracious shade for the well-tended yard. The trees still bore fruit, and workers now picked the fruit and loaded it into buckets strapped to their belts.
She ran into the trees, each step more and more crooked as the pain in her hip blossomed into agony. A twenty-foot spike ladder leaned against a tree; the picker was all the way up in the top branches. She grabbed the ladder and lifted it. Every muscle in her poor abused hip told her that was a mistake.
In the tree, the picker cursed at her.
“Thank you!” she yelled and headed back to the winery, dragging the long heavy wooden ladder behind her.
The winery building was three stories of classic Tuscan architecture, a jewel that glowed like ancient amber in the setting of Oregon’s long lush Willamette Valley. The front of the building faced west toward I-5 and welcomed wine tasters with a long winding drive bordered by tall thin evergreens, rows of grapes growing in purple clumps and a walled garden. On the first floor, in addition to the tasting room, was a special events center, a kitchen tended by an impatient chef and wine storage.
Guests fought to stay in the exorbitantly priced second-and third-story suites, lounge on the balconies, enjoy the cuisine and if they wished, take part in bicycling tours and unique-to-them wine tastings.
Things like a guy falling off the roof did not happen here—or at least, never had before.
Kellen took a second look at the splinter of tile protruding about an inch from her hip. It hurt like a dirty bitch and blood oozed around it, staining the shredded thread of her jeans. The sharp tip had hit bone and backed out a little, so it wasn’t scraping her with every movement. Folks, that’s all the good news for tonight.