The Senator’s Daughter Page 9

  Come to think, it was hard to imagine whoever did it stopped in time.

  Villa Valetti crowned the top of a steep-sided hill. Though the winery had a Web site, the photos did not do justice to the three-hundred-and-sixty-degree panoramas.

  Lyle enjoyed the view of the Palisades, an amphitheater of lava cliffs dominating the southeast skyline. To the northwest, green mountain meadows crowned Mount Saint Helena. It was hard to believe it was a volcano, yet hot springs and geysers like the tourist trap known as Old Faithful dotted the northern Napa Valley … and old mines, where cinnabar, a mercury ore, had been extracted from the hills. He’d read about the Silverado Mine, closed by 1880, where Robert Louis Stevenson later honeymooned in one of the mine’s abandoned bunkhouses.

  Looking ahead at the central four-story tower with its round windows, surrounded by wooden scrollwork, Lyle admired the mix of Italian, Swiss, and German architecture. A broad lawn stretched away to a man-made pond with ducks and geese. Compared to the farm Lyle grew up on, with its 1920s one-story bungalow and wooden outbuildings faded to gray, Andre and Tony had won the genetic lottery.

  Pulling up in front of the guardhouse in the drive, Lyle greeted the uniformed man. Like Andre and Tony Valetti, he looked very Italian. “Good afternoon.”

  “Tours are by appointment only,” reported the sentry.

  Lyle brought up his best grin and a business card. “I’m with the San Francisco District Attorney’s office. Please let Mr. Valetti know I’m here.”

  Thirty seconds later, Lyle was making a U-turn under the guard’s watchful eye and heading back the way he came. It seemed Mr. Valetti was in the City.

  But tomorrow was Saturday, and the way the rejection had been framed suggested Andre might be home for the weekend.

  Should Lyle go back to San Francisco? To his loft where he had no Friday night outlet for energy except heading to his health club and trying to tire himself out?

  At loose ends, he guided his Mercedes down Valetti’s drive lined with Italian cypress. Through gaps between the trees, he caught glimpses of hills contoured with rows of vines.

  Back on the road, he wound down steeply to the little river he’d crossed before and caught sight of another sign, reminding him the Lava Springs Inn offered bed and breakfast.

  Lyle took the turn and drew into the graveled drive. Though it was not on the scale of Villa Valetti, the inn bore a Victorian quaintness. Maples on the lawn were turning from green to gold, and above and behind the building was wild country where the redwoods began.

  Decision made, Lyle levered out of his vehicle. Fall mums in ochre and burnt orange lined the path to the front door. A plaque bragged of a National Historic Landmark status. The polished brass doorknob turned easily in his hand.

  Afternoon sun poured through high windows into the lobby. Lace curtains stirred softly at the open windows, illuminating dust motes in the deserted room. Drawn by the pleasant rushing of water, he crossed to the French double doors and went out onto the high rear porch where climbing roses had been cultivated. A lively river tumbled over lava rocks, on its way down to the Napa Valley to be made into wine.

  Going back into the inn, Lyle’s footsteps sounded loud to him on the hardwood floor. “Anybody here?” A faint echo came back from the high ceiling of the stairwell.

  Behind a mahogany counter topped with a green glass lamp rested the hotel register, a burgundy leather book in keeping with the Victorian motif. A youthful sixty-something woman came from downstairs carrying a colander filled with fresh lima beans. “May I help you?” Her smile welcomed.

  “I’d like a room, please.”

  With a glance over his shoulder, “Just you, then?”

  “Just me.” He felt his cheeks warm; her attitude suggested he’d fit in better at one of the resorts than in this romantic getaway. “That okay?” Lyle kept his voice low, recognizing she’d been a bit threatened by a big man without the softening company of a woman.

  “It’s fine.” No taller than five feet two, she placed the desk between them and set the beans down. “I’m Mary Kline. My husband, Buck and I own this place.”

  “It’s quite beautiful.”

  Ten minutes later, checked into a room that should have morning sun on the corner, he stepped out to explore the premises. Other guests were arriving two by two, laughing and chattering, and he wondered, as had his hostess, what he was doing here.

  He could have sought out a resort, found some golfing partners in the bar this evening, and been on the links by eight a.m.

  To his surprise, it didn’t interest him. There was something about this place, an aura suggesting infinite possibility.

  Sylvia walked through the vineyards toward the inn. With the main harvest only days away, she pulled a bluish-purple grape that looked like a globe of frosted glass. Biting in, with the sweet explosion in her mouth and juice running down her chin, she burst out laughing.

  She couldn’t recall the last time she’d been amused. Unless it was when she’d been with Lyle, the way he’d quipped about his rain-ruined suit being “a wash,” … he seemed like the kind of man who laughed a lot.

  What if she gave in to instinct and called him? Told him where she was and why she was hiding out. It would be a relief to have someone on her side when she was either recognized or decided to go public.

  But she knew she would not. She wasn’t ready to risk having her cover blown.

  This morning she’d found a copy of the San Francisco Chronicle on the lobby sofa. It must have belonged to a guest, for Buck and Mary did not subscribe. The paper had been folded open to a story about Sylvia, complete with photo, or perhaps the reader had been interested in the side ad for Mikimoto pearls.

  She’d snagged the copy, taken it to her room, and studied it. No mention of anyone finding her car, just speculation about whether she was dead or alive. And as she started thinking about her folks and beginning to soften, a mention that even with her daughter’s disappearance Laura Chatsworth had not curtailed her public appearances.

  Lyle enjoyed the guest wine-and-cheese reception on the porch overlooking the Lava River. Having a glass of vintage Villa Valetti, he broke off in mid-sentence his opinion on the vagaries of the stock market, leaving an investment banker and his dermatologist wife waiting for him to finish.

  Even on the other side of the river, in dappled evening shadow, Lyle imagined he saw clearly. She was the same size; the generous curve of hips swelled a pair of black jeans. It was hard to judge the breasts with the oversized flannel shirt. Her hair, black and cloudy, floated around her head and over her shoulders, where Sylvia’s had always been a sleek and silken fall. Her walk, unencumbered by red stilettos, was athletic.

  “Guys,” Lyle managed. “See the woman over there?”

  The couple peered through the twilight.

  “Think she looks like that missing senator’s daughter?”

  “You mean Sylvia Chatsworth?” The woman squinted.

  Her husband shook his head. “I’ve seen her on TV, and that’s not her.”

  “Definitely not,” said his wife. “No style.”

  Lyle wished he were as sure, but the Sylvia doppelganger was out of sight.

  Chapter 9

  Next morning Lyle awakened in his room at the inn, expecting to feel refreshed. Instead, he had a sense of unease.

  Stretching his naked body between soft sheets, he blinked in the sun streaming over the bed and ran his mental traps.

  Of course, he had nothing to do at work.

  On the issue of Tony Valetti, first thing after breakfast, he’d drive back up to Villa Valetti and take on Andre’s rent-a-cop again. As for Sylvia, that woman walking among the trees last night couldn’t have been her. This wasn’t her kind of place; too peaceful for the speed at which she lived life.

  So what was this dark undercurrent plaguing his morning?

  Whoa, now it was coming. Flashes of dream. One in which he and Sylvia shared this big comfy bed. Together, a vision of
bare skin … what would she look like under her clothes? She seemed fit, yet there was lushness to her figure. One he’d felt through her leather dress and wanted to feel without anything between them except fresh air.

  Belay the air, he wanted her up tight against him the way he now remembered they’d been in the dream. Skin on skin; she smelled of flowers and the sun-washed freshness that came after a rain. He held back as long as he could, looking into her black eyes for assent before he moved on top of her. She opened her thighs, and when they joined, he felt the separateness of self slip away.

  Without warning, Lyle’s stomach bottomed out as though he’d plummeted off a precipice. From the exquisite pain of having her at last, he transported into a nightmare.

  The deep redwood forest could have been peaceful, but he and Sylvia ran for their lives, dodging and ducking, tripping over deadfalls, scrambling. He reached for her hand.

  A bullet slammed into a pine, the reek of resin rose. Too close.

  Someone wanted him and Sylvia dead.

  In the inn kitchen, Sylvia made vanilla French toast topped with fresh strawberries in honor of the weekend. As time passed, her confidence and sense of accomplishment had grown.

  Today, every room was occupied by couples, except 2B with a single, noted on Mary’s whiteboard. Accordingly, Sylvia set the places with seven at the big table, leaving the seat at one end empty.

  While she worked, she took time to set aside the makings of a picnic lunch. Some of the berries, a chunk of the sourdough she’d made the French toast with, a few slices of sharp cheese from yesterday’s omelets. She put in a couple of bottles of Palisades Pure Water. As soon as breakfast was over, she planned on hiking out and not returning until afternoon.

  Mary came in and leaned against the doorjamb. Sylvia followed her focus to the dining-room table, set with antique silverware, Wedgewood china with painted flowers on a bone background, and crisp linen napkins folded restaurant-style. A silver urn was set up on the sideboard to hold coffee throughout the day.

  “What’s left for me to do?” Mary asked.

  “Juice. There’s cranberry in the fridge.”

  Mary remained motionless. “When Buck retired from the oil business and we bought this place, we were manic. Fixing up, painting up, doing all the work ourselves. Now that we have you, I wonder how we ever managed.”

  “Thank you,” Sylvia replied.

  She couldn’t recall the last time her mother had complimented her.

  Trying to shrug off his nightmare, Lyle rose, showered, and dressed in khakis with a red polo shirt. By the time he was ready, the delightful aromas filtering in over the open transom above his door … fresh ground coffee, sausage, and something strawberry … had him ravenous.

  In the dining room, sunlight poured through the casement, making rainbows where it struck cut-crystal glasses. He noted the investment banker and his wife at the end of a table with a single place setting between them. Figuring out where the singleton belonged in this bevy of twosomes, he pulled out the chair and greeted everyone.

  The woman who had checked him in yesterday, Mary Kline, came through the swinging door from the kitchen with a glass coffeepot in hand. Her white apron bore a bunch of purple grapes and the salutation, “We only serve fine wines. Did you bring any?”

  Lyle laughed and asked one of his tablemates to pass the cream and sugar.

  Mary started bringing plates. On her third trip, the portal stayed open long enough for Lyle to glimpse someone in the kitchen—a female someone with dark hair and a red plaid shirt. Turned away, spatula in hand, doling French toast onto platters.

  Lyle almost shoved back his chair. He thought better of it when Mary seemed to note his interest, and a line formed between her brows.

  But he kept watching and on another trip, Lyle caught the mystery woman’s profile. With black hair curling over her brow, skin sun-bronzed but devoid of makeup, she might have been Sylvia’s country cousin.

  As soon as Lyle finished the delicious meal, he’d go into the kitchen, casual-like, to compliment the help.

  When Mary went out to serve a top-up of cranberry juice, Sylvia glanced through the doorway.

  Straight into the eyes of Lyle Thomas.

  A hard ache seized the back of her throat. What was he doing here? How had he tracked her down? And, having done so, why hadn’t he come into the kitchen and confronted her before breakfast?

  She tried to maintain an aloof expression while the door swung closed, but how could she keep the shock off her face?

  Ever since she’d noticed him at Wilson McMillan’s house party, all during the summer, between the time when he’d asked her out early in the summer and when she’d accepted … hadn’t she been waiting, anticipating something between them?

  She’d run. Now he was here.

  The mere sight of him at the Klines’ table, his shower-damp hair tracked with comb marks, his cobalt eyes even bluer than she recalled, made her weak.

  But there was no time for hesitation. Expecting Lyle to burst through any second, she grabbed her knapsack with trembling hands and jerked the strap over her shoulder.

  She’d planned to be off after doing the dishes, leaving Mary with today’s bed making. When she had requested several hours off for a long hike, it had been their arrangement.

  Sylvia was breaking the deal on the dishes.

  As soon as Lyle could do so without attracting attention, he set aside his napkin. With a smile for his table companions, he sauntered to the kitchen door and through it.

  Mary Kline turned from the sink, where she was running water over a plate. There was no one else in the open workspace.

  “Help you?” she asked in a guarded way.

  “I just wanted to say thanks for a wonderful breakfast,” Lyle tempered. “Did you do all that yourself or does your husband help?”

  Looking resigned, she set the plate down, shut off the water, and settled her hip against the drain board. “Buck’s latest project is building a greenhouse so we can have fresh herbs and salad vegetables year-round.”

  Lyle couldn’t help it; he took his focus off Mary for a look around, checking out the pantry, noting the other exit went outside.

  “If you’re looking for her, she isn’t here.”

  “I…”

  “Sylvia, if that’s her real name, which I doubt, has every right to seek asylum from anyone who hurt her.”

  “Hurt her?”

  “So if you’re the one who beat her up and bruised her face so she ran with just the clothes on her back, you’ve come up against a problem, mister. She doesn’t want you to find her.”

  Lyle found it hard to believe Sylvia had been beaten and escaped without calling in every cop in central California. Equally difficult to imagine her cracking herself in the head and spinning a story so elaborate without changing her name to Heather or Kerry.

  He reached for his wallet and brought out his business card. “Look, I’m with the San Francisco DA’s office. I haven’t got a wife or girlfriend to beat up, and yes, I caught a glimpse of a nice-looking woman through the door and wanted to check her out.” He passed the card over; Mary frowned at it. “Last I knew that wasn’t a crime.”

  “Will you be checking out this morning?” Mary suggested.

  Lyle smiled, hoping to disarm her. “I have business here which may take a few days, working on a case.”

  It was Mary’s turn to hesitate.

  “I’d like to stay over,” Lyle said, “if you’ll have me.”

  When she relented, he made short work of taking his leave.

  Yet, as he prepared to drive up to Villa Valetti, he began to believe again the woman he’d seen was Sylvia. A bruise could have been done with makeup, and what better place to hide than this remote corner of the valley, nestled against the forest? Helping make breakfast at an inn this fancy wasn’t exactly a hardship. And if she’d convinced Mary she was hiding from an abuser, it gave a good excuse to stay in the kitchen where no one would see h
er.

  He vowed before the day was out, he’d be face to face with the mystery woman.

  Sylvia walked for hours, relishing the pure air, primeval forest, and solitude. Since becoming an adult, she’d never spent much time alone except to sleep, but now she thought back on her walks in Muir Woods when she was younger. She especially savored today’s ramble, because she feared her hard-won interlude was about to end.

  Was it possible Lyle had come to the inn without knowing she was there? When their eyes had met, his expression had been one of curiosity rather than recognition.

  What were the chances he’d checked out this morning? Unlikely on a Saturday, he wouldn’t be due back at his office until Monday.

  As hours passed, she savored the exertion of climbing better than a health club workout. Below, the Napa Valley stretched away miles to the south, fields of vines on the flat floor, along with those scattered on rolling slopes. Multimillion-dollar homes tucked away with only their roofs visible. She recalled her parents recently talking about a country home up here—her father had postponed it, said the time to strike would be when prices went down.

  Around noon, Sylvia found a seat on a pile of volcanic boulders and broke open her lunch. A wonderful sourdough aroma rose, along with a fruity scent. When she bit into a strawberry a little fountain of juice sprayed.

  A bite of cheese and she slaked her thirst with a long draw at her water bottle. If she were with someone, a man, they’d probably be having a nice glass of Napa wine.

  Someone … no, not just someone.

  If, as Sylvia feared, Lyle were staying for the weekend, going back to the inn would almost surely result in a meeting. If that happened under the wrong circumstances, say in front of Buck and Mary, and Lyle blurted out something revealing who she was … she’d be out of her “job” in a heartbeat. Softhearted Mary would demand she stop keeping the world in suspense and go tell her mother and father she was safe.