Page 3 of What Doesn't Kill Her
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 agoodwinery.
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.
Taking a fortifying breath, she lifted the end of the ladder and slammed it against the building close to one of the third-story balconies. The spike sank into the golden-colored stucco, knocking flakes and chunks down on her.
Max was not going to be happy about that.
He wasn’t going to be happy aboutanyof this.
She hit the rungs hard, climbing fast.
She had to, right? She didn’t have forever to save this guy. She had a chunk of roof tile protruding from her hip, wiggling with every movement. Sooner or later, she was going to faint, and she didn’t fancy falling off the ladder eighteen feet up. She made it to the balcony and over the wide Italianate railing.
That was when the situation got hairy. The dumbass on the roof was five feet too far to the left to dropontothe balcony. He hung over nothing but thirty feet of air and if he let go, he faced a backbreaking splat landing onto Mother Earth.
Inside the exclusive guest bedroom behind the balcony and through the open screen door, she heard a woman shriek and a man shout. They’d seen her, and she knew whatever else happened, two unhappy guests would be making their complaints known.
Yeah. Bummer. She spoke through the screen. “Throw your pillows and comforter out on the balcony. We’re going to save a life here.” Looking up, she shouted, “Hey! Roderick! Move to your right!”
A moan of terror answered her.
“One hand at a time. You can do it.” Actually, she didn’t know if he could. He had a lot of body mass and didn’t look as if he had much upper strength. “Hand over hand,” she instructed in a calm, encouraging voice.
The idiot wailed and kicked his feet.
