When they returned to the mansion, dawn was breaking in a clear sky to the east. Underfoot, paths were already dry. There had been amazingly little damage. Angie and Chase compared notes as they sipped coffee and decided that, on the whole, Falcon Crest had gotten off lucky.

"She's gone!" Lance burst in. "Melissa's not in her room. At that moment the telephone rang and Angela snatched it up. "Mrs. Channing, it's Dr. Ruzza."

"Melissa's-"

"She's here at the hospital. May I tell you? You're a great-grandmother."

"What! But, wasn't this much too early?" Angie looked up at Lance. "It was an emergency procedure. What I'd feared would happen, did. Premature labor. But if we're careful - and lucky - I think we can breathe a sigh of relief."

"Boy or girl?"

"A little boy. just under four pounds. But that's not bad for a premie. We'll fatten him up."

"Lance," Angie said, "you're the father of a boy." She started to hang up the telephone with the look of a cat that has just finished a delicious saucer of milk. Then, remembering: "How's Melissa, Doctor?"

"Neither of them is in top shape. But, as I said, with a little luck and a lot of care-"

"Yes. We'll be right over." She hung up the phone, then turned slowly to Chase. "Well!"

"Well!" he echoed back. "Got what you wanted after all, eh, Angela?"

The smile on her face broadened to a grin. "Falcon Crest and the Agretti vineyards, all wrapped up in one little baby boy."

"How'd she get to the hospital?" Lance asked then.

"Probably-" His grandmother frowned. "Nobody was here at home last night. I suppose she had enough sense to call the doctor and an ambulance." She got to her feet and went to the cupboard, where she brought out a bottle of brandy produced at the turn of the century by her own grandfather, Joseph Gioberti. "Julia!" she called. "Chao-Li!"

As they arrived, tired but alert, she poured five glasses of the amber liquid. "We're drinking a toast," she said, "to your first grandson, Julia. To Lance's first son. To my first great-grandchild. May he inherit the earth!" She raised her glass.

Julia looked radiant. "To my grandson."

Chase yawned. "To one more cousin."

Angela's grin went lopsided. "Nobody makes good wine from sour grapes, Chase."

He thought a moment. "You're right, Angela. To the new member of the family." He raised his glass.

Everyone sipped their brandy. "Well, Lance," he went on, "how's it feel to be a father?"

The young man stood silently for a long moment. "I don't know," he said at last. "You tell me."

The fire that had blazed so brilliantly in Katharine Demery's hearth now lay cold in ashes. She stared down at it, standing in the center of her small, neat living room. Cole sat in a straight-backed chair and watched, not the hearth, but Kate.

"That was close," he said at last. "If we hadn't gotten her to the hospital, she would have had the baby right here."

Kate nodded, but said nothing. She stared deeply into the cold ashes.

"Still," Cole went on more slowly, "she sure didn't look good after delivery."

"How was she supposed to look?" Kate asked.

"Huh?"

She whirled on him. "How is a woman supposed to look, having an emergency premature delivery of a baby that isn't her husband's?"

Cole's mouth opened, then closed. He got to his feet.

She turned back to the fireplace. "Cole," she said after a moment, "I know what Melissa told you about her baby was almost as big a surprise to you as it was to me. I want you to understand that there is no judgment or blame in what I'm going to say."

"Uh-oh."

"But you have to see it from my angle," Kate went on. "It hit me out of the blue. You, at least, if you could remember back that far, might have been a little less surprised at the news."

"Back that far?" Cole responded. "It was only last winter."

"I'm surprised a man would keep track of such a thing." She glanced at him. "Women do, as you know. We have to."

"Look, Melissa swore she had - you know - taken precautions."

"Spare me the details."

"I'm getting really bad vibes, Kate."

"Then you're not quite as insensitive as I thought." She turned to face him fully now. "Cole, much as I need you here ... much as I think you need me ... I'm asking you to leave."

"What?"

"I thank you sincerely for the tremendous job you've done getting the place in shape. I thank you for your love and" - she faltered - "and the warmth of our . . ." Her eyes had gone damp. But she remained face-to-face with Cole. "I am seeing us in a new light and it's ... you're right, it's bad vibes."

"Just because Melissa-"

"That has less to do with it than you think," Kate interrupted him. "It shook me up, I'll say that. Here's this bright, handsome young fella who's the light of my life and, oh yes, he's sired a baby on somebody else's wife."

"She wasn't married then." "Cole, grow up!"

She took him by both shoulders and gently shook him. "There's a saying that goes, 'People who don't learn from their mistakes are doomed to keep repeating them.' I don't want you to go that road, Cole. I want you to learn from this."

"Learn what?" Cole demanded.

"Learn relationships. Learn who you are."

"How did I get to be the heavy in all this?" Cole inquired. "You go on about Melissa as if she was some sort of innocent child. Let me tell you, Kate she is no-"

"I asked you to spare me the details," Kate cut him off. "I suppose what I'm really asking is that you take responsibility for what you are and have done. Don't tell me it takes two to tango. I know that."

He stood in silence. Now it was his glance that seemed riveted to the dead ashes in the hearth. Only a few hours ago it had blazed so warmingly.

"So that's called growing up," he said at last.

"That's the biggest part of it. Taking responsibility."

"And that's it?" he asked in a pained voice. "Who'll you get to do the odd jobs here? Can't I still do them for you?"

Her head had started shaking even as he spoke. "A clean break," Kate said at last. "Surgical. No lingering infections." She gave him a rueful smile. "Cold turkey, you might say."

"God, Kate."

"Better start packing your duffel bag. Come on. I'll help you."

Lance stood by Melissa's bed. The rest of the family had paid their respects and had retired to let the new father and mother have a moment of quiet togetherness.

"You feeling okay?" Lance asked.

"Not sensational." Melissa's face had been washed completely clean of makeup. She looked younger but, at the same time, intensely tired.

"But Dr. Ruzza says-"

"I know what he says," Melissa interrupted him. "I've been hearing it for hours. It's his job to stay cheerful, Lance. But the baby is so so frail. So tiny. I'm not even allowed to handle him."

Lance looked thoughtful for a moment. "Still holding the line on that kid, huh?"

"He's your child, Lance."

"We both know that's a lot of hot air. Anytime I want to blow this fantasy of yours out of the water I just have to take a paternity test."

"But you wouldn't."

"What's in it for me, pretending to be his father?"

"Future control of Falcon Crest."

"I've got that already."

"Plus the Agretti vineyards."

"That's always been your ace in the hole, Melissa. My grandmother's idea of heaven is joining Falcon Crest and your dad's vineyards. But, baby, it's not my idea of anything worth playing poppa for."

Melissa was silent for a long moment. "You could still . . ." She paused. "Once Joseph grew older you could still ... you know, overnight in San Francisco."

"Her name's Lori Stevens."

"Again?" Melissa taunted him. "Don't you ever attract anything new?"

"And who's this Joseph character? is that what you're calling the kid?"

"Joseph Carlo Cumson," she told him. "He's named for your great-grandfather and my father."

"Sounds more like the title of a corporate merger," Lance said. He grinned maliciously. "And not a very permanent one, either."

Angela Channing sat across the desk from Dr. Ruzza in the small examining room he used as an office. "I've seen the baby," she said. "They showed him to me through two layers of plate glass. I have never seen anything so scrawny. But you insist he's a typical, healthy premature baby?"

The doctor puffed his cheeks and let out a sigh. "Mrs. Channing, you're probably the only one in the family I can tell this to. He's running a slight fever. That in itself isn't anything alarming ... yet. But it could be the symptom of something more dangerous. You've had two children of your own, Mrs. Channing."

"You know that in a normal delivery of a normal child, there is a natural built-in immunity to whatever infectious bacteria are in the environment. Without that autoirnmune system, the newborn wouldn't have a chance, even in the sterile atmsophere of a hospital."

"I'm aware of that," Angie said in a cautious tone.

"Then perhaps you know that some babies are born without that natural immunity. Or with only a partial amount. This can be true of premies, which is why we protect them so carefully from untrained handling and contact with nonsterile individuals."

"That's a curious way to describe a baby's own family."

Dr. Ruzza smiled slightly. He rubbed his bald spot for a moment, as if in thought. "It's a medical description. Here's my point, Mrs. Channing - we may have such a situation with your great-grandchild. I sincerely hope I'm mistaken. We won't know for a few more days."

"You're saying . . ." Angie's throat seemed to close over. She got to her feet and stared down at the doctor in horror.

"I'm saying we may have trouble."

"You're saying he may die!" Angie barked.

The doctor was silent. Then: "That's one way of putting it."

"Now you listen to this, Doctor," Angela Channing told him. Her finger moved like a gun barrel until it was pointing directly at his heart. "I'm saying he won't die! I'm saying he'll live and grow strong! Do you hear me?"

"Certainly."

"If anything happens to that child," she added, her finger prodding his chest, "I'm holding you personally responsible. Do you understand?"

The silence in the tiny room stretched itself thin and taut. It seemed to last forever. Finally Dr. Ruzza stood up and opened the door: "Good-bye, Mrs. Channing."

"The mayor's wife was wondering why you didn't find yourself a nice bachelor apartment on Nob Hill," Diana was recounting. "What she was really probing for was some sign that you and I are living together."

Richard's strong, handsome face looked tired. "Working together," he mused, "thinking together, eating together, sleeping together. What would the mayor's wife call that?"

"A lot more than she has with His Honor the Mayor."

Diana laughed softlyand undid the long kapizshell pins that held her hair up over her head. Her dark blond tresses fell in thick, attractive curls.

"By the way," she went on more thoughtfully, "the fellow from the bank who was sitting on my left, Jim Pearson? He's a close friend of Chase Gioberti."

"How marvelous for him," Richard replied.

"He doesn't take kindly to the Globe's stories about Cole Gioberti."

Richard sipped his Grand Marnier. "Did he put it more strongly than that?"

"He didn't come right out and say 'Stop printing that stuff or we'll call in your loan for collection.' He merely registered an opinion."

"Fine. Remember, Diana," - Richard paused a moment - "as we originally discussed in New York with Henri Denault, this is a hit-and-run operation. Adverse opinions we can risk because we're not married to this project forever. If a bank should start to threaten us, however, that's different."

Diana let a moment of silence go by. "Richard," she said then, deciding to risk being absolutely frank with him. "It can't have escaped your eagle eye that while this may be a hit-and-run operation, the target persists in getting up every time it's hit."

His face went cold. But when he spoke his voice sounded calm enough. "Translated into plain English you're telling me we've been here three months and we've gotten nowhere."

"Nothing of the kind."

"Well," his face softened, "you're not far wrong' We've managed to turn the Globe around and almost double the price of its stock. But that's peanuts to what the Cartel expects."

"Which you promised Denault you'd deliver," she reminded him.

Richard got up and, carrying his liqueur glass, went to his desk to bring back one of the many large-scale ordnance maps of Tuscany Valley that he studied constantly. This one he smoothed out on the long glass cocktail table.

"I want to show you something," he said then. "So far I've been using the Globe to harass the enemy. And, as you say, each time I hit him he manages to get up again. I've been trying to split families apart. It's a long-term effort. I don't expect quick results. But there is another way we've got to try. We have to split the land."

"I don't understand. Split Falcon Crest?"

Richard's face grew somber as he studied the map. "This triangle here." He tapped it with his finger.

Diana peered down at a place on the map colored faintly green. "Is it a park?"

"It's one of those triangular pieces of land left over when the great holdings were carved out. The county owns it as parkland, but it's really five acres of weeds."

"It doesn't adjoin Falcon Crest. How do you pl-"

"It doesn't have to. I'm going to make a formal proposal to the county to buy that parkland as a public memorial to the man who made the Globe a great paper, one of Tuscany Valley's most famous sons, whose name is now permanently intertwined with the history of the Valley." He glanced up at her mischievously. "Got a due?"

"Your father?"

"Bingo!" He tapped the green triangle on the map. "A memorial to Douglas Channing. Nothing grandiose, a small statue, maybe, I'm not sure. Right here at the apex of the parkland." . "And that is supposed to split the land asunder?" Diana queried.

Richard's lips twisted into a small, off-center smile, one corner of his mouth up, the other flat. "The memorial leaves unused four and a half acres of perfectly good land. I will have bought it all for the memorial. On the rest of it I build ... ?" He glanced at her again. "Got a clue?"

"Richard, you're kidding. A winery?"

"Bingo again. No vines. just some vats, a small press and bottling facilities."

"This is crazy .

"Think." Richard reached over and cupped his hand under her chin. Gently he shook her head from side to side.

"Think about being a winery with roots struck deep in the Valley. Of being able to bid against the other wineries for the grape harvest. Of bidding against Angela Channing. And of having the resources of the Cartel behind me so that I can bid up the harvest price until it bankrupts her!"

Diana Hunter watched his face, the way it lit up with a kind of unholy glee. Something inside her responded fully to that feeling. She wondered if theirs was - ever would be - more than a working relationship. But career came first. Playing Richard's games was pleasant enough, but failing in love with him would be a major mistake.

"The strategy of it is impeccable," she said then in an admiring tone. "But the tactics aren't too clear. How do you get the county to sell public parkland to an outsider like you?"

"First of all, nobody will object to the reason for the memorial. I daresay even Angela will agree to it. Secondly, the building of the winery needn't attract a lot of attention. There are prefab units one can buy. Trucks' converge on a place and in twenty-four hours it's a winery. Presented with a fait accompli like that, the county can't possibly revoke its sale."

"But what makes you think they'll even entertain your original offer?"

"It goes first to someone in a tight spot, on whom a lot of pressure is being placed, with a lot more to come ... the county supervisor."

"Whose name," Diana added, smiling, "is Chase Gioberti."

Chapter Thirty-Three

"No," Barton told Chase, "this follow-up stuff is weak. The real libel is in the first story. Except that, in conjunction with the photograph of the two of them kissing, I wouldn't have a chance of making a libel charge stick."

Chase Gioberti sat back in his chair, his mouth pressed in such a tight line that it practically disappeared against the background of his neatly trimmed beard.

"This stuff is killing Maggie," he said then. "She was against this move of Cole's from the beginning. I guess I didn't come down hard enough on her side. Anyway, Cole's of age. We couldn't stop him. But what's it doing to his chances of a fair trial?"

Barton shoved the newspaper aside. "At this point, do we even know he'll stand trial?"

"What d'y'mean?"

"We have go to into this with a positive attitude, Chase. We know Cole's innocent, so we have to work on the assumption they'll find a more likely suspect soon enough."

"Not when the Globe keeps shoving Cole down their throats every day."

"There is that," the attorney admitted. The springs of his chair creaked as he sat back in it. "Chase, are you much of a gambler?"

"What's that got to do with it?"

"I want to suggest taking a gamble with this case. You willing?"

"Not when it affects Cole's life," Chase responded firmly. "What're you suggesting?"

"I'm giving away a few secrets of the law when I explain this," Steve Barton began. "But the law is not a precise concept. As a layman you think, well, the law is written down in regulations and codes. It must be precise. In fact, the law changes every hour of the day. What we're talking about is how the thing looks."

"You're telling me the law is like the rest of life," Chase said. "Appearances are everything."

"Right." The lawyer smiled slightly. "The moves I would make in a courtroom for instance. Some are made only because they look right. In Cole's case, we have moves we haven't used yet. One of them is to demand a second autopsy on Carlo Agretti."

"What would that prove?"

"Search me," Barton admitted. "But it'd look good. Cole Gioberti's lawyer is so confident of his innocence that he requests a second autopsy. Would a guilty man take that chance? Never. So, whatever the autopsy finds, even if it finds nothing, it looks good."

Chase made a disgusted face. "I hate this kind of malarkey, Steve."

"I do too," the attorney assured him. "But will you let me try it?"

"You're the lawyer."

"I'll need an authorization from the next of kin," Barton said. "That may not be easy. I understand Melissa had a tough time with the new baby. She may not want her father's grave disturbed."

Chase sat in silence for a long moment. "I wouldn't blame her. Steve, let's drop the whole thing."

"It could help."

"It's just a trick. Isn't that what you said?"

"But what if a second autopsy finds new evidence?"

"You're suggesting that the first time around the coroner was careless? Or stupid?"

The lawyer grinned nervously at him. "I never thought I'd get arguments from the father of a client. But, Chase, if you want a good reason I'll give you one - nobody's perfect. Even coroners overlook things."

"Something that might help Cole?"

"Maybe."

"And on the strength of that one 'maybe,' you want to open up the Agretti grave?"

"It's a lawful procedure, Chase. Stop acting as if we were body snatchers. It's done where there's some doubt in a case."

"If Melissa gives her okay," Chase grudgingly agreed after a long pause.

"That's it."

Chase got to his feet. "Okay, Steve. You want to ask Melissa? Or shall I?"

"No need for you to appear in this yet."

"Is there a way of asking her so it doesn't get back to Angela Channing?" Chase said then. "Because the minute Angela gets wind of this . . ."

"Then keep your fingers crossed, Chase. And mum's the word."

Chapter Thirty-Four

"Mother, how's Baby Joseph?"

"Not any better," Angie said grimly. "Instead of gaining weight, he's losing. Where's Lance?"

"I had to leave him on duty. He'll be by this afternoon."

"See that he is," her mother snapped. "Drive on," she ordered the chauffeur.

"Where are you going?" Julia called after her.

"San Francisco. Back this afternoon."

The big Mercedes purred off along the highway and was soon lost, to sight.

"You didn't need to come all the way back to San Francisco," Maggie Gioberti told the director.

Darryl Clayton had a worried look as he took her by the hand and led her into the oasis of potted plants and palms where the hotel served lunch. In the background a trio played lightjazz. He sat her at a tiny table, then took a chair opposite her. He was dressed informally in a sportsjacket and chino trousers, but his plain light-blue shirt had a tie. Eating places like this one tried to preserve a certain formality.

"This isn't something I could tell you over the phone or in a letter," he said. He hadn't yet given her back her hand. Now, as they sat across from each other, he held her fingers lightly but firmly.

"So this is bad news," Maggie surmised. "You showed the script to your money people and they got sick to their stomach."

Darryl laughed. "As a matter of fact they liked it. But they think it's controversial."

"What?"

"Too close to home, Maggie. Right in their own backyard."

"I'm not saying anything really bad about the wine business," Maggie said, trying not to sound defensive.

Darryl nodded. "My money people think it's too sensitive. They suggested we move it to France." He tried to laugh again but the proper mirth wasn't forthcoming. "Can you imagine? We've got the blockbuster idea of all time and they want to rob it of its biggest plus. Who wants to see a movie about French vineyards?"

"Not when you can see 'Tangled Vines' in all its glory," Maggie kidded him. "Darryl, you have no idea how this news hits me."

"Hard?"

"Like a drop of dew. I've got real problems back home. Heavy stuff." She squeezed the hand by which he was holding hers. "I've got a son involved with an older woman while the sheriff tries to convict him of murder. I've got a local newspaper trumpeting scandal to the skies. You tell me my script's too controversial? Compared to real life, that script's a pussycat."

Quickly, he lifted her hand and kissed her fingers.

"I'm sorry," he said then. "I had no idea what you were going through."

Maggie had had her hand kissed before. in fact, there had been a time years ago when Chase had often kissed her hand. So, by rights, she should have been immune to any reaction to such treatment. Instead, the place where his lips had pressed against her fingers seemed now to be charged with a strange electricity. Her whole hand tingled softly. She stared across the table at him.

"Darryl," she said. "No more of that, please."

"I couldn't help myself."

"You certainly can help yourself." She smiled at him and pulled her hand free. "Now, let's finish off this business lunch in a business like way."

Behind her, Angela Channing arrived on the arm of her attorney, Phillip Erikson. Without either woman realizing it, they were now seated back to back at adjoining tables, but with a high, almost hedgelike, row of potted plants between them. The trio's soft jazz filled the silences of the room.

"I can't think of a more intimate place to have lunch with an attractive woman," the attorney murmured in Angie's ear as he settled her in her chair.

"It's about as private as a football field."

"But a hotel," Phillip corrected her. "There's always an erotic atmosphere in a hotel. You lunch. You have some wine. You fall in love. And, meanwhile, upstairs there are soft, fresh beds just waiting for new arrivals."

Angela stared at him. "Phillip, have you gone off the deep end? If I wanted to resume a relationship with you I would certainly not pick a hotel room for it. Act your age."

"Then where are we going to have it?" he persisted.

"Are you going to keep this up? I arranged this lunch because I want to stop Richard Channing from ruining the Falcon Crest name. I do not want his photographers snapping blackmail photos of two middle-aged lovers messing up a hotel bed."

"You now own ten percent of all outstanding Globe stock," Erikson told her, getting down to business. "It cost an arm and a leg, but you're in a position now to demand a shareholders' meeting and move a vote of 'censure' or 'no confidence' or whatever will stop Richard fastest. You'll be able to count on Chase's votes. He's also got Emma's. You merely have to convince Julia to vote your way and you can not only stop Richard, you can have him canned."

A sweet smile appeared for a moment on Angie's lips. "You make it sound so easy, Phillip. I hope you re right."

With their coffee, Darryl Clayton tried to interest Maggie in the script again. "I don't want it touched," he said. "I certainly don't want it shifted to France. But perhaps you could sort of defuse some of the more sensational scenes."

Maggie was silent a long time.

"What do you say?" Darryl asked,

"I'm sorry. I was a million miles away. You said ... ?"

"Some of the seamier scenes. You could tone them down."

"Would that make it easier to find backing?"

"No guarantees."

"Darryl," she said. "I think we've come to the parting of the ways. You were a great shot in the arm for me. I do appreciate your flying up here just to tell me the bad news in person. But I'm not about to go back to writing, not till I get some of my other problems straightened out."

The look on his face was a mixture of anguish and longing. "You're paying me back for that kiss on the hand, is that it?"

"Don't be ridic-"

"I told you, I couldn't help it. The truth is I'd do it again."

"Darryl, cut it out."

Behind her, Angela Channing laid her finger over her lip. Phillip Erikson stopped talk in mid-sentence. Both of them listened. It wasn't easy to hear the conversation behind her, but Angela was certain she recognized the woman's voice.

"I know one thing," Darryl was saying. "Once your family affairs are in order again, you'll wish you'd hung in with me on this. Because without your interest in the project, I'm forced to go back to that Fitzgeraid property. If that takes off, it'll be years before I can get back to your script."

"You go on with your other projects. Forget about 'Tangled Vines.'"

"I hate the idea of dropping it."

"It's your money people who're dropping it."

"A little development money would be all I needed. I could start paying you for revisions. Together we'd solve the problems in the script and I'd find a backer."

Maggie wanted to explain to him, again, that it wasn't a matter of money. She simply hadn't the heart for her writing now. Cole's problems were too much with her.

"It isn't to be," she said softly. "But thanks for thinking of me and encouraging me. That was worth a lot more than money."

At the table behind her, Angela Channing's face set in strong lines, not grim but purposeful. She signaled Erikson to get the check. Then, as he was paying it, Angie left the table and positioned herself beyond the doorway of the eating area, where people would pass on their way out of the hotel. After a while, standing behind an especially large palm tree, she saw Maggie Gioberti shaking hands with a man in a sports jacket.

"My car's parked in the garage downstairs. Goodbye, Darryl."

He lifted her hand to his lips. "Watch this," he said. "A man's heart is breaking, but does he let on? Does he rant and rave? just a quiet kiss, Maggie. You don't begrudge that to a heartbroken man."

Maggie turned and went down an escalator. Just before she descended out of sight, she waved to the director. He waved back, turned and almost walked into Angela Channing as she emerged from behind the palm.

"Aren't you Darryl Clayton?" Angie asked.

"Why, yes."

"I'm Mrs. Channing of Falcon Crest. My chauffeur's waiting outside. Let me drive you to the airport, Mr. Clayton, while I suggest something you may find interesting."

"An idea for a film?"

"No-no," Angie said. "An idea for ... shall we say ... an idea for your personal happiness?"

Chase sat back and dug his fingertips into his beard, rubbing slowly, reflectively, as he studied the video screen. He found it difficult to concentrate. When he'd awakened this morning he'd found his son Cole sleeping on the long couch in the living room, his duffel bag beside him.

"This a visit or only a pit stop?" he'd asked.

Cole had had the good grace to look sheepish. "Kate kicked me out," he admitted.

"Then do I take it we have the immense honor of your presence in the family again?" Chase asked with some sarcasm. "At least until you find another attractive lady somewhere in the Valley?"

"Lay off, Dad."

Chase massaged his beard as he watched Cole rub his unshaven chin. Involuntarily, Chase grinned. All their life together he and his son had reflected each other's movements. Cole being left-handed, his gestures exactly matched what Chase would see in a mirror. He tried to mask his grin of pleasure at having his son home again.

"Why not move back up into your room," he suggested then. "Your mother and I don't really appreciate dirty boots on the couch."

"You mean-?"

"Go on," Chase ordered good-naturedly. "Home is the one place they can't kick you out of." Grinning, he had left for his office, happy to have his son at home again.

Now he wasn't quite as happy. Cole's return was a good thing, in that it would put a stop to the newspaper gossip. But there remained the problem of finding useful work for a young man bursting with such energy. Of course, Cole could fall back into his usual routine, backing up Chase as a kind of right-hand man. But he was getting too independent for that sort of thing. He needed work he could call his own, his own area of responsibility. He needed to be out of the shadow of his father, doing his own thing. The way he'd shaped up the Demery vineyards on his own had proved to Chase that his son was ready for major work.

Thus, the computer survey Chase was trying to set up now on EDS. From the colors on the tube, he could analyze the land lying fallow to the far west of Falcon Crest. It represented unused, and thus unwasted, opportunity.

New strains of rootstocks could be planted there, Falcon Crest could profitably branch out into producing some of the new varietals that other wineries were creating. Already they had established a demand for them in the market. It took money, of course, but, more than money, it took time-years of time, years that only a young man like Cole could devote to such a long-range operation.

Chase keyed another command into the computer and got a figure of nearly two hundred acres, which translated into thousands of rootstocks, months of trenching and planting, thousands of gallons of fertilizer, millions of gallons of water, stakes, wiring, windbreaks, sunshades.

And that was only the beginning. Years of pruning and weeding, perhaps as much time in grafting, would be needed before the first growth arrived, the new grapes whose potential for making good wine could only be guessed at until the moment the first harvest was taken, perhaps five years hence.

It was an ideal project for a young man. It would also be a major expenditure for Falcon Crest. Angela Channing would be against it, not because it cost a lot of money, but because Chase would put Cole in charge of it. True, Julia would be on hand to supervise the technical aspects of the work. But the new vines would be Cole's responsibility. They would be the making of him.

Chase's fingers dug almost savagely into his beard as he switched the computer to another area of EDS memory and summoned up a financial statement. The cash position was never very strong in any vintner's books. Too much money was permanently tied up in land, vines, ferment and unshipped bottles. But EDS now told him there was certainly enough cash to make a beginning. So be it.

Chase closed down the computer and got to his feet. As co-owner of Falcon Crest, he had to clear his decision with An'gela. The discussion would not be an easy one.

"You're insane," Angela Channing told him. They were sitting across from each other at her desk in the mansion house. She was still dressed in the cheongsam dressing gown she often wore until late morning. But there was never anything sleepy about Angie at any hour of the day or night.

"To want to renew old land?" Chase countered. "I don't think that's insane. To want to lay in some of the newer varietals? That's only good forward planning."

"To put a boy under suspicion of murder in charge of a five-year start-up," Angela blasted back. "That's rational?" She took a breath and seemed to gather more power. "Moreoever a boy who hasn't any idea of how to lay down a new vineyard? Whose only expertise to date has been with lonely young widowladies?"

"Knock it off, Angela," Chase retorted. "Cole's back home. He's no longer living with Katharine Demery. Speaking of which, he did one hell of a job shaping up that place of hers. It's not expertise we need for this. It's youth and a good strong back."

"And then there's the money," the mistress of Falcon Crest went on. "Do you have any idea of the start-up costs alone?"

"Half a million, before we get Grape One." Chase nodded. "I do my homework, Angela. I wish to God you did yours. The market's crying out for these new, lighter whites and reds. Falcon Crest can't even begin to supply demand for five years. The sooner we start, the better."

Angie's lips moved, as if about to speak. Instead, she dialed an inside number on her desk phone.

"Lance," she said, "get me a printout on the Gioberti cash position." She frowned. "That's right. I want it on paper. What Chase's cash holdings in Falcon Crest are worth. Also their liquidity. How fast he can get them. And I want it here in ten minutes." She hung up.

"Why only mine?" Chase demanded. "Why not the full picture that includes your cash as well?"

"Because," Angela Channing said with a small smile, "if you want to finance a make-work project for that unstable son of yours, it'll have to come out of your pocket."

"This development benefits all of Falcon Crest," Chase retorted hotly.

"That's as it may be." The smile widened. "But for at least five years it will be a dead drain on finances yours, not mine."

"Now who's insane?"

"A five-year project that depends on Cole staying out of jail?" Angela asked with a broad grin. "It's so crazy, the only person who could think of it would be Cole's father. And he," she added, getting up from the desk, "is going to pay the full bill for his lunacy."

Melissa tried to catch a glimpse of the tiny form beneath the bubble. He was so small! He seemed even smaller than she remembered from her last visit early this morning. And now she was going home while Joseph remained a prisoner within his glass cage.

Somethin hard seemed to grip Melissa's heart and wrench at it, an unknown tug as implacable as a bolt of lightning. She hadn't wanted this child, not at first. But everyone else had urged her to have it. She could remember the look on her father's face when she'd told him:

"Bene! Benissime!" he'd cried out. "I don't care who the father is, Lissa. Nothing matters to me. Only that you are healthy and the boy is born healthy."

Now her father was dead and her son was dying. Oh, yes, Melissa remembered with bitterness. Everybody had wanted the child, even coldhearted Angela Channing. It was a conspiracy. Never mind who the father was, deliver up to us your baby, everyone seemed to be saying, hinting, urging.

To me the pain, Melissa thought. To them the - the what? - honor glory . what exactly do they want?

She thought she saw the tiny, sickly form of her son stir slightly. He lay on his stomach, tubes connected to his arm, bubble tightly closed and linked by a thick hose to some sort of machinery. The conspiracy continues, Melissa thought. And now they don't even let me see my own baby, my own flesh and blood.

She gestured to one of the nurses and pointed toward Joseph's crib. This was the part of the farce she hated most. The nurse would move the crib, examine the chart attached to it, return to the plateglass window and make shrugs and placating gestures as if to say, "Not yet. Too delicate. You understand."

Melissa pointed to the door at the end and walked toward it. On the other side of the glass the nurse mirrored her movement. She opened the door a thin crack. "Mrs. Cumson," she began without an instant's hesitation, "we have to keep these doors tight shut, you know."

"But I'm leaving the hospital."

"You're welcome here any time during visiting hours."

"Nurse, you don't underst-"

"Any time, Mrs. Cumson," the nurse said and firmly shut the door.

Tears welled up in Melissa's eyes. She had made such a mess of this thing. The joy of motherhood tantalized her because she was denied it. The pleasure of holding her own baby, of feeding him, of playing with him. All sacrificed to the wasting illness that seemed every day to diminish the poor little thing and leave him even weaker.

It felt to Melissa as if the cord that had once bound Joseph to her had in some mysterious way continued to exist long after it had been cut on delivery. As if a kind of psychic bond still linked her to this frail infant, a bond that meant life to him. Once let her leave this place, once give him over completely to strangers, and he would...

The floor seemed to come up under her. It slammed against the side of her face. Darkness. She could hear shouts. Someone was lifting her head. So dark...

She was sitting in Dr. Ruzza's office. He removed a cool, damp towel from her forehead. "That's better," he said. "Here." He held a glass of water for her and she gulped greedily at it. The coolness of the liquid coursing down her throat seemed to bring her back to reality.

"Did I pass out?"

"For a moment. The nurse said you tried to see Joseph again. You know it's out of the question, at least for now."

Melissa stared up into his face, trying to find a clue as to what the doctor was thinking. She stared deep into his eyes, willing him to speak. After a moment his glance wavered. He sat down across from her and took her hand in his.

"Melissa," he said then, "you and I go back a long way."

"You delivered me," she said with a nod of her head.

He smiled gently. "So I did. And a healthier, prettier infant I have yet to see since." His face darkened. "With Joseph, we have quite a different situation."

"I know."

"As you're going home today, I guess I can't put this off any longer." He rubbed at the monk's tonsure of hair around his bald spot. "He's not responding properly, Melissa. We're doing everything to build him up to a weight at which he can sustain himself, but his body simply refuses our best efforts. It's got a separate problem it can't solve. At this point, we're not able to do much to help."

"The business of natural immunity?"

"Joseph is a sitting duck for bacteria and viruses that a normal newborn would laugh off. It's a situation medical science has no fast answers for. A lot of the research in this field is being done back East and in Europe. I've combed through the recent literature. Whatever I've found, we've tried. It isn't working."

"If it's a matter of money, I-"

"Don't you think I know that?" Dr. Ruzza cut in. "I'm well aware of the tremendous forces and power concentrated in this one unfortunate baby. Believe me, Melissa, if money could do it, I'd yell for help."

"Then what can we do?"

"Wait. And hope. And keep on doing what we can for him."

"In other words," Melissa's breathing quickened, my baby's life is up for grabs."

"We're in an area of great risk-taking," Dr. Ruzza said quietly.

"Gambling!" she burst out. "Gambling with his life!"

The doctor recoiled from her words. He sat back and paused, searching for a way to calm the young woman. "All life's a gamble, Melissa. I could walk out that door and be run over by a truck."

"Or have your head beaten to a pulp while you sat at your desk," Melissa added, her voice thick with the memory of her dead father.

Dr. Ruzza nodded. She could feel her knees start to buckle and she stiffened her muscles in an effort to stand straight. "Thanks for all the reassurance," she said then in a bitter voice. "Good-bye."

"Melissa?" he called after her.

She walked down the corridor and out into the brilliant daylight, her eyes fixed on the Falcon Crest limousine, Chao-Li standing at the door holding it open for her.

Beyond, baking in the sun, stood the long sleek taupe mass of a Jaguar car, and beside it, a young woman with dark blond hair piled high on her head.

Where had she seen this woman before? Melissa wondered.

"Mrs. Cumson?" Diana Hunter asked.

"Excuse me, miss," Chao-Li interposed smoothly. "If you have business with Mrs. Cumson, please call for an appointment."

"We met at your father's funeral," Diana continued, unabashed. "I work with Richard Channing. Remember?"

Melissa blinked. "I really have to get home."

"I quite understand," Diana said quickly, reaching Melissa's side before Chao-Li could and helping her down the stairs to the waiting Mercedes 600 limousine.

"I won't bother you at a time like this," she murmured in Melissa's ear.

"Thank you."

Melissa felt herself being helped into the soft, shaded interior of the automobile. Diana still stood outside, smiling down at her as Chao-Li prepared to close the door.

"Mr. Channing has some important medical connections back East," she heard Diana say. "There might well be a doctor who could help with, Joseph's prob-"

The door slammed. An instant later the limousine surged forward. Melissa turned around to gaze through the rear window at the attractive blonde.

"A doctor who could help with Joseph's problem..." The words reverberated in her ears like a great curling wave of surf. "Stop the car," she called weakly.

But Chao-Li and Desi, the chauffeur, didn't seem to have heard her cry.

"These permit applications are all in order, she told him."

"Then sign them for me."

"And this water-rights quarrel has finally sorted itself out," Dee went on. "Each side gave a little. We can okay it now, I think."

"Fine. Do so," Chase frowned at the next item, a thick wad of legal-sized papers attached to a sheaf of maps and architect's drawings. "What now? The Encyclopaedia Britannica?"

"Oh, that." Dee sat down across his desk from him. "There's no rush on that one. And it's too complicated for you to make a decision quickly."

"Give me the rundown."

"Richard Channing wants to erect a memorial to the memory of Douglas Channing."

Chase snorted. "Better late than never, eh? What does it have to do with us?"

"He wants to buy lots 485 through 490. They're zoned for parkland. He needs a variance from us and if we say yes then we have to set a price."

Chase pawed quickly through the maps. "Hmph. What's his idea of a memorial?"

"A small statue. The rest of the acreage planted with shrubs and trees. Flowers. Grass. A few benches. The usual."

"Dee, nothing Richard Channing does is 'usual.'" Chase frowned as he stared at the various sheets of paper. "You're right. It's too complicated for a quick answer." He shoved the papers to one side. "Anything else?"

Dee smiled in slight embarrassment. "We have to issue demolition permits to tear down those migrantworker shacks at Falcon Crest. And a set of building permits to erect new cottages."

Chase's face reflected her embarrassment. "It's been delayed too long, but I can't just sign out of hand. Hold it for the Improvement Committee meeting on Thursday. We'll call a vote. I'll abstain. Otherwise it would be a conflict of interest."

She nodded. "I figured you'd be too straight-arrow to sign the forms yourself."

"You figured right." He got to his feet and started for the door. As he swung it open he paused. "A memorial? To his father?"

His assistant laughed. "That's what the man says."

Jim Pearson turned at right angles to his desk and switched on his bank's computer terminal. "Just your own cash?" he repeated.

"Unfortunately, yes," Chase told him.

"You can't budge Angela on this?"

"Can anybody budge her when it comes to money?"

Pearson's fingers touched the keyboard here and there. "I've noticed that our illustrious, crusading newspaper, the Globe, hasn't had anything nasty to say about Cole for nearly a week," he remarked as he waited for the computer's response. "I hope I can take some credit for that."

"How so?"

"I aired a piece of my mind about it to that lovely blond vixen Channing keeps by his side."

"Diana Hunter. You spoke to her?"

"A group of us high-ranking San Francisco yokels were the recipients of lavish Globe hospitality the other night." He frowned at the video screen. "Here it comes. Not really wonderful."

"What would a banker call wonderful? A billion dollars in nickels and dimes?"

"How about an overdraft of five grand?"

Chase gasped. "Overdraft? You've got to be kidding."

Pearson tapped the keyboard. "Here it comes again. Repeat. Five thousand overdraft."

"Jim, the computer's gone nuts. What about the money market account? What about those ninety day Treasury bills? What about the six-month CD's?"

"What about 'em?" the banker asked.

"When I ran a check yesterday they showed me a cash position, or at least a highly liquid one, of over a hundred grand."

"You checked yesterday?" Jim Pearson's frown had turned into a scowl. "But the money market was closed out weeks ago, So were the Treasury bills. And you sold the CD's at a slight loss for early redemption. That happened, uh, let's see. That happened last month."

Chase got to his feet, came around the desk and stared at the video screen. "That's got to be wrong, Jim. And how did it get into overdraft?"

"Your normal check writing. Instead of drawing on the money account, you were writing checks against overdraft."

Chase stood motionless for a long moment. "Is there some way you can have this checked by your computer people?"

"Immediately." The banker tapped several commands on the keyboard and closed it down. He swung back to stare at Chase. "We may have stumbled onto something here," he said, concern in his voice. "Somebody may be looting your account."

Chase sat back down. "I'm relieved you don't believe I did it to myself."

"Mr. Cautious?" Pearson grinned. "But why wouldn't it show up yesterday when you checked your own terminal?"

"Wait a second." Chase got a closed look on his face, as if his thoughts were miles away. "How does somebody beside me issue orders to my account? By knowing the proper access code. Who knows it here at the bank?"

"You're looking at him. Me and nobody else."

"S'what I thought." Chase sat in silence a long time.

"But you have just thought of someone else who knows the code?" Pearson suggested at last.

"You mean besides Maggie?" Chase shook his head. "Nobody knows, Jim. Just the three of us. But I've had another thought. A whiz-kid could set his own computer to work going through an infinite range of variations until it came up with the right code. How long would it take a computer to do that?"

"Hours? Minutes? Depends how lucky it got."

"But eventually it would get it."

"Eventually. Of course, such a thing is a felony." "That wouldn't bother a computer whiz kid." "Whiz kid?" the banker picked up. "You keep saying whiz kid."

"Do I?" There was a vote of sarcasm in Chase's voice.

"As if some kid had planned this caper."

"This kid," Chase agreed, his voice growing far-away with thought, "or someone who does the kid's thinking for him."

"Oh, dear."

The telephone had been ringing steadily for two days, mostly Vickie's friends, but some calls for Cole. His duffel bag had proved to contain perhaps the most heavily compacted mass of dirty laundry ever assembled west of the Mississippi River. The Crown Prince himself had promptly undone his neatly arranged room, returning it to its usual state of chaos. All the while, he and Vickie had been closeted, trading secrets. Breakfast had been trebled to take care of Cole's seemingly insatiable hunger and his apparent desire to consume his own weight in pancakes with butter and syrup. Now, having turned the house upside down, he was asleep in his room, leaving word that he was "out of lit" for the rest of the day.

The telephone rang.

Wearily, Maggie picked it up. "It's Steve Barton, Maggie," the lawyer said. "Is there somewhere I can reach Chase?"

"He's in San Francisco."

"Did he mention we were going to request a new autopsy in the Agretti case?"

"Something about getting Melissa's permission?"

"I've got the go-ahead from the coroner's office," Barton explained. "But I've been reluctant to see Melissa at the hospital."

"She came home today."

"Ah! Well, then . . ."

Maggie waited. When nothing further was said she asked, "Well, then what?"

"I'm still reluctant." The attorney's voice took on a baffled tone. "I guess I'm being chicken about this. I know Chase wasn't too happy with the idea of opening the Agretti grave."

Maggie was silent for a moment. There were a million good things about being married to Mr. Nice Guy, she reflected silently, but there were some drawbacks, too. "So you're diffident about asking her?" she prompted.

"Very."

"I'm not," Maggie informed him. "One of the things about being a mother is that you do anything if it might help your child."

"And, anyway, you're sort of close to Melissa, aren't you?" Barton suggested.

This time Maggie's silence was more prolonged. She realized Barton was laying off a sticky job on her. She didn't mind doing it, but she resented being manipulated.

"Steve," she said then, "just come right out and ask me. As for being close to Melissa, nobody's that close, certainly not since the murder of her father."

"But you'll give it a try?" the lawyer prompted.

"Yes," Maggie agreed in a weary voice. "It's probably good for my character. Is there something she has to sign?"

"I'll messenger it over to you."

"In fact," Maggie said wryly, "you probably have the boy on his motorbike right now. Thanks, Steve." She hung up.

Men. She'd married a good one, but it didn't prevent Maggie from knowing that when faced with a thoroughly unpleasant and complicated problem in human relations, most men had to turn to a woman to get the job done. "You're a woman," they all seemed to say. "You can deal with it better than I can." This left men only a few major chores in life, like fixing flat tires and removing wasps' nests.

Maggie's ironic smile turned grim. And a wasp's nest might well be what she was walking into with Melissa. To have lost a father and produced a sickly child in mortal danger - and then to be asked to sign an order to violate her father's grave - might produce a situation with Melissa that made even a wasp's nest look peaceful by comparison.

Nevertheless, Maggie told herself sternly, I've done little enough for Cole these past weeks. This was her chance to accomplish something important. It might be worth nothing but Brownie points, but she would do it.

Pale, almost to a wraithlike pallor, Melissa lay beneath the thick shade of a tall juniper on the west lawn of the mansion. She had donned a brief white tennis dress and halter and had arranged for Chao-Li to bring a small lawn table, on which sat a tray with a pitcher of lemonade, two tall glasses and a telephone. "Please," she said, still lying back in a canvas deck chair. "I'm not too steady yet. Forgive me for not getting up."

Maggie kissed her cheek and sat down in another deck chair. "You might be better in the sun than the shade," she remarked. "A good tan will do wonders for you, Melissa."

Behind the girl, something flickered in the bow window of the mansion. When it came to spying, Angela Channing did her own dirty work. Maggie couldn't see the older woman behind the voile sun curtains, but she could absolutely feel her malign presence there.

"They tell me your baby's having problems," Maggie went on, hoping by mentioning what was uppermost in Melissa's mind to clear the air for other matters.

"What's your opinion of Dr. Ruzza?" The younger woman asked bluntly. "In fact, don't you think the whole Valley Hospital and staff are way behind the times?"

"It's a very well-equipped facility."

"Not for what Joseph has." Melissa's slender arm moved languidly to indicate the extension telephone Chao-Li had brought out from the house on a long cord. "I've put in a call for some advice. Specialized treatment."

"I see. Perhaps, in San Francisco ... ?"

"Exactly." Melissa's eyes sought hers. "How's Cole?"

"Back home with us."

Melissa nodded. "I knew that couldn't last. It wasn't for him."

"Surprisingly, Mrs. Demery asked him to leave."

"Oh?"

"Cole hasn't explained why." Maggie paused a polite instant. "It's about Cole that I've come, Melissa. If we're to defend him against this murder charge, there's something you can do to help."

"Anything. I know he's innocent."

"Thank you. But you won't like what I'm asking."

"Ask it."

"The coroner has agreed to perform a second autopsy." Maggie stopped. The look on Melissa's face was absolutely unreadable, deadpan, but abruptly wary. "He needs your authorization."

"What?"

"I won't play games with you on something this serious," Maggie told her. "Before they can open your father's grave and do a new examination, you have to sign this paper." Maggie opened her bag and produced the form her lawyer had sent over.

"Open his ... grave?" Melissa's voice was soft, vulnerable, trembling.

"Yes."

"I can't" Melissa's throat seemed to close with an audible click. "I won't do . . ." She gasped for air. "Maggie, do you realize what you're ... ?"

The two women stared intensely into each other's eyes. At that moment the telephone on the folding table rang shrilly. Both of them jumped. Maggie reached for the instrument and lifted it across to Melissa's lap.

She let it ring three more times. Then, biting her lip, she picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

She listened. "Lunch tomorrow?" Another pause. "I only wanted to ask about what Miss Hunter told..." This time her caller seemed to go on for a much longer time. As she listened, Melissa's cheeks suddenly grew pink. The wan look seemed to fade away. Maggie sat back in her deck chair and sipped lemonade.

"Dr. Edsen?" Melissa asked then. Another pause. "But what makes you think he can fly here from Sweden?"

Once more, Melissa's caller continued talking for some time. "In that case," Melissa said at last, "let's make it as late as possible. One? One-thirty?" She nodded twice. "See you then."

She hung up the phone and for a long while stared down at it in her lap. There was a faint smile on her lips. There had been an almost miraculous change in Melissa, Maggie noticed. Suddenly her color had vastly improved; she no longer looked wan and forlorn. Whoever she had been talking to had apparently come up with the name of another doctor for the baby. Or was it more than that? Something that could only be discussed over lunch, tomorrow?

"Good news?" Maggie asked at last.

Melissa's faint, remembering smile faded. She returned the phone to the table and, with the same gesture, reached out to Maggie. "Give me the paper to sign."

"Just like that?"

Melissa nodded. "Just like that."

Women, Maggie thought as she drove back to her home.

No wonder her sex seemed confusing to men. Women were confusing even to each other. After appearing to hate the idea of the exhumation order, one mysterious phone call and Melissa's objections had vanished. Whoever had placed that call was something of a miracle worker.

Her own telephone was ringing as she entered the house, and she raced to get it. "Maggie Gioberti."

"Thank the Lord I got you!" a man exclaimed.

"Who is this?"

"It's Darryl," he explained. "I've got terrific news!"

Maggie sank down on the bench beside the phone. She wasn't in the mood for any more eventful happenings. The day was already overfull. "You'remaking my movie?"

"Not quite. But, listen to this - I have development money!"

"What does that mean, Darryl?"

"It means that 'Tangled Vines' stays alive as a project. It means I can pay you to do revisions. It means I can start finding a star or two with bankable reputations."

Maggie's heart sank. "I'm in no mood for revisions."

"Hey, Maggie, I'm not asking for much. One week of your time. I'll book you a Beverly Hills hotel suite and turn you loose on a typewriter. And pay for your time. Fair enough?"

"Now? I can't just drop everything, Darryl."

"What's hanging fire in Tuscany Valley that can't wait a week?"

"For one thing, we've just got an order for a second autopsy in the murder case in which my son has been charged. It could be important to him."

"You're talking about at least a week's waiting while the coroner gets his act together." The director's voice sounded young, boyish with enthusiasm. "During that week all you can do is chew your nails waiting for the result to be announced. I'm offering you an escape hatch. A week of hard, honest work. Take your mind off everything but your script. Then back to the Valley in time."

"I don't need a scenario, Darryl. I get the picture. Let me think."

She sat there, tormenting herself. Cole had just returned. He needed her. Chase and Vickie depended on her. Still, what Cole needed most, she had just delivered. Melissa's signature.

"You owe it to yourself, Maggie," the director was saying. "You're too housebound. You have to get out and see the world. And be seen. That's the nature of this business. If you don't hit hard when you're hot, you can cool off overnight and never get a second chance."

"Darryl, that's nonsense," Maggie retorted. "If I go down to L.A. for a week, it's strictly to work."

"Naturally. What else?"

"Nothing else," she said firmly. Maggle told herself she really believed this.

Angela Channing's voice had dropped almost to a whisper as she sat in the back seat of the pale-gray station wagon normally used by the winery foremen. It was typical of her, when on a mission of this kind to use her Chinese majordomo instead of Desi, the chauffeur. Both could be trusted to keep their mouths shut, but only Chao-Li, Angie felt, would keep silent even under torture.

"Behind this grove of trees," she murmured softly.

The long gray vehicle eased quietly out of sight. Chao-Li switched off the engine and twisted in the driver's seat to look at his employer. His impassive face remained absolutely expressionless as he surveyed the woman in the back seat, uncharacteristically dressed in faded denims and a broad-brimmed straw hat.

Angie eased out of the station wagon and peered through the tree branches to the kitchen entrance of the French restaurant that stood at the head of the valley. She glanced at her watch: half-past one.

"And now, Mrs. Channing?" Chao-Li asked in a quiet voice.

"And now ... we wait."

"Do you really think you can get him out here?" Melissa asked Richard Channing. "This Dr. Kari Edsen must be much too busy to leave his clinic in Stockholm."

"He is."

Richard's strong, handsome face looked solemn for a moment as he stared at her. He had picked a table well back from the great picture windows that gave the clientele of the restaurant a superb view of Tuscany Valley. And he hadn't let his glance waver from Melissa's face during any part of the meal.

"But he happens to owe me a favor," Richard went on smoothly. "Money couldn't budge him from Sweden. But I can."

He watched the young woman's face even more closely, reading there the urge to ask questions, piercing ones. But the hope he was offering her was too great, and he could sense that she hesitated to distract him with details. It was just as well. Kari Edsen owed no favors to Richard Channing, but his research center for newborn diseases did owe a lot to the charitable gifts of some of the other higher-ups in the Cartel. Dedicated to making money, the organization nevertheless knew the publicity value of a few well-placed donations to popular causes. Besides, such contributions were tax deductible.

"Believe me, Melissa," Richard was saying, "if anyone in the world can save Joseph, it's this man."

"And if - he can't?"

He took her hand in adiscreet, friendly manner, sheltering the gesture so that it would be difficult to notice from any of the other tables at the restaurant. "I know what Joseph means to you," he said in a low voice that seemed to throb with understanding. "So the word 'can't' has no place in this. Edsen's the best. He's the only man I'd trust to save Joseph. I have every confidence in him."

He watched Melissa's great dark eyes widen with hope as he talked. But Richard Channing was too wise in the ways of human nature to think that a promise made today would keep this lovely girl forever in his debt. So he took the risk of bringing up the question that undoubtedly troubled her already and that she would someday ask.

"If you're wondering what's in this for me," he continued smoothly, his grin strong and broad, "I'm not going to tell you that for a woman as lovely and exciting as you, I'd do anything."

"What?"

"I'm not going to tell you that," Richard insisted, even though it's true. You're too smart and too attractive to be conned by flattery."

Melissa's grin matched his. "But don't stop trying."

"No, seriously," Richard went on. "We're both worldly enough to recognize the attraction between us. I can see it in your eyes and I know you can read it in mine. But that kind of emotional and sensual bond between a man and a woman is on another plane from saving the life of an infant in danger. We don't want one to color the other. I'm sure you agree."

Melissa was silent for a long moment. "Richard she said then, "I was there when you called my father and made offers for the Agretti grapes."

He nodded calmly. "I appreciate your frankness."

"If you know me at all - and I think you do - you know I would never go against my father's wishes."

"I agree. But, Melissa, in the aftermath of his tragic death, who's to know what his final wishes were? Not even you." He gently caressed her hand. "The world moves on. You have a young son to protect and there's no one to help you. Don't," he added abruptly, "tell me you can rely on Lance. Or anyone at Falcon Crest. We both know better than that."

Melissa's cheeks flushed. Her eyes darted across Richard's face, as if searching for truths. Finally: "What are you suggesting?"

He gave her hand a squeeze. "At the moment, only one thing - saving Joseph."

"And after that?"

He smiled softly with that same boundless air of understanding that could,be so reassuring. "You may have heard that I have a pretty hard head for business," he said then. "It's true. I discipline my mind. I plan quite thoroughly, even to wanting your father's property. But I've never been any good at disciplining my heart."

The silence that fell over the two of them lasted for a long time. Richard's gaze never left Melissa's face. It had a hypnotic power that compelled her glance to match his. Like a high-tension wire, the aura between them crackled with leashed energy, a tension that promised explosive excitement If released.

"Richard, I'm no match for you," Melissa said in a small voice. "I'm way out of my depth and you know it."

"I don't think so." He caressed her hand again, very lightly so that her skin tingled. "I think you've been languishing in a small pond. The people around you are no match for the real Melissa. They haven't even begun to touch the real you."

"You're putting ideas into my head." Her voice had suddenly grown almost breathless.

"I'm telling you there's a great big world outside Tuscany Valley. I can show it to you. And you'd match it perfectly."

Something turned behind Melissa's eyes. Her lips took on an ironic twist. "Would I match it as well as... oh, Diana Hunter?"

Richard threw back his head and laughed, but not loudly enough to attract attention. "You're very good," he said then. "You're even better than I dreamed." His face grew solemn. "Diana's my employee, Melissa. She has her career to think of and I assure you it comes first. But I'm not offering you a job. I'm offering you ... the world."

The woman in the denims and broad-brimmed straw hat paused in the door of the ladies' room as Richard Channing helped Melissa to her feet. Still holding her hand, he led her between, the other tables to the entrance, where the proprietor, all bows, bid them a fulsome farewell. At no time during this passage did Melissa's glance leave Richard's face.

Well and truly hooked, Angela told herself.

Her mouth hardened into a bitter line as she turned and left the restaurant by the kitchen. Pausing in the shadow of the doorway, she watched as Richard, opened the door of his rakish sports car, waiting Melissa. She paused before sliding into the front seat. They were sheltered by the shade of a huge overbranching oak. No one else was in sight.

Slowly, Richard bent over her. They kissed, briefly. Then once again. Angela Channing's lips pressed into an even griminer line. She watched the couple drive off, but waited for a moment in the shadows before returning to her station wagon. Whatever else he was, she admitted to herself Richard Channing was a consummate charmer. And a fast worker. All that she'd witnessed would have to be used in her war against this man. She could fashion it into a weapon. But, like a sword, it could cut two ways. She had to be careful.

First, therefore, she would try out its sharpness on her grandson, Lance.

Chase, at the head of the table, idly formed patterns with his fork in his uneaten mashed potatoes, a trick Cole in the opposite chair seemed to pick up and mirror without even realizing what he was doing. Vickie caught her mother's eyes and indicated with her own glance what the two men were up to, their usual unconscious game of what Vickie referred to as "monkey see, monkey do."

"Maybe we ought to try it, too," the girl remarked.

By way of reply, Maggie raised her eyebrows. Vickie mimicked the movement. Maggie frowned. Vickie frowned. "Okay," Chase said at last, "bring on the clowns."

Cole looked up. "Huh?"

"The atmosphere around here," his mother said, is about as cheerful as a broken leg. I know," she went on, turning to Chase, "tomorrow's Cole's pretrial hearing. It's a crucial day for us. But tonight doesn't have to be this gloomy, does it?"

Cole gave Maggie a rueful look. "Slip me some good news and watch me smile."

Maggie's glance swept the table. "Okay," she said then. "I'm not sure this is good news or just hard work. But I've heard from the director who wants to do 'Tangled Vines.' He's got what he calls developmerit money. He can pay me for revisions."

Cole's face broke into a grin. "Terrific!"

"Wonderful," Chase enthused. Maggie watched him work up a head of enthusiasm for something so distant from Cole's trial. "That's great news, Maggie," her husband continued. "Really great."

"Mom, you're on your way," Vickie added.

"To premature old age," Maggie finished. She hesitated for a moment. "I know you had a call from Steve Barton," she told Chase. "Anything remotely like good news?"

Chase shrugged. "You know lawyers. He's had the second autopsy, thanks to you, and we'll get the results before the pretrial hearing, but that's all he -"

"Second autopsy?" Cole cut in. "You mean Melissa said yes?"

"After your mother talked to her."

Cole sat back in his chair and beamed at Maggie. "Who needs lawyers? All you need is a mother."

Attorney Barton arrived early in the morning, before Chase had left for his office. The two men conferred briefly on the veranda, then went inside the house to join Maggie in the kitchen.

The three sat around the table staring at a thick sheaf of papers Barton had brought with him. "I had no idea postmortem medical examinations were that lengthy," Maggie commented.

"This one is," the lawyer assured her. "The coroner's reputation is on the line. So, to some extent, is the district attorney's. After all, the charges they've filed against Cole depend to a great extent on the autopsy being correct."

"Then what chance do we have that they'll change their minds with the second?" Chase demanded. "If anything could produce a cover-up, this would."

"Well . . ." Barton looked uncertain. "I've been up most of the night reading this thing. It mainly reinforces the findings of the first examination. All the same points are made for a second time. But you have to remember that the coroner is on the spot in more ways than one. I'm pressing him hard. Also, this is a capital offense. The trial will get maximum press coverage. He's got to leave no stone unturned."

"Or lay on a whitewash so thick nobody can see through it," Chase added.

"Not as easy as it sounds," the attorney remarked. "Anyway, here are the findings. I'd like to go over a few points with you because ... well, frankly, I'm clutching at straws. There isn't much for me to get my teeth into. Or is there? You tell me."

He leafed through the report transcribed from the coroner's dictated statement.

"Cole should be down here," Cbase said. "Let me roust him out of bed. It's time he was up anyway."

"No, Chase," Maggie cautioned him. "Let's keep this among the three of us. Cole may look like a big strong kid to you, but he's teetering on a knife edge."

"Let me read you this section," the lawyer suggested. "I'm quoting now. 'Death was produced by a crushing blow to the left tempula of the skull, producing perforation of the frontal cortex resulting in massive hemorrhaging. Positional plotting of the trajectory indicates the blow was delivered face-to-face by the perpetrator's right hand.' " He looked up. "This is really the only new thing in the findings."

"I understood the killer had landed a series of blows."

"But they were all identical in trajectory," Barton said.

"Which makes it even clearer that the killer was right-handed," Maggie spoke up.

The attorney frowned. "That's right."

Maggie glanced at her husband before she spoke again. "Do you think the coroner will stand by this second report? No chance of him reneging on any of it?"

"On the contrary, he has to swear to it. It's all his baby."

"So at the pretrial hearing this afternoon," Maggie persisted, "this is what he'll state under oath before the judge?"

"No question of it."

"Maggie," Chase asked, "what are you getting at? I know that ex-reporter's look in your eye. You're onto something."

"Can't you guess what?"

Vickie paced the airless halls of the county courthouse. Maggie huddled in a bench along one wall and followed her daughter's progress for a while before tiring of it. She glanced at her watch. "It's going on too long," she murmured.

"But, Mom, isn't that a good sign?"

"I suppose so. The more doubt Steve Barton can create, the longer it would take the judge and the D.A. to reach some kind I of agreement."

"I don't think it's fair that we aren't in there."

"I chose not to. I think Cole . . ." She stopped. "If something went wrong - If they decided to go ahead and put Cole on trial despite . . ." She paused again. "This is hard to explain, Vickie, because it has to do with male psychology."

"Don't tell me about males," the girl retorted. "They're all weird."

Maggie couldn't hide a smile. "Not any weirder than females. It's just that the male, when in trouble, prefers to work it out with other males. The presence of a female, especially a mother or a sister, isn't such a wonderful idea because -"

The courtroom doors slammed open. Chase came out at a brisk pace. Maggie stood up, her face pale. "Chase?"

"He heard us out," her husband said in a grave voice. "The whole analysis of the autopsy report."

"And?"

"Well, my dear, a little bit of history was made in there just now. The D.A. had to admit he didn't have sufficient evidence to pursue the state's case against Cole."

"Chase! How marvelous!"

"Judge Barclay had no choice. He threw the indictinent out of court."

"Dad!"

"So it looks like the sheriff's going to have to put his bloodhounds to work sleuthing up some new suspects. Vickle," Chase nearly shouted, "your brother's free as a bird!"

All three of them embraced each other, hugging for dear life as Cole came out of the courtroom with Steve Barton. "Hey," Cole called, "is this a private huddle or can anybody get in on the act?"

Vickie launched herself at her brother and jumped halfway up into his bear hug. "Brother dear, you are one lucky duck."

"Not luck," Cole said, winking over her shoulder at his mother. "Sheer genius is what you mean."

"You a genius?"

"Well," said Cole, "I was smart enough to be born left-handed."

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