Blood Vines

by Erica Spindler

  “What kind of meds?”

  “Valproate and Seroquel. She suffered from bipolar disorder.”

  “Why wasn’t she taking her medication?”

  “Didn’t like the way it made her feel.”

  “I’ll need the name of her prescribing physician.”

  “Dr. Connor. I can get her number.”

  “I’d appreciate it.” He cleared his throat. “She didn’t leave a note. Do you find that odd?”

  Alex frowned. She hadn’t even thought about a note until now. “I don’t know, I… Do you think it means something?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Statistically, overwhelmingly, suicide victims do.”

  “Oh.” She frowned. “I just assumed… You don’t think-”

  Tim burst into the house. “Alex! I came as soon as I got your message!” She ran to meet him and he enfolded her in his arms. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded and drew away. “This is Investigator Hwang. Investigator, my ex-husband, Tim Clarkson.”

  The two men greeted each other. “How well did you know the deceased, Mr. Clarkson?”

  Her mother. The deceased. Alex curved her arms around her middle, struggling to hold it together.

  “Dr. Clarkson,” he corrected. “I’m a psych professor at State. And I knew her well enough to not be all that surprised she took her own life.”

  The investigator’s eyebrows lifted ever so slightly. “Is that so?”

  “She wasn’t a stable woman. And she’d attempted it before. Twice.”

  Investigator Hwang looked at Alex as if for clarification. She gave it to him.

  “Look, for those suffering bipolar disorder, depression isn’t like what your everyday person experiences. The lows are really low, the darkness as black as you can imagine. It doesn’t take that much to push them over the edge.”

  “Interesting choice of words, Professor.” He turned his attention to Alex and motioned to the paintings. “What happened here?”

  “She did this.”

  His eyebrows shot up in disbelief. “She destroyed her own artwork?”

  Alex nodded. “She’d go on creative binges, then destroy what she created when she fell into despair.”

  The investigator noted the fact, then closed his notebook. “The state requires an autopsy on all unexplained deaths. This looks pretty cut and dried to me, but it’s up to the pathologist to call it.”

  “An autopsy,” she repeated, knees weak.

  “The Medical Examiner’s Office will notify you when her remains are released. In the meantime, if anything unexpected crops up, I’ll call you. Again, Ms. Clarkson, I’m sorry for your loss.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Thursday, February 18

  7:50 A.M.

  Alex lay on her side on her old twin bed. She had slept little, instead had gone over and over in her head the previous days’ sequences of events. Anguishing over what she could have done differently, if she could have stopped her mother.

  Her mother. Her only family. She should have known. Should have sensed that this time was different.

  Why hadn’t she?

  Alex choked back tears. Her eyes burned and her sides ached. How could she have any left? she wondered. She’d cried enough to last a lifetime.

  From downstairs came the shrill scream of the phone. Again. Her mother didn’t have an answering machine, didn’t have caller ID, call waiting, or even a portable phone.

  Just an old-fashioned, wall-mounted land line.

  Sorry for your loss. The investigator had said it, so had Tim. No doubt over the next days and weeks countless others would utter those same words.

  Alex balled her hands into fists, suddenly angry. She moved her gaze over her mother’s half-finished paintings.

  Incomplete. Abruptly ended. So much potential that had come to so little.

  Oh, Mom… Why?

  Alex dragged herself to a sitting position, then got unsteadily to her feet. She needed food. And coffee. Lots of coffee. Then she needed to get busy doing whatever it was a person in this position was supposed to be doing.

  Notifying people, she supposed. But who? Alex pressed her fingers to her temple. Her mother had had few friends, if any. A handful of acquaintances. None she imagined who would even attend a service. Her own friends would, in an effort to show their support. She appreciated that, but why ask them?

  Alex made her way carefully down the stairs, keeping her gaze averted as she passed her mother’s ruined artworks. What of burial preparations? She had no clue what her mother’s financial condition had been or if she had a will.

  Alex reached the kitchen, and found it in disarray. She worked around the mess, making a pot of French press coffee, then grabbing a banana and a handful of grapes from the fruit bowl, acknowledging that they would soon go bad.

  Monday’s newspaper, she saw, was still spread out on the counter. She set her overfilled mug on it, spilling some of the brew. She grabbed a towel, wiped the mug, then blotted up the puddle of coffee. As she did, a headline jumped out at her:

  Baby’s Remains Found Amongst Old Vines

  She gazed at the headline, a strange sensation moving over her. She scanned the brief piece-the remains of an unidentified infant boy had been unearthed in a Sonoma vineyard. A sad story, but what interested her was the fact her mother had circled the name and phone number of the detective investigating the case.

  Alex frowned and reread the piece. Why’d her mother do that? She went over the possibilities. She knew the detective or his family? In her depressed emotional state, she had been moved to note the discovery? Or to follow up on it? Perhaps her mother had some knowledge of the case?

  Could that be? She stared at the name: Detective Daniel Reed.

  Without giving herself the opportunity to lose her nerve, she opened her cell phone and punched in the number.

  The detective answered immediately. Only then did she realize she hadn’t a clue what to say to the man.

  “Detective Reed,” he said again. “Can I help you?”

  She cleared her throat. “Yes, hello. This may sound strange, but I found a newspaper story with your name and number circled.” He was silent, waiting. “In my mother’s house.”

  “I see,” he said, though his tone suggested he didn’t. “So, how can I help you, Ms-”

  “Clarkson,” she answered, feeling ridiculous. “Alex. I guess, I just wondered why she-” Alex bit the thought back. “Never mind. I’m sorry I’ve wasted your ti-”

  He cut her off. “Not at all. What news story?”

  “About the remains, the baby’s, found in the vineyard.”

  “Is this Alexandra Owens?”

  A wave of disbelief rolled over her. Her mouth went dry. “Yes?” she managed.

  “Alex, it’s Dan. Danny Reed. We played together as kids.”

  “Could you hold a moment?” Light-headed, she found a chair and sank onto it. She drew a deep, steadying breath. “You say we played together as children?”

  “You don’t remember me.” He sounded disappointed. “It’s not that surprising, I suppose. You were only five years old when you left.”

  “Left where?” she asked, heart pounding.

  He was silent a moment, “Are you all right, Alex?”

  “No, I… please, where was I living?”

  “Sonoma.”

  She digested that bit of information. Sonoma. She had zero recollection of living there. She had visited a couple times, doing the whole wine tour thing. She’d found it charming. Beautiful. Otherwise, it hadn’t made an impression on her.

  Could it be? She cleared her throat again, excitement bubbling up in her. “How long did I live there? What about my dad? Is he still there?”

  “I’m sorry, Alex, but your mother called me yesterday. She said she had information about the case. Are you with her now?”

  Alex struggled to come to grips with what he was saying. “What? I’m sorry, I-”

  “Your mother, Alex. Can I speak to
her? I tried her back but never got an answer.”

  “My mother’s dead. She killed herself sometime yesterday.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Thursday, February 18

  10:10 A.M.

  Reed had suggested to Alex they meet. She’d agreed, seeming relieved when he offered to come to her. Just over an hour later, he glanced at his in-dash GPS. The positioning system had him arriving at Patsy Owens’s San Francisco address in six minutes. He had made good time.

  Reed turned his thoughts to the meeting ahead. Patsy Owens had called him, claiming she had information about the baby’s remains. Now Patsy was dead by her own hand. Alex had been in the dark not only about the call but her years in Sonoma as well.

  What did it mean?

  They’d made little progress so far on the identification. They were still awaiting word on the pacifier pattern and the diaper had proved no help-there simply hadn’t been enough left for an identification.

  His cell phone sounded. “Reed here.”

  “Investigator Hwang, SFME.”

  “Thanks for returning my call. I understand you investigated an apparent suicide last night. A Patricia Owens.”

  “That’s right. Looks pretty clear-cut. Self-administered overdose. Had a history of mood swings and two previous suicide attempts. My office is performing an autopsy tomorrow morning. Why the interest?”

  “The woman called me yesterday afternoon, said she had information about a case I’m working.”

  “Sucks. Sorry I can’t give you more.”

  “Call me if anything changes.”

  He agreed and hung up. Minutes later, Reed eased to a stop in front of Patsy’s home. A slim, dark-haired woman waited on the front porch. She stood as he climbed out of the car; he saw she was dressed casually in blue jeans and a bulky white sweater.

  She had grown into an attractive woman. In fact, she bore a striking resemblance to her mother. For a split second, it threw him. As if he had been transported back in time. He chalked it up to having refreshed his memory by looking at some old family photos before driving down.

  He reached her and smiled. “Alexandra? Detective Daniel Reed. It’s good to see you after all these years, though I wish the circumstances were better.”

  She silently studied him a moment, as if attempting to dredge up recognition. She frowned slightly. “Me, too, Detective. Come inside.”

  He followed her in. Beautiful old place, he thought, moving his gaze over the interior, taking in both the big picture and the details. Canvases everywhere. Photos on the mantel.

  The place had a chaotic feel. It wouldn’t be a comfortable place to live. Or grow up. He wondered if it had always been this way.

  “Let’s talk in the kitchen.”

  The kitchen was a sunny room. Less cluttered. A couple cups in the sink, plants in need of watering. A newspaper open on the counter.

  She saw his gaze. “I left it where I found it.”

  He nodded and crossed to it. The San Francisco Chronicle: Bay Area/State News. Short piece. His name and numbered circled.

  “I tried her back several times,” he said, “it just rang.”

  “Mom didn’t believe in answering machines. Can I get you anything? Water, coffee?”

  “Nothing, thanks.”

  She poured herself a cup of coffee and carried it over to the café-style table. They sat, facing each other. “Thank you for coming,” she said. “I have so many questions.”

  “Actually, that’s my job.” She smiled. He went on, “I’m sorry about your mom.”

  The pain was fresh; tears flooded her eyes. To her credit, they didn’t spill over. “Thank you.”

  “I spoke with Investigator Hwang. He said your mother had a history of mood swings and had previously attempted to take her own life.”

  “Yes. She was… troubled. When you knew her, what was she like?”

  “I was only ten.”

  “You must have some recollection of her.”

  He thought a moment. “She was kind. Gentle. She seemed happy.”

  The tears welled again, this time spilling over. She wiped impatiently at them. “You say I was five when we left Sonoma. Was I happy?”

  “You seemed to be. You were a pistol, always into everything. A chatterbox. You used to drive Rachel crazy, the way you followed her around.”

  “Rachel?”

  “Your stepsister, Alex.” He said it gently, giving her a moment to digest the information, then leaned forward. “Alex, your mother called me the same day she took her life. She said she had information about the baby from the news story. Do you have any idea what that information may have been?”

  A bitter sound slipped past her lips. “Actually, I was hoping you could tell me that.”

  He studied her a moment, looking for a trace of deception. “I think she was wondering if the baby we found was Dylan.”

  He saw her stiffen slightly. Saw the combination of fear and curiosity race into her eyes. “Dylan?” she asked, voice shaking.

  In that moment, he wondered if she could be playing him, then rejected the thought. She really didn’t know.

  “Your brother,” he said softly. “Dylan Sommer was your baby brother, Alex.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Thursday, February 18

  11:00 A.M.

  Nothing he could have said would have rocked her more. She simply stared at him, unable to find her voice.

  “Actually, Dylan was your half brother. I’m sorry.”

  A half brother. She’d had a half brother and a family in Sonoma. How could she not remember? People couldn’t just forget things like that, could they?

  The detective was looking at her strangely, as if she was some sort of freak for not knowing these things. She didn’t blame him; she felt like one.

  “Tell me about him,” she managed, voice small and choked.

  “He was abducted from his bed. Your mom and Harlan had left you with his fifteen-year-old daughter.”

  “Rachel?”

  He nodded. “Nobody knows for sure what happened. Someone entered the house and took Dylan. No ransom demand arrived, and he was never found. Your mother’s marriage ended. She took you and left.”

  Alex clasped her hands together, imagining her mother’s anguish. What would it be like to lose a child that way? To never know what happened, if he was alive or dead. If he had suffered and cried out for her.

  “She never told you any of this?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Mother was always… secretive. I always wondered why. I always thought…” She let the words trail off.

  He picked them up. “Always thought what?”

  She met his gaze. “That she was hiding something. But I never imagined it was something like… this.”

  “And you have no recollection of your time in Sonoma or your brother?”

  Alex shook her head again. How was it possible she had blocked it all out? “Do you have any photographs of him? Or any of my stepfamily?”

  “My parents do. Harlan does.” He cleared his throat. “I hate to ask, but could I have a look around? I’m hoping whatever your mom wanted to tell me didn’t die with her.”

  Alex followed while he searched. They didn’t speak, and truth be told, she was there in body only, her thoughts on the things he’d said, sorting through the way she felt about them.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of any help,” she said, when he had finished and come up empty-handed.

  “Here’s my card. If you think of anything, some comment your mother made, anything at all, call me.”

  “I will.” She walked him to the door. “You’ll let me know if that baby turns out to be my brother?”

  “Of course.” He held out a hand. “It was nice seeing you again, Alex.”

  She took it. “You, too, Dan.”

  “Call me Reed. Everybody does these days.”

  A moment later he was across the porch and down the front steps, heading to his car. She watched as he climb
ed in and drove away. For a long time after he had gone, she wandered the house, thoughts whirling.

  Anger and betrayal rose up inside her. She’d had a brother. A stepfather and stepsister. Her mother had kept them from her. Why?

  If only she’d picked up that last call. Her mother had been ready to tell her everything. From her own lips, with explanations.

  Now, she would never know why.

  Fury took her breath. She wanted to scream, strike out at someone or something, kick and wail. How could her mother have done this? This was her history, her family. Whatever had occured had happened to her as well.

  Of course. She started to pace. Something missing, she’d always felt that way. As if she had an empty place inside her that she’d kept trying to fill up.

  A place that had once held a brother she loved-and who had been stolen from her.

  Literally. And figuratively.

  How had her mother managed to keep his existence hidden from her all these years-

  Hidden.

  Photographs. Mementos, official records. Dylan had been her child, she wouldn’t have destroyed all that remained of him. She couldn’t have done it, even in her deepest despair.

  Alex moved her gaze over the room. If she had kept a box of mementos, where would she have hidden it? Here in the house, no doubt. A place she could easily access, but Alex didn’t frequent.

  Or wasn’t allowed.

  Her mother’s bedroom. Of course.

  Alex ran up the stairs. Like the rest of the house, her mother’s bedroom had become part art studio. She picked her way around drawings in progress, laid out on the floor, crossing to the dresser. Beginning with the top drawer, she rifled through them, tossing the contents into a heap on the floor.

  Nada. Nothing.

  Undeterred, Alex moved on to her mother’s closet, then bathroom, the vanity drawers, tearing them apart. From there she moved from one room to another, until she had searched every drawer, closet and compartment.

  Still she came up empty.

  Her mother destroyed her art, why not all physical remnants of her son? The thought planted and Alex stopped, heart racing. No. She refused to believe that. Somewhere in this house her mother had stashed a record of her son’s short life.