Blood Vines

by Erica Spindler

  “And the ring?” he asked stiffly. “Was it a gift? Or did Patsy have it made-”

  “For herself. Yes. Max Cragan created the design. Of course he knew nothing about the symbolism.”

  Reed saw that his father’s forehead gleamed with sweat. “To think, all those times we socialized with them, treating her as one of us, one of our inner circle, she was… doing that.”

  His father’s expression puckered with grief and guilt. “I should have seen it. Should have somehow-” He bit the words back. “She was a whore. She preyed on our sons. How could I not have known? Not have seen something? But none of us suspected a thing.”

  “Do you know who Alexandra’s father is?”

  He shook his head. “It could have been anyone.”

  “And Dylan?”

  His father looked up, surprised. “What about Dylan?”

  “Who was his father?”

  “Harlan was, of cour-” He bit the words back as if realizing for the first time that Dylan could have been fathered by someone other than Harlan. Considering what he and the other men had learned she was up to, Reed found that odd.

  His father must have realized how odd it was as well, because he quickly backtracked. “We all assumed, never questioned his…”

  He cleared his throat. “You have to understand, before this came to light, we were friends. The best of friends. They seemed like a loving couple. And I’m not even certain when her insanity began.”

  Reed frowned. “Insanity, Dad?”

  “What would you call it? Define it for me.” He launched to his feet, flushing. “Having sex with the sons of her friends, it was… craziness. Sick!”

  “It was criminal,” Reed corrected. “You should have gone to the police.”

  “We didn’t! Dammit, we did what we thought was best!” He brought his hands to his face, a gesture Reed had never seen from his father.

  When he dropped his hands, his eyes were wet. “She didn’t leave on her own. We forced her to go. Dylan was gone. Alexandra wasn’t Harlan’s. God forgive us, we never wanted Harlan to know. When we confronted Patsy, she threatened to tell him. If we didn’t offer her a settlement. She would need a nest egg, she said. We gave it to her. She took Alex and left, with the promise to never darken Harlan’s door again.”

  His father reached a hand out. “I’m here, Dan. Hat in hand. I need your help. Let this tattoo thing die. If you don’t, innocent people will be hurt. Think of Joe’s kids. My God, if it got out…”

  He was too close to this situation, Reed acknowledged. This wasn’t some stranger asking for his help, it was his father. The unbending man who had accepted his decision not to be a part of the business with a terse “Go on, then. Who needs you?”

  That man needed him now.

  Some secrets were best left unearthed.

  “I’ll see what I can do. But I can’t make any promises.”

  His father looked relieved. “Thank you, Son. It’s the right thing to do, I promise you.”

  “Be aware, if something emerges that strengthens the connection between-”

  “It won’t. The ring and tattoo have nothing to do with Tom’s murder.”

  For a long time after he left, Reed went over what his father had told him. He thought of Alex. Of his brother. Clark and the others. He thought of Patsy Sommer.

  Who’d she been? Reed wondered. The woman he remembered: always kind, offering a smile, the picture-perfect mother and wife? The bipolar artist who had great talent but suffered fits of despair so deep they turned violent? Or the criminal temptress his father described, who seduced underage young men?

  “The ring and tattoo have nothing to do with Tom’s murder.” Perhaps not, Reed thought. But could they have something to do with Dylan’s?

  He experienced a prickle of excitement, an aha moment. If Patsy had been as promiscuous as his dad described, Dylan could have been someone else’s child, not Harlan’s. A fact which, if learned, could have rocked a number of people’s worlds. The actual father’s. Harlan’s. If the father was a minor, that minor’s family.

  Some secrets were best left unearthed.

  Son of a bitch, he thought. This changed everything.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Thursday, March 11

  9:00 P.M.

  Reed dialed Tanner. She answered; he heard music and conversation in the background. “Where are you?” he asked.

  “Tony’s. What’s up?”

  Tony’s, a bar not far from the Barn, served as one of the department’s favorite after-shift watering holes. “We need to talk. Stay put.”

  Twenty minutes later he entered Tony’s and crossed directly to the bar. “Tony” was actually an attractive, unpretentious, thirty-something Antonia. She called her place “the anti-wine country alternative.” Although wine was on the menu, decent quality even, more emphasis was put on the twenty-two different beers on tap and the mixed drink category. However, at Tony’s call brands were out, well brands in. The bar sported two flat-screen TVs, the pool table in the back room was battered but level, and peanuts, pretzels and popcorn could be had for free, 24/7.

  “Reed,” she said as he approached, “long time no see.” She drew him a Poppy Jasper amber ale and set it in front of him.

  “The bad guys have been keeping me busy.”

  “Me, too.” She grinned. “Tanner asked me to let you know she’s playing pool.”

  “Thanks.” He paid for the beer and headed for the back room. Sure enough, Tanner, Cal and a couple of rookies from Property Crimes were deep into a game of eight ball. It looked like Tanner and Cal were kicking their asses.

  Typical. Tanner was wicked good with a stick.

  Tanner bent over the table, readying her shot. She looked back at him. “Enjoying the view, Reed?”

  “I have to say I am.”

  She grinned. “Good. Glad I still have it.”

  She took the shot, drawing the stick back smoothly, following through with unflinching accuracy. The cue ball struck its target-the fifteen-and it shot into the corner pocket. She ran the rest of the table, then called the eight ball. A moment later, the grumbling rookies were heading out front for a round of beers.

  She pulled a stool up beside his. Cal followed suit. “What do you have?” she asked.

  Reed quickly filled them in on what his father had told him, beginning with what Patsy Sommer had been doing, who had been involved, then finishing with how the boys’ fathers had responded.

  Cal whistled. “Being initiated by an older, experienced woman is every adolescent boy’s wet dream. She’d have to be hot, though. You know, in that Mrs. Robinson sort of way-”

  “Get a grip, Cal,” Tanner snapped. “I’m not interested in your version of an adolescent wet dream.”

  “Some of the boys were as young as fifteen,” Reed said.

  “That’s statutory rape. At the very least, carnal knowledge of a juvenile.”

  Reed agreed and went on. “Seems the initiation included some weird group action. An audience to cheer them on, then sharing the sloppy seconds.”

  “And thirds.” Tanner made a face. “That’s some sick shit. Certainly not the way I’d want my son to learn about sex.”

  “That’s what the dads thought.”

  “All of them?” Tanner asked, tone skeptical.

  Reed frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Our society tends to put a stamp of approval on a boy’s sexual initiation at the hands of an older, hot woman. Case in point, Cal’s comment.”

  “But with a girl of the same age,” Reed murmured, “it’s called a crime.”

  “Yes.” Tanner frowned. “I could even see some fathers shrugging it off, no harm, no foul.”

  “They didn’t go to the police,” Cal agreed. “Which would seem to validate Tanner’s thinking.”

  “Just sent her on her way. With a nest egg, even.” Reed took a swallow of his beer. “They didn’t want anyone to know what was going on. Especially Harlan. They even ke
pt it from the boys’ mothers.”

  The rookies returned with the beers. Tanner declined another game; Reed thought the younger of the two looked relieved. They wandered back out front and Reed turned again to Tanner and Cal.

  “My dad wants to keep it that way. He asked me to drop my questioning about the tattoo.”

  “Of course he did,” Tanner murmured. “Look at who was involved, the Sommer, Reed, Townsend, Schwann and Bianche families. Unarguably Sonoma’s most prominent wine families. They don’t want their names connected to a sex scandal. One that would surely reignite the furor over Dylan’s disappearance.”

  “Plus,” Cal jumped in, “the dads would be barbecued in the media for the way they swept it all under the rug. Different times now. People are a lot more aware of abuse and its tragic effects.”

  “My dad insists there’s no connection between this club and Tom’s murder.”

  Tanner cocked an eyebrow. “And you believe him?”

  “I believe he’s telling his truth. And I think he may be right about Tom’s murder. What interests me is how this might have affected the investigation of Dylan’s disappearance.”

  “What was the timing?”

  “Dylan disappeared. Investigation was under way. One of the kids came to his dad, spilled it all.”

  “And the dads told no one, not even the mothers.” Cal scratched his head. “The information might have blown the investigation wide open.”

  Tanner agreed. “It certainly would have widened the suspect pool.”

  “It still does,” Reed said. “Only now we have remains.”

  They fell silent. For his part, Reed sifted through the possibilities. An angry parent. A betrayed husband. A jealous teenager. Fertile stuff.

  “My bet’s on the husband,” Tanner said. “Finds out what his wife’s been up to, that the kid’s not his, goes berserk.”

  “Patsy and Harlan were having dinner with my folks the night Dylan disappeared.”

  “So they said.”

  Tanner was right. That’s the way investigations went. If one secret was uncovered, one untruth exposed, more remained to be found out. One lie was never enough, secrets bred secrets.

  Nothing that had come before could be trusted now. This little nugget could be just the tip of the iceberg.

  “Son of a bitch,” Reed muttered.

  “No joke.” Tanner pursed her lips. “Where do we go from here?”

  “Open it all back up. Start at the beginning. I’m thinking the kid who spilled the beans.”

  Before either of his colleagues could respond, his cell phone sounded. “Reed,” he answered.

  “It’s Alex. Can we talk?”

  “About what?”

  “Max Cragan’s death.”

  He glanced at his watch. “When?”

  “Now?”

  “I’m in Santa Rosa. It’ll take me twenty-five minutes to get there.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  She hung up and he reholstered his phone. He looked up at Tanner and Cal. “Alexandra Clarkson. She wants to talk about Max Cragan.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Thursday, March 11

  10:45 P.M.

  Alex waited for Reed on her front porch. She had spent the time since leaving Angie Wilson’s home studying the situation and attempting to decide what she believed. What Angie said made sense: Max hadn’t been strong enough to accomplish what the police believed he’d done. Plus, the man had been happy with his life. A devout Catholic as well, one who believed taking your own life was an unforgivable sin.

  But murder?

  Alex rubbed her arms, chilled. Someone had come to Max’s door while they were on the phone. He had said so; she had heard the bell sound. Not Angie, as he had thought that night. His killer? Probably.

  She shivered again, though the night was mild. How could she even consider this? Who would kill such a sweet old man? Why?

  Her ring. To keep him quiet.

  Could it be? It sounded crazy, but her gut told her she was right anyway.

  She had to convince Reed. She couldn’t let whoever did this get away with it.

  Headlights sliced across her line of vision. She turned and watched as Reed eased to a stop in front of her cottage. He stepped out of the SUV and slammed the door behind him. She lifted her hand in a silent greeting, then waited.

  “I know it’s late,” she said when he reached her, “but I had to talk to you tonight.”

  “No problem.”

  She motioned him to follow her inside. When he did, she closed the door behind them and faced him. “Max didn’t kill himself.”

  “Okay. You have proof of that?”

  “Yes.” She clasped her hands together. “Not exactly. I mean, you may not call it proof, but-”

  “You’re convinced,” he finished for her. “And you believe you can convince me.”

  “Yes.” She held out a hand. “Just hear me out, please. Two things.”

  He sighed and shrugged out of his jacket. “Can we sit down? It’s been a long day.”

  Without waiting for her response, he headed into the adjacent living room and sank onto the couch. He looked drained.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “For what?”

  She spread her hands. “This. Calling you so late. Not considering that you might be tired.”

  “Your tax dollars at work. Shoot.”

  She took the chair directly across from his. “When I met Max,” she began, “I was struck with how content he was. How at peace he was with his life, even with his physical limitations.” She cleared her throat. “He showed me a photograph of his daughter and granddaughters. He called himself blessed.”

  “Alex-”

  “I can’t stop wondering, why would a man who described himself as blessed take his own life?”

  “That’s the first thing?”

  “Yes.” She laced her fingers. “Here’s the second: how’d he do it, Reed?” She leaned toward him. “He was weak. His hands shook so badly he couldn’t carry his own teacup without spilling.”

  “You spoke with his daughter, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but-”

  “I understand how difficult this is for her,” he said softly. “How difficult for you, because of your mother.”

  “That’s not it.”

  “I’ve seen suicides play out this way, over and over again, Alex. Family members never want to accept their loved one chose to take their life. It’s too painful. They feel it’s a personal rejection. Or somehow a reflection on how good a spouse, parent or in this case child they were.”

  “No.” Alex shook her head. “Someone was at his door that night, while he was on the phone with me. I heard the doorbell ring. It wasn’t Angie. You need to ask the neighbors, maybe someone saw who it was. It could have been his killer.”

  “Alex-”

  “What about his doctor? Have you even spoken with him? Have you asked if, in their opinion, he had the strength to hang himself?”

  She saw by his expression that he hadn’t. “You should, because I don’t think he could. Why would an old man like him choose that way to die? He’d do what my mother did, take a handful of pills and… I can’t stop thinking”-tears blurred her vision and she blinked to keep them from falling-“I can’t stop thinking that he was murdered because of me. Because of the ring. So I wouldn’t find out who’d had it made.”

  He stood and crossed to her. “No.” He caught her hands and drew her to her feet. “It didn’t go down that way.”

  “It can’t be a coincidence that just hours after he called me about it, he was dead.” Her voice rose. “He was so weird about it. He made me promise not to tell anyone we’d talked.”

  He tightened his fingers over hers. “I promise you, Max Cragan was not killed because of you or your mother’s ring.”

  “How can you be so certain? How?”

  “There’s something I have to tell you. Something I just learned.”

 
She searched his expression. Something in it, some regret, had her backing away from him. “I don’t want to hear this, do I?”

  “It’s about your mother. I’m sorry.”

  Alex turned away from him, crossed to the fireplace. She laid a hand on the old pine mantel and breathed deeply through her nose, trying to calm herself.

  She wanted to know, she told herself. Whatever it was, she could handle it.

  “Okay,” she said softly, “what is it?”

  “Max did design the ring.”

  She turned slowly and met his eyes.

  “It wasn’t a gift. Your mother had it designed for herself.”

  She felt some of her tension slip away. “How did you find that out?”

  “Some people who knew her well.” He looked away, then back. “I was interested in the ring because I’d seen the design before.”

  “Where?”

  “A tattoo. On the bottom of a man’s foot.”

  Her heart leapt to her throat. Her father. Of course. It had to be.

  “Who is he?” she asked, voice shaking. “Does he know about m-Of course he does. Was he married? Is that it? Is that why they couldn’t acknowledge each other?”

  “No, Alex. This is difficult, so I’m just going-”

  “It’s Harlan, isn’t it? It makes sense that he-”

  He laid his hands on her shoulders. “Your mother initiated young men into sex. The sons of her and Harlan’s friends. Some of them were as young as fifteen.”

  She stared disbelievingly at him. “What did you… you didn’t just say-”

  But he had, she realized. She started to tremble.

  “I’m sorry, Alex. Maybe you should sit down?”

  She shook her head. “It’s not true.”

  “The boys got tattoos afterward, in a vines and snake image.”

  “No. You’re lying.”

  “After Dylan disappeared, one of the boys went to his father, confessed everything. The fathers got together and ran her-and you-out of town.”

  Alex felt ill. She brought a trembling hand to her mouth. “It’s not true. It’s not!”