He said he would and Reed started off, then stopped and looked back. “Did your dad wear glasses. Mrs. Wilson?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “He was blind as a bat without them.”
____________________
Twenty minutes later, Reed approached the medical group’s receptionist. He provided his shield for her review. “Detective Reed, Sonoma County Sheriff’s Department. I need to have a word with Dr. Whitney.”
The woman studied the badge, then lifted her gaze to his. “He’s with a patient right now. Could I help you?”
“Afraid not. I’ll need to speak with him directly. When he’s finished, could you let him know I’m waiting?”
She said she would, and as often happened, he didn’t wait long. The badge served as an automatic bump to the front of the line. He received several unhappy glares as, moments later, the nurse called his name.
The doctor stood as Reed entered his office. “Dr. Whitney,” the physician said, extending his hand.
Reed took it. The other man had red hair, thinning at the temples. Even so, he didn’t look much older than thirty. “Detective Daniel Reed. Thank you for seeing me so quickly.”
“I have a full book today, so if you don’t mind getting to it?”
“Of course. You had a patient named Max Cragan?”
“Still do, as far as I know.”
“He died Tuesday night. I’m investigating his death.”
The doctor blinked and cleared his throat. “I had no idea. How did he… I’m sorry. I’m just so surprised.”
“When was the last time you saw Mr. Cragan? Professionally.”
He thought a moment. “I’d have to look that up to give you an exact date, but it wasn’t that long ago. Less than a month.”
“What was his condition?”
“I’m sorry, Detective, but I’m bound by patient privacy laws.”
“Let me ask you this instead. In your professional opinion, was Mr. Cragan strong enough to hang himself?
He looked startled. “He hung himself?”
“That surprises you.”
“Yes. He was a delightful man. Always positive, with a kind word for everyone.”
“And physically? Could he have set up a stepladder, climbed it, looped and fastened a rope over an exposed beam, then slipped the noose over his head and kicked the ladder away?”
The physician thought a moment, then slowly shook his head. “In my professional opinion, no. Can I say absolutely no or that it would’ve been impossible? No, I can’t.” He leaned toward Reed. “The truth is, every day I’m humbled and awed by the power of the human spirit over the limitations of the body. Everyday miracles, Detective.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Friday, March 12
10:30 A.M.
Three hours later Lyla Reed opened her front door and greeted Alex warmly. “You called on just the right day,” she said, grasping Alex’s hand. “The rest of the week I’ve had board meetings and luncheons. It’s endless, really.”
She led Alex inside the grand home. Today it smelled of flowers and lemon polish. “Thank you so much, Lyla,” Alex said. “I really appreciate you letting me do this.”
“I’m happy to, really. I told you how close your mother and I were.”
Alex opened her mouth to ask for assurances, then closed it fearing her desperation would show. That she would say something to raise the woman’s suspicions.
“Are you settling in?”
“Very nicely.”
“I heard about you finding poor Max. It must have been horrible.”
“It was. I’d gone to ask him about my mother’s ring. The one with the grapevines and snake.”
“I don’t recall her having a ring like that.”
“But you commented on it at the party.”
Lyla looked startled. “I did?”
“Yes. I’m certain you did.”
She frowned slightly. “You must be confused.”
“I must be,” Alex said. “Several people commented on it… I guess I just… I thought you…”
She let the thought trail off, feeling a little silly. But she was sure Lyla had been one of those who had noted the ring.
Lyla patted her arm. “No worries, dear. You know, I have one of Max’s designs. A brooch. He was so talented and our families were friends. Here we are.”
They entered the room. Lyla crossed to bookshelves on the right. She selected three leatherbound volumes from one of the shelves. “These are the Patsy years, as I call them. Some of the happiest times of our lives.”
She set them on a table in front of the velvet couch. “If you don’t need me-”
“I’m fine. Please, go. You have things to do.”
Lyla smiled and squeezed her hand. “I’ll come check on you in a bit.”
“Wait.” Alex held on to her hand. “Lyla, you and my mother were such good friends. Did she ever mention my father?”
The woman’s gaze went soft with sympathy. “Never. I always wondered about him. I even hinted around the subject, but she simply wouldn’t go there.”
“Why?” Alex asked. “Why so secretive? If the relationship was in the past, what difference would it have made?”
“I decided he must have hurt her badly. She was happy and wanted to leave that time of her life far behind.”
But Alex had been the creation of that part of her life. Where did that leave her?
As if reading her thoughts, Lyla squeezed her hand again. “I’m sorry. She loved you very much, I promise you. We all saw how much.”
Alex sat and reached for the first volume: 1982. Working to keep her hopefulness in check, she opened it.
The photographs looked decidedly old-fashioned. The hair and clothes. The furnishings and events.
She flipped through. Interesting how, in the short time she’d been here, she had learned who all the players were. Reed and his older brother. Clark and Rachel. Max Cragan, she realized, recognizing him from the photograph that day at his house, in his hallway.
The pages crackled as she turned them. She found herself riveted by the beautiful, smiling people. And the story the pictures depicted. Of a close-knit group. One that spent a lot of time together partying-she couldn’t really call it anything else. It was the rare photograph that didn’t include someone-or several someones-with a glass in their hand. In many of them they were hugging one another, laughing or mugging for the camera.
Obviously feeling no pain.
Alex studied her mother. She had been a beautiful woman, certainly the most beautiful of their circle. The youngest, as well. She’d been only twenty-four then, Alex realized. Younger than Alex was now, and already married and a mother.
Not that she was in any way matronly, Alex thought, as she landed on a photo of the group poolside. Her mother wore a skimpy bikini and in several shots was draped over a couple of the other husbands.
A knot settled in her stomach. Alex turned the page. There she was again, this time in a cover-up, sitting on Treven’s lap. She was laughing; he looked irritated.
The things Reed had said raced around her head. She pushed them back. But she wasn’t alone. The other wives were carrying on as well. No one looked scandalized.
As Alex moved on to the second album, then the third, the photos evolved. Her mother seemed to become less carefree and more introspective. Candid shots caught expressions of worry, unguarded anxiety, furtiveness.
Alex passed a hand over her face. Or was she imagining it all? Had Reed’s story caused her to look at the photos differently? Change her presumption about her mother’s life?
“Hey, Alex. This is a nice surprise.”
Reed’s younger brother, she saw. Alex smiled and closed the last album. “Hey back, Ferris. Your mother offered me a peek at the family photo albums.”
“Still trying to catch up on your past?”
“Yup, still trying.” She stood and carried the three albums back to the bookcase. She reshelved them, then turned to
find him standing directly behind her, close enough to lift her hand and touch.
“Any luck?” he asked.
Uncomfortable with their proximity, she inched backward. “Truthfully? Not a lot. But it was fun seeing them.”
“Would you like to go out to dinner?”
“Dinner?”
“Yeah. Tonight?”
“I don’t think that’d be a good idea. Thanks anyway.” She stepped around him and crossed back to the couch to collect her purse.
He followed, not looking at all bothered by her answer. She wondered whether he was one of those guys who was always putting the query out there, or if he had heard the stories about her mother.
“I knew it,” he said. “You have something going on with Dan.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” He grinned. “Say, if you want to see some more memorabilia from those days, you should pay a visit to the Sommer Winery, they have a museum area, the walls are covered with photos. In fact, I think they have one of your mother’s paintings in the tasting room.”
Treven had told her that as well. She had forgotten.
“I could even take you-”
“Ferris, your brother is waiting for you out in the conference room.”
Wayne Reed stood in the doorway, frowning at his son. Ferris straightened. “Duty calls. Good seeing you, Alex.”
When he reached the doorway, he stopped, murmured something to his father that she couldn’t make out and left.
Wayne Reed turned his attention to her. “Stay away from my sons.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. They’ve been hurt enough.”
To say she was shocked would be an understatement. “I don’t understand why you would say that to me.”
“I think it would be pretty obvious, considering what your mother was.”
Angry color flooded her face. “How dare you.”
“How dare you,” he countered. “Go back to San Francisco. There’s nothing for you here.”
She supposed she could have been hurt or intimidated. She was spitting mad instead. “I didn’t have any part in what you say my mother was involved in. Which, frankly, I don’t believe is true.”
“Oh, it is true.” He advanced on her, stopping so close she felt his breath stir against her cheek. “What do you think it’s like for them? For all of us? Being reminded of-”
He leaned closer; it took all her strength of will not to back away. “Your mother didn’t just fuck our sons. She fucked them up.”
He turned on his heel and strode to the door. When he reached it, she stopped him by calling out, “It’s not true.”
He froze, then turned slowly to look at her. “Excuse me?”
“What you said about my mother. I know it’s not true. And I’ll prove it.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You’re no longer welcome here, Ms. Clarkson. I’ll have one of the staff escort you out.”
“Don’t bother.” She strode past him and through the door, passing so closely he could have grabbed her. And for one crazy moment, she wondered if he would.
He didn’t, and minutes later she collapsed in her car, trembling so violently she gripped the steering wheel for support.
She’d be damned if she would run and hide. Scurry back to San Francisco and pretend none of this had happened. The way her mother had. No. What they were saying about her mother wasn’t true. She didn’t know how she would prove it, but she would.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Friday, March 12
3:30 P.M.
Alex took Ferris’s suggestion and headed for Sommer Winery. There she discovered that she had arrived in time to make the four o’clock tour, the last of the day. The for-a-fee tour took in both the winery and caves, then ended in the tasting room to sample several Sommer wines.
She bought a ticket, then was directed to the museum for the winery’s history and a short video on winemaking. She made her way there; a half dozen others already waited. Catching parts of various conversations, she learned the Sommer tour was considered one of the best in wine country.
Covered with photographs and other memorabilia, the museum walls served as a visual history of the winery, from its early days making inexpensive jug wine to now, an internationally renowned name in California wine.
But what captured her interest were the labeled photographs. Harlan and Treven as boys, then young men. Harlan’s first wife. Rachel, from infant to the winemaker she was today. Treven’s wife, his son Clark-again glorifying his ascent from childhood athlete and young scholar to company president.
But not a single photograph of her mother or Dylan. None of her.
She must have missed something, Alex thought. She quickly walked the room again, scanning the clusters of photographs.
She hadn’t. It stung. Her mother and Dylan hadn’t even registered as a blip on the Sommer family timeline.
The guide arrived and called them all to join her. The group had burgeoned to twenty-one, Alex saw. She also noted she was the only person traveling without a companion.
The tour began in the crushing area. The guide described the grape-sorting process, how those grapes were mechanically transported to the crusher-destemmer. The machine’s blades and chewers created free-run juice. Nobody stomped grapes with their feet anymore, the guide informed them-only as part of demonstrations or winemaking history lessons.
They moved on to the fermenting tanks. Stainless steel, the tanks stood twelve feet tall and each held three thousand gallons of fermenting wine.
“Notice the catwalks,” the guide said, pointing to them. “The fermenting juice is accessed there for a process called punching down. The process is actually quite dangerous. Every year there are a number of deaths-”
Alex stared at the tanks, at the catwalk, mouth dry, heart pounding. She pictured Susan Sommer, overcome by CO2 and tumbling into the tank. What had her last thought been? For the baby she carried in her womb? For the daughter she was leaving behind?
“Are there any questions?” the guide asked.
“Wasn’t there an accident like that here?” Alex called out. “Many years ago?”
The guide looked at her strangely. “Not these tanks. The fermenting area has been totally upgraded and modernized since then.”
“Someone died?” a young woman asked, eyes huge.
“Yes,” the guide answered. “A member of the Sommer family. It was a terrible tragedy, and one we prefer not to talk about.”
“What about the other tragedy?” Alex asked, unable to stop the question from springing from her lips. “The kidnapping I read about? That little boy?”
A murmur went through the group. The guide looked uncomfortable. “Dylan Sommer,” she said. “He was abducted from his bed in 1985. The Sommer family has never given up hope that he’s alive and one day will be home.”
Of course they had, Alex thought. Everybody had moved on. There wasn’t even a picture of him in their museum.
The guide cleared her throat. “Now, if there are no more questions, let’s move on to the highlight of our tour, the wine caves. The Sommer caves are some of the oldest and largest of the wine country caves, rivaled only by those at Schramsberg.”
The guide talked while she led them from the fermenting area to the caves. “These were hand-dug which, with twenty-six thousand square feet of tunnels, is simply amazing.
“Caves,” she continued, “are the original green solution to refrigeration. The interior keeps the wine at a comfortable fifty-eight degrees with seventy percent humidity. We store approximately two thousand barrels in ours.”
They reached the cave entrance. Alex’s thoughts flooded with the memory of the other night, of being lost, of panicking.
The smell of incense. The sound of laughter. Her chest growing tight, her heart racing. Panic grabbing ahold of her.
No, she told herself. This moment has nothing to do with that one.
“Prepare yourself,�
� the woman continued, “between the insufficient lighting and the lichen growing on the ceiling and walls, it’s pretty creepy. But don’t worry, as far as I know, there are no ghosts.”
But there were, Alex thought. Ghosts of the past. Of the life she should remember, but couldn’t.
“Are you all right, dear?”
That came from the woman beside her, a kindly looking senior. The rest of the group, she saw, had entered the cave. Alex forced a weak smile. “I have trouble with closed-in spaces. Is it that obvious?”
“It is. You’re white as a sheet.”
“I’ll be fine.”
The woman patted her arm. “That’s the spirit. Just stick with me. I was a nurse, back in the day.”
They caught up with the group. The tour guide was describing the original process of cave formation. “Chinese laborers were used to dig these caves out of the side of the mountain. You’ll be surprised by the…”
Alex worked to focus on the guide’s words, to slow her heart and breathe evenly and deeply.
“… use only French oak barrels. The barrels cost anywhere from five hundred to two thousand dollars each.”
The group chattered excitedly. Her Florence Nightingale had wandered back to her husband. Blindly, Alex followed the guide, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.
She began to sweat. The clammy sweat of panic. Her heart beat so high and fast it felt as if it had climbed up into her throat.
Why was this happening to her?
Get out, find the exit.
“… high humidity reduces the amount of evaporation from the barrels. Now stay with me,” the guide called, “it’s easy to get disoriented in here.”
Dylan. As her brother’s name popped into her head, so did his image. A beautiful dark-haired baby. Cooing up at her. Smiling.
Then screaming.
Alex stopped. She brought a hand to her mouth. The smell of incense filled her head.
She looked wildly around her. The group had rounded the bend and disappeared from sight. Alex took a step backward. Then another. And another.
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