Blood Vines

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.”