Blood Vines

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Friday, February 19

10:42 A.M.

True to his promise, Reed had called Harlan Sommer but had been unable to reach him directly. He’d left a message, then promised to call Alex on her cell phone the moment he heard back. Having learned that the Sonoma County Library was located in Santa Rosa, not five minutes from the Sheriff’s Department, she had decided to pass the time until she heard back from Reed researching news stories from the year her brother disappeared.

She parked her Prius, climbed out and started across the parking lot. The detectives had shown her a photograph of a pacifier. Alex couldn’t get the image out of her head-stained from being in the ground, awash in God only knew what.

She didn’t want to know the specifics, the hows and whys of chemical reactions and decomposition. She had only to look at the photo and compare it to the pacifier in her possession and see the horrific.

The two were identical. Same shape, color, design. Reed and his colleagues had been excited about that, though they had kept it low-key.

The library was a single-story brick building. She entered and crossed to the information desk. The woman manning it had shoulder-length gray hair and a dusting of freckles across her weathered face. She had the look of someone who had decided going natural beat the hell out of Botox, fillers and serums.

“Good morning,” Alex said. “Could you direct me to the microfilm?”

The woman looked up and smiled. “Certainly. I’ll get you set up.” She came around the desk. “What are you looking for?”

Alex fell in step with her. “Newspaper stories from 1985. Local papers.”

“We have that. Any stories in particular?” she asked. “I’ve lived here all my life.”

“The disappearance of Dylan Sommer.”

Her steps faltered. She made a sound, soft and distressed. “A terrible thing. Awful. Arguably the worst crime ever in this valley.”

“Did you know the family?”

The librarian stopped. Her expression changed from open and friendly to wary. “May I ask why you’re interested in the case?”

Alex hadn’t anticipated this. In the big city, librarians didn’t care what you read, researched, or why.

She hesitated a moment, then said, “I’m Patsy Sommer’s daughter. Dylan’s sister.”

The woman’s eyes widened. “Little Alexandra! My God, look at you… all grown up. Patsy and I were friends.”

“You knew my mom?”

“We were really close in our young, wild days. If she ever talked about Rita Welsh, that’s me.” She shook her head. “You can’t imagine the trouble we got into.”

Rita shifted her gaze over Alex’s shoulder. “Is she here with you? I’d love to see her.”

“No, she passed away recently.”

“Oh, no.” Rita hugged her. “I’m so sorry.”

Alex saw tears in her eyes and caught her hands, suddenly excited. “Rita, do you have time to talk to me?”

“Now?”

“Yes. I’d be so grateful.”

Rita glanced at her watch, then back at the information desk. “It’s early for my break, but it should be fine. I’ll let my assistant know.”

A short time later, they sat across from each other in the employee break room. Unable to contain her eagerness, Alex leaned toward her. “When did you and my mother meet?”

“We were barely twenty-one. Both single.” Her eyes sparkled. “I was attractive back then. And despite my librarian image, wild as a billy goat.

“We were both working the tasting room at Robert Mondavi. It was in ’78 or ’79. Oh, the parties Magrit used to host. They were incredible. Lavish beyond anything the valley had ever seen before.”

“Mom worked in a tasting room?”

“She didn’t tell you? I’m surprised.” Rita sighed. “That’s where she met your father.”

Alex’s heart skipped a beat. “You knew my father?”

She shook her head. “All I really knew is she met him at one of the parties. She wouldn’t tell me his name.”

Alex’s disappointment was so acute she could taste it.

“Little by little she stopped going out with our group, stopped partying. She spent all her time with him-or sitting home waiting for him. Next thing we knew, she was pregnant.”

“You must have had some clue who he was.” Alex winced at the desperation in her tone. “You must have speculated about his identity.”

Alex’s urgency wasn’t lost on the librarian. “We did, believe me. He had money, we were certain of that. When she began to show, she quit Robert Mondavi and he supported her. Put her up in an apartment.”

“He must have been married,” Alex murmured, as much to herself as the other woman.

“That’s what we figured. We wondered, too, if he was a public figure, afraid of a scandal. Or the cost of a divorce.”

Alex’s upset must have shown because the woman reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “The affair ended after you were born. She was brokenhearted. But truthfully, I thought it was for the best. That’s no way to live. She deserved a man who would honor her by making her his wife.”

“And she found him,” Alex murmured, thinking of her mother’s obvious joy in the photos from the album.

“Yes.” Rita checked her watch, then continued. “She went to work in the Sommer Family Winery’s tasting room. That’s where she met Harlan.

“He was an important man here in Sonoma and their courtship was quite public. I used to babysit for you sometimes, so they could go out. It was like watching her come back to life, and I was so happy for her.”

“Then he proposed? Did they have a big wedding or-”

“They ran off to Vegas.” She laughed, the sound girlish. “It was the talk of the valley.”

“How old was I then?”

“A year, I think. Just past.”

“And he was good to me?”

Rita looked surprised. “He doted on you. In fact, if I hadn’t known the whole story, I would have thought you were his own.”

Alex recalled the photo from the album and Tim’s comment about how much she had looked like the man pictured. That man had been Harlan Sommer.

She tucked that away for later. “What happened to them after Dylan disappeared? Why’d they break up?”

“Broken hearts. Too much pain between them. Too much anger.”

Alex remembered what Tim had told her about her mother’s feelings, the guilt she had probably suffered at having left her children alone that night. “He couldn’t forgive her, could he?”

Rita looked surprised. “She couldn’t forgive him. He insisted they go out that night. He promised her you and Dylan would be fine with Rachel.”

This time, Alex knew, she was the one who looked surprised. Which was it? she wondered. Guilt or anger?

Her phone vibrated; she saw it was Reed, excused herself and answered.

“I spoke with Harlan,” he said. “He can meet with us this afternoon, after the winery closes at four. I’ll pick you up.”

“Where?”

“Sonoma town square. In front of the girl & the fig.”

She ended the call and found the librarian staring at her hand, her expression odd. “What?” she asked.

“Your ring. It was your mother’s, wasn’t it?”

“It was.” Alex glanced at it, then back at Rita. “Do you happen to know where she got it?”

“I don’t know. Sorry.”

An awkward silence fell between them and Alex sensed that Rita wasn’t telling the truth. She leaned toward her. “Was my mother happy, Rita? Before Dylan disappeared?”

“Yes. Very happy.”

“Did she suffer from depression or any other emotional disorder? Anything like that?”

“Patsy? Goodness, not that I ever saw.” Rita shook her head, as if for emphasis. “She was down sometimes, like we all are. But nothing that seemed… clinical.”

“How old was I when she became pregnant with my brother?”

“Three, three and a half.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m sorry, but I’ve already been away from my desk too long.”

She stood. Alex followed her to her feet. “Thank you so much for taking the time to talk to me, Rita. My mother didn’t talk about the past.”

“Too painful, I suppose.” She sighed. “People change as they age. Especially when they’ve suffered horrible losses. Come, I’ll get you set up with the microfilm.”

They exited the break room. The readers’ film files were located on the far north wall. Rita quickly loaded the “Press Democrat” reels for her, then gave her a hug. “I’m so glad you came in today. I’ve thought of you and your mother so often over the years. If you want to talk again, just call me. Here or at home, anytime.”

She jotted her name and number on a slip of paper and handed it to Alex. “Anytime,” she repeated.

Alex thanked her again, then, thinking of a last question, stopped her at the door. “Harlan Sommer’s first marriage, when did they divorce?”

“They didn’t,” she said softly. “She died in a tragic accident at the winery.”