Blood Vines

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Tuesday, March 9

4:00 P.M.

The jewelry designer Alex had been pointed toward lived in a California-style cottage on Brockman Lane right here in Sonoma. He had agreed to meet her and take a look at her mother’s ring.

He came to the door, a charming gnome of a man in a red plaid flannel shirt and pants held up by suspenders. “Max?” she asked.

He broke into a broad smile. “You must be Alexandra. Come in… come in.”

She followed him into the cottage. She found it as charming and unique as the man, filled with all sorts of art, from traditional to contemporary. “Thank you for agreeing to see me, Max. I appreciate you taking the time.”

“Nonsense. I have lots of time. Too much.” He motioned her to follow him. “I don’t get many visitors. And certainly not ones wanting to talk about my designs. That was a lifetime ago. Come, I’ve made us some tea.”

In the kitchen, Alex watched as he set about pouring. She noticed that his hands shook badly.

“Would you mind?” he asked, indicating the full cups.

“Not at all.” She carried them both to the small kitchen table, then went back for the milk and sugar. They both sat.

While she doctored her tea, he talked. “When my friend Janice called me about you, I was delighted. As you can see, I can’t design anymore.” He looked at his shaking hands. “I used to do such delicate work.”

“I’m sorry. That must be very distressing for you.”

“You would think.” He chuckled. “But God has surely blessed me. Talent and success as a young man and an old age surrounded by love. May I show you something?”

He was obviously not in a hurry to get to the reason for her visit, which suited her fine. She stood and let him lead her to the center hallway, which was decorated with framed photographs. She smiled as he pointed out himself as a young man and commented on a picture of his late wife, calling her the love of his life.

He stopped on a family portrait. “My daughter, Angie, and her three girls. How could I complain?”

“They’re a lovely family.”

He gazed at it. “In the end, it’s all about family. That’s all we have that means anything.”

His words hit her hard. She struggled to keep it from showing, but lost the battle.

“I’ve upset you,” he said. “Forgive me.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “I lost my mother recently. And she was… it’s been difficult.”

He patted her hand. “Tell me about the piece you brought me.”

“It was my mother’s.” Alex slid it off her finger and handed it to him. “I found it in her things after she died. It’s so unusual, I wondered-”

“It’s not mine,” he said curtly.

“Excuse me?”

He handed it back. “It’s not one of my designs.”

“Oh.” Confused by his change in tone, she wasn’t certain how to respond. “Is there anything you can tell me about the design or materials?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”

Alex frowned and held it out again. “The inscription, BOV, I wondered if that could have been a local organization or-”

“I’m sorry, but I really can’t tell you anything about it.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and she noticed he wouldn’t even look at the ring. “But I wish you luck.”

Disappointed, Alex slipped the ring back onto her finger. “Any suggestions where I might look or who I might contact?”

“No. I’ve never seen… I would remember. It’s an unusual design.”

He knew more than he was letting on, she felt certain. But why keep information from her?

She laid a hand on his arm. “Please, Max. It was my mother’s and now she’s gone. I’m just trying to learn more about her. About her life here. She was my only family.”

His expression softened. “Some stories aren’t meant to be known. Maybe this is one of them.”

“Please. Her name was Patsy Sommer. You may have known her.” He looked as if she had struck him. “You did know her,” she said.

“Everyone did after that horrible thing with her baby. Sweet little boy. How anyone could…” He let out a heavy-sounding breath. “I’m tired now. You have to go.”

He herded her toward the door. When they’d reached it, she opened her mouth to ask him one more time if he was certain he knew nothing of the ring’s design or inscription. He stopped her by gripping her hands tightly.

“Be careful, Alexandra,” he said. “And remember what I said. Some stories are meant to be left untold.”

A moment later she was outside, the door snapping shut behind her. He hadn’t given her a chance to do more than mumble another “Thank you.” He had wanted her out of his house, and as quickly as possible.

Why? She walked slowly to her car, thoughts whirling. What did he know that he wasn’t telling her? And how could she get him to change his mind?