Blood Vines

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Wednesday, March 10

8:20 A.M.

Max didn’t answer his bell. Alex stood at the front door, shivering, bag of muffins clutched in her gloved hand. She tried knocking. “Max,” she called, “it’s Alex Clarkson.”

When he still didn’t answer, she peered through the sidelight. A big gray cat sat in the foyer, blinking up at her. A light spilled through from the open kitchen door.

Frowning, she checked her watch-8:25. She’d told him she would be by first thing. Surely, it wasn’t too early? From her experience, the elderly weren’t late sleepers.

Besides, he’d been expecting her.

Even as Alex told herself he was in the shower or out for a walk, she began to worry. It didn’t feel right. If he’d had a change of heart, he would tell her so, face-to-face.

He could have hurt himself and be unable to answer. Or have fallen ill and need help.

Don’t tell anyone. Why had he been so insistent on secrecy?

Alex shook her head, fighting the sense that something was wrong. Just a lonely old man. Any excuse for a bit of drama.

She knocked again, loudly. When she didn’t get an answer, she tried the door. Finding it locked, she went around back. She crossed the small deck to the rear entrance and peeked through the windows. Neat as a pin, she saw, save for the teacup and saucer on the counter, carton of milk and sugar bowl beside it.

Clearly, he was up. He had been making his tea.

Where was he now?

She rapped on the door, once, then twice. When he didn’t answer, she tried the knob. It turned.

She stepped inside. “Max,” she called, “it’s Alex. Are you all right?”

The absolute quality of the silence panicked her. Even as she told herself she was overreacting, that she appeared to be the one in need of drama, urgency pushed her on.

“Max,” she called as she moved through the small cottage, first the living room, then the single bathroom, followed by the first, then second bedroom.

The master, judging by its size. And by the slippers beside the bed, the clock, Bible and photographs on the night table. Max’s room.

She gazed at the neatly made bed. The waiting slippers.

“Remember, Alex, not a word to anyone.”

He hadn’t slept in the bed. He’d called her, then disappeared.

Get a grip, Alexandra. Just because you let hours-or even days-pass without making your own bed doesn’t mean everyone’s such a mess.

Any moment he was going to arrive home and ask what the hell she thought she was doing in his house. Besides, he’d been making tea.

Arrive home. Of course. He’d run to the grocery. Or to see his grandchildren. He’d forgotten she was coming. There could have been an emergency.

She laughed to herself, though even to her own ears the sound rang false. She quickly headed back to the kitchen. As she started out the door, she stopped and looked back at the tea.

Telling herself she had rocketed past overreaction and into the territory of obsession, Alex turned and crossed to it. She touched the kettle. It was cold. The milk carton warm. The tea had never been brewed.

Sleepy Time tea, she saw.

A bed that hadn’t been slept in. Tea that hadn’t been brewed. And a meeting that hadn’t been met.

“Don’t tell anyone.”

She turned and ran. Out the back door and around to the front of the house. The garage door stood halfway up. She ducked under it, blinking at the sudden darkness. She looked frantically around for the light switch. Instead she found a pull cord attached to a single bulb.

She pulled it; a dim glow illuminated the space. An ancient-looking, convertible VW Beetle sat squarely in the center of the garage. An equally outdated push mower. Gardening tools.

What looked to be a work or storage room in back. A sliver of light shone from beneath the closed door.

Heart thundering, she approached. “Max?” she said. “It’s Alex.”

What the hell was she doing? she wondered, as she grasped the doorknob and twisted it. The door eased open, knocking against something heavy, pushing it.

As she stepped through, she saw what. Max, hanging by the neck, eyes bulging, face swollen and purple. A stepladder on its side under him.

A cry flew to her lips. She stumbled backward, hand to her mouth, unable to tear her eyes away from the gruesome sight.

She bumped into the door, turned and ran. Reaching her car, she clawed open the door and fell inside, slamming it shut behind her. Pressing down the lock. She sat, shaking, teeth chattering. Wishing she could force the image from her head.

Alex hugged herself. He’d been such a sweet man… Why had he… he’d seemed so content… this didn’t make any-

“But Alexandra, don’t tell anyone… You have to promise me.”

She brought her trembling hands to her face. No, this didn’t have anything to do with her. How could it?

Reed. She had to call Reed.

She found her cell phone, punched in his number. When he answered, she cried out with relief. “Thank God! It’s me, Alex!”

“Alex? What’s wrong?”

“He killed himself. Oh my God, he-”

“Who? Where are you?”

“Max Cragan. He hung… I’m at his house. On Brockman Lane.”

“Hold on. I’m on my way.”