Blood Vines

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

Tuesday, March 16

10:10 P.M.

They released her with the warning she was not to leave the area. She almost laughed out loud at that. Where would she go? The only two people she had called family were gone now.

Tears flooded her eyes. Where did she go now? She was alone. On her own with no one to turn to.

“Alex!”

Alex turned. Rachel. Hurrying across the Sheriff’s Department waiting area. Alex ran to meet her. She still had Rachel, she thought. Thank God.

“I’ve been beside myself,” Rachel cried, hugging her tightly. “I saw the squad cars and Coroner’s wagon… My God, that could have been you!”

“But it was Tim,” Alex whispered. “Maybe it should have been me.”

“Don’t say that.” Rachel held her at arm’s length. “Look at you. They didn’t let you clean up? I’d like to give that Danny Reed a piece of my mind.”

Alex didn’t bother telling her that they had-after photographing her, they’d allowed her to change clothes, though they had kept hers as evidence.

“It’s my fault he’s dead. He came to help me. I asked him to come because-”

She bit the last part back and Rachel searched her gaze. “Because of what, Alex?”

She shook her head, “It doesn’t matter, does it? He’s gone now and they think I did it.”

“No!”

People were looking their way. She caught Rachel’s hand. “Get me out of here, please.”

She did, hurrying to her Infiniti coupe. She opened the passenger door for Alex. “You’re staying with me. No arguments.”

Like she would argue, Alex thought, sinking into the leather seat. She had nowhere else to go.

“What about Margo?” she asked.

“We’re going to go get her. And anything else you need.”

Alex shuddered. “I don’t think I can go back in there. Not ever.”

“I’ll do it,” Rachel said. “I’ll take care of everything.”

She did. While Alex waited in the car, Rachel collected everything she needed, including a traumatized Margo. In what seemed like no time at all, Rachel had Alex installed in the guest room of her charming cottage on the winery grounds. From her bedroom window, she could just make out the entrance to the caves.

“Your place is lovely,” Alex said as she wandered into the kitchen. She’d showered, changed clothes again and felt almost alive.

“Thank you. I love it here.”

“Do you ever get… enough of it?”

“It?” Rachel asked, pouring her a glass of wine.

“The winery. Your family. Living here, working here. Don’t you ever just want to get away?”

She thought a minute, then shook her head. “Oddly, no. I truly couldn’t imagine myself anywhere else. I’m connected to this place, to the vines, the wine. And my roots run really deep.”

“You’re an old vine, then.”

Rachel laughed and handed Alex a glass of red wine. “It’s not one of mine,” she said. “I’m constantly trying other house’s wines. This one’s a Bordeaux-style blend from a boutique outfit in Napa Valley, Fleury. The winemaker’s also the owner and this is his flagship wine, Passionne.”

Rachel sipped. “Good balance of fruit and spice. Nice, full body. Long finish. I need to watch this one.”

Alex sipped but didn’t comment. It could have been vinegar for all she cared right now. She couldn’t shake the image of Tim, on her kitchen floor in a pool of blood, out of her mind. Or the detectives’ questions, the way they kept pounding at her.

“I figured you would be hungry,” Rachel was saying, “so I pulled together some cheese and pâté. I didn’t know if it would be enough, but worried that something too heavy would-”

“It’s perfect, Rachel. Thank you.”

They carried it all to the living room. Alex curled up on the end of the couch and watched as Rachel lit the gas fireplace.

“Do you have the energy to talk about it?” Rachel asked.

Alex shook her head.

“I’m sorry.” Rachel cupped the wine bowl in her palms. “You seemed to care a lot about him. Everyone I know who’s divorced would do a victory dance if-You know.”

“He was always… there for me when I needed him. Maybe not on my timetable, but eventually. And he… understood me.”

“I’ve never been in a relationship like that. Truthfully, that night I met him, he seemed sort of… shallow.”

“Tim of the chopsticks.”

Rachel’s words from that night at the girl & the fig rang in her head, followed by Tim’s response.

“Rachel of the really red lipstick.”

The chopsticks, buried in Tim’s throat. The red lipstick, scrawled across her mirror.

A sick sensation settled in the pit of her stomach. One of revulsion and denial. No. It didn’t mean anything, she told herself. Rachel was her friend. She was the only one she had left.

“What’s wrong?” Rachel asked.

Alex realized she was staring at Rachel and looked away. “I can’t talk about him anymore. I just… I can’t.”

“I’m sorry.” Rachel sounded distressed. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Alex looked back at her, vision swimming. What she was thinking, that Rachel was implicated in all this, wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. “You’ve already done so much. If you hadn’t shown up tonight, I-” She paused, as if in thought. “How did you know to come get me? Tonight, when you did?”

Rachel blinked. “How? Danny called me.”

That made sense, didn’t it? Alex ran a hand across her brow. “I hope I don’t seem ungrateful, but would you mind if I went to bed? I’m not very good company right now.”

“No problem.” Rachel got to her feet. “Take your wine and a plate of-”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I insist. And look, I have sleeping pills-”

“I won’t need that.”

“Just in case. I’ll get them.”

Dutifully, Alex collected her plate and glass and carried them to her bedroom. A moment later, Rachel was at her door with a bottle of pills and a small, Priority Mail box.

“I almost forgot. This was on your porch.”

She handed the box to Alex. It was from Rita Welsh, Alex saw. It had been sent to her San Francisco apartment, then rerouted here. What, she wondered, could it be?

“Who’s it from?” Rachel asked.

“A friend of my mother’s.”

She held out the vial of pills. “Directions are on the label, just in case. They’re super mild and nonhabit-forming, so if you need one, really, don’t hesitate.”

Alex swallowed hard. “Thanks, Rachel. I can’t tell you how much you being here means to me.”

Rachel hugged her, then stepped back. “If you need anything, I’m just down the hall.”

Alex thanked her again and closed the door. She stared it a moment, feeling incredibly, achingly alone.

“Tim of the chopsticks.”

“Rachel of the really red lipstick.”

No. Not Rachel, she thought, crossing to the bed and sinking onto it. Please God, not Rachel.

She looked at the box in her hands, wondering again what it could be. Acknowledging the only way to find out, she pulled the tab, then opened the lid. Inside was a note card and a tissue-wrapped item.

Alex opened the card. It read:

Dear Alexandra,

I hope you are well. I discovered this while I was packing for my move to Oregon. (To be near my daughter and grandchild.) This was left behind the last time I babysat for you. I set it aside, thinking your mother would come for it, but she never did.

Peace and love,

Rita

Alex carefully unwrapped the package. A silver baby brush, she saw. The silver was tarnished, though considering the years that had passed, not as badly as she would have expected.

She gazed at it a moment, tears blurring her vision. She had so few mementos from her early years; she had always wondered why. And had always felt unwanted because of it.

She ran her fingers over the soft bristles, heart in her throat. She turned it over-and found it was engraved. She rubbed at the engraving with the hem of her T-shirt.

Beloved Alexandra-Daughter of the vine-March 17, 1980

She stared at the words in a combination of excitement and distaste. And a sense of destiny fulfilled. Like Rachel and Clark. Like Dylan. She was one of them-a daughter of the vine. Why else would she have been given that brush, engraved that way?

One of them, she thought again. Her father had been from a wine family.

But was he also a killer?

Suddenly cold, she stood and drew back the covers, then crawled into the bed. She cradled the brush to her chest, though a sour taste filled her mouth as she recalled the things that Tim had said about her father: He was a really bad man… Your mother left Sonoma to protect you from him… blamed him for Dylan…

What did you do, Tim? she wondered, eyes burning. Try to play hero? Figure you could charge in with your psychobabble and good intentions, and what? Talk it out? Turn him around?

Could he have connected with him? His note had said he had news. The champagne suggested the news had been good. Celebratory.

News about her father. Maybe.

Could he have known more than he’d told her? Probably. Maybe even a name. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remember everything he’d said, the questions he’d asked and her responses to them.

At one point, Tim had asked her where the BOV story had originated. In that short conversation, why would that have mattered?

The story. About the boys and her mother. Of course. Her mother had called him a liar, warned that he had told lies about her.

Wayne Reed.

The realization hit her and she sat up. Wayne Reed had passed the story to his son. He’d made no secret of his dislike for her, his wish that she would go away.

His warning to “stay away from my sons” took on new meaning, and she brought a hand to her mouth. She and Reed could be brother and sister.

Surely not. Surely, somehow, on some instinctual level, they would have known.

But, God, it made sense. All of it-the elder Reed’s dislike, the BOV story, his desire for her to be gone. His concern that she would become involved with one of his sons.

Unable to sit still, she climbed out of bed and began to pace. Could Reed be her brother? She couldn’t focus on the horror of that, not now. She needed to discover if Wayne Reed really was her father. And if he was-had he killed to keep his secret safe?

As she paced, her thoughts whirled. Again and again, she analyzed the things she knew to be true-and those she didn’t. The minutes ticked into an hour, then two. But the same questions remained. Plus others.

How did she prove it? Where did Dylan’s disappearance fit into the scenario? If the Boys of the Vine had been a lie, what did BOV mean? And the image of the vines and snake?

She couldn’t do this alone. But who could she turn to? Not Reed. Tim was dead. Rachel, she realized. She was the only one she had left.

“Tim of the chopsticks.”

Alex hesitated. her stomach seeming to crawl up to her throat. What did she choose to believe? That’s what it came down to.

And in her heart-and gut-she believed Rachel was on her side.

She had no one else. Do it. Now.

Alex started out of the bedroom, then hesitated. What if Rachel thought she was crazy, the same as Reed did? What would she do then? Who would she turn to?

She couldn’t worry about that now. She had to do this.

Alex exited the bedroom and hurried down the hall to Rachel’s. She rapped on the door. “Rachel,” she called. “It’s Alex. I have to talk to you.”

The light popped on and Rachel responded with a thick-sounding “Come in.”

Rachel was sitting up in bed, bleary-eyed with sleep. “What’s wrong?”

“I need your help. I know who killed Tim.”

Rachel’s eyes widened. “My God, who?”

“My father. Wayne Reed.”

For a long moment, Rachel simply stared at her. “Do you know what you’re saying?”

“Yes, unfortunately.”

“And you’re certain? You have proof?”

Alex shook her head. This was the point it got tricky. “I think I’m right. The pieces fit, but-”

“But you have no proof?”

“No.”

Rachel held her gaze. “Then, what do you have, Alex?”