Erica Spindler - Blood Vines

He ended the call, reholstered his phone and met her gaze. “Think you might be able to recognize that pacifier? We found one with the remains.”

“I might, yeah.”

“Do you mind taking a look?”

Instead of answering, she made a request of her own. “I’d like to contact my stepfamily.”

He gazed at her, eyes narrowed. “That’s an old, nasty wound. You might not get the reception you’re hoping for.”

“I’m willing to take that chance.”

He studied her a moment before replying. “I’m not sure they will. Look-” he spread his hands. “They’re a prominent family, they suffered a horrible tragedy and are wary of strangers.”

“I’m not a stranger. I’m family.”

“It’s been twenty-five years, Alex. You were a part of the family only for a couple years, ones that ended badly.”

He said it gently, but it rankled anyway. She looked him straight in the eyes. “I want to know why my mother hid them from me. I want to know about my years here. And since she’s dead, I have nowhere else to turn for answers.”

“These people are my friends. Good friends of my family. They’re nice people who had something really awful happen to them.”

“And I didn’t?”

“All I’m saying is, let me speak with Harlan first. Prepare him for seeing you. Surprising him might get you exactly what you don’t want.”

“Which is?”

“Shut out. I can’t make any of them talk to you, Alex.”

She hadn’t considered her stepfamily might refuse to meet with her. She had imagined a tearful reunion, complete with an invitation back into the fold.

But real life rarely resembled the stuff of daydreams.

“Maybe there’s a good reason she kept all this from you. Have you thought about that?”

“What exactly are you saying?”

“Do you know anything about traumatic memory loss?”

“A little. Why?”

“I’m wondering if you saw something the night Dylan disappeared. Something more than you told the police at the time.”

Alex frowned, a chill moving over her. “I doubt that.”

“Why?”

“I just do. Surely I was questioned. Someone would have picked up on it?”

“I’ve interviewed young kids before, it’s a whole different ball game in terms of their reactions to traumatic events. They can easily confuse fantasy and reality, truth and fiction. I had a six-year-old witness confuse a crime she witnessed with a TV show.”

“I’ve forgotten because I was so young,” she said, an edge in her voice. “Because my mother encouraged it by separating me from everyone who knew him and everything that would remind me of him.”

At his pitying expression she stiffened her spine. “How much do you remember from the fifth year of your life?”

“Quite a lot, actually. Certainly my family members.”

“With the help of being reminded of them every day. Take that away, would you remember?”

“You’ve got a point.” He stood. “Let’s go take a look at the photo, then I’ll call Harlan Sommer and try to set up a meeting for you as soon as possible.”

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.