Blood Vines

by Erica Spindler

  Blood Vines

  Erica Spindler

  Thirty-something Alex Owens knows very little about her childhood or who she really is, her only family an absent, emotionally fragile mother. Alex spent most of her adulthood searching for the missing link, drifting from job to job, relationship to relationship. But when an infant's remains are unearthed in her hometown in back-country California, Alex suddenly realises that she has a connection to the case. As if opening Pandora's box, long-lost memories start flooding in, dark and terrifying nightmares that haunt her every waking moment. When she arrives in Sonoma, the tight-knit community greets Alex with silence and suspicion, but Alex presses on, determined to get to the heart of a secret no one wants to see uncovered. As more violent deaths and a series of deadly rituals shock the small town, Alex is finally forced to confront the terrible truth about a single night that changed her family's lives forever…

  Erica Spindler

  Blood Vines

  © 2010

  To those who nurture the vines and craft

  “the drink of the gods” from their fruit.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Love at first sight exists. I know this because that’s how long it took me to fall for California wine country. Knowing I had to set my next novel there took a few days longer and an innocent comment from winemaker Brian Fleury: “There are a dozen ways you could kill somebody during the winemaking process.” As you can imagine, I was off and running.

  So, of all the people I want to thank, I must begin with Brian. Huge thanks for first sparking my imagination, then for your time, explanations and tour-with detailed descriptions of the dangers of winemaking. And finally, thank you for your absolutely fabulous wine (www.fleurywinery.com).

  I owe so many thanks to the Sonoma County Sheriff’s Department, I don’t even know where I should begin. So I’ll begin at the top: Sheriff Bill Cogbill, thank you for opening your department to me and allowing me access to the facility and officers. I appreciate it and hope the book does your fine department proud.

  Captain Dave Edmonds, what can I say besides you are, simply, terrific? Thank you for all the time you spent with me, the many questions you answered and for setting up the ride-along, instructing the deputy to help me “find places to dump bodies.” (Thanks, Deputy Mike Mason. Great ride-along!)

  Detective Sergeant Mitch Mana, thank you for giving me the Red Rooster secateur, the perfect wine country murder weapon! There’s no doubt the book is better for it. Thanks also for the tour of the morgue and autopsy room and for the many after-the-fact questions answered.

  Real estate agent Lisa Albertson, you’re the greatest. Thanks for your time, your expertise, your point of view and setting up our tour at Seghesio. And for the fun, too. (In the book, you’ll recognize our dinner at the girl & the fig.)

  Ted Seghesio, big thanks for the tour and the most excellent wine. You’ll find my favorite mentioned in the book!

  To all the folks at Larson Family Winery, especially winemaker Carolyn Craig, thanks for making my Vocation Vacation research day so fabulous. It was truly terrific. I’ll never forget climbing the wine barrels and into a fermenting tank-how many authors can claim that?

  Vicki and John Faivre, thanks for hooking me up with your Salvestrin Winery friends. Hearing stories from wine country old timers was both fascinating and helpful. Didn’t we have fun-and a lot of really good wine-in the process?

  Final thanks to my assistant, Evelyn Marshall, who really did prove herself invaluable with this one; our wine country driver, Dennis Wulbrecht; my agent, Evan Marshall; my editor, Jennifer Weis and the great St. Martin’s team; my husband and kids and lastly, my God for making it all possible.

  PROLOGUE

  San Francisco, California

  Tuesday, February 9, 2010

  1:05 A.M.

  Ex-husbands were like bad pennies, Alexandra Clarkson thought, arching her back as a wave of pleasure washed over her. They kept coming back. At least hers did. And she, horny, idealistic idiot, kept opening the door-and jumping into the sack with him.

  But damn, he knew just the right things to say. And do. She moaned and rubbed herself against his hand. Yes, just the right things.

  She wrapped her legs around him, urging him on as he slipped into her. She let her mind wander as sensation rippled over her. Suddenly, a series of images raced into her head, strobe light-like, one after another: A robed figure, face obscured by a hood; flickering candles, smoke curling upward; naked bodies, writhing together.

  A faceless baby, screaming.

  Alex froze, passion obliterated by fear. On top of her, her ex rocked, moaning, seemingly oblivious to the fact she was no longer participating in the act.

  Fear became panic. She couldn’t breathe. He was crushing her. A primal, thundering beat filled her head. With it the certainty she was going to die.

  She wedged her hands under his chest and pushed. “Stop. Don’t.” She meant to scream the words; they came out a choked whisper.

  He didn’t stop. She struggled then, pummeling his back with her fists. “Get… off… me!” The last came out as a shout.

  “What the fu-” He rolled onto his back, breathing heavily. “Shit, Alex. What’s your problem?”

  Trembling violently, she sat up, pulling her knees to her chest. “My problem is you, obviously. Go away.”

  “Gladly, schizo.” He climbed off the bed, grabbed his clothes and looked back at her. “You’re one freaky chick, you know that?”

  She was. Alex dropped her head to her drawn-up knees and closed her eyes. Dear Jesus, what just happened?

  The bathroom door slammed shut and she drew a shuddering breath. What was her problem? Yes, he’d showed up at her door. But she’d invited him into her home and bed.

  Why did she keep making a monumental mess of… everything?

  Light sliced across the bed as Tim emerged from the bathroom. She lifted her head. He stood in the rectangle of light, a dark silhouette. She didn’t blame him for being pissed.

  “I don’t know what… I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I feel like an idiot.”

  “Are you okay?”

  Was she? she wondered, even as she nodded.

  “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

  Yeah. Change her life. Fill the empty places. Turn her into an ordinary Jane who had a settled, ordinary life.

  She wished he could do that for her. The desire had no doubt played a part in her marrying him.

  Unfortunately, no one could change her life but her.

  “Afraid not. Thanks for the offer anyway.”

  “This mistake was mine,” he said, crossing to the bed. “I’ll take the credit.”

  “Booty call gone bad,” she murmured, looking up at him. “I warn you, it’s going on your permanent record.”

  “We’ll make this divorce work, I promise.” He smiled slightly and threaded his fingers through her dark hair, then tucked strands behind her ear. “See you on campus.”

  He let himself out; she heard the lock click into place. Dammit. Who got involved with one of their professors? A psychology professor, no less. What a pathetic cliché. The girl with no father falling for an older, wiser guy. That just screamed “looking for Daddy syndrome.” Worse, she’d married him. Then been surprised when he cheated on her.

  Surprised, but not brokenhearted. That had told her everything she’d needed to know about their relationship. And things about herself she’d rather not have known.

  She was, indeed, one freaky chick.

  Alex climbed out of bed and, shivering, slipped into her robe. She wandered into the apartment’s living room, to the large front window. Moonlight, cool and blue-hued, spilled over the street below.

  San Francisco didn’t sleep. Despite
the hour, people populated the sidewalk below, some simply strolling, others rushing, bravely confronting the steep hill.

  Alex touched the pane of glass. It was cool against her fingers. The image of the robed figure filled her head once more. Where had it come from? A book, maybe? Something from her research on religious ceremonies and sects? She didn’t recall the specific source, but it made sense, especially since she had just recently returned to work on her doctoral dissertation.

  But why had she thought of them at that moment? Why had they popped crystal clear into her head? And why had she reacted so violently to them?

  Alex turned away from the window. Dammit. Things had been better. The nightmares that had once plagued her were gone. Neither insomnia nor depression had reared its ugly head in months.

  She had her act together. As together as her act got, anyway. The bartending gig had afforded her the opportunity to finish the dissertation. She and her mother had settled into an uneasy peace-but peace nonetheless.

  Now, this. She had never experienced anything like it before. Alex rubbed her arms, suddenly chilled. It’d been nothing. The trick of a mind actively engaged in research. Proof she had chosen the right time to return to her work. The moment made sense as well. She’d let go of the corporeal world, focused on sensation and allowed her mind to “float.” Similar to the trancelike state used in shamanism, Buddhism and a number of other religions and rituals as a way to shut down the logical mind and unlock the truth.

  She would backtrack, she decided. Go through her notes, locate the source of the images. Until she did, this thing was going to bug the hell out of her.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sonoma Valley, California

  Friday, February 12

  10:05 A.M.

  Violent Crimes Investigations detective Daniel Reed eased to the side of the road, stopping behind the Sheriff’s Department cruiser. He swung out of his four-wheel-drive Tahoe, a small, rust-colored cloud forming as his boots landed on the dirt road. Before him, vineyards stretched across the gently rolling hills, the mustard in bloom, painting the rows yellow. The cheery yellow contrasted sharply with the dormant vines, standing like gnarled headstones in a cemetery that extended as far as the eye could see.

  The Native American Miwoks had named this place Valley of the Moon. Their legend held that the moon had risen from the valley. Reed figured that’s why so much crazy shit went down here. You had your bizarro religions, whacked-out criminals and a little dark cloud of weirdness that seemed to hang over the valley.

  Blame the moon. It worked for him.

  Today, however, his job was to figure out who’d buried what in this torn-up vineyard.

  The CSI unit pulled up behind him. The Sheriff’s Department employed its own crime scene investigators, all sworn officers. The CSI guys-and gals-worked in tandem with the VCI, forming a two-lead partnership for each case. Jointly, they were held responsible for the case.

  Tanner had drawn this one, Reed saw, as the attractive blonde stepped out of her vehicle. Barbara Tanner looked a decade younger than her fifty years and had a reputation for being driven. A reputation he, unlike a few of his fellow detectives, admired.

  Of course, his reputation for being a cowboy wasn’t always appreciated either. They made a good team.

  He slammed the SUV door and sauntered her way. “Flying solo today, Tanner?” he called, grinning.

  “Hell no, Reed. I’ve got you.”

  “Born lucky and beautiful.”

  “Tell that to my shrink, plastic surgeon and prick of an ex-husband.”

  He laughed. “Know anything about this one?”

  “Not much. Somebody found bones.”

  “My bet’s on a dog.”

  “Coyote, maybe.”

  They reached the inner perimeter. He greeted the patrolman standing watch with a clipboard. He signed the log and handed it to Tanner. “What’s the deal?”

  “Phylloxera infestation. The whole vineyard had to be ripped out.”

  Tanner made a sound of distress. “Breaks my heart to see old vines like these go.”

  “Tell me about it,” the deputy agreed. “You feel it in the gut, you know?”

  Reed glanced at the piles of thick, gnarled stocks and branches. Century-old vines. The older the vine, the less fruit produced, but the more intense the flavor of that fruit. Nothing tasted quite like the wine produced from them.

  “I’m a beer man myself,” he said.

  The other two looked at him. Tanner shook her head. “You’re a weird one, Reed. You know that?”

  She said it with a smile, but it was true. Here, in this little slice of the world, it was all about the grapes, the wine produced from them. The wine’s color. Its nose. The points awarded it by Wine Enthusiast. Here, invariably, idle conversation turned not to religion or politics, but to viticulture or terroir.

  He’d turned his back on all that years ago.

  He grinned at her. “Yeah, I know. But I wear the label well.”

  “That you do.” She turned her attention back to the deputy. “The remains were found in the clearing process?”

  He nodded and motioned to a group of fieldworkers sitting in the bed of a battered pickup truck. “The front loader unearthed a wooden crate, or what was left of one. Guys there figured they’d found buried treasure, got pretty excited. That changed when they got a look inside.”

  “You confirmed?”

  “Didn’t want to mess with the box. Took a peek, confirmed some sort of remains.”

  “Human?” Tanner asked.

  “Not my area. It’s damn creepy, though.”

  Tanner cocked a perfectly arched eyebrow, clearly amused. “Would that be your professional opinion, Officer?”

  He laughed. “As a matter of fact it would.”

  Reed and Tanner ducked under the crime scene tape and picked their way to the discovery. The old vines had gone deep; ripping them up had created a mess.

  Reed fitted on Latex gloves and squatted beside the find. The box was badly decomposed. In the fieldworkers’ eagerness to pry off the top, it had partially crumbled.

  “Wine crate,” he said. “Or what’s left of one. Rules out a coyote.”

  “Been buried awhile.”

  “Lid was nailed shut.” He indicated the rusty nail that had fallen away from the crumbled wood. “Somebody gave a shit about fido. Got a pen?”

  She handed him one; he used it to lift away a corner of the heavy plastic sheeting. Reed prepared himself for a wave of odor that surprisingly didn’t come.

  Tanner got the first look and swore. “Holy Christ. Creepy doesn’t quite cover it.”

  Not a dog or coyote, Reed saw. And not just bones. An infant, mummified.

  “This is out of my area of expertise,” Tanner said. “I’ll need to call Sonoma State, get an anthropologist out here.”

  Reed nodded, a sinking feeling in the pit of his gut. This picture-perfect wine country day had just turned ugly.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Friday, February 12

  11:45 A.M.

  While Tanner called in reinforcements, Reed studied the infant’s remains. The tiny body was partly skeletonized and partly mummified, intact save for head, feet and hands. The skeletonized hands and feet had disarticulated. The skull, he decided, may have dislodged in the excavation process. It lay in three pieces.

  He sat back on his heels. True mummification took place when a corpse dried out. The fleshy tissue shrank to the bones, becoming leathery and brown like beef jerky. This was different. The body had saponified, becoming what was affectionately referred to as a soap mummy.

  Reed peeled away the plastic, taking in the contents of the homemade coffin. Whoever had buried the infant had taken a good bit of care. The child had been wrapped in a blanket-pieces of the mostly decomposed fabric clung to the remains-then enfolded, envelope style, in plastic sheeting.

  He frowned. The plastic and the depth of the grave, from what he could tell a good four feet, had
probably been an attempt to prevent scavengers or regular vineyard maintenance from unearthing the victim. If not for the phylloxera infestation, this little victim would still be buried.

  Tanner returned. “Anthropologist is on his way. A new kid. And Cal.”

  “California” Cal. One of the other CSI detectives. Terminally cool, he bought into the whole Hollywood interpretation of the job. At least when it came to his closet.

  Reed grinned. “I’ll have to see if I can help him get his Cole Haans dirty.”

  “Bet you five bucks, you can’t.”

  “You’re on.” He motioned to the victim. “What’re you thinking so far?”

  “This wasn’t a case of SIDS, that’s for certain. Look here.” She indicated the pieces of skull. Two of the pieces showed signs of blunt force trauma. “I don’t think there’s any doubt what killed this child. Poor little thing.”

  Reed looked at his partner. “How long have you lived in the valley, Tanner?”

  “Fifteen years.”

  “Ever heard the name Dylan Sommer?”

  She thought a moment, then shook her head. “Any relation to Sommer Winery?”

  “Yeah. Dylan Sommer was the owner’s son. He was abducted from their home back in ’85.”

  Reed returned his gaze to the gruesome remains. “It was a huge deal around here. It challenged the valley’s notion about safety. The possible and impossible. The kid was nabbed from his own bed while his two sisters, one of them a teenager, slept right across the hall. Everybody figured it was a kidnapping, but no ransom request ever arrived. He was never found.”

  She tucked her hair behind her ear. “You’re thinking this could be him.”

  “Yes.”

  “This might not even be a-”

  “Boy’s remains? I think it is. Check it out.” He pointed. Trapped in a still taped fold of the plastic was a pacifier. A blue one.