A brother. She’d had a brother. And a stepfamily. Years of her life she had no recollection of.
She wanted to know why.
She had brought the photo album with her. As proof. And in the hopes Reed, or someone else in Sonoma, could put names to faces in the pictures.
She turned to find him crossing the lobby toward her. “Alex,” he said when he reached her, “is everything all right?”
“Yes, fine.” She cleared her throat. “I had some questions… I hope just showing up like this isn’t a problem.”
“Not at all. Can I get you some coffee? Or a soft drink?”
“No, thanks. I’ve been up most of the night, caffeine’s the last thing I need.”
He cocked an eyebrow, expression bemused.
“That sounds a bit counterintuitive, doesn’t it? What I meant is, I’ve been drinking coffee all night. Another cup and I might jump out of my skin.”
“That’d be a sight.” One corner of his mouth lifted. “Let’s not do that, then.”
He was a cop. A detective. Yet he seemed so laid-back. Sort of aw-shucks, with an edge. Could he really be so unassuming, or was it an act? Some sort of cop schtick, meant to lull her into complacency?
“I found some photos,” she said. “I hoped you would look at them, help me put some names to faces.”
“I’ll be happy to try. Let’s go up to my office.”
His office consisted of a cubicle in the Violent Crimes Investigations unit. He moved a stack of folders from a chair so she could sit, then took a seat himself. The other detectives, busy with their own cases, hardly glanced their way.
“You say you found some photographs?”
“Yes. I went searching. I found them in a locked trunk, in the attic.” Alex realized her palms were sweating, rubbed them on her thighs, then retrieved the photo album from her tote bag. She opened it to the first photo and laid it on the desk so they could both see it. “That’s my mother,” she said. “Me by her side. I presume that’s Dylan in her arms?”
“I would think so. And that”-he tapped the man standing beside her mother-“is Harlan Sommer.”
“My stepfather?”
When he nodded, she studied the image. He wasn’t a tall man-only a couple inches taller than her mother-but was powerfully built. She wouldn’t describe him as handsome, but even in the photograph he exuded a commanding presence. She could see why her mother had been attracted to him.
She lifted her gaze to Reed’s. “How old was I when my mother married him?”
“I remember you were young, but not an infant.”
Not an infant. “Was I walking yet? Talking?”
He lifted his shoulders. “Sorry.”
“And when my mother took me away? How old was I then?”
“Five or so.”
“And Dylan? How old when he disappeared?”
“Not quite six months. What are you getting at here, Alex?”
“Just trying to fill in the blanks. Create a timeline.”
“Have you remembered anything? Since your memory’s been jogged?”
Alex thought of her strange vision, which had occurred before all this, and shook her head. “No, nothing.”
“You hesitated, Alex.”
“Did I?”
“Yes.” He searched her gaze. “You’re certain?”
“Absolutely. If I do, believe me, you’ll be the first to know.” She flipped forward several pages in the album, stopping on a big group shot. “How about these people?”
Reed studied the image. “I’m not certain of everyone, but that’s my mom and dad.” He tapped the photo. “And this is Harlan’s brother, Treven. His wife. May I?” he asked, indicating the album.
She said yes and he flipped through it, stopping when he recognized someone to point out, including himself. “That’s me. And your stepsister, Rachel.” He turned to a group shot of children, all outfitted in their Easter finery-girls in dresses and bonnets, boys in suits and ties. The younger children clutched the handles of baskets.
“The Sommer egg hunts,” he murmured, lips curving into a smile. “God, how we kids loved them. There you are,” he said. “You’re holding Dylan.”
She was, her Easter basket on the ground beside her. She looked so proud of herself, Alex thought. So happy.
His smile faded. “That was the last egg hunt. After Dylan disappeared, they stopped them.”
A knot formed in her throat; she swallowed past it. “A lot of the photos seem to have been taken in the same place. Any idea where?”
“Sure. The winery.”
“Winery?”
“The Sommer Family Winery. Back then, Harlan ran it. Sommer wines are well known in oenophile circles.”
“He doesn’t run it anymore?”
“His brother does. Took over after-”
“Dylan disappeared,” she guessed.
“Yes.” He glanced at his watch. “The trunk, were there any other mementos of your brother?”
“Yes.” She looked away, then back, sudden tears stinging her eyes. “A Teddy bear and a christening gown. A couple outfits. Booties. A pacifier.”
He looked up from his notes. “Did you say a pacifier?” She nodded. “Do you have it with you?”
“No. It’s at my mom’s.”
“Hold a moment.” He unclipped his phone and dialed. “Tanner? It’s Reed. Do we have a photo of the pacifier? Great. I’ve got Alexandra Clarkson here, I’m going to bring her down to take a look at it.”
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-ye
ar-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.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
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.
“That’s what we figured. We wondered, too, if he was a public figure, afraid of a scandal. Or the cost of a divorce.”
Alex’s upset must have shown because the woman reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “The affair ended after you were born. She was brokenhearted. But truthfully, I thought it was for the best. That’s no way to live. She deserved a man who would honor her by making her his wife.”
“And she found him,” Alex murmured, thinking of her mother’s obvious joy in the photos from the album.
“Yes.” Rita checked her watch, then continued. “She went to work in the Sommer Family Winery’s tasting room. That’s where she met Harlan.
“He was an important man here in Sonoma and their courtship was quite public. I used to babysit for you sometimes, so they could go out. It was like watching her come back to life, and I was so happy for her.”
“Then he proposed? Did they have a big wedding or-”
“They ran off to Vegas.” She laughed, the sound girlish. “It was the talk of the valley.”
“How old was I then?”
“A year, I think. Just past.”
“And he was good to me?”
Rita looked surprised. “He doted on you. In fact, if I hadn’t known the whole story, I would have thought you were his own.”
Alex recalled the photo from the album and Tim’s comment about how much she had looked like the man pictured. That man had been Harlan Sommer.
She tucked that away for later. “What happened to them after Dylan disappeared? Why’d they break up?”
“Broken hearts. Too much pain between them. Too much anger.”
Alex remembered what Tim had told her about her mother’s feelings, the guilt she had probably suffered at having left her children alone that night. “He couldn’t forgive her, could he?”
Rita looked surprised. “She couldn’t forgive him. He insisted they go out that night. He promised her you and Dylan would be fine with Rachel.”
This time, Alex knew, she was the one who looked surprised. Which was it? she wondered. Guilt or anger?
Her phone vibrated; she saw it was Reed, excused herself and answered.
“I spoke with Harlan,” he said. “He can meet with us this afternoon, after the winery closes at four. I’ll pick you up.”
“Where?”
“Sonoma town square. In front of the girl & the fig.”
She ended the call and found the librarian staring at her hand, her expression odd. “What?” she asked.
“Your ring. It was your mother’s, wasn’t it?”
“It was.” Alex glanced at it, then back at Rita. “Do you happen to know where she got it?”
“I don’t know. Sorry.”
An awkward silence fell between them and Alex sensed that Rita wasn’t telling the truth. She leaned toward her. “Was my mother happy, Rita? Before Dylan disappeared?”
“Yes. Very happy.”
“Did she suffer from depression or any other emotional disorder? Anything like that?”
“Patsy? Goodness, not that I ever saw.” Rita shook her head, as if for emphasis. “She was down sometimes, like we all are. But nothing that seemed… clinical.”
“How old was I when she became pregnant with my brother?”
“Three, three and a half.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m sorry, but I’ve already been away from my desk too long.”
She stood. Alex followed her to her feet. “Thank you so much for taking the time to talk to me, Rita. My mother didn’t talk about the past.”
“Too painful, I suppose.” She sighed. “People change as they age. Especially when they’ve suffered horrible losses. Come, I’ll get you set up with the microfilm.”
They exited the break room. The readers’ film files were located on the far north wall. Rita quickly loaded the “Press Democrat” reels for her, then gave her a hug. “I’m so glad you came in today. I’ve thought of you and your mother so often over the years. If you want to talk again, just call me. Here or at home, anytime.”
She jotted her name and number on a slip of paper and handed it to Alex. “Anytime,” she repeated.
Alex thanked her again, then, thinking of a last question, stopped her at the door. “Harlan Sommer’s first marriage, when did they divorce?”
“They didn’t,” she said softly. “She died in a tragic accident at the winery.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Friday, February 19
2:50 P.M.
Hours later, eyes burning and head throbbing, Alex still sat at the microfilm reader. She had begun her search with Dylan from his birth and christening to his abduction. Story after story repeated the same facts: he had been stolen from his bed; the expected ransom note that never came, the family’s despair and public pleas for his safe return.
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