Blood Vines

by Erica Spindler

  “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.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Wednesday, March 10

  9:05 A.M.

  Reed found Alex huddled behind the wheel of her Toyota Prius. She stared straight ahead, only turning to look at him when he tapped on the window. She opened the door but made no move to get out.

  “Where is he?” he asked.

  “Garage,” she whispered. “In back.”

  He turned to the deputies waiting at their cruisers and motioned them that way, then turned back to her. She had swung to face him.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “He was such a sweet man. I can’t believe…”

  Her words trailed miserably off. He squatted in front of her, caught her hands and rubbed them between his. “What were you doing here, Alex?”

  “My ring. He was going to tell me about my ring.”

  “Your ring?” he prodded.

  “The one that was my mother’s. I found it in the storage trunk. With Dylan’s things.” She lifted her gaze to his. “This is two. Mom and now… I don’t understand.”

  “Some things just can’t be understood, Alex. I’m so sorry.”

  She nodded, eyes filling with tears.

  He squeezed her fingers, then released them. “Can you wait here a couple minutes? I need to ask you a few more questions after I take a look.”

  She nodded again and he stood. “I’ll send one of the deputies out. If you need anything, just ask him.”

  A few moments later, Reed entered the workroom at the back of the garage.

  Not a pretty sight, he thought, studying the victim. Most times, the victim of a hanging actually suffocated. The drop from chair or step stool wasn’t sharp enough to snap the neck; instead, the rope cinched the windpipe. Both oxygen and blood flow cut off, the blood began to pool above the rope, which accounted for the discoloration and swelling in the victim’s face.

  Reed lowered his gaze. A small stepladder lay on its side under the man’s dangling feet. The rope had stretched and the old man’s toes just brushed the floor.

  Another classic mistake. Choosing a nylon or cotton rope that had too much give.

  Poor bastard. It would have taken about ten minutes for death to be complete. Horrible minutes. He would have fought for life. No matter how much they wanted to die, they always fought for life.

  Reed fitted on Latex gloves and moved closer. He examined the neck, the gouges made by the victim clawing at the rope. Reed lowered his gaze to the victim’s hands. Sure enough, the tips were raw and bloodied; there appeared to be matter under the fingernails. On the dusty workshop floor, scuff marks from his flailing feet.

  Reed sighed. He’d known of Max Cragan. He’d been a Sonoma institution, a onetime member of wine country’s inner circle. Nationally acclaimed jewelry designer. The inside, go-to person for special event, one-of-a-kind pieces.

  His mother had one. A brooch in an organic scrollwork design set with semiprecious stones.

  The Coroner’s detective arrived. “Hey, Reed. What’ve we got?”

  He yanked off his gloves and turned to the other man. “Looks like standard issue suicide.”

  Ware nodded. “Who’s the babe?”

  “Babe?”

  “In the car.”

  “She found him.”

  Ware nodded and set to work. Reed stuffed his gloves into his jacket pocket and headed back out to Alex, passing the CSI team on the way. He nodded, but didn’t comment. Neither Tanner nor Cal had pulled this one.

  Alex saw him crossing to her and climbed out, expression hopeful. Human nature, he thought. To hope she had been wrong. That she hadn’t seen what she thought and old Max Cragan wasn’t really dead.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

  Her face fell and she looked away, blinking.

  “Let’s go over the events that led you here this morning, step by step. Are you up to that?”

  She drew a deep breath, then let it slowly out. “I got Max’s name from a shop owner on the square.”

  “The name of the shop?”

  “The Golden Bow. I was trying to track down where my mother got the ring.”

  “Why?”

  “I was hoping it might lead to my father. There are initials engraved on the band, I’m guessing they’re his.”

  “Go on.”

  “She called Max for me; I made an appointment to go by.”

  “This morning.”

  She shook her head. “No. I went yesterday. We had a nice chat until…” Her voice trailed off and she frowned, as if remembering something that bothered her.

  “Until what, Alex?”

  “He saw the ring. He seemed flustered. Even upset. He told me he wasn’t the designer, had no idea who was or what the initials stood for.”

  She clasped her hands together. “He called me last night, told me he’d changed his mind. He said that he might know something about the ring, after all. I agreed to stop by this morning.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “No.” She looked down at her hands, then back up at him. “He… he made me promise not to tell anyone we’d talked.”

  Reed kept his expression neutral. “That sounds a bit melodramatic, don’t you think?”

  “I did. But he was serious. He said what he was going to share with me was ‘for your ears’ only. I swear.”

  At the last, she lost him. When someone “swore” something was true, it was almost always false. But why would she lie about this?

  “And that’s it?” he asked.

  “Pretty much. Someone was at his door. He thought it was his daughter and said he had to go.”

  “What time was this?”

  “I don’t know for certain-Wait, my cell will have it.” She retrieved the phone from her car, accessed the call log and handed him the device.

  9:03 P.M. He noted the time and returned the phone. He motioned to her right hand. “Is that the ring?”

  She looked down at her hand. “Yes. Would you like to see it?”

  He said he would and she slipped it off her finger and handed it to him. He gazed at the slim, gold ring. At the twisted vines, snake and gemstones. It was beautiful work, delicate and ornate.

  But its beauty wasn’t what had the hairs standing up on his arms. He had seen this design before. This combination of vines and snake. But not on a piece of jewelry.

  On the bottom of a dead man’s foot. In the form of a tattoo.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Wednesday, March 10

  10:20 A.M.

  “You say this was with your mother’s things?” he said, turning it over in his fingers.

  “In the trunk with her mementos of Dylan and her life here.”

  BOV-1984. The year before Dylan disappeared. He frowned. “I hate to tell you this, Alex, but I’m going to have to keep this for a while.”

  “Keep it? Why?”

  He wasn’t ready to tell her about the tattoo. Not yet anyway. “It’s evidence. You’ll get it back. I promise.”

  “Evidence? But-” She bit back what she had been about to say and made a sound, a cross between a whimper and a laugh. “It seems everybody’s interested in this ring.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “At least a half dozen people have asked me about it, including your mother and Rachel.”

  He made a note to question them about the ring. “Wh
o else?”

  “Rita Welsh, my mother’s friend, the librarian. A few others, names I don’t even know.”

  He closed his notebook. “I’m done for now. Are you going to be okay?”

  “No problems.”

  “Do you need me to call someone to sit with you?”

  “Of course not.” She jammed her hands into her pockets. “I’ll be fine.”

  As she turned to go, he caught her arm. She looked at him. The naked vulnerability in her gaze blew her tough girl act to smithereens. In the next moment, it was gone.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Call me if you need anything. Okay?”

  She said she would and climbed into her car. He watched her drive off, then headed back into the scene. Ware was examining the body.

  “What do you think, Bobby?”

  “I think you nailed it. Suicide. Poor old bastard.”

  “What about TOD?”

  The man sent him an irritated glance. “Can’t give you a time yet. You know that.”

  “Yeah, I know. I still want it.”

  The man began to hum the Rolling Stones classic “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” At the appropriate moment the CSI team sang out, “But sometimes, you get what you need!”

  Reed bit back a guffaw, glared at the three, then pointed at the Coroner’s detective. “Call me, Ware. I need that TOD.”

  Moments later, he slid behind the wheel of his Tahoe. He dialed Tanner. “Where are you?”

  “Barn. What’s up?”

  “You have the Schwann autopsy photos?”

  “Nope. But the Coroner’s Office uploaded them, along with Kath’s report.”

  “Great. I’m on my way in. I need to get a look at the tattoo on the bottom of Schwann’s foot.”

  “I’m not even going to ask. See you in a few.”

  A short time later, Reed gazed at the computer image of Schwann’s tattoo. The design was a mirror image of the ring’s-grapevines and a snake.

  “Want to tell me what you’ve got?” Tanner asked.

  “Better than that, I’ll show you.” He handed her the ring.

  She studied it, then swore softly. “Where’d you get this?”

  “Alex. It was her mother’s. She found it in the same trunk she found Dylan’s pacifier.”

  “BOV. What does it stand for?”

  “She didn’t know. She thought they might be her father’s initials.” He explained about Max Cragan, how Alex had found him and why.

  “What I find interesting is that once again, Alexandra Clarkson’s at the center of trouble.”

  “It does seem to be following her.”

  “And her reaction this time?”

  “Shook up. Very.” He drummed his fingers on the desktop. “The question is, why Tom Schwann and Patsy Sommer would both be in possession of the same, rather unusual image.”

  “Coincidence?” she offered. “It’s unusual but not so off the charts it couldn’t happen. This is wine country, and the image reflects that.”

  He agreed. “Dylan disappeared in ’85. Schwann would have been seventeen at the time. Alex five.”

  “That eliminates the possibility of his being her father.”

  “But their families would have traveled in the same circles.” Reed grabbed his jacket and stood. “This just got a bit more interesting. I’m going to pay a visit to Schwann’s wife, see what she knows about the tatt, then maybe a few of his friends.”

  After speaking to Jill Schwann, who knew nothing about the tattoo except that it was something he’d done when young and that she’d found it hideous, Reed paid a visit to his brothers.

  He made his way into the winery’s offices. “Hey, Eve,” he called to the receptionist. “Either of my brothers in?”

  The woman, who had been with the winery since Reed was a toddler, smiled. She used to keep a jar of candy on her desk just for when he, Joe and Ferris came around. Which had been often.

  “They’re together. In Joe’s office.”

  “Double trouble,” he said. She returned his grin and he headed down the hall, passing his father’s closed office door, stopping at Joe’s.

  He heard them arguing. Not a big surprise. This time about the replanting of a vineyard from cabernet grapes to pinot noir.

  “You’re so full of shit!” Ferris exclaimed. “The fact is that vineyard produces inferior cab grapes; its northern exposure is perfect for pinots. You know it and I know it.”

  “The cost of ripping up and replanting is too great for the return we’ll see. Plus, we’re known for our cabs.”

  “Good cabs! Not the blended crap those grapes-”

  Reed tapped on the partially open door, then stuck his head in. “Wow, what a touching moment. I ask myself, why didn’t I go into the family business?”

  “Kiss my ass, Dan,” Joe said, coming around his desk to greet him. He clapped him on the back. “This is a surprise. How the hell are you?”

  Ferris didn’t give him a chance to respond. “Talk some sense into this low-rent, penny-pinching jackass, would ya?”

  “Impossible. I’ve tried before.” He hugged his younger brother. “Sorry to interrupt, but I need to ask you a couple of questions about Tom.”

  “Fire away,” Joe said, returning to his chair.

  “What do you know about the tattoo on Tom’s foot?”

  “Tom had a tattoo?” Ferris made a face. “Mr. Conservative?”

  “From the old days,” Joe said. “He and Carter got a wild hair one summer. Got matching tatts.”

  Reed turned toward Joe. “You know where they had ’em done?”

  “Local place, I think. Ask Carter.”

  “I will. You know anything else about it?”

  “Sorry, Bro.” He folded his hands on the desk. “Why the interest?”

  “Following up every lead, that’s all.”

  “How’s Alex doing?” Ferris asked. “I heard she found old Max Cragan dead.”

  “News travels fast.”

  “Small town.”

  Ferris shrugged; Joe stepped in. “She’s a little nuts. Like her mother.”

  It shouldn’t have, but the comment got Reed’s back up. “How do you figure?”

  “You saw her the other night. Hearing voices, screaming. Nuts.”

  “Cut her some slack,” Ferris said. “She’d been drinking and got turned around. It happens.”

  Joe rolled his eyes. “Not to me.”

  “Of course not,” Ferris shot back. “Because you’re perfect.”

  “That’s right, little brother. And don’t forget it.”

  Reed decided it was time to exit. Middleman in one of his brothers’ arguments was a thankless place to be. Been there, done that. Besides, if he was lucky he could catch Carter before lunch.

  He said his goodbyes and left Red Crest, thoughts already on the interview ahead. Carter Townsend had also left the wine industry, though he hadn’t strayed far. He’d earned a law degree, specializing in corporate law, then settled right back here in Sonoma County. Carter represented a number of wineries, including the Reed and Sommer outfits.

  Walton, Townsend Johnson & Associates law firm was located in Santa Rosa, not far from the county courthouse. As Reed stepped off the elevator and crossed to the firm’s double glass doors, he decided that Carter must be doing well. Beyond the doors he could see gleaming dark wood and shiny brass fixtures.

  He crossed to the reception area and the perky blonde sitting there. In Reed’s experience, every law office was a cookie-cutter version of every other law office. Not in size or furnishings. In atmosphere. Hushed, like a library, with a certain “tiptoe” quality.

  Law offices, even when luxuriously outfitted, were not warm, fuzzy places.

  “Good morning,” the woman said, smiling. “How can I help you?”

  “Is Carter Townsend in?”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “Detective Reed.” He held up his shield. “Is he in?”

 
She looked startled. “He may have left for… lunch. Let me see.”

  He hadn’t. Several moments later, the man crossed the reception area to greet him. “Dan, what the hell? Scared my girl here to death with all that official badge crap.” He shook his hand. “Next time, just tell her Danny Reed needs a moment.”

  “I’ll do that.” Reed smiled. “Could we speak in private?”

  “Absolutely. Come on.”

  He led Reed to his office. Richly decorated. Mahogany desk, leather chairs. Pictures of the wife and kids.

  “Nice family, Carter,” Reed said, picking up one of the photos-a family shot complete with his four kids.

  “Shelley, that’s my oldest, she’s starting high school this year.”

  Reed set down the photo. “That’s crazy. I remember us being that age not that long ago.”

  “Seems like a lifetime ago to me. Give yourself another ten years, a wife and four kids. It’ll make you old fast.”

  “I had a question about when you and Tom were kids. About those matching tattoos you got.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Joe mentioned it.”

  He leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. “That was random. What’s up?”

  Instead of answering, Reed asked another question. “Why the vines and snake?”

  He blinked. “Pardon?”

  “What did the image symbolize? Most people get tattoos that have some special meaning to them.”

  Carter shook his head, expression rueful. “I’m sure it meant something at the time. Hell if I remember what.”

  He was lying. “How’d you come up with the image?”

  Carter frowned. “Tom did. I was just along for the ride.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “Pretty much. We were young and stupid. Completely loaded that night.”

  “How old were you?”

  He rubbed his jaw. “Eighteen. Maybe. We had to show our IDs.”

  “Anybody else with you?”

  He hesitated, then shook his head. “I don’t remember.”

  “You don’t remember? You’ll understand why I find that unbelievable?”

  Carter stiffened. “I was drunk. It was twenty-some years ago. A lot’s happened since then.”