You have to do this, Alexandra. It’s only a memory. It can’t hurt you.

“The highest concentration of flavor is in the skins,” the guide was saying. “And this is a major way the fermentation of red and white wines is different. For reds, the skins remain with the juice. Not so for whites.”

They stopped before the row of stainless steel fermenting tanks. “Here at Sommer we make two very good whites, a chardonnay and a pinot grigio, but our big, full-bodied reds are what we’re known for.”

She explained about punching down and the dangers involved; this time, however, Alex kept her mouth shut. The guide also explained that the wine was drained from the top to avoid dirt at the bottom of the tank, and that the spigot and hatch door at the bottom provided a way for the winemaker to check the wine’s progress, and once the wine had been drained, for the tank to be cleaned.

She pointed to their left to a row of four much smaller tanks. “Those are used for some of our small production, reserve wines. We call those our tankquitoes.”

That earned some laughs and a couple hurried across to take a picture. The woman posed by the tanks. “Oh, my gosh, this one’s leaking.”

“Those tanks are empty right now,” the guide said. “Now for the highlight-”

“No, she’s right,” her companion agreed, “it’s open and leaking.”

The group stopped and turned. The guide headed that way. “It might just have been cleaned,” she offered, “so what you’re seeing is probably-”

She bit the rest back.

Alex frowned. The hatch was cracked open and something was dripping from the edge and had formed a small dark puddle on the floor below.

The guide reached the tank. “Cleaning solution, I’m certain.” She grasped the door handle and pulled. It opened. A tiny fist popped out, followed by an arm. The crown of a head, covered in baby fine wisps.

A child. An infant.

Not cleaning solution. Blood.

For one second the silence was complete. Then several screams rent the air. The guide stumbled backward, drawing back her hand, covered in blood.

Chaos ensued. Alex stood as if frozen, unable to drag her eyes away from the gruesome sight, the sounds of hysteria swelling around her.

“Someone get one of the family!”

“Call 911! For God’s sake, someone call-”

“No, wait! It’s a-”

Alex sank to her knees, struggling to breathe. It was so awful. She curved her arms around her middle, rocking. She heard Treven arrive, out of breath from running.

“Oh, dear Jesus!”

Then Rachel. “My God! Has anyone called 911-”

“Sheriff’s on the way. Ambulance, too!”

Clark, Alex recognized, gaze fixed on that tiny fist. So small and helpless. Like Dylan. Small and helpless. Innocent.

“You will not fall apart,” Treven ordered, though whether to Rachel, Clark or someone else under his command was unclear.

“Clark, close the winery for the rest of the day. At least. No more tours. Get these people into the tasting room. Give them whatever it takes to calm them down.”

“What if they want to go?”

“Absolutely not. I’m certain the police will want to talk to them. We need to manage this situation.”

“Call Danny Reed. Let him know what happened. I want the best and I want a friend.”

“Rachel, I do not want my brother down here. Do whatever it takes to keep him away.”

“I agree. He’s been through enough-My God. Alex? Is that you?”

“What’s she doing here?” Clark asked.

Rachel responded by telling him just what she’d like him to do, then squatted beside Alex, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Alex? Honey, it’s me, Rachel.”

With what seemed like monumental effort, Alex dragged her gaze from the tiny fist. She opened her mouth to speak, then shut it when nothing came out.

Rachel frowned. “Are you okay? Can you walk?”

She nodded and Rachel helped her to her feet. “Come on, let’s go to my office.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Saturday, March 13

10:50 A.M.

Not a child. Not a gruesome murder.

A sick joke.

Reed had recognized the fake almost immediately. Almost, save for one agonizing second as his heart clutched in his chest. He glanced sideways, at Tanner. “Looks like the same kind of doll.”

She nodded and fitted on gloves. “No doubt the same twisted jokester.”

She tapped the red puddle, then rubbed the liquid between her fingers. “Same as last time.”

He followed suit, then held it to his nose. It had a decidedly sweet smell. He looked over his shoulder at Treven, Clark and Rachel. “Somebody’s playing a trick on you. A really sick one.”

Treven frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“This is a doll, the blood is fake.”

“An Ashton Drake doll,” Tanner explained. “Very expensive. A collectible known for being lifelike, if you’ll pardon the word choice.”

The trio looked stunned. “But why?” Rachel said. “Why would someone do this?”

Treven stepped in. “Real child or not, now I’ve got a public relations nightmare on my hands. The last thing I want the Sommer label associated with is dead babies.”

Dead babies. Two of them. First Dylan. Now this.

Reed felt Tanner’s gaze and knew she had made the same connection.

“Let’s focus on the good news, Uncle Treven,” Rachel said, an edge in her voice. “Five minutes ago we thought someone had murdered a child and stuffed the body in one of our fermenting tanks. Now we simply have a public relations nightmare.”

“It is pretty cold, Dad,” Clark agreed. “You don’t always have to be such a son of a bitch.”

Tanner cleared her throat, Reed suspected, to hide a chuckle. For himself, he bit back a sound of surprise at Clark’s uncharacteristic show of spine.

Treven flushed. “I have a business to run, Son. A bottom line to watch. If you plan to fill my shoes someday, you’d better toughen up.”

Reed stepped in before Clark had a chance to respond. “We’ve seen this before, a couple weeks ago. A doll like this one was left mutilated and strung up in the Hilldale vineyard.”

“This is the first I heard of it,” Treven said. He looked at Clark, who shook his head, then at Rachel.

“I heard about it,” she said. “Only because I’m friends with Betsy Dale.”

Treven nodded, looking pleased. “That’s good news. We’ll work to keep this under the radar as well. Dan, can you help us out here? Can we keep it out of the papers?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem.” He glanced at Tanner for confirmation.

“Okay with me,” she said to Treven. “You’re the victim.”

Something crossed his expression that left Reed feeling as if Treven Sommer hadn’t appreciated that label.

“Who found it?” Reed asked.

“A couple from Illinois. They were taking a picture by the tanks.”

He glanced at Tanner. “We question them first. Somebody goes to this much trouble and expense, they don’t leave their work being discovered to chance.”

Tanner agreed. “One of the deputies is gathering the names of everyone on the tour.”

Treven looked at his watch, expression irritated. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a dozen visitors I have to reassure and appease. Clark, Rachel, I could use your help.”

“I’ll be right there,” Rachel said, the edge in her voice once again. “I need a minute.”

Reed watched the father and son go, then turned back to Rachel. “Treven didn’t seem too happy about your show of independence.”

“He’s an asshole.”

Reed felt Tanner’s surprise at Rachel’s blunt expression. He admitted surprise himself. “You can speak freely around me, Rachel. Don’t hold back.”

“Sorry. That wasn’t very professional.” She let out a frustrated-sounding breath. “Grandpa had other ideas for the winery and Uncle Treven only got where he is because-” She bit the words back. “Maybe he should think of that the next time he decides to go all King of the World on us.”