by Lauren Carr
As Cameron watched him march up the walkway to the main entrance, she stewed, and a cocktail of emotions washed over her.
She felt sympathy because she had been approximately J.J.’s age when she’d lost her first husband. Granted, his death had been sudden, but she wished that she’d had the luxury of knowing that their time together would be short. Being young newlyweds, they thought that they would have a lifetime together. If they had known that they only had a few short months, they’d been able to make the most of every day, like Suellen and J.J. were doing.
She was embarrassed because J.J. had been right. Suellen was not going to be fine. What was I thinking when I said that?
And she was furious at J.J. for lashing out at her. I didn’t give Suellen cancer. Can’t he look past his own grief and worry and see that I’m on his side? Sure, maybe I said the wrong thing, but I didn’t mean to make light of his situation or her illness. I was only trying to help—and he acted like an idiot!
She wanted to run up the walkway, join J.J. in the reception area, and shake him. Instead, she sucked in a deep breath, tried to shake off the cocktail of negative emotions, and went inside.
Don’t do it, Cam. He’s Josh’s son. Yeah, let Josh shake him instead.
After informing them that Dr. Geller was finishing up a group-therapy session, the perky receptionist, who was dressed in a bright summer dress, directed them to the comfortable waiting area, where soft yoga music was playing, and herbal teas and fruit had been set out.
Looking across the waiting room at J.J., who was staring at the screen of his phone as though he were willing Suellen to call him, Cameron sighed. I do need to be the grown-up, don’t I?
“I’m sorry if I seemed insensitive,” she said in a soft voice.
“No problem.” He slipped the cell phone into his pocket. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I just have a sick feeling about this.”
“Are you sure it’s not because of the overcooked eggs and the greasy sausage that we had for breakfast?”
She was relieved to see a grin come to his lips.
“Detective Gates.”
A tall, exceedingly slender older man crossed the waiting area and offered Cameron his hand. “I’m Dr. Geller. You said you wanted to talk to me about Dylan Matthews.”
Having seen a picture of Dr. Geller as he had been in his previous life, Cameron had not been prepared for the way that sobriety had transformed the rock musician’s looks. His formerly long, dark locks were then gray and had been cut short, revealing his extremely high forehead. His face was thin, and he had jutting cheekbones and a long chin. The doctor was not wearing the traditional white robe but rather an untucked bright Hawaiian shirt, khaki pants, and leather loafers.
After finding her voice, Cameron introduced J.J. “Do you prefer to be called Keith or—”
“Keith Black is dead,” Dr. Geller said as he led them down the corridor to a spacious corner office with a sign identifying Dr. Malcolm Geller as the chief of staff of the rehabilitation center on it. “He died when I was reborn and found sobriety. You can call me Malcolm.”
Inside the office, they found a sitting area and chairs arranged in a large circle left over from the group-therapy session that Malcolm had been leading when they’d arrived. After inviting Cameron and J.J. to take seats in the circle, the former musician sat in the chair reserved for the doctor leading the session.
“You know,” he said with a laugh, “I had to think long and hard to remember who Dylan Matthews was when you called me. I’ll do everything I can to help you, but unfortunately, most of the eighties are a blur for me. I spent most of the decade stoned.”
“Do you remember playing bass for the Reading Railroad Band?” J.J. asked.
“If that’s what you want to call it,” Malcolm said with a laugh. “I really have no idea how I was able to play when I was so high.”
“Do you remember Dylan Matthews at all?” Cameron asked.
“Oh yes,” Malcolm said. “He was a good-looking, charismatic guy—and he knew it. He was a so-so guitar player. Knew only a few chords, but what he lacked in musical know-how, he made up for with his stage presence.” He held up his finger. “But the real talent, the real leader of the group, was our keyboardist. She was the one who formed the group and wrote all of our original songs. She was a real talent and a great leader. Had short dark hair—”
“Suellen Russell,” J.J. said.
“That’s it!” Malcolm let out a deep sigh. “I was up half the night trying to remember her name. Thank you.” He looked from J.J., who was sitting on one side of the circle, to Cameron, who had taken a seat opposite him. “What is this about Dylan Matthews?”
“Several years ago,” Cameron said, “his body was found at Dixmont State Hospital. It was only recently tentatively identified as Dylan Matthews’ body.”
“But Dixmont was closed back in the mideighties,” Malcolm said. “I’d never been there and only found out about it after I became a psychologist. It was considered a state-of-the-art facility back when it was built around a hundred and fifty years ago. I thought they mowed the place down.”
“They did,” Cameron said. “That was when they found Dylan’s body.”
“What would he have been doing there? The last time I saw him, at the last concert, he was on his way to California—he’d gotten some big agent and was going to be a big star.”
“He never made it out of Pennsylvania,” she said. “Do you remember the last time you saw him?”
Malcolm paused to think. “Our backup singer…Cat?”
Cameron confirmed that he was right about her name with a nod of her head. “She goes by her proper name, Catherine, now.”
“She was beating the stuffing out of Dylan because he told her that he wasn’t taking her with him.”
Cameron and J.J. exchanged glances. A slight grin came to Cameron’s lips.
“Are you sure about that?” J.J. asked. “You do admit that you were stoned at the time.”
Malcolm shrugged his shoulders. “First, Harrison—he hated the name Harry and wanted to be called Harrison—tried to strangle Dylan after he dumped us all. Probably would have, too, if Cat hadn’t pulled him off. Once he got an opening, Dylan hit back. Next thing you knew, they had an all-out fist fight. Suellen and Cat pulled them apart. Suellen took Harrison aside to calm him down. Cat, who always defended Dylan when he was an arrogant jackass, told him that they’d better hit the road if they wanted to get to Columbus before midnight. That was when Dylan said, ‘You’re not coming.’ She laughed—she thought it was a joke—and he said it wasn’t. Only he and his sister were going. That was when she let him have it.”
“What about Silas?” Cameron asked.
“Who?”
“Wendy’s boyfriend,” Cameron said.
“Our drummer had a boyfriend?” Malcolm scratched the side of his head. “I do remember some odd little guy following us around at that last concert. That must have been him.” He shook his head. “After we pulled Cat off of Dylan, he blew her a kiss and left. There was a bar across the street, so I went there to chill out. Cat and Harrison came in not long after that. We hung out and played some songs on the stage. Then”—he grinned—“I met this really fine woman. We really hit it off. She took me to her house—” He paused and laughed. “I was such a rascal back then. It was only by the grace of God that I didn’t end up with AIDS.”
He looked from Cameron to J.J. and then back again. With a frown, he said, “Wish I could be of more help.”
“What about your guitar?” J.J. asked.
“What about it?” Malcolm sat up in his seat. “That’s right! Someone swiped my bass. I was so loaded that I forgot to take my bass with me when I left with that woman. Wish I could remember her name. Anyway, I realized that I had left it at the bar. The next morning, she drove me back to get it. Of course, the bar
was closed, but I lucked out. The cleaning crew was there. They let me in, but my bass was long gone.”
A wide grin crossed his face. “God really was looking out for me. The group broke up. My bass was gone. All I had was the money left over from our concert the night before. I had sent the woman on her way, and there I was, standing in the middle of nowhere. Then I saw an airport taxi parked in front of the roadside motel across the street, and I thought about this bud I had in Miami, Florida, who kept telling me that I should go stay with him. He had a club and had said I could play there anytime. So I went into the diner and asked the driver if he could give me a lift to the airport. He said sure. Then, get this, he said that it was lucky that I’d caught him. He had just taken a passenger to the motel from the airport. So I bought him breakfast and had some myself. He drove me back to the airport, and two hours later, I was on my way to Miami. Nine months after that, I had my heroin OD and then met some great people who helped me become sober. Can you imagine that? If I hadn’t been there at that time and if that airport taxi hadn’t been there and made me think of going to visit my friend in Florida—” He nodded his head. “God does have a plan. All of those pieces played a role in bringing me to where I am today.”
“That is amazing,” J.J. said when he noticed that Cameron had become silent. The expression on her face was the same one that had been there earlier, when she’d been focused on Wendy Matthews.
“Wish I could be of more help,” Malcolm said.
After returning home to work for a few hours on a motion for a drug case, Joshua decided to surprise Izzy with lunch at Cricksters. She loved their burgers and fries and loved to follow her lunch with an ice cream sundae, of course. The bright, sunny day called for ice cream.
When he turned his SUV off of Green Valley Road and into the Russell Farm, he saw Clyde Brady’s old truck parked in the driveway in front of the main house. Hope he’s not giving Suellen a hard time.
In the pasture to the right of him, Captain Blackbeard galloped up to the fence to escort him to the main house, and the two mares and their colts in the pasture to the left of him did the same. When he turned into the barnyard, the horses whirled around and galloped off in opposite directions.
As he passed the old truck, Joshua peered at the dilapidated vehicle. It was covered with so much mud and dirt that he had to wonder how the old man was able to see through the windshield. Joshua recalled that Clyde Brady and his wife had always been quite fastidious.
Guess it was Monica who kept things clean and in order for him.
Joshua pulled up to the barn and parked off to the side. Through the open barn door, he saw Gulliver outside of his stall, chomping on the bale of hay that Charley was perched on top of. Seeing Joshua, Charley stood up to his full height, stretched his neck, spread his wings, and cawed as if to announce that this was his domain.
Before Joshua could respond, he heard a crash from the other side of the barnyard. He turned in time to see Clyde stumbling down the front steps of the house and into the driveway. His eyes wide, he looked up and down and across the barnyard.
Even from across the yard, Joshua could see that Clyde was covered in blood.
“Did you catch him?”
Joshua saw that Clyde’s work shirt and clothes were ripped. His arms, chest, and stomach had several cuts on them. “Catch who? Who did this to you?”
“He must have gone out the back way!” Clyde yanked open the driver’s door of his truck and tried to climb in only to have Joshua pull him back.
“What happened, Clyde? Who did this?”
“The same bastard who killed my Monica! That’s who! This time I’m gonna catch him.” Clyde yanked his arm out of Joshua’s grip and climbed into the truck.
“Suellen!” Recalling that Clyde had run out of Suellen’s, Joshua ran up the walkway to the front door, which Clyde had left open.
Behind him, Clyde hit the accelerator of the truck so hard that it leaped forward as he drove across the barnyard, up the road, back through the fields, and across the hills behind the main house.
“Suellen!” Joshua called out as he ran into the foyer. He heard a gurgling sound in the living room. She’s still alive!
The sight that met his eyes when he turned into the room brought him to a halt.
The grand antique mirror that had covered most of the far wall was shattered, and only its gold frame remained. Big and small shards of glass littered the bloody floor, and Suellen lay there sprawled out like a discarded rag doll as a pool of blood formed under her, leaking out from the slice across her neck. She reached a hand out to Joshua.
Got to stop the bleeding!
After spotting a cleaning rag resting in J.J.’s open violin case, Joshua snatched it up and dropped to his knees next to her. Her warm blood soaked his pants. “Stay with me, Suellen. I’m calling nine-one-one.”
While pressing the rag to the gash on her neck with one hand, he extracted his cell phone from its case on his belt and called for help.
“J.J.” Suellen clutched his arm with her bloody hand.
“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” a male operator said.
“This is Joshua Thornton. I’m in the main house at the Russell Ridge Farm and Orchards. We need emergency crews, police, and an ambulance. An intruder attacked the homeowner. We have a middle-aged woman whose throat has been slashed, and she’s bleeding profusely. There’s also an elderly man who’s been injured—he has cuts and is bleeding. He’s in pursuit of the intruder—”
“Joshua.” Suellen dug her fingernails into his arm.
“Do you have a description of the intruder?” the operator asked.
“The witness says that it’s the same man who murdered Monica Brady in Pennsylvania.”
Suellen gasped. “Joshua, you have to do something for me. Promise.”
“Crews are on the way, Mr. Thornton.”
“J.J.,” Suellen said, gurgling. “Promise me—”
“Who did this, Suellen?” Joshua pressed the rag, which was then soaked with blood, into the deep gash.
“No time,” Suellen said. “I need you to make J.J. keep his promise.”
“His promise?”
Desperation filled her tear-filled eyes. “Please, Josh! If you love J.J., make him keep his promise to me. Don’t…let…him…break it. I love him. He was the one.”
“What one?”
“The love of my life.” Her mouth hung open as she gazed up at Joshua. “J.J., my love.”
Outside, Charley rose up to his full height and uttered a long, drawn-out caw. The dogs added their voices to his, sending a chorus of mournful howls across the farm. The horses brought the farewell song to a climax with a series of screeches.
“How much longer until we get home?” J.J. said, breaking the silence that had filled the cruiser up until that point.
They had been on the road for only forty minutes. Cameron was hungry. They had missed lunch. But J.J. seemed anxious to get home. When she’d offered to pick up burgers and fries at a drive-through, he’d declined. So she’d settled for a milkshake, and she drank it while driving.
His silence was not as annoying as it usually was, because she was lost in her own thoughts. While Malcolm Geller had claimed that he’d been too stoned during that time period to remember much, he did remember enough.
Cat Foxworth, then Catherine Calhoun, had expected to go to California with Dylan. That meant that she must have known about Dylan’s plan to dump the band before the concert. What she hadn’t known, though, was that he planned to dump her as well.
Funny that she insisted that she’d had no idea about the agent or about Dylan’s plan to go to Hollywood to become a big star.
Malcolm had also given Cameron a clue that could lead her to the van, which, if it was still around, might provide evidence that could lead her to the killer.
She had
a feeling that she was on the brink of figuring out how the murder had gone down when J.J.’s voice invaded her thoughts. “How much longer until we get home?”
“Are you going to spend the next four and a half hours asking me if we’re there yet?” she asked.
J.J. shot a sidelong glance in her direction.
She was in the midst of firing one back when her cell phone, which was in its holder and on the dashboard, buzzed. The caller ID said that it was Josh. She pressed a button so that she could use the phone hands-free. “Hi, hon. Are you going to ask me if we’re home yet too?”
“Where are you?” Joshua asked in a businesslike tone.
“Four and a half hours away on the turnpike.”
“Can you pull over and take me off speaker?” Although he’d asked her a question, his tone had told her not to argue.
J.J. looked up from his tablet and peered at the cell phone.
Cameron eased the cruiser off to the shoulder, pressed the button to take the phone off of speakerphone, and brought it to her ear. “What’s up?”
“Suellen’s dead,” Joshua said.
“No.” Aware that J.J. was watching her closely, she unfastened her seat belt and climbed out of the cruiser. “What happened?” she asked in a low voice.
“Clyde Brady was here. He says it was the same intruder who killed Monica.”
“Yesterday he said that that was Noah, and now Noah is missing,” Cameron said. “Any idea where he is?”
“I have one,” Joshua said. “Police are scouring the farm for him. Clyde took off after the killer with blood in his eyes. The important thing is J.J.”
“I’m not telling him,” Cameron said.
“He has to know. You can’t drive him all the way back—”
“You tell him.”
Joshua sucked in a deep breath. “Give the phone to him.”
Cameron yanked open the driver’s side door and held out the phone to J.J. “Your father wants to talk to you.”
