Bed of Bones (A Sloane Monroe Novel, Book Five)

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  “I know. You told me the other day. Is that why you wanted to see me again?”

  He nodded.

  “Okay.”

  He reached over, rubbed my arm. “Don’t do this,” he said.

  “Do what?”

  “Act like everything is fine. It isn’t. You don’t have to be tough, Sloane. Not around me.”

  I sat back, rested my trembling hands in my lap. “I haven’t heard from you in two days. Two days, Giovanni. I thought you were already gone.”

  “I’m here now.”

  “Yeah…to say goodbye.”

  The last word—goodbye—hadn’t rolled off my tongue as easily as I hoped it would. If he detected a change in my tone of voice, it didn’t show. I gazed out the window. I wanted to forget where I was, what was happening. The flakes of snow were bigger now, blowing across the front of the car like cotton spinning inside of a giant machine.

  “Lucio’s funeral is tomorrow,” he said.

  “In New York?”

  He nodded.

  “I’m sorry. I’m going to miss him.”

  He squeezed my arm. “Me too.”

  “How’s Daniela?”

  He frowned.

  “I spoke to her—”

  “I know,” he said.

  “Then you know what we talked about?”

  He was rubbing my arm again. “I’m sorry.”

  Sorry. That was new.

  “I should have told you,” he continued. “It should have come from me—not my sister. You had a right to know.”

  “So why didn’t you?”

  He sighed. “Before we met, I didn’t think about the way I was living. It’s easy not to when it’s all you know.”

  “And after?”

  “I wanted a different life.”

  “I thought you were getting out. If you are, why do you have to leave—why can’t you stay here?”

  “Is that what my sister told you—I was getting out?”

  Either he was still in charge of the family, or Daniela had lied.

  “Daniela seems to think she has everything under control.”

  “She doesn’t,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  He hesitated.

  “Even now, after everything I know, after coming here to say goodbye, you’re not going to tell me?”

  He took a long, drawn-out breath. “My father never planned on making my sister head of the family. This whole thing, the entire plan, was a ploy to get me back where he thought I needed to be.”

  “I don’t understand. She told me your father tested her. He was confident she could handle the responsibility.”

  “No. He used her to get to me. He knew I’d never allow it.”

  “You’d sacrifice the opportunity to change your life in order to save hers?”

  What was I saying? Of course he would.

  “For her, I would do anything. You’d do the same if it was your sister.”

  I had done the same.

  “I want to stay,” he said softly. “I want to be here—with you.”

  I could feel myself starting to crack, at that pivotal moment when the egg breaks and the liquid inside comes dripping out.

  When I didn’t respond, he said, “What would you have me do?”

  I wanted to get out of the car—my car—and run. “I would have you do exactly what you’re doing, but it doesn’t mean I…that I don’t…I want you to…”

  “If you ever need me, for anything—”

  “I know,” I whispered. “You’ll always be here.”

  Only he wouldn’t. I bit my lip, tried to silence my emotions. It was too late. He reached out, reeled me in, held me close. I could hear his heart pounding through his chest. I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to ever move. I was sobbing now, creating a big, clear stain on his silk, button-up shirt. His fingers trailed through my hair, soothing me. I didn’t feel any better. I felt cold and hollow. Vulnerable and ashamed. And like so many times before, I felt alone. Sooner or later, no matter what they promised, all the men in my life had walked away.

  He bent down, his hot breath steaming my eyelids as he spoke. “I love you, cara mia.”

  The door opened, and he stepped out. I wiped the tears from my face and looked up. He didn’t turn back like he often did. I imagined it was too hard. I hoped that on the inside, he was crying too. He closed the car door. And in the drifting snow, I sat and watched the only man I’d ever truly loved walk away.

  CHAPTER 23

  The Sundance Film Festival offices were inside of a two-story log building that looked more like the cabin a family lived in than a place of business. Had it not of been for the eight-foot-long canvas banners draped along the outside, displaying a variety of this year’s films, I would have driven by, thinking I was at the wrong location.

  I reapplied makeup to my tear-stained face, took several cleansing breaths, and entered. A blond-haired, blue-eyed kid sat behind a log desk. I say ‘kid’ because anyone ten years or more my junior appeared that way to me lately. He had Hugh Grant hair and wore white shorts, some fancy tennis shoes with bright yellow shoelaces, and a hoodie that said Park City across the front. His legs were hairless like he shaved them every day. They looked cold. He reached into a bag of tortilla chips, pulled a handful out, swirled them inside a bowl of orangish-colored queso, and then plopped them into his mouth, crunching down with an expression on his face like he’d just had a bite of better-than-sex cake.

  After the blissful moment passed, he noticed me standing in front of him. He quickly wiped his hands, staining the front of his shorts in the process. He interlaced his fingers behind his head and leaned back in the chair as far as it would go. He flicked his chin up and said, “Hey,” like he’d just taken voice lessons from Joey Tribbiani.

  “Hey,” I replied.

  “What can I…uhh…do for you?”

  He smiled, wide. I imagined he’d do just about anything I wanted.

  “Is there any way I could screen one of the films from this year?”

  “Tell me which one and I’ll give you the schedule.”

  “So, are all of the movies up and running again?”

  “Yep. Most of ’em anyway. They just started back up today. Not a very big crowd, though.”

  I leaned forward, lowered my voice. “I was actually wondering what I’d need to do to get a private screening?”

  He squinted like he didn’t understand. “Everything is public. You just have to go and see the movie.”

  “I’m willing to pay.”

  “Oh, well, you don’t actually buy the tickets here. The ticket office is—”

  He wasn’t getting it.

  “I meant I’d be willing to pay extra for the chance to see a certain film alone.”

  I had no intention of paying the “extra” myself, but one phone call to Carlo was all it would take. Besides, he’d lied to Ronnie. He owed me.

  “Well, see, it doesn’t work like that.”

  I waited, wondering if the pilot light inside would ignite.

  It didn’t.

  Never a quitter, I had decided to try again when a plump woman in a full-length sweater dress rounded the corner. She looked to be in her sixties and had pulled her salt-and-pepper hair back into a too-tight bun that made her look like she should be living in Asia. She arced her head when she saw me, her cat-shaped glasses sliding an inch down her nose.

  “What’s going on here?” she asked.

  “This lady is trying to see one of the films by herself,” the kid said. “And I was just telling her it doesn’t work like that.”

  Idiot.

  “She even said she’d pay ‘extra’ to see it by herself. Funny, huh?”

  Double idiot.

  “A hoot.” Her nose wrinkled in more ways than I conceived possible. “Who are you and what are you really doing here—are you press, police, what?”

  I paused, considering my next move. I didn’t have one.

  “Well?” she
demanded.

  I extended my hand. “Sloane Monroe.”

  She didn’t accept it.

  “Yes, but what are you doing here, Miss Monroe?”

  “I wondered when you’ll be showing Bed of Bones again?”

  “We won’t. It’s off the agenda for now. Sorry.”

  “But you have copies, right?”

  “Digital, yes. Why?”

  “I’d like to see it.”

  “There are plenty of other films playing this week. Buy a ticket.”

  “I don’t want to see anything else.”

  “Well, you haven’t much choice,” she huffed.

  The kid’s eyes lit up, finally. Ding, ding. Only he’d identified what I wanted a little too late. He moved behind the woman and signaled me with his right hand, pointing at a side door on the other end of the building.

  I looked at the woman. “Sorry I bothered you.” I returned to my car. I watched. I waited. No kid. Maybe I misunderstood whatever he had tried to tell me. It was still early, and already it had been a rough day.

  I started the car. A hand reached out from the side of the building, waving me over. I drove around.

  “Who are you?” the kid said, approaching my open car window.

  I had nothing to lose.

  “I’ve been hired to look into what happened at the theater.”

  “So you are a cop then?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Can you help me?”

  “I can’t get you a copy of the movie.”

  Then there was nothing more to say. I put the car in reverse, prepared to back away.

  “Hold on…hold on,” he said. “I know someone who can tell you everything you need to know about the movie.”

  “Who?”

  “My grandfather,” the kid said, beaming with pride.

  “Your grandfather? What does he know?”

  “Everything. My family settled this place. They erect it.”

  “You mean erected?”

  He pointed, giggling under his breath. “Yeah, what you said.”

  “What does that have to do with the movie?”

  He leaned in. “It was my grandfather who told the director all about this place. You can find him at the museum. He runs it.”

  CHAPTER 24

  My cell phone buzzed. Caller unknown. I put the phone to my ear and listened.

  Breathing. Slow and heavy. Raspy, like he’d spent his life with his mouth wrapped around a cancer stick.

  Somewhere, somehow, he’d tracked me down.

  I jerked the car to the side of the road and slammed it into park. The breathing was annoying. I wanted it to stop.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “I lead in the way of righteousness,” he hissed.

  His voice was stronger, much more sophisticated than I imagined.

  “There’s nothing righteous about killing innocent people.”

  Asshole.

  “Don’t blaspheme.”

  “Against who—you? How about don’t kill? You read the Bible, you understand the Ten Commandments, don’t you?”

  “Stop.”

  “Or do you only read from the book of Proverbs?”

  “Don’t,” he demanded, louder.

  “A false witness shall not be unpunished, and he that speaketh lies shall perish. Recognize it?”

  “Stop it!”

  “How about this one. ‘For their feet run to evil, and make haste to shed blood.’”

  Silence. Good. At least the breathing had stopped.

  “What do they mean?” I prodded. “What are you trying to prove?”

  He growled like he wanted to reach through the phone and strangle me.

  “Where is Melody Sinclair? Where is Brynn Rowland?”

  “Soon. Very soon.”

  “What’s soon?” I asked.

  “Don’t get in the way.”

  “Too late.”

  Silence.

  “You called me. Obviously you want something. What is it?”

  The line went dead.

  I locked myself inside the car. I slouched down in the seat. I popped open my center console, unzipped my binocular case. I looked around. Then I made a call.

  “Carlo, I—”

  “Sloane, are you okay?”

  “He contacted me.”

  “Giovanni, I know. I just spoke with him. I don’t know what to—”

  “No—the man who took Melody, and Brynn, and who knows who else.”

  “And Victoria Broderick.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “She’s an actress.”

  “Why her? What’s the connection?”

  “She played the wife in Bed of Bones.”

  The wife of whom? I wondered.

  “How is she missing? I thought everyone was being detained.”

  “We don’t have the resources to hold every single person. Best we can do is keep the ones who can give us the most information. We cut everyone else loose yesterday. They were supposed to be on the buddy system, not go anywhere alone. He still got to her.”

  Thanks for keeping me in the loop.

  “Three women in three days, all familiar with one another, all related to the movie. It means something.”

  “Yeah, they’re looking into the connection.”

  “It’s the movie, Carlo.”

  Obviously.

  “We know. We’re dissecting every second of it.”

  “How did you know Victoria Broderick was missing?” I asked.

  “One of her friends was supposed to pick her up at the hotel, take her to the airport. She got there, and Victoria was gone.”

  “Did you find anything—a cell phone, anything with some sort of scripture reference?”

  “Several partials in her room. But it’s a hotel. Could be from anyone.”

  I informed Carlo about the conversation I’d just had with our killer. After I finished, he said, “It’s time I bring you in on this, officially. Let me handle getting everyone up to speed on how you’re connected.”

  “Fine. Fair warning, expect fireworks when everyone finds out I’ve been involved all this time.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Old Town,” I said. “Across from Sampson Law Office.”

  This was true. The museum was across the street. If he wondered what I was doing there, he didn’t ask.

  “Give me twenty minutes, then come in.”

  “Can it wait? There’s someone I need to talk to first.”

  “I need you here.”

  “It’s important, Carlo.”

  “Fine. Make it fast. I want the address of the place you’re going.”

  I gave it to him.

  “You’ve got to assume he’s out there,” he warned, “watching your every move.”

  For me, it was just another day on the job.

  CHAPTER 25

  In all the years I’d lived in Park City, I was ashamed to admit that not once had I visited the museum. I’d thought about taking a tour on several occasions. I’d even sent in a generous donation during last year’s fund-raiser for a bigger, better building. I always knew one day I’d make it here. I just didn’t know it would be on a day like today.

  The man I was looking for was named Walter Thornton. I found him inside an office, his nose stuck in a book, an Egyptian travel guide from the looks of it. He wore a blue cardigan sweater over a pair of wool slacks that looked like they were thick enough to repel snow. His head was angled down, allowing me to see the ample hair atop his head, proof that not all men had hair loss at his age.

  “Planning a trip?” I asked.

  He looked up. His wrinkly, crooked smile made me think of my grandfather. “Pardon?”

  “The guide you’re reading,” I pointed. “Is it any good?”

  He tipped it up, allowing me a visual of a pyramid on the front cover. “Quite good, yes. I’m planning a trip next year. Have you ever been?”

  I shook my head.

  He removed his reading
glasses, pinched the rim while rubbing an eye. He may have been tired in body, but he was robust in spirit. “I expect you’re not here to discuss the marvels of Egypt, although I’d be happy to, if you like.”

  Straight to the point—a quality I admired in a man.

  He stuck out a hand, displaying the thickest fingernails I’d ever seen. “Name’s Walter. But my friends call me Butch.”

  I took his hand in mine. His grip was firm, like a single squeeze could cause permanent damage. “Good to meet you, Walter.”

  “Butch.”

  “I understand you worked with Melody Sinclair on the movie Bed of Bones.”

  He placed a cloth bookmark inside the page he was browsing and closed the book, setting it flat on a shelf behind him. “I wouldn’t say we worked together, but she did consult with me on a few things the way one consults with a forensics expert on a television program, I suppose.”

  “What did you two talk about?”

  “I provided her with information on some of the town’s history, answered a few questions, tried to make sure she had her facts straight.”

  “And did she?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I can’t say. I haven’t seen it yet. She emailed me an attachment a few months ago. Couldn’t get the file to open on my computer. A message kept popping up saying something about the file being too large to download.”

  If his computer was even a fraction as old as he was, I could see why. Still, I was surprised he hadn’t asked his ever-so-adept grandson for help.

  “I wanted to wait and see it on the big screen, and I had tickets too,” he continued. “Miss Sinclair mailed them to me. I planned on taking my wife. Then, well, you know what happened.” He stared at me for a moment. “I’m sorry…I didn’t get your name, young lady.”

  I gave it to him.

  “What is it you do, Miss Monroe?”

  “Find people, mostly.”

  “People like Melody Sinclair?”

  The man didn’t miss much.

  “Are you aware she’s missing?” I asked.

  “I watch the news. Shame what happened to the old cinema building, to all the poor souls inside. Glad most of them made it out alive. Hard to believe Miss Sinclair’s a suspect though.”

  “Why?”

  “I won’t say I’m an excellent judge of character, but she doesn’t strike me as the type who’d harm anyone.”

  “Can you tell me what Bed of Bones was about?” I asked.