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

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  No movement. “I’m not familiar with it.”

  Although still, I believed her statement. She didn’t seem to have a clue what I was talking about. Did she own a television?

  “Bed of Bones was the film they shut down after the bomb went off in the theater.”

  She frowned. “Sad. Very sad.”

  She was doing a good job keeping her answers brief.

  “Yeah, I didn’t know what the movie was about until the girl told me it was based on a serial killer who committed several murders in this area.”

  “Murders?”

  I had her attention. Now to keep it.

  “I guess the movie was about a boy who died after falling into a mine shaft. When they went in to recover the body, they found a bunch of dead bodies down there. The girl said the museum used to have several artifacts relating to the murders, but they were stolen.”

  “Hmm. Too bad.”

  For such a relaxed pose, she was sweating.

  Good.

  “I guess now the movie has become national news and police have reopened the investigation, you know, to figure out what really happened. I heard they think the person who robbed the museum might be the same person who bombed the theater.”

  Her leg wobbled, her focus lost. She tipped, but held her arms to the side, stopping herself from toppling over.

  I had an urge to pat myself on the back. It was, after all, a splendid performance.

  “Oops, I know you said I should focus,” I said. “Should we try the pose again? I promise I’ll keep quiet this time.”

  “I…I’m not feeling well. I’m sorry. Would you…can we postpone?”

  She started rolling up her mat before I had the chance to reply. I walked over, held out my hand. “Here, I’ll put it away for you.”

  “No, really. It’s fine. I got it. Why don’t you go? I’ll call you.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  I ripped the rolled up yoga mat from her hands, held it out in front of me. The look on her face said a lot of things, but she didn’t say a word. What if word got out that the Zen yoga instructor lost her cool? It wouldn’t bode well.

  She stood there, staring. I had to admit, I enjoyed the empowerment.

  “You worked at the museum a couple years ago, didn’t you?” I asked.

  “I work here.”

  “You do now.”

  “Who told you I worked there?”

  “Walter Thornton. Or maybe you know him as Butch. You remember him, right?”

  She gauged the distance between where we stood and the door, a mere twenty feet away.

  “Don’t,” I said. “Don’t do it, Karin.”

  The warning was one-hundred-percent selfish on my part. I hadn’t realized how sore I was after a few short minutes of stretching. Yoga was far more challenging than it appeared. And I didn’t want to run. Not right now. Too bad I didn’t always get what I wanted.

  Karin broke into a sprint, her body colliding with a brick wall named Cade McCoy, who had impeccable timing.

  “Answer the question,” he said.

  Karin’s expression resembled a terror-stricken, wild bird locked inside a cage.

  I eased up.

  “Can I get you some water or something?” I asked.

  “You weren’t here for the class, were you?”

  “I’ve been meaning to try yoga,” I said, “but no.”

  “Who are you?”

  I offered my name.

  “I know you broke into the museum after your shift one night. I know you took everything from the display. I can take you to the police right now, or you can give back what you stole. You give it to me, we’ll leave, and we won’t tell anyone.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can,” Cade chimed in.

  “And you will,” I said. “Right now. We’ll escort you to your house if necessary.”

  “No, I mean I really can’t. I don’t have any of it.”

  “So you admit you took items that didn’t belong to you?”

  “Yes, but not for the reasons you think.”

  “Why then?” I asked.

  Karin grabbed a yoga mat back out of the basket, snapped it open, sat down. “My head is spinning. I need to sit.”

  It seemed awkward, but we joined her on the floor.

  “After I left the museum one night, I was met at my car by a man.”

  “Describe him,” I said.

  “Older. Early seventies, maybe. Normally I would have maced the guy in the face, but he was frail and weak. I didn’t see him as a threat.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Everything from Chester Compton’s display. He said if I got it for him, he’d pay me five thousand dollars. Cash. You have to understand, I’m not a thief, but I’d been saving for three years to open this studio. Five thousand would give me the rest of the money I needed.”

  “Justifying it doesn’t make it right,” Cade said.

  “Did you at least ask him why?” I asked.

  “I tried. He said it never belonged in the museum in the first place. The way he talked about it, you would think the items were his, but almost everything we had was donated. Most of it had been taken as evidence after the murder and was released to the museum as part of the town’s history.”

  “What were his terms?” I asked.

  “The five thousand was a one-time deal. In exchange, I wasn’t to ask any questions. I had two days to complete the job. He told me to wear gloves and to keep the lights off when I did it. There were huge windows in the place, so he advised me to stick to a flashlight, not turn on the lights.”

  “Where did you make the exchange?” I asked.

  “In the museum parking lot, same as before.”

  “And after?”

  “I was paid. He told me he wanted me to continue working at the museum for a couple months to avoid suspicion. Then I was to quit. If anyone asked questions, I was to deny knowing anything about it.”

  “Butch suspected you,” I said. “He knew.”

  “I know. It was the longest two months of my life. I felt a tremendous amount of guilt for what I’d done.”

  “Not enough for you to come clean though,” I said.

  “If I had, I’d only have incriminated myself. I had no idea who the man was. I’d never seen him before, and I never saw him after. I didn’t think anyone would believe me.”

  “Karin, how much do you know about what happened all those years ago?” I asked.

  “Everything. Butch made us sit in on a presentation before we unveiled it to the public so we’d be able to answer most questions thrown our way.”

  “I’m going to tell you something the public doesn’t know yet,” I said. “And it needs to stay between us. Do you understand?”

  She bobbed her shoulders up and down. “Sure, okay.”

  “I mean it. If I have to come back here because you blabbed to someone about what we talked about today, no amount of mace will keep you safe enough from me.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I get it.”

  “The murders are happening again,” I said.

  “What…what do you mean?”

  “Three women were found yesterday, dead, their bodies frozen.”

  “Where?”

  “Same location where the other women were found in the fifties.”

  “How? The mine shafts are sealed now.”

  “This time the women were arranged above ground.”

  “It can’t be. Chester Compton is dead.”

  “Someone else is trying hard to keep his memory alive.”

  She cupped a hand over her mouth like she was experiencing a wave of nausea.

  “I need you to think back,” I said. “Try to remember the times you met with this guy. If there’s anything you can tell me, anything you can remember, I need to know right now.”

  She curled her toes, stared at the floor. “There is one thing. He had a familiar looking face.”

  “Familia
r…like someone you’ve seen before?”

  “Not alive, no. One of the items we had on display at the museum was a newspaper clipping. Chester Compton’s face was on the front page. That’s who he looked like.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Willie Compton.

  Grandson of Chester Compton.

  Could he be alive?

  Did insanity run in the family?

  I did some quick math on my fingers, guesstimating Willie would be somewhere around seventy years old now. This gave me every reason to believe he was alive and kicking. Maybe Willie had returned to Park City, or maybe he’d been living here all along. I needed to find out, and fast.

  If Willie masterminded the killings, he hadn’t done it alone. The gruff, headstrong man I spoke to on the phone was younger by at least twenty years or more. I tried to piece it all together, make it fit, but there were holes in my theory.

  I phoned an old real estate contact named Bridget Peters. A couple years earlier, I’d saved her from having her throat slashed by a money-hungry woman she’d once considered a friend. Since then Bridget had become a broker and opened up a real estate office. I was curious if Willie owned any homes in the area. She said she’d look into it and get back to me.

  I made a left at the next street, headed toward the mountains.

  “May I ask where we’re goin’?” Cade asked.

  “Chester Compton had a ranch up here. No one lives in the house anymore, but I want to take a look at it anyway.”

  Finding evidence at Chester’s Compton’s ranch, sitting there, waiting for me, wouldn’t happen. It was a dead-end. Investigators had picked it apart. Twice. But I hadn’t heard back from Bridget. And I didn’t have any better ideas.

  At the entrance to the Compton place, logs had been erected in front of the gate. In the center, a round piece of wood dangled from two weathered chains. In the center of the piece of wood, a “C” had been carved.

  We arrived at the worn-down ranch house to find my suspicions were right. The property was as deserted as a 1990s drive-in. I expected the house to match the rustic property it sat on. It didn’t. With four white pillars lining the front and a fireplace on each side of the two-story home, it looked like something out of Gone with the Wind. The colonial style had been the wife’s decision, no doubt. I jiggled the handle on the front door. It was unlocked. I entered.

  “What are you hopin’ to find?” Cade asked.

  “I just wanted to get a feel for the place. We’re here, why not?”

  The inside of the house was almost the same temperature as the outside, making me wish I’d added a few more layers to my ensemble. I looked around. Few furnishings remained. A striped hide-a-bed, littered with mice droppings and rips, sat in an otherwise empty living room. There were holes in the walls, the floor, and the ceiling. Even so, I imagined in its day, it was a spectacular sight to behold. Now it had been left to rot, just like Chester Compton.

  Cade explored the main level while I went upstairs. I crossed my arms in front of my chest as I ascended, fearing if I nudged the railing, remnants of the ceiling the railing was attached to would spill down on top of me. The idea of decade’s worth of dust sprinkling into my hair wasn’t appealing.

  My phone sounded when I reached the top of the stairs. It was Carlo. I didn’t want to answer, but I did anyway.

  “How’d you do it?” He sounded agitated.

  “Do what?”

  “Sneak out? I got a call from Officer Jennings this morning saying when he knocked on your door, you didn’t answer.”

  “It’s not hard to slip past a cop in a patrol car when he’s sleeping,” I said.

  “Son of a…Are you kidding? Where are you?”

  “Out. And you don’t need to send someone to look for me. I’m fine.”

  “You’re so stubborn, Sloane.”

  A commendable quality.

  “I have my own back up,” I said. “So tell the sleeper thanks, but no thanks. We’re just fine without him.”

  “We meaning the hot-shot detective from Wyoming? He hasn’t left yet?”

  I wasn’t sure what to say, so I said nothing.

  “Where are you, really?” he said. “The Sundance Killer is insane. Don’t think just because you got Shelby back he won’t harm you.”

  “He won’t come after me, Carlo.”

  “He will murder again, and soon.”

  It wasn’t what he said, it was how he said it that startled me. “What’s happened?”

  “Nothing. Don’t worry.”

  “Tell me.”

  “All right,” he said. “Give me your location and I will.”

  Too easy. There was a good chance he wouldn’t tell me after he got what he wanted. But I’d started going numb from the cold air. I saw no reason to stay.

  “I’m at the ranch house. Chester Compton’s.”

  “We’ve searched every inch of his place. Why are you there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  As a private investigator, I didn’t always share every piece of information I had with the long arm of the law. Sure, it meant I failed to cooperate. I suppose it was my civil duty to be forthcoming with regard to potential evidence, but in the past I’d learned there were some things you offered and other things you didn’t—not until you were sure they’d lead somewhere. It kept others from pilfering my leads. And besides, I’d never shared well with others.

  “The Compton place is a dead end,” Carlo said. “So I’ll ask again—what are you doing there?”

  “Wasting my time. We’re leaving.”

  “And going where next?”

  I didn’t know yet.

  “I told you where I am. If you want the valuable information I was given this morning, tell me what’s happened.”

  The tables had turned. Now to see how badly the squirrel wanted the nut.

  There was a long pause, followed by a hefty sigh. “A fourth woman is missing. We believe the killer has her.”

  “Shouldn’t every female with the slightest connection to the movie be under police protection?”

  “Not this one,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “The girl’s name is Angela Rivers. She has nothing to do with the movie itself. We didn’t know about her.”

  “She’s connected to something or someone.”

  “Angela Rivers was Brynn Rowland’s best friend. She arrived yesterday from Los Angeles. Brynn had given Angela tickets to see the movie before she left. We don’t think she knows Brynn is dead.”

  “What makes you think the killer took her?”

  “Her rental car was found abandoned on the side of the road. It had a flat tire, and the driver’s-side window was smashed in. The car doors were locked. We think she got the flat after stopping somewhere, probably courtesy of our killer. When he came up behind her, it’s possible she saw him and locked the door.”

  “It could be him, but if she wasn’t part of the movie, there would have to be something else to make you think there’s a connection to the other killings.”

  “Taped to the steering wheel of her rental car we found another scripture reference. Proverbs 6:14: Frowardness is in her heart, she deviseth mischief continually; she soweth discord. We looked it up. It’s exact except he replaced the “he” for “she”.

  “Soweth discord. It makes me wonder.”

  “What?”

  “Whether she knew Brynn was pregnant. She must have. Up to now he’s only taken women affiliated with the movie. Have you processed the car yet?”

  “Same as always. We found nothing.” He paused. “Your turn.”

  “I have reason to believe Willie Compton had someone steal the artifacts from the museum, the ones relating to the original murders.”

  “William Compton? Chester’s grandson?”

  “Yes.” I gave him a short, one-minute speech explaining what Butch told me about the break-in. “Based on what we know about the killer, Willie’s too old.”

  “Unless he has
help,” he said. “Maybe he has kids. Hell, maybe the whole family is certifiable.”

  “We need to find him. Whether he’s involved or not, I believe he knows something.”

  “If he did take her, you don’t have much time.”

  “That’s not our only problem,” he said. “We notified the families of the victims last night. One of them was irate enough to run their mouth to the press.”

  “You knew you couldn’t keep it quiet forever. At least people know Melody is innocent. Maybe it’s a good thing.”

  “The last thing I wanted to do was give this asshole any media attention.”

  A call beeped in. Bridget.

  The Compton ranch in Park City had been passed down to Willie when his father died, but he also owned a townhouse in Bountiful, Utah, about an hour away. Halfway through writing down the address, I heard voices downstairs. At first I assumed Carlo had either sent someone over or had been en route while we were on the phone together. Then someone shouted, “Stay where you are! Don’t move!”

  And it wasn’t Cade.

  CHAPTER 40

  I crept down the timeworn stairs, my gun drawn. Halfway down I caught a glimpse of Cade. He stood in the living room, hands up, facing an older man with white hair. The white-haired man was dressed in denim overalls. He had a rifle pointed at Cade’s chest.

  “Who are you?” the man shouted. “Why are you here?”

  “You first,” Cade replied.

  “I have a right to know why you’re in my house. You’re not dressed like a cop. So who are ya?”

  Bountiful, Utah, had come to me. How convenient.

  “His name is Cade McCoy,” I said. “Mine is Sloane Monroe. He’s a detective, I’m a PI.”

  A caught-off-guard Willie Compton shifted in my direction just enough to acknowledge my gun. He kept his rifle on Cade. The mention of my name didn’t seem to mean anything to him. If he was our killer, it should have.

  “And you,” I said, “are Willie Compton. Grandson of Chester Compton. Now that we’re acquainted, set the rifle on the floor.”

  It occurred to me my request might be too much to ask. From the looks of him, it was possible he no longer had the ability to bend over.

  “I want my questions answered first.”

  I reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”