Killer in the Band

by Lauren Carr

  “And I’m conducting symphonies and rubbing elbows with the artsy crowd,” Suellen said.

  “You always were one of the artsy-fartsy set,” Cat said. “You only pretended to be a rock ‘n’ roller because you knew that that was where the money was. You didn’t have me fooled for a minute.”

  Suellen heard a deep sigh on the other end of the line. “What is it, Cat? What’s wrong?”

  Cat hemmed and hawed and then said, “Did you ever hear from Dylan Matthews?”

  “No,” she said. “As a matter of fact, a few weeks before that last concert, he gave me a binder with a bunch of songs in it, all songs that he had written—”

  “Do you still have it?”

  “I think so,” she said. “It was all music. No lyrics. He wanted me to write the lyrics for him. Said he was going to send them in to an agent—”

  “Probably the same agent he screwed us over for,” Cat said with a growl in her tone.

  “I was really surprised,” Suellen said. “I never thought he was musically talented enough to write songs.”

  “He did teach himself to play the guitar.”

  “But he couldn’t read music,” Suellen said. “I never thought—”

  “Did you ever look at those songs?”

  Suellen laughed. “As a matter of fact, I didn’t. He gave them to me right before I came back to the farm that summer. I never even got a chance to look at them. After he screwed us at the Fourth of July concert, he cornered me in the parking lot. Of course, I was madder than a wet hen. Crying. I was a royal mess.”

  “We all were.”

  “Well, would you believe that he had the balls to ask me to finish the songs for him? He offered me a job as a ghostwriter, I guess.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “I got the impression that he had sent the songs to this agent who had signed him but she didn’t handle instrumentals. There was one song in particular that he really wanted me to put words to. He kept saying that it would be the song that would make him a star. Not us, mind you. Him.” She laughed. “I told him where to stick his job offer. He said he wanted the songs back, and I told him to send me the address of where to send them to—”

  “Because he was leaving that night to drive to Hollywood,” Cat said.

  “But he never contacted me with the forwarding address, and I never sent the songs. They’re here in the house somewhere.” She paused. “Why are you asking me about him? Did he call you?” She laughed. “Don’t tell me…Is he living under a bridge someplace? Would serve him right.”

  “I think he’s dead,” Cat said in a low voice.

  “You think—”

  “Harrison and I were watching one of those crime-watcher shows,” Cat said. “And they had this segment about a body that was found at that mental hospital out by where we did that Fourth of July concert. No identification at all. They showed an artist’s rendition of what the guy would’ve looked like, and Harrison swore that the image looked like Dylan. He wanted me to call you to see if you ever heard from him.”

  “Couldn’t be Dylan,” Suellen said. “He left for Hollywood right after that concert.”

  “And he took his guitar. Right?”

  “Dylan took that guitar everywhere with him.”

  “They found a guitar with the body.”

  Suellen was silent.

  “Found in an abandoned mental hospital minutes from where we last saw him,” Cat said. “Guitar found with the body. The face in the artist’s picture looks a lot like Dylan’s.”

  “Has Dylan ever—”

  “No.”

  “What about Wendy, his sister?” Suellen asked. “I assume she left with him. Did they find her body, too?”

  “They didn’t mention a woman’s body in that show,” Cat said. “I’m looking for Wendy but not having any luck. I haven’t seen her since Dylan abandoned us.”

  “He wouldn’t have abandoned his sister. If they found Dylan’s body, then where is Wendy?”

  “Maybe she killed him,” Cat said. “She never was wrapped too tight.” She uttered a sigh. “Suellen?”

  “What, Cat?” Suellen’s mind was racing as she tried to remember the order of events after that Fourth of July concert.

  At the beginning of the night, they’d all had so much hope for their futures, but the concert had turned into a nightmare that had shattered friendships—all because of the selfish ambitions of one individual.

  “You said it was a crime-watcher show. How did Dylan, if it was Dylan, die?”

  “Murdered. They said on that show that based on forensics, he was killed sometime between 1986 and 1990.”

  “And the last time any of us saw him was July 4, 1988,” Suellen said. “Right in the middle of that window.”

  “Exactly. Suellen, Harrison and I were talking…Dylan’s been gone all these years. None of us have heard from him. If it is him, he’s been dead for decades, but no one knew it. If we tell the police it’s him—”

  “Might be,” she said. “We don’t know that for certain. Dylan wasn’t the only guy with a guitar who ever went missing.”

  “What if it is? If we call the police and it ends up being him, the police are going to ask all types of questions. With that big fight after the concert and the things that were said—”

  “They’ll think it was one of us,” Suellen said. “You saw the picture, Cat. Sounds to me like you and Harrison are pretty certain.”

  “Maybe it’s not,” Cat said. “Point is, I’m thinking that a lot of time has passed since that night. We all have lives now. You married very well. How’s Clark?”

  “Clark died four months ago,” Suellen said.

  After an awkward silence, Cat said, “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.”

  “Clark’s son—”

  “Tony is running his father’s company now,” she said. “My stepson and I have a good relationship.”

  “So you have a good life,” Cat said. “So do Harrison and I. It would be a shame if everything that we’ve all built up since Dylan betrayed us got all shaken up because he went and got himself killed. The police will start asking questions. Everything that everyone said in the heat of the moment that night will be dredged up, when for all we know, Dylan picked up some hitchhiker who killed him and stole his van. Or maybe it isn’t him at all.”

  “Are you saying you don’t want me to call to see—”

  “I think that’s best, don’t you, Suellen? And if by some chance someone does recognize Dylan and calls the police, we’ll all agree to say that we were all together all night after that concert, drowning our sorrows in a bar until we went our separate ways the next day—long after Dylan had taken off to go to Hollywood.”

  “We alibi one another,” Suellen said with a nod of her head. “What if it was one of us who killed Dylan that night?”

  “What if it wasn’t?” Cat replied. “Dylan dumped us like garbage and publicly humiliated us. Now, after all these years, if we come forward to identify that body they found, one of us—if not all of us—could end up losing everything because of that backstabbing son of a bitch. Would that really be fair to any of us?”

  Suellen responded with silence.

  “What are you going to do, Suellen?”

  “Go back to my life,” she said. “Thanks for calling, Cat. Good-bye.”

  Chapter One

  Present Day—Rock Springs Boulevard, Chester, West Virginia

  This is a first.

  The scent of eggs and bacon cooking wafted upstairs to the hallway and greeted Joshua Thornton when he stepped out of the bedroom that he shared with his wife, Cameron Gates.

  Joshua, a county prosecutor with the instincts of a detective, went about eliminating suspects. Since Cameron was in the shower, she couldn’t have been the one manning
the stove. Their thirteen-year-old daughter, Izzy, would have demanded breakfast rather than attempt to cook it herself—and Donny, his eighteen-year-old son, would’ve done the same.

  That left Joshua Thornton Jr., better known as J.J.

  A smile came to Joshua’s lips. His firstborn son had returned to the nest after graduating third in his class from Penn State's Dickinson School of Law only two days earlier.

  Nothing like a good breakfast first thing in the morning to get the brain cells working. Since law school was out of the way, it was time for him to concentrate on passing the bar exam in September.

  With a bounce in his step, Joshua jogged down the back staircase to the kitchen and discovered that his deduction had been wrong.

  It was Donny who was cooking breakfast, and he appeared to have dirtied every dish in the process of doing so. He was not alone in the country kitchen. Irving, their twenty-five-pound Maine coon cat with markings identical to those of a skunk, and Admiral, who was half Irish wolfhound and half Great Dane, were taking full advantage of the situation. Irving was lapping up raw eggs that had dripped from the counter to the floor, and Admiral had snagged some burnt toast via counter surfing, which was quite easy for the enormous dog.

  “What are you doing?” Joshua asked, failing to keep the shock out of his voice.

  “Cooking breakfast,” Donny said with a proud grin on his face. “You keep reminding me that I’m going to college this fall and that I need to learn how to do things for myself. So I decided to start cooking my own meals.”

  With great effort, Joshua ignored Admiral, who had reached up to take a strip of bacon off of Donny’s plate behind him and dropped a second slice to the floor for Irving. The two pets were in heaven.

  “While I admire your initiative,” Joshua said, “and I would be the first to admit that learning to cook is a tremendous life skill that will come in handy, it isn’t imperative that you learn that skill right away. It’s just not as important as learning to do your laundry. You’re going to be living in a dorm at WVU, and you’ll have a meal plan. You won’t even have a kitchen.”

  “J.J. said—”

  “I said what?” Clad in sweats and running shoes, J.J. trotted down the stairs and into the kitchen. He stopped short when he saw the mess and the animals going to town on the remnants of his younger brother’s cooking adventure. “Oh my! It’s great not to be you right now.”

  In practically every way, J.J. was a younger version of his father—right down to their piercing blue eyes. Standing side by side, they were identical, with their shared height of a couple inches over six feet and their athletically slender builds.

  As he was approaching fifty, Joshua’s formerly auburn hair had turned silver with age. An inactive-duty member of the navy, he had allowed his hair to grow out into silver waves and to touch the top of his collar, and he’d grown an ultrashort trimmed brown beard along his jaw and a moustache.

  Several years in academia had rubbed off on J.J. and made his nature more casual than his father’s, who had spent his career in the military and in the legal profession. His casual attitude was reflected in his auburn hair, which he wore in layered waves down to his shoulders.

  Well over two inches taller than his father, Donny, who had received a football scholarship to West Virginia University, had the bulk and muscular build of the football linebacker that he was. He was a good thirty pounds heavier—all muscle—than his father and brother.

  “Want some breakfast?” Joshua asked J.J. with a wave of his hand.

  “I’m going for a run first.” J.J. hurried out of the kitchen and into the hallway that led to the front foyer.

  Joshua followed after him. “Well, I’ll make sure Donny cleans up this mess, and we’ll have breakfast waiting for you—”

  “No need, Dad,” J.J. said as he stopped in the midst of opening the front door. “I’m meeting Tad for breakfast at Cricksters.”

  Joshua halted. His cousin, Dr. Tad MacMillan had invited J.J. to breakfast. When did that happen? Why didn’t he mention it to me? He was here just last night, and—

  Shrugging off the suspicion, Joshua forced a smile onto his face. “No problem, then. I’ll see you this afternoon. I’ve got a court hearing. If you run into anything that you need my help with while studying—”

  “I’ll text you,” J.J. said with a laugh. “You already told me.”

  Realizing he was smothering his son, Joshua took a step back. “Sorry.”

  “Why don’t you meet us at Cricksters?”

  “Great idea,” Joshua said. “Cameron doesn’t have to go in until later. She can join us.”

  The frown that crossed J.J.’s face lasted for only a second before he forced it into a smile. “Yeah, that’ll be great.”

  At that moment, there was a crash in the kitchen. Irving screeched. Admiral yelped. Donny cursed.

  “You’re cleaning this up!” Cameron yelled.

  “What time?” Joshua asked.

  J.J. checked the time on the pedometer he wore around his wrist. “Give me one hour.”

  Located at the end of Carolina Avenue and one block east of the Chester Bridge, Cricksters was Joshua and Cameron’s place—as well as the place of many of Chester’s residents. The family restaurant boasted a full menu of comfort food and tasty desserts, including freshly baked pies supplied to the restaurant by Joshua’s daughter Tracy, a recent graduate of the Culinary Institute of America. Selling her fresh pies and cakes to Cricksters was her first step in establishing her catering business.

  By midmorning, Cricksters’ early-morning rush had finished, and there were a lot of empty tables. Claiming that she didn’t have time for breakfast, Cameron had begged off Joshua’s invitation. Since his wife never passed up a chance to eat out, he suspected there was another reason she’d opted out—possibly the company.

  Joshua had no problem spotting his cousin, Dr. Tad MacMillan, sitting alone in a booth and checking messages on his phone.

  The son of Joshua’s uncle on his mother’s side, Tad was more than a relative. He was Joshua’s best friend. They were so close that Tad lived literally next door to the Thorntons with his wife, Jan, and their toddler son.

  Raised by his grandparents after his parents had died in a car accident, Joshua had looked up to Tad like a father after his grandfather had passed away. That was not always a good thing, considering that for many years, Tad had been the town drunk. Then he’d gotten sober and become the town’s respected doctor and the county’s medical examiner. He was living proof that a leopard can change his spots.

  “I thought you didn’t eat breakfast.” Joshua slipped into the seat across from him. He did not miss the fear that flashed across Tad’s face.

  After sucking in a deep breath, Tad blinked and broke into a grin. “You scared me, Josh. I didn’t see you come in. What are you doing here?”

  Joshua’s eyes narrowed. “J.J. invited me to have breakfast with you. Is there a problem?”

  “Why would there be a problem?”

  “You look guilty.”

  “Tad?”

  In a flash, Joshua recognized the feminine voice that had come from behind him. Before she had time to pass him and to greet Tad, who had risen from his seat to take her into a hug, Joshua’s teeth clenched. His heartbeat raced as he held his breath. Immersed in his rising fury, he didn’t realize she had turned around and seen him until he heard her voice echo in his head. Judging by her tone, she was as shocked to see him there as he was to see her.

  “Hi…Josh,” she said, stuttering.

  Joshua raised his eyes to meet her gaze. “Hello, Suellen.”

  “I…I—” She continued to stutter as she looked from Joshua to Tad. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “No, you clearly expected to see J.J.” Joshua was on his feet. He directed his glare at Tad.

  “Now, Josh
, remember what Grandmomma always said. If you have nothing nice to say—”

  “Suellen?”

  Ignoring the fury in Joshua’s eyes, Suellen Russell ran up to J.J., who had stepped into the dining room. Upon seeing the exceedingly slender brunette, he stopped. Joshua thought she’d been thinking about throwing herself into J.J.’s arms but had stopped short, uncertain of how welcome that would be after the many years that had passed since their last meeting. She waited for J.J. to take the lead.

  “I’d hug you,” he said, “but I’m all sweaty. I just ran from one end of town to the other.”

  “I don’t care,” she said in a breathy voice. “Come here.” With that, she threw her arms around him and held him tight. He returned her hug with so much enthusiasm that he lifted her off of her feet.

  “It’s a small town, Josh,” Tad said. “Suellen retired from the symphony and came home to stay. J.J. is back for at least this summer until he passes the bar. They were bound to run into each other eventually.”

  “Look at you.” Suellen was brushing her hand across J.J.’s face. “I’ve missed you, J.J.” She kissed him softly on the lips.

  Unable to watch anymore, Joshua turned around to face Tad. “So you decided to take it upon yourself to hurry things along.”

  “He’s not seventeen anymore, Josh.”

  Pennsylvania State Police homicide detective Cameron Gates was still getting used to juggling so many things at once. Less than a year after she and Joshua had adopted Izzy, a thirteen-year-old girl who had been orphaned after the murder of her mother, Cameron was still learning how to manage her full-time career as a homicide detective while spending quality time with her husband, his grown children, and the daughter they shared.

  They had both found relief when Joshua Thornton, the Hancock County prosecuting attorney, had decided to work remotely from home on most days when he didn’t have court appearances.

  On this day, he did. Therefore, Cameron had packed up a pile of reports that needed to be completed and rushed home in time to find Donny in the foyer with a deer-in-the-headlights look in his eyes.