by Lauren Carr
“Because we all had a motive to kill him,” Suellen said. “We all threatened him.”
“Did you threaten him? Tell me about the last time you saw him.”
“Realize that this concert was less than a half-hour drive from here,” she said. “After the concert, we all went our separate ways, and I grabbed my equipment and put it in my car. I assumed that Dylan had taken off. He’d said he was going to gas up his van and head out to California that night. But when I turned around after closing the trunk of my car, there he was, standing right behind me. He said he hadn’t wanted to talk to me in front of everyone else.”
“What did he want to tell you that he didn’t want anyone else to hear?” Cameron asked.
“He wanted me to go to California with him.”
“Really?”
“Not in that way,” Suellen said with a laugh. “As his ghostwriter. You see, he had convinced this agent that he was not only a singer and performer but also a songwriter. While he was a great performer, he was a mediocre guitar player. Weeks before he dumped us, he had given me some songs that he’d written. He’d written only the music, and he wanted me to write the lyrics—especially for one song in particular. But I never got around to it, and then I was so mad after what he did that I just forgot all about it.” She tapped her forehead. “They’re here in the house somewhere. I brought them home with me that summer. That night, when Dylan asked me to be his ghostwriter, I slapped him and told him that there was no way in hell I’d help him, and I told him to let me know when he got to California and said that I’d send the songs to him.”
“But he never did contact you,” Cameron said. “Didn’t you think that that was suspicious? He had an agent. He was on his way to becoming a big star. He drove off into the night, and you never heard from him. He never even called. Why didn’t you wonder why he wasn’t putting out records—”
“Do you know how many people go off to New York or California and are never heard from again?” Suellen asked.
“Where’s his sister? Was she with him when he drove off into the night?”
“I wasn’t there.” Suellen slowly shook her head. “I had already left. Can you help me?”
“Find the killer in your band? Yes.” Cameron nodded her head. “Tell J.J. about the friend whose killer you let run away from justice? Well, that’s between you and J.J.”
“You certainly don’t think Suellen killed this lead singer, do you?” Joshua set the dish filled with ice cream and assorted toppings on the kitchen table between them after Cameron recounted the conversation she’d had with Suellen.
“I thought you didn’t like Suellen,” she said while stroking Irving, who was draped across her lap.
“Our differences are now a thing of the past,” he said.
“If you’re wondering whether she was making a deathbed confession to clear her conscious before she dies, I don’t think so.” Cameron took the spoon he was holding out to her.
“She’s on a lot of drugs. How reliable is her memory?”
Joshua turned the chair next to her sideways. The movement of the chair prompted Irving to wake up, lift his head, and glare at him in a warning to not come any closer. Ignoring the cat, he slipped into the chair and moved in close to her, tucking her chair in between his knees. As if offended by Joshua’s invading his space, Irving leaped out of Cameron’s lap and scurried across the kitchen to leap up onto a stool. Before curling up to lie down, he shot a glare in Joshua’s direction.
After spooning up a bit of the dessert, he fed it to Cameron. The two of them gazed into each other’s eyes as she swallowed the ice cream.
“Suellen knew about the body found at Dixmont State Hospital and knew that a guitar had been found with the body. All she seemed to know about the actual murder was what we released to the media. That tells me that she wasn’t involved in it.”
“Such as?”
“The fact that the guitar found with the body was a bass,” Cameron said. “While it was broken up and had been used on the victim, it wasn’t the murder weapon. He was already dead when he was struck with it. We never revealed the cause of death to the media.”
“Cause of death?”
“Asphyxiation,” Cameron said. “Suellen thinks he was beaten to death, which anyone seeing the show, not knowing about the murder, would assume. The victim did have a fractured skull. The medical examiner concluded that based on the shape of the fracture, he had been struck in the back of the head with a tire iron. He had cuts and bruises on his hands and arms that indicated he had been in a fight.”
“One of the band members who he had just screwed.” Joshua took another spoonful of ice cream.
“Suellen said Dylan and one of the guitarists got into a physical fight as soon as they left the stage. That could explain the cuts and bruises on Dylan’s hands. That being the case, it is entirely possible that, since the skull fracture was at the back of the head—”
“The killer attacked him from behind,” he said. “Dylan didn’t see it coming.”
“But that wasn’t what killed him,” Cameron said. “The killer hit him hard enough to knock him out. Then, while he was unconscious, he was smothered. Based on the lack of blood around the body, the freezer wasn’t the murder scene.”
“But Suellen never noticed that the victim, a friend, had disappeared?” Joshua asked.
“She says that the last time she saw him, Dylan said that he was gassing up his van and heading for Hollywood.” She shook her spoon at him. “But I have a question: What happened to that van?”
“Dixmont was a huge place with a lot of outbuildings,” he said. “Are you sure the van wasn’t dumped there?”
“Positive,” Cameron said. “Even if the police hadn’t found it, the demolition crews would have. That’s how they found Dylan’s body—clearing out the site for demolition. The bulldozers would have noticed a van when they mowed down the place.”
“Maybe it was stolen,” Joshua said.
“Could have been.” She shrugged her shoulders while licking remnants of hot fudge off her spoon. “But that bass wasn’t the murder weapon. According to Suellen, the bass player was the least likely to kill him. If he didn’t kill Dylan, wouldn’t he have noticed that his guitar, his livelihood, was missing?”
“J.J. is very protective of his musical instruments.”
“Well, we did finally get a breakthrough in this case,” Suellen said. “We publicized the case all those years ago because we couldn’t even get an ID on the victim. We tried comparing him to missing-persons reports and got nothing, not even years after the murder had been discovered. Now I know why. According to Suellen, Dylan Matthews seemed to have cut everyone out of his life before heading to California. No one expected to hear from him. That’s why no one realized he was missing.”
“Not even the sister?” Joshua took a spoonful of ice cream. Speaking around it, he asked, “Why didn’t she go to California with him?”
“Maybe she did,” she said. “She killed him and took the van? I have the name of Dylan’s girlfriend—at least she was his girlfriend until that night. She should be able to fill in the blanks.”
The clatter of running footsteps announced that Izzy was flying down the back staircase and into the kitchen. Her damp curls were bouncing off of her shoulders, and she was dressed in her pajamas and bathrobe. “Where’s Irving?”
Considering that the large cat was Izzy’s constant companion, the question was unusual.
“Why isn’t he with you?” Cameron asked.
Spying the bowl of ice cream, Izzy was temporarily distracted from her quest. Reminding herself that she had already had a bowl, she said, “He was mad at me. He smelled the barn cats on my clothes and realized that I’d cheated on him. So I took a bath to wash off the evidence.”
“We saw how affectionate you were with those cats—particularly with the
new kittens.” Joshua exchanged a wicked grin with Cameron.
With her spoon, Cameron pointed at the kitchen stool in the corner near the back door. “He’s over there, but I don’t think Irving is going to be so quick to forgive you for your indiscretion.”
Spotting Irving curled up on the kitchen stool, Izzy trotted over to stroke him. As soon as she touched the black-and-white cat’s head, he jumped down from the stool, shook off her touch, stuck his nose up in the air, and leaped through the doggie door to go outside.
“Seriously?” Izzy’s mouth dropped open in disbelief.
“Irving is very sensitive,” Cameron said.
With a sniff, Izzy folded her arms across her chest. “Well, if he’s going to be that way.” She stamped across the kitchen and up the stairs to her bedroom. “Two can play at that game.”
“Yeah, but Irving plays it better than most,” Joshua said while feeding Cameron another spoonful of ice cream. “He never forgave me for stealing you away from him.”
“Maybe he needs a cat therapist.”
“Please.” With a chuckle, he said, “Congratulations. One of your cold cases just got hot again.”
“Could have heated up about ten years ago,” Cameron said. “The guitarist and the victim’s girlfriend both saw the case on television. They recognized Dylan from the composite drawing. They called Suellen, and they all agreed to keep quiet—which is very suspicious to me.”
“Could prove guilt, or they just didn’t want to get involved.”
“According to Suellen, almost every member of that band had a reason to kill Dylan Matthews.”
“Except the bass player, whose guitar was found at the scene,” he said. “Yet they do say that you often need to look out for the one who doesn’t appear to have a motive for murder.”
In deep thought, Cameron softly said, “Was it a crime of opportunity? In the heat of the moment, or maybe because he realized that he had an opportunity to get away with murder, the bass player killed Dylan, dumped his body at the abandoned hospital, smashed up his own guitar, and left it there to make it look like he was being framed?”
“Most people around here avoid that area because it’s rumored to be very haunted,” Joshua said. “I know I get the creeps when I have to drive past where it used to be.”
“It wouldn’t have made sense for him to plant that guitar. The killer hid that body there so that if it was found, we’d never be able to identify the body. The killer most likely knew that no one would ever notice Dylan was missing. Unfortunately for the killer, the body was mummified in that airtight freezer, which preserved all of the physical evidence.”
“I take it you’re going to dig out the case file?” Joshua asked while taking the empty bowl to the sink to rinse it out.
“First thing in the morning.” She swiped her finger across the screen of her tablet. “As long as I have Internet.” She went to her search engine and typed in “Reading Railroad Band.” Numerous images and websites concerning variations of the name sprang up. There were many images of the Reading Railroad Heritage Museum.
Sitting next to her, Joshua noticed the lack of relevant results. “That’s the problem with cold cases, especially when they happened before the Internet and cell phone pictures and selfies.”
She was about to scroll down when Joshua stopped her. “What’s that?” He tapped one of the links on the screen, and it led to a blog. Seeing a picture of a rock group from the past in the blog’s banner picture, he pointed to a young woman in the picture. “Isn’t that Suellen?” He answered his own question. “I think it is.”
Squinting, Cameron enlarged the picture. “That’s the group. The Reading Railroad Band.”
The publicity picture of the rock group showed its members huddled together. Cameron immediately recognized Dylan Matthews as the mummified body found in the freezer at Dixmont. Front and center, he clasped the top of his red guitar, which was standing up on end in front of him, and the other members of the group were gathered around him.
In the picture taken almost thirty years earlier, Suellen Russell, who was standing next to Dylan with her arm around his waist, radiated youth and a sophisticated beauty. She still wore her dark hair in the same short, tapered style that she was wearing in the picture. On Dylan’s other side, a stunning blonde with big hair in keeping with the style of the eighties also had her arm around him. Cameron concluded that she had to be Cat, the backup singer.
Two more men, both of whom were wearing their guitars, stood at opposite ends of the group. The rough-looking one reminded Cameron of Keith Richards both because of his style and because of the way a cigarette was hanging out of the corner of his mouth. Even his guitar was black. The other guitarist was wearing less dramatic blue jeans. His guitar had a wood grain.
“Well, what do we have here?” Cameron zoomed in on the bass player.
“What do you see?” Joshua asked her.
“A black bass.” She grinned.
“I guess Keith Richards is going to get a visit from the Pennsylvania state police.”
Projecting an image so dark that she didn’t appear to fit in, a girl with black hair stood at the edge of the group with an attitude similar to that of someone who was getting her mug shot taken. According to the caption, she was Wendy Matthews—or at least she had been before she’d become famous.
With their heads pressed together, Joshua and Cameron read the blog article. Rather than being about the Reading Railroad Band, the article was about a grunge–punk rock singer by the name of Vendetta who had accumulated a large cult following in the nineties by making CDs and performing at concerts and punk-grunge clubs across the country. The Reading Railroad Band had been Vendetta’s first professional job—she’d been the drummer.
“This is Wendy Matthews,” Cameron said. “Dylan Matthews’ sister didn’t disappear with him. She went on to become a gothic rock star.”
“I’ve never heard of her,” Joshua said.
“Neither have I,” Cameron said while reading the article.
“At least she should be able to tell you what happened that night,” Joshua said.
“Nope.” Cameron laid the tablet flat on the table.
“Why not?”
“She’s missing,” Cameron said. “She performed at a Fourth of July concert in Baltimore, walked off the stage, and was never seen again.”
“Fourth of July?” Joshua said. “Dylan’s last appearance was at a Fourth of July concert.”
“According to this article,” Cameron said, “Vendetta performed a new original song she had written and then declared that the day marked not only the day of our nation’s independence but also the day of her independence. She thanked her fans for their love and for the strength they had given her—which the blogger said sounded eerily like a farewell—and then left the stage and disappeared, never to be seen again.”
“Oh, man,” Joshua said. “Sounds to me like a voluntary disappearance.”
“Does to me, too.” Staring at the screen, Cameron said, “Dylan Matthews disappeared on the Fourth of July in 1988.”
“His sister disappeared in 1998. Ten years later.” He squinted. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Neither do I.”
Chapter Eight
The sun beaming through the bedroom window woke J.J. up. Realizing that it was past six o’clock, the time to feed the horses, he sprang upright, knocking Suellen over to the other side of the bed and away from where she had been sleeping in his arms.
“What’s wrong?” she asked him groggily.
Looking at the clock, J.J. saw that it was after eight thirty. “The horses—the alarm clock didn’t go off.” Throwing on his clothes, he said, “Go back to sleep. I’ll take care of them.”
Taking the front stairs two at a time, J.J. galloped down to the foyer with his work boots in hand and threw open t
he door. Running out onto the porch, he stopped when he saw that the mares were already out in their pasture, peacefully grazing on the green grass. On the other side of the barnyard, Captain Blackbeard was wading up to his chest in the pond in his pasture. Then J.J. saw that Joshua’s SUV was parked in front of the barn.
With her canine entourage, which was led by Charley, the rooster, following her, Izzy trotted along the fence until she reached the gate. Then she climbed up on top of it to watch the palomino mare pace back and forth and snort at her, daring her to enter.
“Don’t go in that pasture, Izzy,” Joshua said from the barn door.
A smile of relief crossed J.J.’s face. “Son of a gun. He must have sneaked in and turned off my alarm clock so that I could sleep in.” He sat down on the top step to put on his boots. A chorus of chirps greeted him from the trees surrounding the front porch. The flutter of leaves told him that even the birds had started their day.
“About time you woke up, sleepy head!” Joshua yelled from across the barnyard. “Everyone’s been fed and watered, and the stalls have been cleaned out.”
“Fresh eggs are on the kitchen counter,” Izzy said over her shoulder. “Chickens, cats, and dogs are fed.”
J.J. then heard Donny’s voice coming from inside the barn. “Dad promised that you’d make us breakfast.”
“Coffee is on the way.” Jumping to his feet, J.J. ran back inside the house to start the coffee.
In the kitchen, J.J. stopped when he noticed the scent of the breakfast casserole being kept warm in the oven. He opened the oven door and peered inside it. The egg casserole was a special recipe that his sister Tracy had created herself. It was a mixture of eggs, cheese, hash browns, vegetables, and breakfast meats. His mouth watered just looking at it.
The kitchen door flew open, and Izzy stuck her head inside. “Someone’s here!”
After glancing at the clock on the oven, J.J. slammed the oven door shut. “It’s a horse trainer here for an interview. He was supposed to be here a half hour ago!”