Killer in the Band

by Lauren Carr

  Surrounded by rows upon rows of apple trees, peach trees, pear trees, and other trees and gardens made up of strawberries, pumpkins, and grape vineyards, Cameron found it hard to believe that the orchards were part of the same property that the quarter horses and dairy farm were part of. The Russell Ridge Farm and Orchards occupied several hills in the rural area on the outskirts of Chester. A hill and a hayfield separated the orchards from the quarter-horse farm—they were far enough away from each other that Cameron had had to drive a couple of miles down Green Valley Road to find the lane that led up to the orchards’ office and warehouse.

  If anyone knew the story of the Bradys and their nephew, Vinnie, it would be Tom Perkins. Tom was in his fifties and had worked for Russell Ridge Orchards for his entire adult life. He was a third-generation employee of the Russells.

  Cocking his head, Tom squinted before shrugging his wide shoulders. “Yeah, I guess that could be Vinnie.” He thrust the drawing back at her. “Haven’t seen him around here for years, though.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?” Cameron asked.

  “Saw him on the news last year.” He paused. “Or maybe it was the year before that.”

  “The news?”

  “Up north in Pennsylvania,” Tom said. “Vinnie and his wife led the police on a high-speed chase after they were caught breaking into a house out around Seneca. They wrecked the truck that they’d stolen. After the police nabbed them, they found their stash of stolen goods. They’d been committing burglaries around there for months.” With a shake of his head, he said, “Vinnie was always nothing but trouble. Clyde has a good heart, so he tried to help Vinnie out. We all felt sorry for him because of his daddy.”

  “Was he a thief, too?”

  Snorting, Tom did a double take. “Vinnie’s pa was Seth Brady.”

  Not familiar with the name, Cameron slowly shook her head.

  “I guess maybe that was before your time,” Tom said. “But I thought everyone around here—especially those who do police work—knew about Seth Brady.”

  “I’m not from around here,” she said. “So enlighten me.”

  “Seth Brady shot two Hancock County sheriff’s deputies to death.”

  Suddenly recalling what had happened, Cameron gasped. “Back in the sixties.”

  “My pa was one of the pallbearers for Mitch Lee. He really had no use for Clyde Brady here at the farm, but the Russells said that Clyde wasn’t like his brother, so he should give him a fair shake. Took a long time for everyone to trust him, but it turned out that the Russells were right. Clyde gave his whole life to this farm and to his wife, Monica. No tellin’ what would have happened to him if it hadn’t been for Monica.”

  “My investigation indicated that they were very happily married,” Cameron said.

  “They say there’s nothing like the love of a good woman.”

  “What did you mean when you said that there’s no telling what would have happened to him without Monica?”

  “My father told me that Clyde and Seth used to be like two peas in a pod,” Tom said. “Clyde was three years younger than Seth. They used to drink moonshine and smoke weed and raise Cain like you’d never believe. Wherever Seth was, Clyde was not far behind—until Seth got drafted, and they sent him to Vietnam. He got back in 1966 and was a completely changed man—and not for the better. He was having flashbacks and was into every type of drug you could imagine.”

  “And back then no one knew how to handle PTSD,” Cameron said. “So he went completely untreated.”

  “Still no excuse for killing two cops,” Tom said.

  “Hey, you’ll get no argument from me.” Cameron held up her hands. “I’m familiar with the case. I just didn’t know the name of the shooter or that he was related to Clyde. It was late at night on a Saturday, and a couple of kids were parked down by the river near the racetrack. The windows got all steamed up, and the boy rolled down a window and found himself on the wrong end of a revolver. The guy with the gun ordered them to get out of the car and to strip, and then he tied up the boy and put him back in the car and raped the girl. Then he stole the car. While making his getaway, he ran a red light in New Cumberland. The sheriff’s deputies, who were totally unaware that the car had been stolen, pulled the car over. The guy—”

  “Seth Brady,” Tom said with a sneer.

  “Shot them both and drove off in the stolen car,” Cameron said. “But before he died, Mitch Lee fired off three rounds. The police found two of Lee’s bullets in the stolen car that Seth abandoned a few miles down the road. A third bullet went through the back of the driver’s seat. Since that bullet wasn’t found, they assumed that Lee had hit his killer in the back. Unfortunately, the two kids that had been robbed weren’t able to give much of a description of the suspect.”

  “But the little bit of a description that they were able to give was a match for Seth Brady,” Tom said.

  “Who they identified as the shooter three years later when a fisherman reeled in the gun while fishing in the river,” Cameron said. “Ballistics confirmed that the bullets that had killed the two police officers had come from Seth Brady’s gun—the one that he’d used as his service weapon during his time in the army.”

  “When the sheriff went to question Seth about it, he got into a shootout with the police and lost,” Tom said. “And you know what they found during his autopsy?”

  “A healed-over bullet wound in his back,” Cameron said.

  “Which proved that he raped that girl, stole that car, and killed two sheriff’s deputies,” Tom said. “And Vinnie is no better.”

  “I’m sure that growing up as the son of a known cop killer wasn’t any help for his self-esteem.”

  “Clyde bent over backward to be a father to Vinnie,” Tom said. “Clyde tried to help him out by giving him a place to stay and getting him a job here, but we caught him red-handed stealing a bunch of tools from the supply shed and selling them. Clyde had no choice but to kick him out.”

  “How long ago was that?” Cameron asked.

  Rolling his eyes, Tom said, “At least twenty years ago—or maybe twenty-five.”

  “Kind of a long time to hold a grudge,” Cameron said.

  “Well,” Tom said in a drawl, “you know what they say. Revenge is best served cold.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  She had just turned to leave when Tom called her back. “How is Clyde doing?”

  Leaning against the worktable, Cameron said, “You tell me. You work with him.”

  “We haven’t said anything to Suellen but, sometimes we don’t see him for a day or two.”

  “Well, he has just lost his wife,” Cameron said, “and he is up there in years.”

  “Yeah, I know that but he doesn’t call and he doesn’t return any of our calls.” Tom glanced around to make sure no one was around to hear him. “I’m starting to think Clyde may have slipped back into some of his old ways to maybe help him handle losing his wife. You know …” He made a hand gesture to indicate drinking.

  Recalling her own descent into alcoholism after her first husband’s death, Cameron asked, “Do you have any proof that Clyde has been drinking or is that just a guess?”

  “Hey, I’m not one to judge. I’ve been known to tie one on more than once myself. Thing is, I’m worried about the guy.” Tom pointed across the warehouse to his office in the corner. Duct tape was holding sheets of cardboard in place over a broken window that looked out into the warehouse.

  “What happened?” Cameron asked.

  “I have no idea,” Tom said. “Clyde came in early one morning to go over the schedule for spring deliveries. I was coming in through the door when I heard a crash. Clyde came running out and told me to stop him. I asked him who I should stop. He said he’d seen someone lurking in the warehouse. Whoever it was had seen him too and had tried to come after him.”r />
  Glancing over at the broken window, Cameron asked, “He went after Clyde?”

  “Window was broken from the inside,” Tom said. “Clyde said he broke it when the guy came after him.”

  “And you didn’t believe him?”

  “I didn’t see anyone.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  Tom nodded his head. “They found a window with a broken lock, so whoever it was could have come through there.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” she said.

  Tom gestured at the tons of fruit surrounding them. “What was he going to steal? Peaches?”

  Narrowing her eyes, she asked, “What do you think happened?”

  “I don’t know,” Tom said. “Just ever since Monica’s murder, Clyde has been paranoid.”

  “Someone strangled the life out of his wife. That gives him a license to be paranoid,” she gently said.

  With a swell of desire bubbling up inside her, Suellen watched J.J. swim from one end of the pool to the other, making one graceful stroke after another just beneath the surface of the water. With effort, she pushed aside her guilt over how she used to feel the same way years before when she watched her late husband swim laps in the same way in the same pool.

  They had opened the glass doors that enclosed the indoor pool to allow the warm June weather inside.

  The floor-to-ceiling mirror that occupied the one wall of the indoor pool reflected the floral gardens outside to create the illusion of it being in the midst of a beautiful garden.

  The roof above the pool provided shade, and the skylights allowed the natural warmth of the sun to make the water pleasant. The solarium was warm enough to make swimming comfortable, and the pleasant breeze cooled it off when it got too hot.

  J.J. was much younger than Clark had been when he’d died, and his finely toned muscles were sleeker than Clark’s had been. His strong arms sliced through the water and propelled him to the edge of the pool, where he somersaulted under the surface and then headed back to the other end.

  What would have happened between J.J. and me if that woman hadn’t driven her van through that intersection and ripped Clark out of my life? Would I have still fallen in love with J.J.? Would Clark be here now swimming in the pool that he loved so very much?

  What if I had behaved like a grown-up and stuck around to talk to Dylan Matthews about why he’d decided to split up our group and run off on his own? Would Dylan still be alive? Would Wendy have run away? Did Dylan really abandon his sister? Could he have?

  “Is this where they’re holding the auditions for the rock group?” were the first words Dylan Matthews had said to her almost three decades earlier.

  Suellen Russell had taken a full moment to answer the question of the attractive young man peering down at her from across the desk in the music room at Albright University. Realizing that the whole idea of putting together a group that would be good enough to pay for her music school seemed like a foolhardy endeavor, she was almost embarrassed to tell the man wearing a guitar strapped across his back that he had the right place.

  Spotting the dark-haired young girl behind him, she felt a shiver race down her spine. The coldness in her dark eyes made Suellen hope that she wasn’t with the strikingly handsome man.

  “Name’s Dylan Matthews.” Wrapping an arm around the girl’s shoulders, he ushered her forward. “This is my sister, Wendy. She plays the drums—really good too.”

  Suellen tried not to be obvious as she looked Wendy up and down. She was dressed in drab black work pants, drab work boots, and a drab top. Her hair had been dyed stark black and appeared to have been cut with a hedge trimmer.

  Not a strand of Dylan’s wavy hair was out of place, and with his white pants, white jacket, and collarless shirt, he was a good fit for the image that Suellen wanted the group to have.

  Wendy was not.

  “Well—”

  Dylan must have read her mind. Hugging Wendy tight, he said, “We’re a pair. Where I go, she goes.”

  Wendy gazed up at him with trust and adoration. The only times Suellen would see trust in the girl’s eyes were when she was looking at her big brother.

  Like a newsreel, the memories inside her head whizzed at a dizzying speed, and then Suellen’s thoughts turned to the night of the Fourth of July concert.

  By the late afternoon, the audience was fully in the thrall of the Reading Railroad Band’s rock ‘n’ roll. They had spent an hour listening to great music, and Suellen’s original songs were tremendous assets.

  Women with their tongues hanging out of their mouths were admiring Dylan’s sensual charm. The men were getting an eyeful of Cat’s sexy build. Suellen’s skillful keyboard playing and the other band members’ talents made for a good mix that had everyone rocking and rolling.

  Then it came time for Dylan to say what he always said before the last song: “Thank you for coming. We all had a great time and hope you did, too. See you all again real soon.”

  But he didn’t say “See you all again real soon.” Instead, a sly grin crossed his face. “I’d like to let you all know that you have witnessed a historic moment in musical history today, folks. This is the last performance of the Reading Railroad Band. After this last song, I’m going on to Hollywood!” He paused to shout in triumph. “I recently agreed to sign on with Bruce Springsteen’s agent as a solo performer!”

  Stunned, Suellen glanced over at Wendy. Her face was devoid of any emotion—as always. The rest of the band stared at Dylan, who was standing downstage with his back turned to them. While the audience was cheering, the musicians were dumbfounded by the news that they had just lost their lead singer—their main attraction—in the midst of their big break.

  In that one instant, Suellen’s dream burst like a child’s soap bubble. Her fingers were so numb with shock that she had no idea how she would be able to play the keyboard for that final song. Dylan was the only one who wasn’t stiff when they took their final bows and left the stage.

  The first to come out of shock was Harrison Calhoun, who handed his guitar to Cat before racing up behind Dylan, whirling him around by his shoulder, and slugging him across the jaw. Dylan landed flat on his back. Before Dylan could regroup, Harrison was on top of him with his hands around his throat.

  “Harrison, stop it!” After handing the guitar to Keith, Cat tried to grab ahold of Harrison’s arm and to pull him off of Dylan. When she finally managed to loosen his grip and pull him back, Dylan fired off a punch to the guitarist’s face. The blow was enough to cause Harrison to stumble into Cat, knocking her onto her rump. The two men were in the throes of a full fledge fist-fight by the time Suellen and Cat were able to wedge in between them it break it up.

  Smoking a cigarette, Keith stood off to the side and chuckled at what he considered to be great entertainment.

  “You son of a bitch!” Harrison said while wiping away blood from his fat lip with the back of his hand. “You’re so self-centered that you didn’t even think twice about throwing away all of the work that we’ve done to make the band a success. We were supposed to be a team! All for one, and one for all.”

  “Harrison, calm down!” Cat said as she helped Dylan to his feet. “You can’t fault Dylan for taking a shot at the moon. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have done the same thing if you’d been given the opportunity.”

  “Not if it meant screwing my friends,” Harrison said. “Did you even stop to think about Suellen? She’s the real talent behind all of us. Writing our songs. Booking our concerts. Promoting all of us! And what? As soon as opportunity knocked on your door, you screwed us!”

  “It’s okay, Harrison.” Suellen gently pushed him away from Dylan and made sure that they weren’t in striking distance of each other. Behind her, she could hear Cat trying to calm Dylan in a low voice. “It’s all right. These things happen.”

  “You son of a bitch!”
Cat slapped Dylan with the speed of a whip. Before he could recover, she kicked him in the legs and punched him in the midsection. “You said you loved me!”

  “Okay, love, I think you’ve had enough fun for one night,” Keith said when he pulled her off of him.

  “Don’t tell me you actually believed that crap,” Dylan said with a laugh. He looked from Harrison to Cat. “You bleeding hearts deserve each other.”

  “Did you ever care at all about any of us?” Suellen asked Dylan as he nursed his bloody nose with his bare hand. “I thought we were all at least friends. Was I wrong about even that?”

  Dylan glowered at the members of the band, and they glared back at him. “Friends but not family.”

  Taking a handkerchief from Wendy, Dylan dabbed the blood dripping from his nose. Wendy picked up his guitar and handed it to him.

  While strapping the guitar to his back, he turned to Cat. “Don’t forget to get your stuff out of my van. Otherwise, it’s going to Hollywood.”

  “Keep it,” Cat said. “I’m afraid of what I’d do to you if I ever saw you again.”

  “You wish.” Dylan blew her a kiss, which prompted her to slap him again.

  Dylan draped his arm across Wendy’s shoulders, and the two of them walked away. Like an obedient puppy, Silas fell in behind them.

  “Bastard!” Clenching his fists, Harrison turned around in search of something to punch.

  “We don’t need him,” Cat said.

  “Yes, we do,” Suellen said.

  “We can go on without Dylan, can’t we?” Cat looked pleadingly at Suellen. “Harrison can sing the lead. We’ll hire a new drummer.”

  Still too numb to even think straight, Suellen looked at the musicians staring at her, their leader, for answers.

  “Is that it?” Cat asked when they didn’t receive one. “We’re done?”

  “What are we going to do now?” Harrison asked.

  Keith picked up Harrison’s guitar and held it out to him. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m going to go get drunk.” After Harrison took the guitar, Keith lit up a cigarette and took a deep drag on it. “Well, it was fun while it lasted. Here’s wishing you all a nice life.” With that, Keith sauntered away. It was the last time Suellen Russell ever saw the bass player.