Last Girls Alive: A totally addictive crime thriller and mystery novel (Detective Katie Scott Book 4)

by Jennifer Chase

  “You didn’t like your job?”

  “It was okay, if you like spoiled brats.”

  “Why did you take the job?” he said.

  She shrugged. “Nothing better. Steady paycheck from the state. Plus, it was a place to sleep.”

  “Do you remember a teen by the name of Mary Rodriguez?”

  Katie watched Shelly closely to see if there were any subtle changes in her posture, any reflexes.

  “Of course. She was one of the better ones.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “She never gave me any trouble,” she said, carefully moving her fingers through her hair as if she was looking into a mirror.

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Not doing chores, mouthing off, or sneaking out to have sex with who knows who. You know, stuff like that.”

  “What happened when the girls got into trouble?”

  “They got disciplined, of course. Is that what this is all about?”

  “No, ma’am. We’re investigating the homicide of Mary Rodriguez. Her body was found last night alongside the creek in Stately Park.” He paused.

  “Well… I don’t know anything about that. Don’t get me wrong, that’s terrible, but I know nothing about it. How could I?” she said and then gestured to her surroundings.

  “After the closure of the mansion, had you had any contact with any of the girls?”

  “No.” She became agitated and picked at her chewed fingernails.

  “Had you heard anything about any of the girls after the closure?”

  “I told you no. Nothing. Why would I?”

  Ignoring her question, McGaven said, “What about Candace Harlan?”

  She stopped fiddling with her hands and looked directly at McGaven. “What about her? She went missing. Actually, she ran away. That’s all I know—never saw her again.”

  “Was she one of those troublesome girls?”

  Shelly didn’t answer. She went back to fidgeting with her hands and fingers.

  “Was she one of those spoiled brats?”

  “Why are you harassing me?”

  “It’s a simple question, Mrs. McDonald. Was Candace Harlan well behaved?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  McGaven kept his intensity. “It’s a simple yes or no question. Was Candace Harlan one of those brats?”

  “She was…”

  “She was what?”

  “She was the girl that led the other girls. Know what I mean? The others wanted to be her and wanted to be her best friend.”

  “Okay, I can understand that, but—”

  “She was different,” she said.

  “Different how?”

  “She just was, that’s all.”

  “Who was her closest friend?” McGaven asked.

  Shelly leaned back and some of her forced charm came back. “That’s easy, Tanis.”

  “You mean Tanis Jones?”

  “Of course. They were inseparable. They also shared a room.”

  “I’ve read the missing persons report. You stated that you thought Candace ran away with a boyfriend. Do you remember who?”

  “I don’t know who he was or his name. Just like I told the police officer that took the missing persons report. I. Don’t. Know.”

  “Tell me, Mrs. McDonald… would you know why someone would want Mary Rodriguez or Candace Harlan dead?”

  “What…?” She squeaked out, barely able to keep her composure. “I don’t understand. Candace is… dead?” She spoke in a tone just above a whisper.

  “Does that shock you?” he said, not wanting to disclose anything about the body not being Candace, but most likely her sister.

  “She… it’s just that…”

  “Who visited the girls? Who did they run to when they sneaked out at night? And why would anyone want them dead?”

  “Why would I know? Isn’t that your job to find out?”

  “How long had you been dating one of the police officers that would get dispatched to the mansion?”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about.” She glanced at Katie as if to say, “Aren’t you going to back me up, us women have to stick together?”

  McGaven straightened his paperwork and neatly deposited it into the file folder.

  “You’re leaving?” she asked with a hint of regret in her voice.

  McGaven brilliantly paused and looked directly at Mrs. McDonald. “Do you understand how important a homicide investigation is?”

  “Of course.”

  “More young women could die.”

  She remained quiet, fighting with her conscience or whatever she was trying to hide.

  “And do you understand that I can’t waste time—”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Then start acting like it and answer a few simple questions.”

  “I’m telling you the truth,” she insisted.

  McGaven rose from his chair. He towered over Shelly McDonald. Katie followed McGaven’s lead and got up from her chair, heading for the door.

  “Wait,” she said, urgently. “Look, I did things back then I’m not proud of—drugs, loose sex. But I swear to you that I don’t know where those girls went or with whom.”

  “And were you seeing one of the responding police officers?”

  “Yes,” she slowly said.

  “Name.”

  “Hugh Keller.”

  McGaven tossed a business card on the table. “If you remember anything that might help in the homicide investigation, we might be able to help you sometime.” He turned to the door and knocked twice. “Guard.”

  Katie and McGaven walked out into the parking lot. The sun had broken through the low-lying clouds and it had turned warmer.

  “That was something back there,” Katie said. “You played her brilliantly.”

  “I learned from you. Straightforward. Make them think that you already know the answers. And of course, keep them off balance.”

  “Oh no, I’m not taking credit for that performance. That was all you.” She smiled and got into the car.

  “I just figured that she wasn’t going to give us anything, but she gave up the cop’s name—Hugh Keller. He had a choice of either resigning from the force or going to jail.”

  “Doesn’t sound good.” Katie backed up the vehicle and sped off down the narrow road leaving the correctional facility.

  “He’s managing a bar on the east end of town. Hopefully he’s learned to take his job a bit more seriously.”

  “Makes sense, with his previous behavior, that he got involved with McDonald. Pretty woman, loose attitude, and well…”

  McGaven frowned and said, “I’ve heard stories about him from other officers and I had a few interactions with him personally. I wanted to punch him out, but didn’t.”

  Katie glanced at McGaven. He seemed to manage to surprise her more with every investigation. How lucky she was to have a great partner, with such integrity. “Still waiting for the final autopsy and forensic reports to come in for Mary Rodriguez, but we have plenty to do.”

  “I’m still trying to run down family, place of work, or residence for her. It seems like these girls are invisible. It’s probably why it’s so easy for them to move around undetected.”

  “Yeah, well, not to the killer. He’s tracking them down somehow. And if he’s going after the final six that means there are four more potential victims.” That thought angered and even terrified Katie because she didn’t want to waste any time while another girl was murdered. She stepped on the gas pedal harder, wanting to get back to the office and coordinate their next move.

  “Why do you think the killer murdered them after all these years?” he asked.

  Her cell phone sounded. Katie quickly read the message: Victim positively ID’d as Carol Harlan.

  Eighteen

  The blue paint spilled across the kitchen counter and dripped onto the cracked linoleum floor. It was an accident, of course. I had a school project due and there wasn�
��t any more time to complete it. I didn’t have a friend’s house to go to. No one could know how I lived—with a vicious hoarder who hated everything about me. When I got older, I would leave and never come back. I waited desperately for that time.

  There she was, standing there seething over the mess even though the entire kitchen and living room was filthy, cluttered with stuff occupying every available space—jam-packed. It didn’t matter. She didn’t see it. She only saw the paint that I had spilled.

  “What have you done?” she hissed.

  “It was an accident.”

  “What have you done?” she spat again, taking a long gulp from a plastic glass filled with straight vodka. Her long dank hair, peppered with grey, hung loosely around her face.

  “Please, it was an accident. I’ll clean it up.” I could smell the alcohol on her breath from where I stood.

  “Why do you always do this to me?”

  I began wiping up the counter with used paper towels as fast as I could—the only thing I could find within my reach.

  I felt the tears well up in my eyes, but willed them not to roll down my cheeks. I couldn’t let her see me cry. Never. Never. Ever. Again.

  “You know what this means,” she said with a hint of glee in her voice.

  “See? I’m cleaning it up,” I begged.

  “You think I like punishing you?”

  “Please, no. I promise it won’t happen again.”

  “I’m sorry, but what kind of mother would I be if I let you get away with this?”

  “No.”

  “Go,” she said.

  “Please, no,” I begged again. But I knew what would happen next. I had to go to her room, which stank of the heavy perfumed fabric spray she used to cover the stench of the trash we lived amongst, sickly and sweet.

  “Go…” she commanded, pointing her bony discolored finger.

  I put down the paper towels and walked obediently to her bedroom. That was where she kept it. The special bamboo stick that she would beat me with. Thrashing and thrashing until she was too tired to continue.

  She wasn’t the only one who broke my heart—just the first…

  Nineteen

  Wednesday 1430 hours

  Katie had dropped McGaven back at the office after she had received a call from Shane, the county archivist and researcher. He said he had found many of the original plans and contracts pertaining to Elm Hill Mansion.

  As she drove, Katie reflected on the new information from Shelly McDonald and wondered if it was pertinent evidence, or mere gossip. It didn’t really matter at this point; they needed to run down every lead no matter where it took them.

  First, they needed to understand more about Elm Hill Mansion because both victims were connected to it, and it seemed to be steeped in rumors and abuse allegations that didn’t amount to anything, but that now required some factual answers. Katie needed to know the truth.

  She pulled into the parking lot for the Sequoia County Office Building and made her way to the building and planning department. Opening the grand doors of the old building – which was dated 1884 and still had the historical provenance to prove it – stunning vintage stained glass greeted her as she took the stairs to the second floor, even though she would eventually end up in the building’s basement where the files were kept.

  Shane was waiting for her at the top.

  “Hello, Detective,” he said as he adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses. “It’s so nice to see you again.”

  Katie smiled. “My pleasure. I know who to go to when I need more than just the property information from the Internet or the County Assessor’s Office.”

  “The Internet is so incomplete, even though most people try to use it entirely for their research. That’s the first mistake. Just because it’s on the Internet, certainly doesn’t mean it’s correct.”

  “That’s what makes my job more complicated,” she said. “Lead the way.”

  “Of course.” He gestured.

  Katie followed Shane to the back area of the planning and building department and over to a set of old wooden stairs leading down to the basement. Tucked away behind a door that looked like it should lead to a storage cupboard, the staircase and handrails were part of the original building and creaked loudly as they descended. Katie imagined how the early county clerks must’ve walked these stairs carrying handwritten documents before filing them accordingly. A string of small light bulbs was the only thing that lit the way, swinging slightly as they passed by and casting strange distorted shadows on the walls and steps.

  “The county has promised to install more up-to-date lighting, but somehow, they don’t make any time or money in the budget for it,” he said.

  “I don’t know… I think it adds atmosphere to the building,” she said. But in truth, it made her edgy.

  Katie followed Shane to a rickety landing and then down four more steps to the basement. His thin frame easily navigated the stairs as he must have travelled up and down them thousands of times.

  Once in the basement, the air temperature drastically dropped and there was a hint of moisture to it. Overhead automatic fluorescent lights flickered into life and filled the dank space, making it easy to see. There was also a light breeze from some type of air con or cleaning system pumping filtered air into the area and keeping the temperature constant. There were no windows, making you unaware if it were day or night outside.

  The large room had been shuffled around since Katie had last been there. Large filing cabinets, architecture drawers, open cubbyholes of all sizes, stacked banker’s boxes with perfectly printed names and corresponding letters and numbers, two large mahogany desks, two desktop computers with large scanners, and a long backlit table for spreading out reports and architectural drawings.

  “You’ve been busy since I was last here,” she said. “Wow, I’m impressed.”

  “I’ve finally had some help to move things around.” He moved over to one of the computers. “I’ve just about finished scanning everything from the county from historical properties and houses pre-1930s. It’s taken a while, but now everything is in the county’s database—it’s not open to the public yet though.” He gestured to the empty stool. “Please,” he said.

  Katie was still taking everything in and marveling at how much work it took to organize it. “You’ve done such a tremendous job, Shane—the county is so lucky to have all of this history.”

  He smiled shyly, avoiding her gaze as he tapped a few keys, bringing up several black-and-white photographs.

  Katie took a seat next to him and readied her notebook.

  “Here is a photograph that was taken by a local photographer, Edison Evans. He took many of the area’s landscapes and buildings. Anyway… this is a photo of Elm Hill Mansion located at 403 Elm Hill Road just after it was built in 1894.”

  “I thought it was built in 1895.”

  “The house was finished in 1894, but the landscaped grounds weren’t completed until 1895. The property actually takes in 403, 405, and 407 Elm Hill Road, but its official address is 403 Elm Hill Road.”

  “Amazing…” Katie said as she studied the photographs, noticing how much smaller the trees were. Each image was from a different angle. The mansion was so beautiful and grand, situated high up on the hilltop. The details of the doors and windows were like something out of a children’s story book with intricately cut flower designs and fringing in common art deco motifs.

  There were several photos showing a parlor with a fainting couch and two high-back chairs, an ornate fireplace with the same designs as the windows, and a simple bedroom containing an iron bedframe with a quilt folded neatly across the bottom. Then a photo of two people standing just outside the front door next to one of the main windows on the front porch.

  “Are they the original owners?” she asked.

  “That’s Emily and Frederick Von Slovnick. They were immigrants who came to this country from Germany. Frederick made his significant amount of money in railroads and the
building industry. He built that huge house for Emily where they planned on having many children.”

  Katie studied the couple. They stood stiffly next to one another, side by side, arms straight down at their sides, wearing what most likely were their best outfits. Emily had on a dark dress, ankle-length, buttoned up with a light collar, with dark buttoned boots. No jewelry was visible, not even a wedding ring. Frederick wore a loose-fitting dark suit with a light-colored tie and a slim-fitting rounded hat. The couple both looked solemn and serious.

  “Are there any photos with their children?”

  “That’s where history gets convoluted,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Emily became pregnant several times, but she never was able to carry the baby to full term. All the babies were stillborn.”

  “How awful.”

  “But, I couldn’t find any death certificates to support that—until…”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “Well…” He clicked to more photographs, these showing a horse-drawn carriage pulling a hearse.

  “Did they die?”

  Shane clicked on a newspaper article dated 1911 from the Sacramento Bee: Couple Dies in Unknown Circumstances: Five baby corpses found buried in backyard.

  “I’ve never heard about this before, aside from the usual high school rumors about a woman in a long dress wandering around the grounds like she was searching for something.” She laughed. “When kids got bored of that, no one ever really talked about the place until it was donated for the project to house troubled foster girls.”

  “From everything I’ve been able to find out from newspaper articles and family history online, it appeared that Mr. Von Slovnick poisoned his wife’s after-dinner drink and then took his life as well. You would assume because of the loss of the children, but I can’t find actual proof. That drives me crazy.”

  “Sounds more like a movie plot.”

  “You could see how stories and gossip could easily take on lives of their own over the years.”

  “Definitely.” Katie quickly reviewed the photos again. “This is fascinating stuff, but what does it have to do with the foster home?”