Secret is in the Bones (Paynes Creek Thriller Book 3)

by Heather Sunseri

  “Well, I hope he or she makes an appearance tomorrow.”

  “Me too!” she agreed. “Me too.” And she went back to planting.

  I waltzed into Coop’s home office. He had his computer screen turned around to face two guest chairs covered in green velvet fabric in front of his rustic, solid wood desk. His main desk chair was covered in rich, worn leather, and behind the desk was a large, custom-framed cork board that stretched the width of the room. Coop and I had used the wall for evidence in the past, but the wall had gotten a makeover, and was void of evidence at the moment.

  The walls were white. The wood floor was covered in a richly patterned rug. And the large set of windows that looked out onto the front porch were flanked with a set of curtains that perfectly completed the room.

  In the center of the ceiling was a modern, five-light globe chandelier that complemented the rustic woods and the rich fabrics.

  But then again, what did I know?

  “I like what Lily did with your office.”

  Coop looked around. “I thought it was fine before.”

  “You had plywood propped up on sawhorses for a desk,” I chastised.

  “It was highly functional.”

  I plopped down into one of the club chairs. “Yeah, but this is so soft and comfortable.” I rubbed the arms of the chair.

  “Don’t get too comfortable.” He eyed me sideways, then finally agreed. “Yeah, Lil has a knack for decorating. That chair you’re sitting in? Lil found the pair at an estate sale for a hundred bucks each.”

  “You’re kidding,” I said, but it was clear I had no idea what I was talking about. “Is that a deal?”

  He shook a finger at me. “That’s what I asked, which resulted in a slap to the head by Barb Kaufman. You know, Lil’s grammy.”

  “I know Barb. She brought me a chicken pot pie after I got settled into your barn apartment. She said it was to officially welcome me to Paynes Creek.”

  “That’s Barb.” Coop typed a few more things before the screen on the desk changed, and up popped a video of Special Agent in Charge Clarissa Thomason.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she said.

  I sat up. Coop and I said our greetings, made a minute of small talk, then Agent Thomason got right to it.

  “I know you each have some minor assignments you’ve been working, but I’m pulling you both into another case. You’ll work together, and you’ll answer directly to me.”

  We both nodded.

  “How familiar are you with prison gangs in this country?”

  “Some of the assholes I arrested in the human trafficking rings I’ve worked to bust the last several years are part of one particular gang,” Coop offered. “I know they have ways to contact each other no matter where they are in the system. And they use their time on the inside to recruit help.”

  “I only know what I’ve read or learned at the academy,” I said. “I know prison gangs are highly sophisticated operations, and many wardens think gangs actually keep order in some of the harshest prisons, rather than adding to the chaos.”

  “Well, I’ve got one warden who wished he hadn’t let a certain gang gain too much power.”

  “Meaning?” I asked.

  “Ed Parrish is the warden at the Kentucky State Penitentiary in Eddyville. He and his team of correctional officers recently organized a raid after an inmate assaulted one of the officers working the night shift. They raided the cells of one section of the prison and uncovered more than ten gallons of pruno, which is home-brewed hooch, in case you didn’t know. They also seized more homemade weapons than they could count and over thirty cell phones.”

  “That’s a lot of contraband,” I said.

  “Yes, it is. And the warden believes members of the Whiskey Mafia, an offshoot of the Aryan Brotherhood, weren’t happy about the raid.”

  Coop shrugged. “No disrespect to you, Agent Thomason, but why do we care about some unhappy Class A felons?”

  “Because the warden thinks the Whiskey Mafia retaliated by putting a hit out on his wife.”

  Coop and I shifted. “Why does he think this?” I asked.

  “Because his wife’s dead, and the warden received a note he believes to have come from members of the Whiskey Mafia.”

  “What did the note say?” Coop asked.

  “It was made with cut out magazine lettering and said, ‘Hug your kids. They’re next.’”

  “How’d his wife die?”

  “Well, the coroner has ruled Mrs. Parrish’s death an accidental overdose.”

  “Overdose?” Coop said.

  “Apparently, Mrs. Parrish had known drug problems in her past, but the warden claimed she’d been clean for the last nine months.”

  I pulled a notepad from my pocket and began making a few notes. “What did she overdose on?”

  “Fentanyl.”

  I stopped writing and looked at the screen. “That’s a serious drug.”

  “Yes. And not one Mrs. Parrish was ever known to use. She was typically a prescription opioid abuser, but nothing as serious as fentanyl. The warden said she got hooked on oxycodone after she had back surgery and suffered chronic pain after. She entered rehab nine months ago, and according to the warden, she’d been doing great.”

  As I made a few more notes, Coop asked, “So, what happened?”

  “Mrs. Parrish was discovered unresponsive in a motel in Lexington two nights ago.”

  “Lexington?” I sat up straighter. “How did we not hear about this?”

  “She wasn’t identified until this morning. We’ve done our best to keep her death out of the news so far.”

  “What would you like us to do?” Coop asked.

  “I’m sending over a writeup of the evidence collected from the motel, and a transcript of an agent interviewing the warden. I’ve got agents working the forensics collected by Lexington PD. I want the two of you to find out everything you can about the Whiskey Mafia. I want to know who the leaders are and how they operate inside the prison and out. And, for the love of Mary and Joseph, find out how they communicate.”

  SIX

  FAITH

  I hated leaving Penelope to defend herself to the two KSP detectives while lying vulnerable and grief-stricken in a hospital bed. I also didn’t think it was a good idea to hang around waiting for the investigators to discover that I had paraded through their crime scene, and that I was now speaking to their key witness… Or suspect, more likely.

  I called the only defense attorney I knew before leaving the Paynes Creek Memorial Hospital parking lot.

  Myra Harlowe.

  She didn’t answer, so I left a message.

  “Hi, Myra. I’m sorry it’s been a while.” I glanced up at the ceiling of Leah’s car while I considered what to say to one of my longest and dearest friends. But I was currently wrestling with a huge dose of guilt that I’d stopped returning her calls during Finch’s, Aubrey’s, and Uncle Henry’s trials. Talking about how my family had completely destroyed any trust I had in those closest to me was too painful at the time.

  But now I needed her. Penelope needed her.

  After several moments of silence, I continued. “Look, I have a friend in trouble. I think you can help her. Call me when you hear this, and I’ll fill you in.”

  After I hung up, I tapped my phone to my forehead, berating myself for not calling Myra over the summer. Deep down, I knew Myra wasn’t one to hold a grudge. She and I had been through too much together, and we’d seen each other through some of our darkest hours, including the period after my mom was killed.

  Before returning to Aunt Leah’s, I made a trip to the grocery store to pick up some items she needed and to grab us something for dinner. As I placed my items on the checkout belt, I felt eyes on me. Two women stood in the middle of an aisle, their hands cupped over their mouths, and they were looking at me as they whispered.

  I’d been whispered about in the past. This was hardly new. And it was often by people who barely knew me. But
these were mothers of girls I went to high school with.

  It could have been about my distant past, about my brother or my uncle, or it could have had to do with Penelope. It was anyone’s guess.

  But I wouldn’t have to guess, because one of them—Paula Shepherd—approached me with a swagger. She was a middle-aged woman who wore polyester-blend dress pants, a satin blouse that tied into a bow around the neck, and an oversized blazer that attempted to hide how overweight she’d become. “Hi, Faith.” She crossed her arms. “Haven’t seen you around much lately.” The twang in her gravelly voice seemed thicker than I remembered. Maybe it was because I’d been out west and around people without that small town, southern drawl. A twang in someone’s voice didn’t typically bother me like hers did in that instance.

  “Mrs. Shepherd,” I said as a greeting. I wouldn’t call my tone warm, but it didn’t invite conversation either. Not that it mattered to the busybody before me.

  “Miss.”

  “What?” I asked, confused.

  “It’s Miss now. I kicked that asshole husband of mine to the curb last year.”

  “Oh. Okay. Can I help you?” I really wanted to help her by telling her that her hair stylist had terribly botched her last root job.

  “As a matter of fact, you can tell me why you’re back.”

  The little hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. “I’m sorry?”

  “Are you? It seems every time you’re around, there’s trouble. And this town doesn’t need any more trouble.” She spit the word “trouble.”

  The woman who had just been gossiping with Miss Shepherd—Rhonda Blake, mother to Tabitha Blake Green, the bitchy teenager that once had a crush on my step-brother Ethan and hated me—sidled up next to Miss Shepherd. “Come on, Paula. Leave the poor girl alone.” Mrs. Blake was a much more attractive woman, dressed in a stylish pair of jeans, simple V-neck sweater, and a pair of flats. She attempted to pull her friend away, but without much conviction. And there was no doubt in my mind that she had just been adding to the gossip mill moments earlier.

  “Poor girl, my ass,” Miss Shepherd scoffed, then stepped closer, getting way too close to my face. The girl who had been ringing up my groceries shifted on her feet, waiting patiently for me to pay.

  A man with spiked brown hair stood nearby, pretending to sort through the magazine rack. If I had to guess, he was probably early- to mid-thirties, but maybe younger. He looked as if he’d had a hard life and had aged fast. His dark brown—almost black eyes—peered at me from behind a neighboring counter. And there was something familiar about him.

  “You listen here, Faith Day,” Miss Shepherd continued, bringing my attention back to her. “I’m going to be mayor of Paynes Creek come November, and I will not let a troublemaker like you wreak havoc on my community.”

  I slid a glance to Mrs. Blake before locking eyes with Miss Shepherd. I wanted to tell this woman that if I was her biggest concern, then this town really had gone to shit. Instead, I turned and swiped my credit card to pay for my groceries, then turned back to Miss Shepherd and Mrs. Blake and smiled. “You ladies have a nice day.” I turned and took the receipt from the poor, frightened sales clerk.

  The young man who had been watching the confrontation with intense interest turned and left the store ahead of me.

  As I followed the man, Mrs. Shepherd screamed at my back, “Everyone in this town knows that Penelope killed that poor husband of hers. Why else would they bring in the state police to investigate?”

  The rumor mill sure hadn’t taken long to grind up all the facts and spew out a pile of crap. It took everything in me, but I ignored her statement of Penelope’s guilt.

  As I started to push my cart away, I turned back. “Miss Shepherd, I really do look forward to voting this November. Tell me, who’s running against you?”

  Miss Shepherd turned red in the face. She stepped forward and opened her mouth to say something. Mrs. Blake put a hand on her friend’s arm, stopping her. The check-out clerk bowed her head in a feeble attempt to hide her smile.

  I walked slowly out of the grocery store, determined not to let anyone who’d witnessed that confrontation—and most importantly, Miss Shepherd or Mrs. Blake—know that Paula’s words had gotten under my skin.

  But as I all but threw the groceries in Aunt Leah’s car and slammed the door, I knew at least one person continued to observe my frustration with Miss Shepherd—the man with the dark eyes sliding into an old pickup truck on the other side of the parking lot.

  I used the drive to Aunt Leah’s to take long, deep breaths in and out—to meditate on keeping the negativity of that conflict out of Aunt Leah’s home. She was doing her best to make something of her and Oliver’s life without Uncle Henry to help, or more importantly, Oliver’s parents.

  I was loaded up with ingredients for a salad and spaghetti, plus a week’s supply of formula and some baby cereal to add into Oliver’s diet. Hopefully, a bit of mush would help Oliver sleep for longer periods of time, which, in turn, would help Aunt Leah get more uninterrupted sleep.

  When I arrived back at Aunt Leah’s, I persuaded her to take a book and a candle up to her bathroom and enjoy a long, relaxing bath. As much as I would have enjoyed the same self-care, Aunt Leah deserved a moment to herself.

  While she took that moment, I made us a spaghetti dinner, and I fed Oliver. I was tired from the day, but I had seen Leah earlier. She appeared more exhausted, and I promised myself when she won custody of Oliver that I would do everything in my power to help.

  I pushed the altercation with Miss Shepherd from my mind the best I could. Instead, I ruminated on why witnessing Luke’s established relationship with Oliver bothered me so much.

  I’d been here a lot in the months since Oliver was born. I’d helped Aunt Leah decorate a nursery for Oliver and to get the supplies she needed. I’d spent some nights here to give Aunt Leah opportunities to sleep when Oliver was particularly fussy.

  At first, helping Aunt Leah with Oliver had been a chore—a chore I’d wanted nothing to do with, seeing as the baby’s mother had tried to kill me, and the baby’s father had killed my mother. Even if it was an accident.

  Eventually I accepted that it wasn’t Oliver’s fault who his parents were. This baby deserved to be loved.

  But how had I missed the fact that Luke had found his way into Aunt Leah’s and Oliver’s life? How had we not crossed paths these past four months? That was nothing short of a miracle.

  But an even bigger question was: what was I going to do about the fact that he had become a part of Oliver’s life?

  Leah came downstairs wearing a silk robe. She looked relaxed, and she smelled of lavender. I was sitting in a wingback chair in her office giving Oliver a bottle. She had already bathed him before I arrived, and he was nearly asleep now.

  Leah stood in the large doorway between the kitchen and her office. “Dinner smells delicious.”

  “It’s one of my specialties, thanks to you,” I said softly, careful to not disturb Oliver. He was still sucking away on his nighttime bottle, but his eyes were closed, and he was so relaxed. Every minute or so, one of his feet would twitch inside his navy blue and white striped footed pajamas.

  He really was a beautiful baby—the best thing my brother ever did. I wondered if Finch would agree at this point in his life.

  Aunt Leah sat on the edge of the sofa near me and placed a hand on my knee. “Honey, I’m sorry I betrayed you. I would never have told Luke where you were, but I couldn’t drive out to be with you, and I wanted someone to be there with you when you learned about Penelope and Steven.”

  I covered her hand with mine. “It’s alright, Aunt Leah. He was bound to figure it out eventually.”

  “Why didn’t you tell him?” she asked. “Why do you feel the need to avoid Luke?”

  I stared into her thoughtful eyes. “I honestly don’t know anymore.” I let my gaze drift back toward Oliver. “And it doesn’t really matter. With what’s happened, I’m th
inking I’ll move back to the farm. It was inevitable anyway. Penelope is going to need me. And it just makes sense with how much time I spend here—how much time I want to be around you and Oliver.”

  “You know… Luke is living in Cooper Adams’s barn apartment. He comes by every so often to say ‘hello’ and spend time with Oliver. He’s so good with Oliver.”

  When I didn’t say anything, she continued. “At first I thought it was strange, and I suspected he was fishing for information, but he never asked where you were. He always asked about you, in a polite sort of way, and he always called first. If I knew you were stopping by, I would put him off. It was almost like he knew and respected the fact that you didn’t want to see him.”

  I thought about that. Had he known I was in the area? He said he didn’t use his FBI resources to locate me.

  I gave my head a shake. It didn’t matter. My reasons for staying away no longer mattered while my friend desperately needed me.

  Besides, I’d even considered making the farm my permanent home. I’d shifted my photography in recent months, selling some of it via stock photography sites, and I’d even sold some of my more beautiful landscape photographs to art collectors.

  While I still wanted to travel for my photography, I was becoming increasingly drawn to the prospect of settling down. While Paynes Creek had its faults, I wanted to be near Leah and Oliver. And now, I knew Penelope was going to need a friend more than ever.

  As Oliver’s mouth relaxed and he relaxed into a deep slumber, I handed Aunt Leah the nearly empty bottle. Then, I stood and held Oliver close to my chest, gently patting his back, hoping he’d burp before I put him down.

  “Be right back,” I said softly. “The salad is in the fridge.”

  Oliver’s nursery was decorated in soft grays and dark wood furniture. Above his crib was a mobile I’d found in a fabulous boutique in Colorado. When he woke, he’d be looking up at dangling, plush animals. Elk, black bear, mountain lion, and bison were all represented—all of Colorado’s finest wildlife.