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

by Heather Sunseri

  He shook his head. “Should I?”

  “She was last seen at the Thoroughbred Motel Friday night.” I turned my head slightly and indicated the direction of the motel behind Ethan’s bar.

  “I don’t recognize her. Who is she?” he asked.

  “Wife of the warden of the Kentucky State Penitentiary.”

  He cocked his head and smirked. “What? Because I was wrongly convicted and sent to Eddyville, I’m supposed to know who the warden’s wife is?”

  “Was,” I corrected.

  “What?”

  “She’s dead,” Coop said.

  Ethan said nothing for several beats. And though the lights inside the Spotted Cat were dim, I thought his face paled.

  “Where were you Friday night?” Coop asked.

  “I was here.”

  “The whole night?” I asked.

  “Yep. And my entire staff and several of my regulars can verify it.”

  I smiled. “Good. Do you see many drugs pass through your fine establishment?” I glanced around the room. Ethan had been spot on. Ten or so tables were now filled with people having drinks.

  “No. If I witnessed customers with any sort of illegal substance, they’d be asked to leave immediately.”

  “What about your employees?”

  “Absolutely not. I don’t do drugs, and I don’t allow drugs inside the Spotted Cat. I can’t speak to what they do on their own time, but if I discovered any of my employees doing drugs before or during their shift, they’d be fired immediately. Every one of my employees knows this.”

  “How very righteous of you,” I said.

  “I don’t break the law. I never did.”

  My right hand twitched before forming a fist. Just because Ethan was wrongly convicted, didn’t mean he hadn’t broken at least one law.

  “Tell us,” Coop said. “Do your employees enter through the back door, or do they mostly come in through the front?”

  Ethan narrowed his eyes, showing a bit of surprise by the question. “Mostly through the front, why?”

  “We have a witness who saw someone—most likely a man—walk from the Thoroughbred Motel to the Spotted Cat Friday night and enter through your back door.”

  Ethan remained silent for a moment, his face unreadable. Before speaking, he gave his head a shake. “Sometimes staff sneak out back for a smoke break, but I certainly don’t remember anyone that didn’t work here coming in through the back door Friday. That door typically remains closed and locked from the outside. However, it was a busy night, and I certainly wasn’t playing bouncer for the back door.”

  Switching subjects, I asked, “What can you tell us about the Whiskey Mafia?”

  Recognition passed over his face. He started to speak, but stopped himself. After several beats, he finally said, “Why are you asking?”

  “Because you spent some time at the Kentucky State Penitentiary. We know the Whiskey Mafia is the strongest gang in the Kentucky prison system, and plenty powerful on the outside as well.”

  “You think they’re involved with the murder of the warden’s wife.” It came out as a statement, not a question.

  “It’s an angle we’re looking at.”

  “Well,” Ethan chuckled under his breath. “I’ll tell you one thing I know about the Whiskey Mafia. And then I want you both to leave.”

  Coop and I remained silent while we waited for Ethan to speak.

  “The Whiskey Mafia has wide reach inside and out of the prison system. And they don’t take kindly to members—and especially nonmembers, now that I think about it—speaking about their organization. Now, if the two of you will excuse me, I need to get to work.”

  I glanced at my watch, then to an empty table. “You mind if we sit over there and have a drink?” I pointed to the empty table on the far side of the room where Coop and I could survey the activity inside the Spotted Cat.

  Despite appearing irritated, he answered with a gruff, “Suit yourselves.”

  TWELVE

  FAITH

  Armed with a bottle of bourbon, a glass, and my laptop computer, I sat at my dining table.

  After being questioned by Detective Fish, I couldn’t wait to get home, change into some sweats, and pour myself a drink.

  I turned on my computer and slid the flash memory card into the card reader slot. Though I’d been rushed through the crime scene, I’d managed to capture more than a hundred photos, which quickly popped up on the screen. I began sorting the photos into categories and separate folders based on the room where they were taken or a particular object in the photo.

  Then, one-by-one, I went through the images, scrutinizing each one.

  They were hard to look at. I’d known Steven. He was my best friend’s husband and father to an adorable little boy. I hated knowing that Danny was being forced to grow up without his father.

  I hadn’t been as young as Danny, but I knew what it was like.

  Though it was nearly impossible, I squeezed my eyes shut and quickly shoved those thoughts into their own little box, then concentrated on the bigger problem at hand.

  Right now, at the KSP post in Frankfort, Penelope was being interviewed—interrogated, more likely—by Detective Fish and her partner about the circumstances that led to her husband’s death.

  And while I scrolled through the crime scene photos, one after the other, I couldn’t stop wondering why Detective Fish had asked if I’d sent photos of my travels to Penelope and Steven.

  Truth was I hadn’t, because I didn’t want anyone to know where I was. I didn’t even allow others to take photos of me for fear that I would end up on social media and identified in some way.

  While I didn’t have hard proof that someone was following me, I always had some sixth sense that I was being watched. This made me careful about having my picture taken or shared.

  I only remembered one photograph of me being taken during the past year.

  I stared at one of the crime scene photos and attempted to dissect the scene for the tiniest of details, then scrolled to the next. I lifted my drink to my lips and tasted hints of caramel and oak as I stared at the wine glass on the Champagne’s coffee table.

  Had Penelope only had one glass of wine? How much Ambien had been in her system? Unfortunately, I couldn’t tell from the photos how much wine was left in the wine bottle. And I couldn’t be sure whether she’d swallowed a pill or if someone had crushed up the Ambien and put it into the wine.

  By the powder residue on her countertop, I guessed it was the latter. Forensic tests would give investigators a good idea.

  I moved on to another picture. Her living room was mostly as I remembered it. Her father had built Penelope and Steven the large built-in set of shelves that housed their television with ample room on either side for books, picture frames, and tchotchkes.

  Then I saw something that looked… off.

  A picture frame.

  I set my glass of bourbon to the side and sat up straighter before zooming in closer on the image.

  Penelope’s style of decorating the home she shared with Steven and their son was a comfortable mix of shabby chic and country cottage. Yet, the picture frame on the bookshelf in the living room where Steven was murdered looked rustic. The weathered wood frame screamed more mountain cabin than beachy chic. It certainly didn’t match Penelope’s typical aesthetic in her living room.

  The rustic wood formed a vertical rectangle around a photo of two people. I enlarged the crime scene picture further. “It can’t be,” I whispered.

  But it was.

  It was a photo of me and Darren Murray, a friend and the owner of Mountain View Dude Ranch in Colorado. He had allowed me to park my trailer and live on his ranch for a brief period. In return, I took photos of the ranch for his website and other marketing materials.

  The photo sitting on Penelope’s bookshelf was probably the only picture I’d allowed anyone to take of me over the past year.

  Yet, there I was in a photograph that only one other
person in this world could possess.

  I pushed up from the table and paced while I called Darren. He didn’t answer.

  Tapping my phone against my forehead, I wondered aloud, “Why does Penelope have that photograph of Darren and me?”

  I debated with myself on what to do next. I could call Penelope. However, I assumed she was still being questioned by detectives. I figured she or Myra would call me when they left the state police post.

  Next, I considered calling Detective Fish, who was probably tied up interrogating Penelope.

  She, too, probably thought the picture frame looked out of place. As did the actual photograph. Why would Penelope have that photo on display and not pictures of her own family?

  The answer was simple: she wouldn’t. And a good detective came to that same conclusion.

  My next question was, could I even trust Detective Fish? She hadn’t trusted me enough to directly ask about the photograph of Darren and me.

  But I had to trust someone, didn’t I? They were currently questioning my best friend for murdering her husband.

  Just as I pulled Detective Fish’s business card from my pocket and started to dial her number, Myra’s face and name appeared on my screen.

  “Myra,” I said in answer. “Please tell me they didn’t arrest her.”

  “No, but they’re definitely targeting her as a suspect. And they made no secret of the fact that a police officer would be following her at all times. Glenda Fish basically told us that either Penelope killed her husband, or someone else did and tried to kill Penelope at the same time.”

  “So either she’s a murderer who needs to be arrested,” I said. “Or she’s in danger because a murderer screwed up and might come back to finish the job.”

  “Exactly.”

  “It seems unlikely that someone would fail to kill Penelope but succeed with Steven. Which brings me to why I was just about to call Detective Fish.”

  “You were?”

  “Yes. She stopped me as I was leaving the hospital today and asked me a question that I found very strange at the time.”

  “Which was?”

  “She asked me if I had given Penelope and Steven any photos of my travels. Did she mention this while questioning Penelope?”

  “As a matter of fact, she did. She showed Penelope a framed photo of you and a man. Penelope said she’d never seen the photo or the frame before, which was highly suspicious considering that the photo was discovered in her house.”

  “After Fish questioned me, I went home and started pouring through the pictures I had taken. That’s when I saw the frame that looks nothing like Penelope’s decor, and when I zoomed in, I discovered that photo. I did not give her that picture, Myra.”

  “How would she have gotten it?”

  “I have no idea.” I pressed my palm against my chest where my heart was beating wildly out of control. “I tried to call Darren, the man in the photo, but he didn’t answer. Something feels terribly wrong, Myra.” For the first time during the conversation, my voice cracked. “How did that picture get there?”

  As I asked the question, the crushing realization that this attack might not have been about Steven and Penelope overwhelmed me.

  I backed up a couple of steps and braced myself against the kitchen counter.

  The killer left that photo there for a reason. Someone was sending me a message.

  “Faith?”

  My voice sounded like it was coming from deep inside a tunnel. “Someone tried to kill my best friend. And they wanted to send me a message in the process.”

  “Listen to me, Faith.” I could hear Myra, but her words no longer made sense to me.

  “Someone went after my best friend to get at me.” I continued to talk through what I was thinking. I didn’t care if Myra was listening any longer. “I had run away and hidden. So, they hurt my friends instead.”

  “Dammit, Faith, listen to me.”

  “Am I responsible for this?” I slid down the front of the kitchen cabinet until I was sitting on the floor, my knees to my chest. “I can’t breathe!”

  “I’m coming over!” That was the last thing I heard Myra say before the phone slid from my grip.

  As I held on to my knees, I rocked. And I thought about how Aubrey had murdered people responsible for turning a blind eye to abusers of women and children. And how Finch had killed my stepfather and mother, accident or not, because they had known about Ethan’s intentions with me.

  The memories of so many people’s deaths flooded through me—deaths I’d been connected to. I couldn’t stop the avalanche of destruction that my hyperthymesia caused.

  All I could do was grieve. Again and again.

  THIRTEEN

  LUKE

  Shortly after Coop and I sat at a table at the Spotted Cat, Ethan said something to one of his waitresses. She approached us, and while looking down her nose at us, begrudgingly took our orders.

  Since we were taking up real estate, we ordered soft drinks, which probably pissed Ethan off. But we were on duty, and I honestly didn’t care if we riled up Ethan.

  Our waitress continued to be overly attentive while Coop and I took in the atmosphere of the club, watching the comings and goings. It was mostly couples who settled in for more than one drink.

  Except for the occasional glance our way, Ethan ignored us.

  “Decent crowd for a Sunday,” Coop said as he traced the condensation on his glass.

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “Business is good, even without live music.” According to a sign outside, Ethan hosted live music Thursday through Saturday, with occasional special performances on other nights.

  We’d been at the Spotted Cat for almost an hour when Kirk waltzed in through the main entrance. I double tapped my glass on the table and got Coop’s attention, then nodded in Kirk’s direction.

  Kirk went immediately to Ethan, leaned in, and whispered into Ethan’s ear. Ethan nodded, then brushed past Kirk on his way toward the back. I knew from my past experience that Ethan had an office in the back, and once upon a time, he actually lived there.

  That fact piqued special interest in Alice’s statement that someone in a hoodie had entered through the bar’s back door. That back door was located inside the office, so not accessible to just anyone.

  I knew Ethan had purchased a modest home in a nearby neighborhood over the summer, so he no longer lived in the back room of the Spotted Cat, but I assumed he still used the space as an office.

  A lot of things bothered me greatly about Ethan Gentry, but currently at the top of the list was that I had no doubt in my mind that he had purchased this particular bar and the nearby house based on its close proximity to Paynes Creek, while still technically being in Lexington.

  While I couldn’t find evidence to prove Ethan had stalked Faith during the past year, I still didn’t like or trust Ethan. And he would never convince me that he cared for his former stepsister in any healthy way. Not since I’d learned he had raped her when they were seventeen. I would never forgive him for that.

  “What do you make of Kirk?” Coop asked me, bringing me out of my thoughts about Ethan.

  I started to answer him when my phone lit up on the table with a number I didn’t recognize. “Luke Justice.”

  “Agent Justice, this is Myra Harlowe.”

  Why was the attorney Faith had gotten for Penelope calling me? “Yes, Miss Harlowe. How can I help you?”

  “It’s Faith,” she said, and my heart skipped a beat at the tone in her voice.

  I stood, motioned for Coop to pay for the drinks, and started across the bar. “What about Faith? What’s wrong?” I spoke louder than I should have. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ethan’s head jerk to attention as he watched me head for the door.

  “She’s in trouble, and she always told me to call you if something ever happened. I’m at her home. She needs you.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Coop insisted on driving, and I didn’t argue since he promised to d
rive fast along the tree-lined back roads that led from the edge of Lexington to Faith’s land in Paynes Creek.

  The skies were dark. Thick clouds covered the sliver of moon, and few stars shone. Coop’s bright headlights lit up the entrance to Faith’s family’s land that she now owned solely.

  When Coop slowed on the gravel drive in front of Faith’s Airstream, I looked toward the soft glow of a dim light coming from inside. When he finally parked, I darted from the truck and ran toward the trailer.

  I didn’t bother to knock as I swung open the door and stepped into the small space.

  Faith was sitting on the floor, holding her knees and rocking back and forth. Tears stained her face, her chest heaved—alternating between heavy breaths and stunted sobs.

  Kneeling beside her was a woman I assumed was Myra Harlowe. She stood when I burst in. “Oh, thank God. She’s been like this for more than an hour. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t get through to her.”

  I hadn’t seen her this way since the day she confessed to me what happened the night Ethan broke her trust, which happened to be the same night Faith’s mom and stepfather were killed and her childhood home burned to the ground.

  I knew that Faith relived bad memories every single day as if they’d only just occurred, but she didn’t often have this serious of an episode.

  “What happened?” I asked as I squatted beside Faith. I started to touch her but wasn’t sure how or if it would be welcomed.

  “There was a picture frame at Miss Champagne’s house. The police questioned her about it. Faith says no one should have had it.”

  Myra’s words made no sense. And this was the star attorney who was supposed to represent Penelope? I stared up at her. “What kind of picture?”

  Coop appeared in the doorway. “Can I help?”

  “Who are you?” Myra asked bluntly.

  Coop didn’t miss a beat. He held out a hand. “Special Agent Cooper Adams.”

  “Oh,” she said, taking his hand. “Sorry. I’m Myra Harlowe.”