Psycho Hill (JP Warner Book 3)

by Derek Ciccone

  He seemed a little too comfortable with our interview, so I decided to change that, “Do you know Poca Dohasan?”

  His eyes widened. “Of course.”

  “Have you seen her recently?”

  “Wow … let me see. I’d say it’s been thirty years or so. I think the last time was at the ceremony for my father, when he died. The times I do go back to Rockfield are usually spent visiting my sister.”

  “When was the last time you visited Bette?”

  “This morning,” he said without hesitation.

  Interesting that he’d lie about seeing Poca, but not Bette. But I saw the reasoning—Doc Mac had witnessed him visit Bette, and denying it would catch him in a lie. But he didn’t think anyone knew about his visit to Poca.

  I thought to show him the photo that I’d taken of him entering my brownstone, but I didn’t think that would be helpful to the process. In the meantime, he had a question for us, “Why are you interested in Poca? Do you think she’s the one who killed Archibald?”

  “She was the last one to see him alive, so we decided to start with her. When we interviewed her this morning, she said you had met with her in New York yesterday,” I said.

  I watched for his reaction to my fib. His face remained calm, but I noticed a shake in his hands.

  “You must be mistaken,” he said.

  “Maybe I got you confused with your brother. Did you meet with Woodrow when you were in New York?”

  His expression turned to disgust. “We rarely talk when he comes here to visit our mother—I’m certainly not going to seek his company on the other side of the country.”

  “You went to visit Bette, so I thought maybe it was a family obligation.”

  “I visit Bette because I like Bette. I don’t visit Woodrow because he’s a pretentious twit. It’s not that complicated.”

  “Do you think that your brother could have been involved in what happened to Thomas Archibald?” Gwen asked.

  He laughed. “You mean, do I think he killed him? That would require Woodrow to get his hands dirty. I’m quite confident it wasn’t him.”

  “Which brings us back to Poca,” I said.

  He looked confused, but this time I saw a tad of worry in his brow. “You really believe she was able to kill this hulking football player that was double her size? She then somehow got his car into the water, and was able to sink it to the bottom of the river?”

  “I never said that. But I think she knows who is behind it, and might have even assisted them.”

  I held my stare on him a few awkward seconds, just to let him know that I knew.

  “One person we can rule out is you,” Gwen played good cop. “According to the police report, you had an alibi—your roommate Preston Ranney at the Ranney School.”

  “Quite a coincidence that he had the same name as the school,” I said.

  “Not really—his father founded the school,” Joe replied.

  And the Hastings family was one of its biggest contributors, which makes alibis much easier to be purchased … just saying.

  “Do you still keep in touch with Preston?” Gwen asked.

  “Absolutely—we speak a few times a week. The friends you’ve had for that long are special.”

  “Ever meet his son … Bryant Ranney?” I asked.

  He laughed again. “Is that what this inquisition is about? The claims Bryant made some years ago? When it was discovered that Bryant had an addiction problem, he enrolled in my rehabilitation center, but he didn’t arrive willingly.”

  “His father forced him?”

  He nodded. “Bryant hated his father for it. So in an attempt to get back at him, he claimed I confessed to him that I’d killed Thomas Archibald, and that Preston had lied to cover for me. But if you would have researched the entire ordeal, you would know that once Bryant became sober, he retracted all statements, and didn’t even remember making most of them.”

  “How well did you know Thomas Archibald?” I asked.

  “He was a classmate. We ran in different circles—he was a great athlete, while I was more about drama club. The jocks and nerds didn’t really cross paths much in those days, but everybody knew everybody in Rockfield.”

  I was about to take out the photo of him and Archie hamming it up at the Rockfield Fair, when Joe Jr. glanced at his watch—his hands still shaking. “I just stopped home to drop off my luggage before heading up to the rehab facility. I hope I answered all your questions—I’d invite you to come with me, but once again, I must adhere to privacy issues.”

  Those damn privacy issues I always have to find a way to get around.

  Chapter 59

  The Monterrey Peninsula is loaded with great restaurants, stretching from Carmel to Pebble Beach, and I thought Gwen and I had earned an ample meal. I also had a big surprise for dessert. My heart began to thump, suddenly feeling the nerves.

  But Gwen had other plans. “We need to follow him.”

  “What for? Like he said, we won’t have access to the rehab facility … privacy issues, remember?”

  “He’s not going to the rehab facility. Well, he might stop off there, but it’s not his final destination.”

  So we followed his Mercedes SUV up CA-17 in our Kia. The northern California traffic was living up to the hype, so remaining out of Joe Jr.’s sight wasn’t that difficult.

  Just over an hour later we reached a town in the foothills of the Santa Cruz Mountains called Los Gatos. We continued on CA-17, ascending into the mountainous, and much more desolate area, which increased the challenge to keep from being spotted.

  CA-17 is the shorter route through the mountains, but filled with sharp curves and blind corners, making it one of the most dangerous roads in the state, unlike the safer US-101. It reminded me of the choice between Main Street and Zycko Hill that I always seemed to be on the wrong end of.

  The rehab facility was located down a long, gravel driveway with No Trespassing and Private Property signs posted. There was no way for us to get inside. So all we could do was find a clearing along the side of the road, and to wait, out of sight, as we tested Gwen’s theory.

  We didn’t have to wait long—fifteen minutes later, the SUV was on the move again. She flashed me a quick “I told you so” look, which was my cue to continue following.

  Joe Jr. continued along CA-17, reaching its summit of nearly two thousand feet, and then began the winding descent, eventually merging onto I-680. Where was he going? By the looks of things, Vancouver. All I could do is keep following at a safe distance.

  “We’ve talked to most people involved over that last day and a half, and they all have one thing in common—they’re all worried,” Gwen said, breaking my focus on the road.

  “With the ghost of Archie returning, shouldn’t they be?”

  “No.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because when you’re prepared for the test, you’re not worried. Only the kids who didn’t study are.”

  “I thought I was the one who spoke in riddles?”

  “If that car had been in that river all these years, and they’ve been aware of it, they had fifty years to prepare their answers. But they’re acting like it’s a pop quiz.”

  She had a point—secret meetings, flying across country—it came across as being in panic mode. Which brought me back to my “rogue nuke” theory.

  “I also find it interesting that Poca and Woodrow appear to be in conflict with each other, but Poca and Joe Jr. seem like they’re on the same team,” Gwen went on.

  Another interesting point. Joe Jr. did sound like Poca’s defense attorney, and went out of his way to create reasonable doubt that she could have killed Archie, who was “twice her size.” And he questioned whether Woodrow would “get his hands dirty.” On the other hand, Woodrow couldn’t wait to throw Poca and Joe Jr. under the bus. And if Joe Jr. was the one who killed Archibald, why would he be so eager to defend other suspects?

  The deeper we got into the possibilities, the more I
needed a drink. So it was fitting that we had reached the city of Napa, in the heart of wine country. It was there that Joe Jr. picked up the Silverado Trail, which was a main wine testing route of the region. And forty scenic minutes later, we arrived in Calistoga, a town located at the top of Napa Valley. Its Main Street had the quaintness of Rockfield, but with the rustic charm of an 1800s western town. There were also many inviting looking restaurants that caught my eye.

  But Joe Jr. soldiered on, and we followed. Where the hell was this guy going!?

  The answer was a drive up Diamond Mountain. We maneuvered up the steep terrain at a safe distance, before Joe arrived at a wrought iron gate that displayed the logo WSW. The gates opened electronically and he drove through.

  Gwen didn’t need the Internet to research the logo. She was a wine aficionado, and knew that it stood for Ward Seifert Wineries. She informed me that Ward Seifert was a big deal in the wine world. I had never heard of him—I was a beer guy, and beer people and wine people rarely cross paths. But I did know that a winery seemed like a dangerous place for a recovering alcoholic to go. Had our visit literally driven him to drink?

  More likely, it was one of his private house calls.

  We pulled to the side of the road onto a narrow shoulder, far enough away from the winery so that it didn’t look like we were loitering … or stalking. We fought the late afternoon glare of the sun, and tried to think what our next move was. I just hoped it involved food.

  A knock on the car window startled us. For a second I thought to drive off, but the young woman certainly didn’t look threatening. I was taught in my former career to never trust looks or words, only actions. But I risked it, and rolled down the window. “Can I help you?”

  “Mr. Seifert would like to invite you inside—he said any friend of Joe Hastings is a friend of his.”

  Chapter 60

  Rockfield

  Woodrow Hastings returned to his Rockfield estate on Monday evening. He was as tired as he could ever remember, but he was being pushed by a strong stimulant—fear.

  This was his first private moment since the car was discovered in the river on Saturday. He had wanted to check out the gravesite that night, but was paranoid that he was being watched. Sunday was spent being interviewed by Gwen Delaney, and then attending the premiere. And today he was stuck in meetings in the city. But his mind remained here.

  That’s not to say that his time with Gwen wasn’t productive. He might have been the interviewee, but he was doing some digging of his own. And he got the answers he needed, even if he didn’t like what they were.

  He entered the house, and the smell of perfume led him to the kitchen—he wasn’t as alone as he’d hoped.

  He found Jill in one of the outfits she would normally wear when she’d go clubbing—one that would have gotten a person arrested back in his day. She gave off the impression that she was in a hurry.

  “Woodrow … I thought you were traveling to LA … for the west coast premiere?”

  He removed his jacket and hung it neatly over a chair. “I was tired, and figured that Nap and Louisa can handle it. Premieres are about the stars, anyway—not some old fuddy-duddy who put up the money for the film to be made.”

  “I imagine spending so much time with a bore like Gwen Delaney would make anyone tired.”

  He ignored the comment. “Where are you going?”

  “To meet an old friend in the city. She just went through a tough breakup, and I thought I’d take her out for a night on the town to get her mind off it.”

  He smiled. “You are a loyal friend. It’s such a lost quality. Do you want Claude to drive you?”

  “I was planning to drive myself.”

  Just as he thought. He walked up to her and kissed her on the perfumed cheek. “Give my best to … this friend of yours.”

  “I will,” she said, and headed for the door, her heels clinking across the kitchen floor. He watched her every step, knowing full well where she was really going.

  She stopped suddenly and looked back to him. “I forgot to mention that Bethany has called numerous times looking for Lewis—said she hasn’t been able to reach him at home, or at the Inn.”

  He wanted to think that Lewis was doing what a man should do when his wife and children were away on vacation. But knowing his son, he sadly doubted it. He made a note to call the needy Bethany and ease her mind. If not, his drama queen daughter-in-law would probably have the police pay a visit in search for Lewis, and that was the last thing he needed tonight.

  He thanked Jill, but she was already halfway out the door. He grabbed his phone and dialed Bethany, receiving no answer. As he prepared to leave a message, he rummaged through the mail that had been left on the counter.

  Mostly bills, but one item caught his eye. It had no stamp or postmark—it hadn’t been sent. Someone had put it there.

  After the beep, he left a quick message, making up a story that Lewis was overseeing the installation of a new irrigation system at the golf course, so he’d be unable to reach her today, but just wanted to let her know that he was fine.

  His attention quickly returned to the envelope. He tore it open to find a letter. It was short and to the point:

  I thought we had buried the hatchet, but I was wrong, so I buried your son instead. I traded him in for a Studebaker Lark. Sincerely, The Curse.

  Darkness began to engulf the farm, but the moon provided just enough light to find his way to the isolated clearing that was marked by his father’s headstone. His thoughts were on the unmarked plot next to his father, where the secrets had been buried.

  The loose dirt indicted that the plot had been recently dug up. And if that wasn’t proof enough, a shovel was stuck in the ground like a flag marking a territory. Lewis’ things were scattered around the area—a watch, his wallet, and cell phone.

  He rolled up his sleeves, and took hold of the shovel. He then dug with panic, but also with the knowledge that if Lewis was really buried here, it would be a lost cause—there was no way anyone could last that long without air.

  That wouldn’t stop him—he dug, and dug, and kept digging with a strength and stamina he didn’t know he possessed, no matter how much pain tinged his seventy-year-old shoulders.

  Until the shovel hit metal.

  He reached into the hole and pulled out a hatchet with a note attached to it.

  Change of plans. They always rip you off on the trade-in, anyway.

  If you’re still looking for Lewis, perhaps he ended up at the bottom of the river like Thomas Archibald. Or maybe he’s in need of medical help, but it’s been denied, like Bette. Sincerely, The Curse.

  Woodrow stared at the hatchet, perspiring with anger. It represented Poca and the Samerauks. But she didn’t have the access or opportunity to bury it here, unlike Joe Jr.—his surprise weekend trip was now starting to make sense.

  They were the three remaining witnesses from that night. And now two of them had teamed up against him, setting him up to take the fall. Turns out the story he told Gwen Delaney wasn’t a lie, but a premonition.

  There was another item buried here. He looked down to see the exposed top of a car, colored a mixture of red paint and rust. The car that was pulled from the river wasn’t Archibald’s car after all. He wondered about the body. But he realized that it didn’t matter.

  There was definitely a “third party” involved that instigated the matter—one of the few things that he and Poca had ever agreed on—someone outside those who were there that night. The purpose of that individual or individuals wasn’t clear at the time. But now he knew it was to revise history … and who better to do that than two professional storytellers the likes of JP Warner and Gwen Delaney.

  They were connected to every piece of this. Gwen was the one to “solve” the hoax at the bridge, which was probably much easier since she and Warner were the ones behind it. And her best friend, Allison Cooper, was the person present when the car was “discovered” in the river.

  And it
was no coincidence that Poca chose to meet him in Warner’s brownstone. He’d believed her when she told him that the surveillance system had been disconnected, thinking that she wouldn’t want anyone else to hear what was said in that meeting. But Warner went out of his way to let him know that it was operational, when he just happened to show up unannounced at the premiere.

  Warner claimed he was doing a story about the Archibald case. But when Woodrow looked at the object in his hand, he realized he was doing a story all right … a hatchet job. And one that was going to leave him rotting away his final years in prison if he didn’t act quickly.

  If there was any doubt left, he received a phone call from Vaz Salvador. Earlier today, he had provided him the important puzzle piece of Joe Jr.’s trip back east this weekend. The deplorable leach was turning out to be quite useful.

  “JP Warner and his girlfriend showed up unannounced at the house in Monterrey. They were grilling your mother and Joe Jr. about some missing guy named Thomas Archibald. I also tracked your brother when he left. As usual, he headed up to that vineyard in Napa Valley.”

  Joe Jr. was such a fraud, Woodrow thought. He pretended to be at that rehab facility, helping others with their sobriety, but he couldn’t even help himself. He was actually hiding away in Napa, getting drunk. A bar wasn’t enough for his brother … he needed an entire vineyard!

  “He wasn’t the only one to show up there,” Vaz continued.

  Woodrow knew exactly whom he meant. “Good work,” he said, and ended the call.

  This was all-out war. And there was only one way for him to respond. It was what he should have done years ago.

  His first call went to Jill, to change her plans for the evening.

  The next call would be trickier. It reminded him of the day that his own father had sat down him and his brother to explain the truth about who they were, and their obligation to defend their way of life when they were attacked. And just as his father had done, he laid out the mission … which was accepted.