by Dan Padavona
“You’re twisting the facts, Aguilar. Ray Welch attacked me. As I recall, he said unkind words about you.”
“So you defended my honor?”
Thomas laughed.
“More like I subdued him before you kicked his teeth in.”
“That’s more like it.”
Thomas turned the cruiser onto the highway. The sign read four miles to Kane Grove.
“I miss this.”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“The two of us being friends, not just coworkers.” When she didn’t reply, he looked at her. “Just because I’m sheriff doesn’t mean things need to change between us. Lambert doesn’t treat me differently.”
“You trust Lambert’s judgment? He’s the one who convinced us to attend the dance.”
“Good point.”
Thomas pulled the cruiser into the bed-and-breakfast’s parking lot. The Orange Tulip was a sprawling three-story Colonial Revival home, painted in powder blue. The Nightshade River weaved through the countryside a hundred yards beyond the property, and a railed deck along the back offered a water view. Vehicles with license plates from all over the northeast choked the parking lot.
The manager’s office resided inside an addition on the east side of the property. Thomas held the door open for Aguilar, who appeared ready to punch him if he performed another act of chivalry. Gene Maldonado, the Orange Tulip’s manager, was a portly man with a soft chin. He had a snobbish habit of looking down his nose.
“You must be the sheriff who keeps calling me,” Maldonado said, typing at his computer terminal as he avoided eye contact.
“Good afternoon. I’m Sheriff Shepherd, and this is Deputy Aguilar. We’d like to see Justine Adkins’s room.”
He sniffed.
“Do you have a warrant?”
“I can get one. But that will take time, which I don’t have.”
“Is Ms. Adkins in peril, Sheriff?”
“She’s missing, yes.”
Maldonado printed a sheet of paper and slapped it on the table.
“This is the amount Ms. Adkins owes me,” he said, tapping a fat finger on the sheet. The balance read three-hundred dollars. “She paid for the first night up front. We bill the balance to our guests’ credit cards upon checkout.”
“Are you suggesting she checked out without paying?”
“Her belongings are still in her room. If she wants them back, she must pay.”
Aguilar set her arm on the counter and asked, “How do you know her belongings are still in her room?” Flustered, Maldonado returned to his keyboard. “Is it standard protocol to enter your guests’ rooms while they are away?”
Maldonado cleared his throat.
“After her car vanished from the parking lot, I feared she’d run off without clearing her balance. I had no choice.”
Thomas met Aguilar’s eyes. How often did the manager slip into rooms?
“We’d like to see her room now,” Thomas said.
The manager plucked a key out of his desk.
“You’re persistent. I’ll give you that. Follow me.”
Maldonado locked the office behind him and led them up a wooden staircase with a polished banister. Four doors stood on the second floor. He knocked on the third door, a courtesy Thomas doubted Maldonado afforded Justine Adkins before he sneaked into her room.
The quaint room was an odd mix of old world charm and modern conveniences, the antique dresser clashing with the flat screen television mounted on the wall. Glass double doors opened to a balcony overlooking the grounds and the Nightshade River.
“I’ll leave you alone,” Maldonado said, edging out of the room.
Aguilar closed the door in his face without replying.
A leather travel bag lay open on a made bed. Thomas and Aguilar donned gloves before touching anything. He aimed a flashlight inside. The bag held two changes of clothes, suggesting the woman intended to check out the following morning. There was a toothbrush, deodorant, and floss. As Thomas pawed through the bag, Aguilar opened the dresser drawers.
“I never want to visit a hotel again,” Aguilar said.
“Why is that?”
“I wonder how often that happens. Hotel staff entering your room while you’re out and looking through your belongings. Creepy.”
“I doubt it happens often. What do you think of Maldonado?”
Aguilar closed the drawer.
“I wouldn’t want him in my room. But he’s too pretentious to abduct someone.”
“Is that a rule? Kidnappers can’t be snobs?”
She thought for a moment and shook her head.
“I can’t picture Maldonado kidnapping Justine Adkins. What’s his motivation?”
“What was Norman Bates’s motivation?”
“Touché. Perhaps we should investigate Maldonado’s mother.”
Thomas spoke into the radio on his shoulder.
“Lambert, you there?”
“I’m right here, Sheriff,” Lambert said over the radio.
“Find everything you can on Gene Maldonado, the manager of the Orange Tulip in Kane Grove.”
“I’m on it.”
“And after, cruise past Paige Sutton’s residence in Wolf Lake before she vanishes too.”
Aguilar and Thomas searched the room for any clue that would lead them to Justine Adkins. The path led to a dead end before Thomas felt something in the side compartment of Justine’s travel bag. Unzipping the compartment, he fished two items out of hiding. The first was a folded receipt from a Wolf Lake florist. Who would Justine purchase flowers for?
The second hidden item made Thomas pause.
He picked up the beaded friendship bracelet.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Friday, August 13th
3:20 p.m.
Thunder groaned beyond the hills, as a black mass crossed the sky and blotted out the sunny afternoon. Scout gave a wary glance through the guest house window when the wind picked up, churning the lake.
She typed at the keyboard, ignoring the building storm. Thunder made her edgy. The deafening crescendos sounded too much like the crash that left her paralyzed from the waist down. Beside her, LeVar fiddled with his phone.
“I thought you wanted to help with this investigation.”
He set the phone in his lap.
“I am helping.”
“Ever since Anthony called, your head hasn’t been in the game.”
“Easy now, Ma.” He turned the phone off and set it on the card table. “There. Happy now?”
“Don’t call me Ma. If I want to son you, you’ll know.”
He leaned his head back and laughed.
“Aight, Scout. You don’t gotta do me like that.” He nodded at the screen. “This that alumni forum you were jawing about earlier?”
“The unofficial Wolf Lake alumni forum, yes.”
He scooted his chair forward and scanned the thread topics.
“Ten bucks says this is more Tinder than Facebook.”
“Couples looking to hook up and live out their high school days?”
“Bet.”
She entered Skye Feron’s name into the search bar and pressed the return key. LeVar squinted at the screen.
“Only four results,” he said, tapping his fingers on the desk.
“Ah. I see the problem. The default settings only go back three months. We’ll change that.”
Scout clicked on the advanced search settings and changed the duration to six years. After she clicked the mouse, the results filled seven pages.
“That’s more like it. What do the messages say?”
Scout clicked a message, in which a woman named Jessica prayed for Skye’s safe return. Other messages offered theories about the girl’s disappearance.
“These posters watch Murder, She Wrote too often.”
“What the hell is Murder, She Wrote? That on HBO?”
“Never mind.” Scout brushed the hair off her forehead and changed ta
ctics. Typing Paige Sutton’s name into the search bar, she scrutinized the results. “Lots of topics. Tell me if you notice her screen name.”
“I don’t see her. It’s like she didn’t create an account.”
In a second browser window, Scout typed the web address for the Wolf Lake Library. She chewed a nail as she worked. Her eyes stopped on her quarry—a digital version of the Wolf Lake High School yearbook from Skye’s senior year. Paige Sutton’s face showed up everywhere. Candid photographs, the football and basketball cheer teams, the prom committee, student government. It didn’t take a private detective to deduce Paige was incredibly popular.
And yet she wasn’t active on the alumni forum.
Scout returned to the forum and located the screen name directory. She searched under P and S.
“That’s weird. Why wouldn’t the most popular girl at Wolf Lake High sign up for the alumni forum?”
LeVar rested his chin on his fist.
“Probably she’s too good for them. Feels the forum is beneath her.”
Scout issued a noncommittal groan.
“Or Sheriff Gray was right, and Paige Sutton has something to hide.”
“Click on that yearbook again. I wanna check something out.”
Scout brought up the yearbook window and slid the mouse to LeVar. After he located the cheerleader team pictures, he ran his finger over the names.
“Staring at the pretty girls, LeVar? Bet you’re into pom-poms.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re a sicko?”
“I’ve been called worse. What are you looking for?”
“Her,” LeVar said, tapping his finger on the monitor. “That’s Justine Adkins. She was on the cheerleader team with Paige Sutton. I bet if you examine the pages, you’ll find Justine in as many pictures as Paige. Pretty and popular. Does she have an alumni account?”
Scout checked the forum.
“No.”
“Damn. What are they hiding?”
“Let’s try something else.” Scout’s fingers flew across the keyboard. “I’m querying the website for posts mentioning Paige and Justine together.”
Their names appeared in posts dating back six years.
“Click on that one,” LeVar said, gesturing at a thread titled, Whatever Happened to Skye?”
Scout sat forward. A poster named Webb-WLHS referred to Paige as a bitch and claimed Justine slept with half the school.
“Interesting.”
“Some gals never get over the catty stuff.”
“Hey.”
“No offense. Whoever this Webb-WLHS is, she hates Paige and Justine.”
“Or is Webb-WLHS a he?”
“Check the yearbook.”
Scout couldn’t locate anyone named Webb in the senior class. A check of the sophomore and junior classes came up empty too.
“Maybe Webb-WLHS missed picture day,” said LeVar, studying the photographs.
“Or Webb-WLHS is a sock puppet account.”
“A what?”
“You really need to learn about tracking people online, if you intend to go into law enforcement. A sock puppet account is a fake user name. They’re usually generic sounding and help the user blend in.”
“So is this person a former student disguising her name—”
“Or his.”
“Or his,” he said, rolling his eyes. “But is Skye’s killer stalking the forum?”
“I’ll check the person’s profile.” She clicked the user name. Whoever Webb-WLHS was, the person neglected to include a name, photograph, or class, as the other members had. “Nothing. This person is a fraud.”
“The name could mean the user graduated in 2014. Now what?”
“We check what our stranger posted over the last several years.”
LeVar shifted his chair and read the messages as Scout opened them.
“In every message, this person has something nasty to say about Paige and Justine. Check this out. Those whores ruined Dawn’s life.”
Scout tapped her hand on the mouse.
“Who is Dawn?”
“She must be a classmate.”
After a thorough check of the senior class, Scout and LeVar couldn’t find anyone named Dawn. Nor did the girl exist in the underclassmen photographs.
“I don’t know,” Scout said, sitting back in her wheelchair. “It’s conceivable this Dawn girl attended another school.”
“Kane Grove or Harmon?”
“Those would be my guesses.”
LeVar turned his phone on. As soon as it rebooted, the phone buzzed with new messages.
“Anthony again?” she asked.
LeVar chewed his lip.
“Yeah.”
“What do you intend to do?”
“I gotta help him. Darren and Raven don’t understand. He was like a little brother to me.”
Scout turned the wheelchair to face him and set her hands on the chair arms.
“LeVar, promise me you won’t go back to Harmon without talking to Thomas first.”
“Bet.”
“I mean it.”
“Chill, Scout. You ain’t gettin’ rid of me that easy.”
But as LeVar walked outside to return Anthony’s call, Scout knew her friend was lying. She had to stop him. The Harmon Kings would kill LeVar on sight.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Friday, August 13th
4:10 p.m.
Maggie, the station’s administrative assistant since Thomas was a high school intern under Sheriff Gray, was packing her bag when Thomas returned to work. She swiped her orange-brown hair off her shoulder and examined her face in a handheld mirror. Then she noticed him and stuffed the mirror inside her bag.
“Oh, Sheriff. There’s a woman waiting to see you. Deputy Lambert showed her to the interview room.”
“Any idea who it is?”
“Someone worried about Justine Adkins.”
It had to be Paige Sutton. Thomas thanked Maggie and wished her a pleasant weekend. In the kitchen, he grabbed two bottled waters and carried them to the conference room, hoping the woman would open up to him this time.
Paige Sutton sat with her back to Thomas inside the interview room. He caught the woman chewing her nails as she peered through the window toward the village center. Afternoon sunlight poured into the room and painted yellow triangles against the carpet. The palm in the corner wilted from neglect.
Thomas rapped his knuckles against the door and pulled it open. Paige stood and straightened her skirt.
“Please, sit.”
Paige gave him an uncertain nod and lowered herself into the chair.
“Water?” he asked, offering her a bottle.
“Thank you.”
Thomas took the seat across the table from hers. The woman’s eyes were drawn and girded by dark circles. She kept glancing at the window, as if she expected something to burst inside and drag her into the unknown. He’d run a background check on Paige Sutton and found a DUI from four years ago. Otherwise, her record was clean. She held a steady job with the Paris fashion company, and none of her neighbors complained about her.
“What can I do for you, Ms. Sutton?”
“Call me Paige.”
“All right.”
She stared at the table and composed her words. When she lifted her head, Thomas saw tears glazing the woman’s eyes.
“You found Justine’s body, didn’t you?”
Thomas studied her from across the table.
“Why would you say that?”
“Because it’s happening again. Just like six years ago when Skye went missing.”
“What’s happening again?”
“The kidnappings and murders.”
Thomas set his hands on the table.
“We don’t know where Justine Adkins is, and we haven’t identified the body from the state park. Had you spoken to Justine since she returned to Wolf Lake?”
“Just once. Wednesday morning, we met for coffee in the village.”
“I thought the two of you were friends.”
Paige’s hand moved to her wrist. She touched the friendship bracelet.
“We are.”
“Before Justine returned, how often did you speak?”
Paige ran a hand through her blonde hair as her lower lip trembled.
“Not often.”
“By not often, do you mean once a month, once a year?”
The woman looked away. She unscrewed the cap on her water bottle and drank, the bottle quivering in her hand.
“Not since high school graduation.”
“Did something happen between the two of you?” She didn’t answer. “Paige? If there’s something important you’re holding back that will help me find Justine, tell me now.”
Paige’s eyes wouldn’t sit still. She kept glancing everywhere, except at Thomas.
“We drifted apart after we lost Skye. It was too difficult for us to bear.” She pawed through her bag and dabbed a tissue beneath her eyes. “When I saw Justine at the cafe, it was like the old days. She’s stubborn and keeps to herself. But she opened up to me. After I didn’t hear from Justine, I sensed something was wrong. So I called her last evening and got her voice-mail. That’s when I contacted your department.”
Thomas wasn’t sure how much he wanted to share with the woman. If someone kidnapped Justine, Thomas needed to find her quick. The first forty-eight hours were crucial, not only because murder rates increased beyond that time window, but also witness accounts grew foggy after two or three days.
“We found Justine’s Acura at the KG Shopping Market in Kane Grove.” He paused and studied Paige, waiting for a reaction. “According to her credit card company, she purchased groceries at ten-twenty-three, and the assistant manager remembers her.”
“What happened to her?”
“That’s what we’re trying to determine. The assistant manager claims a dark colored van almost ran him down around the time Justine left the store. Do you know anyone who drives a black or dark blue van?”
Paige swallowed.
“Should I?”
“Paige, tell me who wanted to hurt Skye during high school. Because if the same person broke into your house and kidnapped Justine, you might be next. I can’t help you unless you’re straight with me.” The woman didn’t reply. Her haunted expression peered through the walls, as though viewing a reality only she could see. Thomas sighed. “When I sat down, you were certain we’d found Justine’s body. Why?”