Bed of Bones (A Sloane Monroe Novel, Book Five) (19 page)

She curled her toes, stared at the floor. “There is one thing. He had a familiar looking face.”

“Familiar…like someone you’ve seen before?”

“Not alive, no. One of the items we had on display at the museum was a newspaper clipping. Chester Compton’s face was on the front page. That’s who he looked like.”

CHAPTER 39

Willie Compton.

Grandson of Chester Compton.

Could he be alive?

Did insanity run in the family?

I did some quick math on my fingers, guesstimating Willie would be somewhere around seventy years old now. This gave me every reason to believe he was alive and kicking. Maybe Willie had returned to Park City, or maybe he’d been living here all along. I needed to find out, and fast.

If Willie masterminded the killings, he hadn’t done it alone. The gruff, headstrong man I spoke to on the phone was younger by at least twenty years or more. I tried to piece it all together, make it fit, but there were holes in my theory.

I phoned an old real estate contact named Bridget Peters. A couple years earlier, I’d saved her from having her throat slashed by a money-hungry woman she’d once considered a friend. Since then Bridget had become a broker and opened up a real estate office. I was curious if Willie owned any homes in the area. She said she’d look into it and get back to me.

I made a left at the next street, headed toward the mountains.

“May I ask where we’re goin’?” Cade asked.

“Chester Compton had a ranch up here. No one lives in the house anymore, but I want to take a look at it anyway.”

Finding evidence at Chester’s Compton’s ranch, sitting there, waiting for me, wouldn’t happen. It was a dead-end. Investigators had picked it apart. Twice. But I hadn’t heard back from Bridget. And I didn’t have any better ideas.

At the entrance to the Compton place, logs had been erected in front of the gate. In the center, a round piece of wood dangled from two weathered chains. In the center of the piece of wood, a “C” had been carved.

We arrived at the worn-down ranch house to find my suspicions were right. The property was as deserted as a 1990s drive-in. I expected the house to match the rustic property it sat on. It didn’t. With four white pillars lining the front and a fireplace on each side of the two-story home, it looked like something out of
Gone with the Wind
. The colonial style had been the wife’s decision, no doubt. I jiggled the handle on the front door. It was unlocked. I entered.

“What are you hopin’ to find?” Cade asked.

“I just wanted to get a feel for the place. We’re here, why not?”

The inside of the house was almost the same temperature as the outside, making me wish I’d added a few more layers to my ensemble. I looked around. Few furnishings remained. A striped hide-a-bed, littered with mice droppings and rips, sat in an otherwise empty living room. There were holes in the walls, the floor, and the ceiling. Even so, I imagined in its day, it was a spectacular sight to behold. Now it had been left to rot, just like Chester Compton.

Cade explored the main level while I went upstairs. I crossed my arms in front of my chest as I ascended, fearing if I nudged the railing, remnants of the ceiling the railing was attached to would spill down on top of me. The idea of decade’s worth of dust sprinkling into my hair wasn’t appealing.

My phone sounded when I reached the top of the stairs. It was Carlo. I didn’t want to answer, but I did anyway.

“How’d you do it?” He sounded agitated.

“Do what?”

“Sneak out? I got a call from Officer Jennings this morning saying when he knocked on your door, you didn’t answer.”

“It’s not hard to slip past a cop in a patrol car when he’s sleeping,” I said.

“Son of a…Are you kidding? Where are you?”

“Out. And you don’t need to send someone to look for me. I’m fine.”

“You’re so stubborn, Sloane.”

A commendable quality.

“I have my own back up,” I said. “So tell the sleeper thanks, but no thanks. We’re just fine without him.”

“
We
meaning the hot-shot detective from Wyoming? He hasn’t left yet?”

I wasn’t sure what to say, so I said nothing.

“Where are you, really?” he said. “The Sundance Killer is insane. Don’t think just because you got Shelby back he won’t harm you.”

“He won’t come after me, Carlo.”

“He
will
murder again, and soon.”

It wasn’t what he said, it was how he said it that startled me. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry.”

“Tell me.”

“All right,” he said. “Give me your location and I will.”

Too easy. There was a good chance he wouldn’t tell me after he got what he wanted. But I’d started going numb from the cold air. I saw no reason to stay.

“I’m at the ranch house. Chester Compton’s.”

“We’ve searched every inch of his place. Why are you there?”

“I don’t know.”

As a private investigator, I didn’t always share every piece of information I had with the long arm of the law. Sure, it meant I failed to cooperate. I suppose it was my civil duty to be forthcoming with regard to potential evidence, but in the past I’d learned there were some things you offered and other things you didn’t—not until you were sure they’d lead somewhere. It kept others from pilfering my leads. And besides, I’d never shared well with others.

“The Compton place is a dead end,” Carlo said. “So I’ll ask again—what are you doing there?”

“Wasting my time. We’re leaving.”

“And going where next?”

I didn’t know yet.

“I told you where I am. If you want the valuable information I was given this morning, tell me what’s happened.”

The tables had turned. Now to see how badly the squirrel wanted the nut.

There was a long pause, followed by a hefty sigh. “A fourth woman is missing. We believe the killer has her.”

“Shouldn’t every female with the slightest connection to the movie be under police protection?”

“Not this one,” he said.

“Why?”

“The girl’s name is Angela Rivers. She has nothing to do with the movie itself. We didn’t know about her.”

“She’s connected to something or someone.”

“Angela Rivers was Brynn Rowland’s best friend. She arrived yesterday from Los Angeles. Brynn had given Angela tickets to see the movie before she left. We don’t think she knows Brynn is dead.”

“What makes you think the killer took her?”

“Her rental car was found abandoned on the side of the road. It had a flat tire, and the driver’s-side window was smashed in. The car doors were locked. We think she got the flat after stopping somewhere, probably courtesy of our killer. When he came up behind her, it’s possible she saw him and locked the door.”

“It could be him, but if she wasn’t part of the movie, there would have to be something else to make you think there’s a connection to the other killings.”

“Taped to the steering wheel of her rental car we found another scripture reference. Proverbs 6:14:
Frowardness is in her heart, she deviseth mischief continually; she soweth discord.
We looked it up. It’s exact except he replaced the “he” for “she”.

“Soweth discord. It makes me wonder.”

“What?”

“Whether she knew Brynn was pregnant. She must have. Up to now he’s only taken women affiliated with the movie. Have you processed the car yet?”

“Same as always. We found nothing.” He paused. “Your turn.”

“I have reason to believe Willie Compton had someone steal the artifacts from the museum, the ones relating to the original murders.”

“William Compton? Chester’s grandson?”

“Yes.” I gave him a short, one-minute speech explaining what Butch told me about the break-in. “Based on what we know about the killer, Willie’s too old.”

“Unless he has help,” he said. “Maybe he has kids. Hell, maybe the whole family is certifiable.”

“We need to find him. Whether he’s involved or not, I believe he knows something.”

“If he did take her, you don’t have much time.”

“That’s not our only problem,” he said. “We notified the families of the victims last night. One of them was irate enough to run their mouth to the press.”

“You knew you couldn’t keep it quiet forever. At least people know Melody is innocent. Maybe it’s a good thing.”

“The last thing I wanted to do was give this asshole any media attention.”

A call beeped in. Bridget.

The Compton ranch in Park City had been passed down to Willie when his father died, but he also owned a townhouse in Bountiful, Utah, about an hour away. Halfway through writing down the address, I heard voices downstairs. At first I assumed Carlo had either sent someone over or had been en route while we were on the phone together. Then someone shouted, “Stay where you are! Don’t move!”

And it wasn’t Cade.

CHAPTER 40

I crept down the timeworn stairs, my gun drawn. Halfway down I caught a glimpse of Cade. He stood in the living room, hands up, facing an older man with white hair. The white-haired man was dressed in denim overalls. He had a rifle pointed at Cade’s chest.

“Who are you?” the man shouted. “Why are you here?”

“You first,” Cade replied.

“I have a right to know why you’re in my house. You’re not dressed like a cop. So who are ya?”

Bountiful, Utah, had come to me. How convenient.

“His name is Cade McCoy,” I said. “Mine is Sloane Monroe. He’s a detective, I’m a PI.”

A caught-off-guard Willie Compton shifted in my direction just enough to acknowledge my gun. He kept his rifle on Cade. The mention of my name didn’t seem to mean anything to him. If he was our killer, it should have.

“And you,” I said, “are Willie Compton. Grandson of Chester Compton. Now that we’re acquainted, set the rifle on the floor.”

It occurred to me my request might be too much to ask. From the looks of him, it was possible he no longer had the ability to bend over.

“I want my questions answered first.”

I reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

“Why can’t I talk to
him
?” he asked, head tipped toward Cade.

“I’m the one with the gun. Why are you here?”

“I saw my grandfather’s property on the news. A chopper was filming it from the air. I want to know why.”

“You don’t know what happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“I take it you didn’t watch the entire broadcast?”

He shook his head. “Soon as I saw it, I got in my truck. You gonna tell me what’s going on?”

This time he gazed at me just long enough for Cade to lunge forward and battle Willie for the gun. It wasn’t much of a fight.

“Don’t hurt him,” I said.

“Wasn’t going to,” Cade replied.

Willie’s palms went up. “Aww hell.”

“I’ll answer your questions,” I said, “but first I want you to answer some of mine.”

“Why would you? I just had a rifle on your…Cade here.”

“I don’t believe you would have shot him.”

“Don’t you?” he said. His mouth formed a crooked smile. “Guess you’ll never know now. If you’re going to ask questions, let’s get on with it.”

“Did you hire Karin Ackerman to steal from the museum?”

“I might have. What’s it matter?”

Blatant honesty was just one of the things I lauded in old-timers. At least he didn’t deny it.

“It’s important,” I said. “I need to know.”

“Why? Because the theater blew up and now everyone’s curious? What’s it got to do with me?”

“Everything.”

He crossed his arms. “Oh…I see. You’ve seen the film, haven’t you?”

“You know about the movie?” I asked.

“Melody what’s-her-name came to my house, yammered on and on about how she needed my help to get the story right.”

“Did you?”

“Slam the door in her face? Sure did.”

“What do you know about the explosion?”

“I saw it on television just like everyone else. What are you getting at?”

“You hired someone to steal,” I said. “You could have also hired someone to blow up the theater.”

He pointed at himself. “You think
I
had something to do with it? So now I’m a killer because my grandfather was one?” His bottom lip trembled. He reached up, attempted to cover it with his hand. “What my grandfather did…to this day, it sickens me.”

The emotion seemed genuine. I wanted to believe he was telling the truth.

“If you’re innocent, explain what happened at the museum.”

“A year ago or so there was a write-up in the paper. A movie was to be made about the murders at the mines. I remember sitting in my recliner thinking it couldn’t be true. After all these years, why would anyone want to drudge up the past? Then
she
started calling, and when I refused to talk to her, she came to my house.”

“Melody Sinclair obviously valued your input,” I said.

“I’ve lived my entire life harboring regret over what happened to Leonard. For over fifty years, I’ve relived the same nightmare night after night. You’d think it would go away after a while. It never did.”

Losing my own sister had taught me the same thing.

“First to lose a brother,” he continued, “then to find out my grandfather, the relative I idolized most, killed seven women then traipsed around like he’d done no wrong. I’ve had more sleepless nights than all the years of your life. And you think I’d waste the remainder of it killing more innocent people? I don’t want to remember my past. I want everyone else to forget it as well.”

If Willie was telling the truth, the Compton apple had fallen several acres away from the tree, and Willie wasn’t like Chester at all.

“If you didn’t bomb the theater, who did? Who else had motive?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think you do,” I said.

“You’ve been wrong about everything else. Why stop now?”

“You still haven’t explained Karin Ackerman.”

I felt like a parrot, just press record and pull the string. How many pulls would it take to get an answer?

“Did she tell you I did it?”

“She gave me a physical description,” I said. “It’s easy to see she was describing you.”