Bed of Bones (A Sloane Monroe Novel, Book Five) (2 page)

Distraught, Melody had almost decided to take her career in another direction. But that had all changed one night when she was approached by a dark, wavy-haired man at a movie after-party. His opening words to her had been, “I don’t believe I’ve ever met a woman with eyes such a unique shade of green.” At first she’d dismissed him, thinking it was nothing more than a cheap pickup line. But then her eyes met his bold, unwavering gaze.

He can’t be serious. Can he?

The man’s natural air of confidence commanded the room, even though his eyes locked on hers. “I’m Giovanni.” She opened her mouth to speak, but he stopped her. “And you are Melody Sinclair.”

She glanced down at his extended hand, noticing the shiny, oval-shaped ring on his pinkie finger. A semester in college studying Roman history taught her that signet rings worn on the pinkie finger had once symbolized power and authority. Whoever this man was, he definitely fit the bill.

“How did you know my name?” she asked.

“I know the names of all my guests, especially those who know my brother.”

She waved the fluted glass of champagne in front of her, unaware that the single flick of her hand had caused the overpriced liquid to spill over. “Carlo is your brother? And this is…your house?”

An hour later the two sat side by side on a sofa in a private room. The conversation turned to the movie they’d seen that night, and Melody confessed she’d tried making her own film that year, a film she now referred to as an “epic failure.”

“The great question is not whether you have failed, but whether you are content with failure,” he’d encouraged her.

She giggled, running the tips of her fingers over her lips. “Did you come up with that yourself?”

He shook his head. “It’s a Chinese proverb. You made one movie. It was unsuccessful. Make another. And
keep
making them until you achieve what you set out to accomplish in life.”

Months after their brief encounter, a winter vacation led her to Park City, Utah, a thriving community that had once been an abandoned ghost town. Having been abandoned herself as a child, she felt right at home. And when one of the old-timers started chatting about the town’s colorful history one evening at a local bar, she soon discovered Park City was much more than she realized. It wasn’t just home to what had once been known as one of the world’s richest silver mines—it was a town with a deadly past.

One year later Melody submitted a new film.
Bed of Bones
was accepted as one of eight “Park City at Midnight” films to be screened at the festival. And now here she was, mere moments away from watching her precious baby premiere in front of a sold-out crowd.

“I heard this film is based on a true story,” a man who sat one row in front of her said to the ginger-haired woman next to him.

The woman let out an obnoxious noise that sounded more like a shrill cackle than anything else. She faced the man, the look on her face indicating she viewed him as a babbling imbecile. “Oh, I doubt it, Stuart. I’ve never heard of this kind of thing happening here. Not in Utah. You know how film makers are these days. They take one fact from history and weave ninety minutes of pure fiction around it to sell tickets. Nope. Never happened. I’m sure of it.”

“It was over fifty years ago, Gladys,” he responded. “You weren’t alive then. How would you know?”

Gladys crossed her arms in front of her, plopped them down on her oversized belly, and hissed loud enough to make the elderly couple a few seats over glance in her direction. She jabbed Stuart with her elbow. “I wasn’t around when Jack the Ripper hacked up all those half-naked ladies of the night either, but I know about him.”

Stuart sighed, tipping his chin toward the ceiling, wondering why he’d bothered speaking in the first place.

A man resembling Tom Selleck back in his
Magnum, P.I.
days appeared on stage, his presence generating a titillating reaction from the females in the room. A wave of excitement ripped through the air until the women in the audience leaned a little closer to the edge of their seats. Then one by one, they all reclined back, realizing it was a false alarm. Whoever this man was, he wasn’t Thomas Sullivan Magnum IV. The man flattened a hand over his forehead like he was saluting and eyeballed the crowd.

Melody glanced at the man sitting next to her. “That’s my cue. Thanks for being here for me today, Giovanni.”

Giovanni smiled and placed a hand on her leg, his pinkie ring noticeably absent. “Anything for a friend.”

Melody exited the theater through the back-door, taking the hidden corridor on the side that led to the stage. The passageway was narrow and dark. Melody swished a hand from side to side in front of her, attempting to maneuver her way through the darkness. A faint noise vibrated in the distance. It sounded like a tin can being kicked on a concrete floor. “Hello, is someone there?”

The noise stopped.

Melody kept moving.

Then she heard something different.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Melody stopped.

“Hello? Is someone there?”

A firm hand reached through the darkness, gripped her right arm, and squeezed. She gasped, jerking her hand back. She had an overwhelming urge to run. But where? And why? Who was this person, and why had he tried to place a stronghold on her arm?

A deep, male voice penetrated the pitch black passageway. “Right this way, Miss Sinclair.” A flashlight clicked on, leading her out of the veil of darkness toward the stage. When she reached the safety of the stairs, the man released her. She turned, wanting to ask him about the strange noise she’d just heard, but it was too late—he’d faded back into the darkness. The Tom Selleck look-alike caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye and said, “And now I’m pleased to present the director and screenwriter of
Bed of Bones
, Melody Sinclair.” Although rattled, she knew the show must go on. He nodded, passed her the mike, and backed away. The audience applauded. She stepped forward, making sure not to walk
too
fast. She’d never forgive herself if she tripped now. The piercing glow from the strobe light overhead zeroed in on her place on the stage, where she stood, nervous inside. In seconds, the clapping ceased, and the room quieted to a low hum.

Melody reached into her blazer pocket, her fingers fumbling around for her glasses. They weren’t there. She cleared her throat and held the mike in front of her. “It’s an honor to be here today with all of you. Many years ago, I contemplated giving up filmmaking forever. Then someone gave me a piece of advice that stayed with me to this day, and I learned it’s never too late to achieve your dreams. To the film students in the audience…no matter how many times you fail in this business, keep trying. Never lose your passion—it’s the driving force that makes life worth living.”

A generous applause sounded from all sides of the room. Not the thunderous roar an actor hears when their name is read for an Academy Award, but to Melody, it was no different. She paused, wishing she could hone in on the red-haired skeptic for the final words of her speech.

“The film you are about to see is based on a true story, as most of you already know from reading the introduction in your programs. But what most of you don’t know is how true to life it really is. Many of you are used to fiction being weaved in with fact, lines being blurred, with no way of knowing the truth when you see it. You won’t find that here. Not today. And so I implore you. After the film ends, and the lights come up, and you’re wondering if what you’ve just witnessed really did happen the way it was portrayed in the movie…go home, get on your computer, and do some research of your own. Or come up and ask me yourself at the director’s table. Either way, discover the truth for yourselves, and let the truth set you free. I want to thank everyone for coming out today. Enjoy the movie.”

It was just how she’d rehearsed it, exactly how she’d planned. She flicked the microphone off, set it on the podium, and exited stage right. The lights dimmed, and the movie began. When Melody reached the other side of the corridor, her assistant was waiting. “Great job out there.”

Melody smiled. “You should be inside, watching the movie.”

“I wanted to be the first to congratulate you.”

Melody placed a hand on her arm. “It means a lot, Brynn. Thank you. Now get in there. I don’t want you to miss it!”

“What about you? Aren’t you coming?”

“In a minute. I can’t find my glasses. I thought they were in my pocket. They’re not. I must have left them in the car.”

“I’ll get them for you,” Brynn said. “You’ll miss the beginning.”

Melody shook her head. “Go. I’ll be right behind you.”

The chill of night nipped at Melody’s face when she pushed open the theater door, causing a numbing sensation to come over her. She wrapped her sweater tightly around her and increased her pace, thankful her car was parked nearby. An overhead light streamed through the front windshield. The glasses were not on the dash. She opened the car door and paused.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

The familiar noise was close. One thing was certain—it was the same sound she’d heard inside. A watch perhaps? No, too loud. She considered reversing back into her car and locking herself in, but there was no time. She didn’t know how she knew. She just did. She inhaled a crisp breath of air and turned around.

Not more than two feet in front of her was a person she assumed to be a man. He wore a ski mask. It was black, frayed at the edges. It looked like it had been sliced with a knife to make it shorter, but it still got the job done.
But what was the job?
Was he braving the elements, or did he pose some kind of threat?

When the giant rubber boots he was wearing stepped forward, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, or both. She’d heard of people getting mugged or worse in big cities, but here? She never thought it was possible. She scanned the parking lot. Not a soul was in sight. Everyone was inside. She glanced at the theater door. Brynn wasn’t there. No one was. She was alone.

“I—I don’t have any money. My purse is inside.”

He grunted. “Don’t want your money.”

“Are you here for the movie? I have an extra ticket.”

An extra ticket?
Of course he wasn’t blocking her for an extra ticket. She had no idea what to say, and somehow she persuaded herself if she kept talking, she’d talk her way out of whatever this was. Talking had gotten her out of plenty sticky situations in the past.

“I…ahh…need to get back inside,” she stuttered.

“Why? What’s the rush?” His voice was low and controlled. His movements slow and confident.

“People are waiting for me.”

“Why?”

“This is my movie. I directed it. And if I don’t get back inside, they’ll come out here looking for—”

“That so?” A lump of black liquid shot through the mouth opening of the mask. Tobacco juice drizzled onto her shoe. “Don’t see anyone coming for you now.”

“If you don’t get out of my way, I’ll…I’ll…scream.”

He shrugged. “What’s stopping you?”

She clenched her jaw.
Whatever you do, don’t panic. Don’t let him see your fear
. But her usual charm wasn’t working, and she was out of things to say. Aside from his crude demeanor, he hadn’t touched her and he hadn’t threatened her. She took it as a good sign. “Are you here for the movie? I can get you in.”

He cocked his head to the side and let it hang there. “All I care about is the ending.”

“What ending?”

“Yours.”

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

And then…
ding
.

The man opened his hand. Crushed inside were her glasses. He curved his hand sideways, letting them fall, smiling as he caught the stunned reaction on her face. Then he dug into his pocket, pulled out a small, square box. It appeared to be made of plastic. He pressed a grey button in the center. And the theater exploded.

CHAPTER 2

TWO HOURS LATER

I could count on one hand the number of times Park City Police Chief Wade Sheppard had dialed my number over the last year, so when his name flashed across my cell phone screen in bright, white letters, I paused, then glanced at the time. It was just after two a.m.

“Sloane?” he croaked, when I answered. His voice was shaky, unstable. Very unlike him. “I apologize for calling so late. How’s Vegas?”

“Vegas is fine. What’s wrong?”

“I need to ask you about Giovanni,” he said. “When’s the last time you talked to him?”

Giovanni Luciana, with whom I’d recently presumed not only shared a bed with me, but also the mafia, had been my on-again, off-again boyfriend for more than a year. At present, we were off-again. Sort of. It was complicated.

“I talked to him a few days ago,” I said. “Why?”

“On the phone or in person?”

“On the phone. Why?”

“And when did you see him last?” he prodded.

“A couple weeks, maybe more.
Why
?”

“Are you two still together?”

The late-night interrogation session grated on me. I imagined Giovanni lying dead in the street, a single gunshot wound to the head, fired from a fancy shotgun equipped with silencer. I knew it was wrong to go there, but I couldn’t help it. In my dreams, his life always ended the same way—with him brutally murdered. Dreams had a way of messing with a person’s mind, projecting every day fears into some sort of twisted reality. At least all of mine did.

The chief had gone quiet, probably a result of my failure to answer his last question.

“Are you still there?” I asked.

He coughed like he had something lodged in his throat. In all the years I’d known him, he’d never been at a loss for words before.

“Look, we’re not seeing other people,” I said, “but we’re not seeing a lot of each other right now either. It’s hard to explain.” Only, it wasn’t. The chief knew it and I knew it, and I’d long speculated the chief was aware of Giovanni’s extracurricular activities too. He’d never said a word—not to me or Giovanni. But whenever he got the chance, he pressed me about our relationship. And he wasn’t asking for nothing.