Bound for Murder, page 5
“What do you want me to say?” As I passed the list to Sunny, I thought about that photo of Jeremy Adams. But I couldn’t say anything, despite our friendship. It was true that Brad had sworn me to secrecy, but there was another, more forceful reason for my silence. It was my desire to reveal the truth. And you’re not sure, are you, that these two people, who you’ve known and loved for years, would be happy if you did that? I shook out my cramped fingers.
P.J. leaned forward, his hands on the table with his fingers tightly entwined. “Just let them know about the investigation into the bones, in case they haven’t heard about it. And warn them to expect a visit from the sheriff’s office.”
I rolled the edge of my blouse hem between two fingers. “Why are you so sure the authorities plan to interview your former commune members?”
“Because”—P.J. straightened in his hard-backed chair—“we all have records. Minor stuff, mostly, like getting arrested during protests.”
“But that sort of thing shouldn’t affect an investigation into a …” I closed my lips over the last word, not wanting to betray Brad’s suggestion of a possible murder. “Into this case,” I finished, as the image of Jeremy Adams’s sweet smile flitted through my mind.
“Maybe not, but we don’t totally trust the authorities.” Carol shrugged. “Old habits die hard.”
Sunny sat back and crossed her arms over her chest. “So that’s why you weren’t too keen on me dating Brad?”
Carol waved that aside with one hand. “No, he just wasn’t right for you, dear. As you discovered, soon enough. This other thing”—she shared a conspiratorial glance with her husband—“isn’t about us, really. We weren’t too caught up in the drug scene, but unfortunately some of the other commune members fell prey to some serious habits. That was honestly one reason we shut the commune down after only a couple of years.”
Sunny’s gaze slid from her grandmother’s tense expression to her grandfather’s stoic face. “You’re afraid they might have other stuff in their pasts that they wouldn’t want investigated?”
P.J. nodded. “It’s possible. Which is why we want to give them a heads-up. It won’t change the past, but Carol and I think they should have a chance to come clean, if necessary. I mean, we think they should have the option to share their secrets with family or friends before some cop comes around and airs any dirty laundry.”
“I guess that makes sense,” Sunny said. “And I can see why you want us to find them. But why only ask Amy to talk to them? I’m happy to help with that.”
“Because you’re likely to be under observation too, baby girl,” P.J. said. “The authorities, and the media, are less likely to be concerned about Amy’s whereabouts, while I suspect they’ll track your movements along with ours.”
“Oh great,” Sunny said, dropping her arms to her sides. “Just what I need in the middle of my campaign.”
I offered her an encouraging smile. “I promise to be discreet. The mayor and his minions won’t get any information out of me.”
“Just promise to be careful.” Carol sent P.J. a swift glance before staring down at her hands, which were clenched together on the tabletop.
I raised my eyebrows as my stomach took another nose dive. “Why? Are any of these people dangerous?”
“No, of course not,” P.J. said, a little too quickly. As if sensing my growing concern, he added, “Anyway, we know how resourceful you are. I’m sure conversations with some harmless old folks won’t pose any problems for you.”
“I’ve encountered a few dangerous senior citizens,” I said, as images of Kurt Kendrick and a few other older people flashed through my mind. “But I’m happy to talk to your friends, if they’ll allow it.”
“Good, it’s settled then.” Carol rose to her feet. “Now, who wants cookies? I just happen to have made a batch earlier today.”
Raising my hand, I noticed P.J.’s troubled expression and made a mental note to be on my guard when speaking to anyone on his list of “harmless old folks.”
Chapter Five
During a lull in activity at the library the next day, Sunny and I shared notes.
Sunny, arriving around eleven, was brighter-eyed than me, even though we’d both stayed up late the evening before to comb the Internet for any information pertaining to the former commune members. But since Sunny was scheduled to work until eight in the evening, she’d been able to sleep in, while I had been required to get up early to open the library.
Motioning toward the list I’d unfolded and placed on the circulation desk, Sunny pointed out a name. “Okay, that one—‘Stanman’ Owens. I did locate someone named Stanley Owens who’s around the right age. He became a lawyer, specializing in environmental cases. Seems like he retired a few years back, though. Last known address is in Baltimore.”
“I found him too,” I said. “Could be the right guy. But if it is, I don’t think I’ll need to inform him of anything. According to an obituary I found, he’s dead.”
“Really?” Sunny wrinkled her brow. “The grands didn’t mention anything about that.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty recent. Some sort of accident.” I tapped the list with one finger. “According to the info I found, he fell off a footbridge over some gorge up in the mountains. No one knows why, or can figure out what he was doing up there alone.”
Sunny’s eyes widened. “They suspect he jumped?”
“No, it seems to have been an accident. He had a camera with him, so the authorities assume he was leaning too far over the edge to get a photo or something. Anyway, he’s obviously off our list. But there are a few others I can talk to fairly soon. Like Peter O’Malley. Your grandparents already confirmed that he’s the same guy who owns the equipment repair shop in Taylorsford. You know, the one that’s out on the eastern end of town, near the strip mall and car dealerships.”
“That surprises me, to be honest.” Sunny popped her aqua-blue-framed glasses off the top of her head and put them on before peering at the notes I’d scribbled on my list. “He seems like such a good ol’ boy. Not someone I’d ever have pictured belonging to a commune.”
I shrugged. “People change. Anyway, as far as I can tell, a couple other of these folks have died. And this one”—I ran my finger across one line, which identified someone called Belinda Cannon—“is missing, according to something I read in an old newspaper article. She wasn’t linked to the commune in that report; I only found info on her when I was doing more research on missing persons from the area. Maybe she left Vista View before her own disappearance and her family didn’t want her involvement with the commune mentioned or something.”
“So, two former members went missing?” Sunny frowned. “Because from what I’ve found, Jeremy Adams disappeared soon after leaving the commune too.”
“Yeah, I suppose that wasn’t uncommon back in those days especially among the hippie crowd. They often lived like gypsies, I guess,” I said, keeping my tone light. I’d wanted Sunny to make that connection on her own, so I technically wasn’t betraying anything Brad had told me in confidence.
“I also unearthed a few obituaries.” Sunny leaned in and tapped the list with one brightly painted fingernail. “But Ruth Lee, who my grandparents knew as Rainbow, is definitely the lady who owns the consignment and antique shop in Taylorsford.”
“That means I can talk with her and Pete O’Malley easily enough.” I stepped back. “Did Carol or P.J. say anything about this Daisy Miles they listed? That’s one that’s eluded me.”
“Only that she was a writer, or wanted to be or something.” Sunny took off her glasses and stuck them in the pocket of her pleated navy skirt. “Of course, Daisy probably wasn’t her real name. Most of the commune members used nicknames.”
“We don’t even know if her last name was real, so …” I shrugged. “Could be tough to find her.”
“I’ll ask the grands if they have any more information on her.”
“Fortunately, most of these people didn’t bother to change their last names.” I tapped the paper. “So, while I don’t have an address yet, I did find a Dean Bodenheimer living in Frederick, Maryland. From what I gleaned from his social media, it seems he could be this guy on the list. He’s the right age and was involved in the music industry when he was younger. In fact, it appears he still plays percussion with a retro rock band.”
Sunny’s blue eyes brightened. Like me, she savored the thrill of the hunt. “That would make sense, since the grands knew him as Drummer.”
“Yeah, a musician. Like Jeremy Adams.” I shot Sunny a quick glance. “Do your grandparents ever talk about him?”
“Not much. I know he was Walt’s older cousin, and that he went missing after he left the commune, but that’s about it.”
“Aunt Lydia says he was a very talented guitarist and singer-songwriter. He supposedly headed out to LA to pursue his musical dreams but then disappeared.”
Sunny frowned as she tugged on a strand of golden hair that had escaped the confines of her sleek ponytail. “They’ve never mentioned him being a musician.”
“That’s odd, but I suppose, since he left maybe not on great terms …” I caught a glimpse of the concern in Sunny’s eyes and lightened my tone. “You know, if he abandoned the commune to chase after money and fame. Something like that could’ve upset your grandparents.”
“I suppose they might’ve seen that as a betrayal of their principles,” Sunny said, her expression still troubled.
I wanted to ask about other information her grandparents might have shared on the former commune members, especially Jeremy, but thought better of it. Such questions could keep for another day. “Are you guys still being harassed by reporters?”
“Yes, and it’s gotten worse since someone at the sheriff’s office slipped up and leaked the fact that the skeleton’s skull was bashed in. Now everyone’s talking murder.” Sunny pressed one hand to her forehead. “It’s enough to give me a headache, honestly. The phone rings constantly. Of course we don’t answer it, but the grands refuse to turn off the ringer. They’re concerned that the authorities might need to get in touch with them and they don’t want to appear uncooperative.”
“That makes sense, but it must be unnerving to hear that jangling all day and night.”
“Tell me about it. And then there’s this one reporter who won’t take no for an answer. Last night she just lurked in her car at the foot of our driveway, but this morning she actually climbed the fence and started wandering the property. Granddad found her in the old barn and chased her off, but I bet she’ll be back. Even though he warned her that she was trespassing and he’d have to take legal action if she showed up again.”
I shook my head. “Some people …”
“But we’d better shelve this discussion for later, because it looks like we’re about to be inundated.” Sunny pointed at the patrons approaching the desk
I straightened and greeted the group, one of whom had a reference question for me, while the others toted stacks of books for checkout.
My questions about the Adams case would have to wait. Customer service always came first.
* * *
Spurred on by Sunny’s obvious anxiety, I took a little extra time at lunch to head over to an old cement-block garage that sat on the edge of town. The gas pumps I remembered from childhood were long gone, the ramshackle building having been converted into a workshop years ago. As I parked in the small lot and climbed out of my car, I mentally rehearsed the warning the Fields had asked me to relay.
A pitted tin sign swinging from a rusted iron bracket declared that the shop belonged to Peter O’Malley and promised “speedy repairs” on lawn mowers, boat motors, and other small equipment. The faded image of a grinning tortoise seemed to belie the swiftness of the repairs, but I assumed it was the sort of joke that seventy-five-year-old Pete—known around town for his sarcastic humor—enjoyed.
“Hello, anyone here?” I called out as I picked my way through the tangle of mechanical parts that littered the plank floor of the shop.
A weathered baseball cap emblazoned with O’MALLEY REPAIRS popped up behind a jumble of cardboard boxes.
“Yep, hold yer horses. Just tightening a bolt. I’ll be right with you.”
I leaned over and brushed dust from the hems of my slacks. When I straightened, Pete O’Malley stood in front of me, clutching a metal wrench.
Like a weapon, I thought, then chased that image from my mind. Pete was known to be irascible, or “downright ornery,” as Zelda liked to say. But I’d never heard any rumors about him being violent.
Besides, he was a small man. He barely topped my height, and unlike me, he was as skinny as a fence post. Although, I warned myself, those ropy muscles in his arms might give him a distinct advantage in a fight.
“What do want, miss?” Pete’s cornflower-blue eyes narrowed as he looked me over. “Got a lawn mower you want repaired or something?”
“No, nothing like that. Is there somewhere we could sit down and talk for a moment?” Glancing around the shop, I spied a small plastic table and two folding metal chairs. “Over there, maybe?”
“I don’t usually take time out of the workday just to jabber with strangers,” Pete said, eyeing me with interest. “But I suppose you’re not entirely a stranger. You’re Lydia Talbot’s niece, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I’m Amy Webber.” I met Pete’s inquisitive stare with a lift of my chin.
“That’s right, you’re the younger sister’s kid. You run the library now, from what I hear.”
“I’ve been the library director for a few years now, actually.”
Pete studied me, concentration deepening the lines on his weathered face. He slapped his hip with the hand not holding the wrench. “I see it now. You’re the spitting image of Lydia’s grandmother, old Mrs. Litton. Couldn’t forget that face, especially those dark eyes.” His chapped lips twitched as he stared at me. “She used to chase us kids out of her garden by threatening to call the sheriff, even though we was only using her yard as a shortcut into the woods. Quite the high-and-mighty lady, that Rose Baker Litton. Always acted like she was better than anybody else in town, but I hear she got her comeuppance. Went a little batty in the end, didn’t she?”
I grimaced, not happy to be reminded of my resemblance to Rose. “Yes, she was my great-grandmother and, sadly, developed a form of dementia later in life.” I cleared my throat. “Anyway, I’m actually here as a friend of Carol and P.J. Fields. They sent me to talk to you.”
The humor on Pete’s face drained like water down a grate. “Now what do they want with me? We haven’t spoken in years.” As he turned away, he motioned toward the table and chairs. “But go ahead, take a seat.”
At the table, I stared dubiously at the chairs. Pete grabbed a roll of paper towels from a nearby shelf and tossed it to me. “Might want to wipe that off before you sit down. Don’t want to ruin those nice gray pants of yours.”
I rubbed as much dust and grime from the chair as possible before balling up the paper towel and sitting down. “Carol and P.J. told me that you lived on their commune back in the sixties.”
“Yep, I stayed out there on the farm for a year or two. Back when I was young and stupid.” Pete’s lips curled into a sneer. “They did all right with that property after we all left, it seems. Turned it into a going concern.”
“They’ve worked hard,” I said mildly. “The thing is, Mr. O’Malley, that Carol and P.J. feel you should be warned …”
“About any connection I might have to those human bones discovered on their land? Heard the rumor that the poor devil’s skull had been smashed. Messy business.”
“Yes.” I examined his weathered face. “Do you have any idea why someone would bury a body at Vista View? I mean, of course you probably don’t, but can you imagine any reason why those bones might have turned up there?”
Pete reared back, lifting the front legs of his flimsy chair off the ground. “Can’t say I do. But honestly, the time I spent out there is mostly a blur to me.”
I pursed my lips as I examined his lined face. “Because it was so long ago?”
“Because I was doing drugs at the time. Come on, you know that wasn’t uncommon back in the day. We was all experimenting with stuff. Trying to expand our consciousness, some said. Me, I just liked the way it made me feel.”
I leaned forward, resting my arms on the tabletop with no regard for the sleeves of my white blouse. “But you were all pretty mellow, right? I’ve heard Carol and P.J. talk about those days, and they always sound nostalgic. They’ve told me it was a simpler, sweeter time.”
Pete snorted and dropped the front legs of his chair to the floor. “They must’ve been still wearing their rose-colored glasses to spout that nonsense.” He pulled the baseball cap from his head, revealing wisps of gray hair plastered across a bald spot. “It wasn’t no Shangri-la. Sure, we had a decent place to sleep and plenty to eat and all that. But you take a bunch of young people—most of us were barely twenty—well, you throw that age group together, with their hormones raging, and free-flowing drugs, and you see what happens.”
I drew a heart in the dust on the tabletop with one fingertip. “The commune members had problems with one another?”
“Some did. Some just had issues with themselves. But we had plenty of arguments and differences of opinion, let me tell you. Then you add in free love …” Pete shook his head. “I shouldn’t go into all that. It was a long time ago. Doesn’t matter now. You should just know there was some hookups, and not all of them worked out so well. Jealousy, ya know. It can turn even the most enlightened pacifists into beasts.”
Feeling I was falling too far down a very trippy rabbit hole, I straightened and fixed my gaze on Pete’s sardonic smile. “You included?”
“Maybe, but like I told you, I don’t remember much about that time. It’s all hazy. Although”—Pete jammed the hat back onto his head—“if someone’s looking for a killer, maybe they ought to be checking out the dealers who were operating around here at the time.”
