exposed (Twisted Cedar Mysteries Book 3) (16 page)

Muriel had no credibility with him.

It didn’t help that he simply didn’t like her.

As a kid he’d found her aloof and cold, and he felt the same now.

Since she’d moved here four years ago, after divorcing Jim, and leaving behind the grandchildren she’d helped raise since Kyle and Daisy’s separation, she rarely saw her family. At one point it had seemed she wouldn’t even attend Kyle and Jamie’s wedding, and even when she did, she’d scurried back to Sacramento as soon as it was over.

The reasons behind the Quinpool’s divorce had been a topic of some discussion when it happened. Wade’s own parents—now happily retired in Arizona—had speculated in vain.

Wade had his own theory. He suspected the guilt of Daisy’s unreported death and illegal burial had eventually become too much for her to stand. Rather than confess to the authorities, she’d opted to create a new life for herself.

Maybe she’d hoped putting distance between herself and Twisted Cedars would be enough to bring her relief.

But Wade had a feeling she was still tortured by her memories. And he dared to hope that today she would finally unburden herself.

Wade had phoned ahead and Muriel came to the door immaculately dressed, with her trademark strand of pearls at her throat. With a regal wave of her hand she invited him to sit at the sofa in the living room.

She had tea made, and a plate of chocolate-covered shortbread on the coffee table. Wade noticed a photo of Chester was now taking center stage in the family grouping on the antique bureau.

It was all very staged—decorous grandmother doing her best to help the legal authorities find her grandson.

But studying her face, he saw anxiety—yes. Concern for her grandson—no.

“You must be terribly worried about Chester,” he opened. “I want to assure you we’re working around-the-clock on our investigation.”

“Jim thinks he’s run away. That he’s hiding out in one of the summer cottages that have been shut up for the season.” As she spoke she smoothed imperceptible wrinkles from her freshly pressed skirt.

Wade took note of the rings on her fingers. While she no longer wore her wedding ring, she still owned several spectacular stones. The Quinpools had always been one of the wealthiest families in town, and she had seemed the pampered and adored wife who presided with some entitlement over the local woman’s auxiliary group among other charitable endeavors.

Had there been an ugly side to her marriage with Jim?

Or was he right, and it had been Daisy—her psychosis, her affair, her death—who had upset the perfection of Muriel’s life?

“We’ve checked a lot of the local summer places, already. Unfortunately, so far we haven’t found any trace of Chester.”

“He’ll eventually get tired of his little game, I’m sure.”

Wade stared at her. Was she for real? “He’s been missing three full days and three full nights now. He’s only nine.”

“I realize all of that, Sheriff. But Chester is a bright boy and mature for his age. I assume you came here on the hopes that I might have heard something from him. But as I’ve already told you on the phone, I haven’t. Seems to me this has been a waste of a trip for you.”

She sat in the same high-backed chair as last time and poured them both tea. “Do you take milk or sugar?”

“Black is fine.”

“So what else do we have to talk about, Sheriff?”

“How about the night Daisy died?”

Muriel’s hand trembled. She set down the tea pot. “That is water under the bridge, Sheriff.”

“I disagree. His father going to jail is the reason Chester wanted to run away.”

“How do you know that?”

“He told Cory. And she told us.”

Muriel’s lips tightened. “If there was anything I could say to solve that problem, I would have said it months ago.”

“I disagree. You withheld the truth last time I was here, and with your silence you’re withholding it now.”

She shot him an infuriated look. “Don’t be insulting.”

“I’m simply stating facts. Why didn’t you tell me the reason Daisy and Kyle were fighting was because Kyle had found out about Daisy’s affair with Brad Scott?”

Muriel’s eyes widened.

“Yes, I know about that Muriel. Don’t you think that was a rather key piece of information for you to leave out?”

“I don’t see why it should matter.”

“I bet you and Jim were really upset on your son’s behalf when you heard about that, weren’t you Muriel? In fact, I wonder if it could have been Jim who shoved Daisy. Or you. Maybe Kyle took the blame to protect one of you, knowing at your ages prison would be a tough proposition.”

“That is just...insane!” Abandoning her role as gracious hostess, Muriel rose from her chair and pointed to the door. “You had better leave. Right this instant.”

“Aren’t you tired of all the secrets Muriel? You must have felt so guilty every time you saw Charlotte, knowing she was living in hope that her sister would return home one day, while you knew Daisy never would. That she was dead and buried on the Hammond’s own property.”

Muriel’s face drained of color and she gripped the back of her chair. “Don’t say those things.”

“You put Charlotte through four years of unnecessary pain. And now your grandson is paying the price for your family’s crimes.”

“That is
not
true. You twist everything you hear. I refuse to speak another word.”

Wade said nothing, just stared into her eyes until she finally turned her back to him.

It seemed nothing would make this woman break. Muriel Quinpool was stronger than she appeared.

After several silent minutes, he let himself out.

“Isabel Fraser was pathetic when she died. She begged, she cried, she even told me this sob story about how much her mother needed her.”

Dougal didn’t know what he hated the most. The sound of his father’s voice, or the sight of his face—especially his eyes, which Dougal had been told were so much like his own.

It was late Saturday afternoon and Dougal had been sitting in the small back room at the sheriff’s office for hours. He had his chair positioned about three feet from the computer screen. He would have preferred more distance but Ed complained when he couldn’t see his eyes.

The proximity was killing Dougal. It didn’t help that he’d had less than four hours of sleep in a row since Chester went missing.

Even in the best of shape, though, he’d have trouble listening to Ed describe the murders. And Ed’s heartless accounts of his victims’ suffering was the worst.

Earlier that summer Dougal had driven to Medford and met Isabel Fraser’s mother. Ruth Fraser was intelligent, good-humored, kind...and blind. She lived in an institution now, whereas if Isabel hadn’t died, she would probably still be living with her daughter.

Isabel had been Ed Lachlan’s fourth victim. Dougal had interviewed family members for all of them. And in each case he’d heard stories of heartache and loss and ruined lives.

He knew from researching his previous true-crime novels that every murder created ripples of pain and misery.

But in those other cases, the pain and misery hadn’t been caused by his own father.

And if his father was capable of doing those thing...what did that say about Dougal?

Ever since he’d been a kid, Dougal had been scared of the darkness within him. He wished he’d been born with his mother’s sunny nature, like Jamie.

Instead, he had thoughts and urges that frightened him. The stories that popped into his head were so horrific that he’d actually avoided writing fiction because he was afraid to own up to them. He’d decided it would be safer to write true-crime novels.

And it had been. Until he got that first email from “Librarian Momma.”

When Dougal first delved into the librarian murders, he hadn’t realized his father was responsible. Now that he knew, he wished he’d never left New York. Because there was no turning back now. He’d seen, first hand, the agony his father had wrought on the lives of his victims’ loved ones. And now it was more than he could bear, to see his father gloating about the suffering he’d caused.

No doubt he expected all these “details” to be included in the book.

But Dougal was at his limit. So far Ed had given him not one bit of proof that he even had Chester. What if he was writing this book for nothing? Everyone else thought Chester was a run-away. Or the victim of a terrible accident.

He was the only one who totally believed he’d been abducted.

What if he was wrong?

“It’s interesting actually strangling someone to death.” Ed looked casual and relaxed, like he was discussing the process of something innocent and everyday—like changing a flat tire on a car. “They lose consciousness faster than you would think. But Isabel was different than the others. She—”

“Stop!” Dougal threw his notebook across the room. “Just shut the hell up for a while.”

On the computer screen his father actually smiled. “But these are the details that will make our book special. Forensics are so detailed nowadays, the cops can piece together exactly what happened. But to know how it feels when a woman’s body goes slack and then you watch the life drain out of her eyes...you have to talk to someone who was there. To the guy who did it.”

“This is a game to you. You have no conception of your victims as human beings.”

In a flash Ed’s smile was replaced with an angry scowl. “You think my adopted parents viewed me as a human being? You think my mother viewed me as a human being?”

“Stop with the sob story. I’ve had enough. I quit. You’re playing me for a fool. You don’t have a clue where Chester Quinpool is—”

“Oh, really? Just you wait and see.”

Abruptly Ed left his chair and all Dougal could see was the plain bedsheet. He could hear voices, however, and one of them sounded female.

Then Ed returned, tugging Chester by the arm and forcing him into the chair in front of the video camera.

“Here he is. Happy?”

Dougal could hardly believe his eyes. But it was definitely Chester, looking groggy but otherwise unharmed.

“Chester! Are you okay? Has he hurt you?”

“Dougal?” Chester peered at the screen. “Is that you? Help me, I’m—”

And then the screen went dark.

* * *

Dougal bolted for Wade’s office, only to find the door closed, an unusual occurrence. He turned to Marnie, typing at a crazy rate on her keyboard. “Is he back from Sacramento?”

“Yup. Twenty minutes ago.” She didn’t pause, or even look up at him as she spoke. “But you’ll have to wait to talk to him. He’s scheduled for a press conference in thirty minutes and right now he’s on the phone with the computer experts at the FBI.”

“Ed Lachlan’s got him. Chester. I saw him on the computer.”

Marnie stopped typing. “Oh. Oh, no. You’d better go in and tell him.”

But Dougal was already throwing the door open. Wade was at his desk, making notes as he listened to someone on the phone. He frowned at the interruption, but Dougal ignored him.

“Ed Lachlan has Chester. I saw him. He’s alive. And—” Dougal stopped. He’d been about to say “well,” but his throat had thickened over the word, and now he felt like crying.

Wade was staring at him. Though he was still holding the phone, it was no longer next to his ear. It was like he’d forgotten the person on the other end of the line entirely.

Dougal took a deep breath. Pulled himself together.

“Ed was pissing me off so I called his bluff. And I guess I made him angry, too, because he disappeared for a minute and then came back with Chester.”

“And he was okay?”

“Yeah. Kind of groggy. But definitely okay.”

Wade let out a ragged breath. “Okay. Good. I mean—thank God he’s still alive, at least. Hang on while I finish up here.”

Too wired to settle down, Dougal paced the small space. He picked up the thunder egg, examined the intricate crystal interior, and then set it down again. He went to the window and looked past the highway, to the cedars that grew at the park where the Rogue River met the Pacific, and to the high bluff beyond.

Finally Wade ended his call. He set down the phone, then joined Dougal at the window.

“Tell me everything.”

“I’d been in that chat room with Ed for over two hours. I was tired and fed up. When he started talking about how wonderful it felt to strangle his victims, I snapped. I told him I was done, that he was bluffing about Chester, and I wasn’t playing his games anymore.”

“And that’s when he showed you the boy?”

“Yeah. Chester must have been close by, it didn’t take long. He sat him down in the chair right in front of the computer.”

“How did Chester look?”

“Not bad. He didn’t have any bruises or other obvious injuries. He wasn’t tied or shackled in any way—at least not that I could see. He just seemed sort of out of it. But not so much that he didn’t recognize me. He even said my name. Asked me to help—” Again the words choked in his throat.

“Holy shit. It’s a relief to know he’s still alive. But—”

Wade glanced out at the ocean and Dougal knew what he was thinking. “But for how long?” Dougal couldn’t help adding.

Wade sighed, then picked up the notes he’d just made. “Now I really wish I had better news to report from our computer experts. But they’ve had no luck trying to trace the emails Ed sent you.”

“I’m not surprised. My contact in New York couldn’t do it either.”

“Apparently the connection has been crisscrossed around the world to such an extent that unraveling the threads isn’t possible.”

“I listened to a podcast on the Deep Web and the Dark Web once. Apparently the Internet is like an iceberg. The part most of us can see and access is just a small fraction of what’s really out there.”

“On the positive side, now that we know Ed Lachlan has Chester, we should have no trouble getting a warrant to record your video chats.”

“What we really need is to trace the connection. But I suspect Ed’s using the same techniques to cover his tracks with this, as well. It won’t help that he insists on using a different chat room every time.”

“You may be right, but we’ve got to try. One of the FBI’s experts should be here within five hours. Once I let them know Lachlan has Chester, they’re going to be sending out an entire mobile task force.”