The Sarah Woods Mystery Series (Volume 7) Read online

  The Sarah Woods

  Mystery Series

  by

  Jennifer L. Jennings

  (Volume 7)

  Secrets of the Vanished (Book 19)

  The Layer of Lies (Book 20)

  A Game of Deception (Book 21)

  Secrets of the Vanished

  (Sarah Woods Mystery 19)

  by

  Jennifer L. Jennings

  Copyright 2016

  Query Publishing LLC

  All Rights Reserved

  Chapter 1

  Molly

  The house was not mine, but it would be my home for the next four days.

  As a semi-professional dog walker, I couldn’t afford to live in Glendale Heights, a posh neighborhood on the west side of Bridgeport, New Hampshire.

  There could be worse jobs. I loved the animals and sometimes I was able to stay in the mansions while the owners were away—which was the case with the Baileys who were cruising the Western Caribbean for the next five days. I had the whole house to myself.

  Or, so I thought.

  I adored Kippy, the aging cocker spaniel. He was deaf in one ear, blind in one eye, and had allergic reactions to everything he touched. Despite all that, he was a pleasant companion, even though he refused to leave my side, which also meant he had to sleep in the same bed.

  It was June. A warm breeze wafted through the open window as I lay on my back in the guest bedroom on the second floor. Kippy was snoring beside me, his body stretched out, taking up most of the bed. It wasn’t the snoring that kept me awake but the anxious, nagging feeling that I had forgotten to lock all the downstairs doors.

  Unlike most of the homes in Glendale Heights, the Bailey’s home did not have a state-of-the-art security system. This worked to my advantage because I could come and go as I pleased. No worries that the owners were tracking my every move. On the other hand, no security was the main reason for my lack of sleep.

  It’d been over a year since I’d slept through the night. Sleeping pills didn’t work anymore and neither did counting sheep. All I could think about was him. My ex-fiancé whom I hadn’t seen in over a year.

  It must have been near midnight when an unfamiliar sound jolted me awake from a sleepy haze. I sat up in bed, opened my eyes, and searched the dark room. Kippy was still beside me, snoring, so the sound hadn’t come from him.

  Holding my breath, I listened. There it was again. Coming from downstairs. Hushed voices.

  Had the Baileys come home early from their trip? No, they would have called to give me a heads up.

  Moving slowly, so as not to disturb the sleeping prince, I got out of bed and put on my jeans. I opened the door and took three steps across the hallway toward the balcony that looked down onto the foyer.

  A man and a woman. They were too well-dressed to be burglars.

  The woman wore a smart-looking beige suit. Her heels clicked on the hardwood floor as she paced back and forth, hand on forehead, as if she was anxious. The man sat on the edge of a sofa, watching her. The lights were dim, but just enough that I could make out their faces. I recognized him as the Bailey’s eldest son, Benjamin. I had never met him in person, but his childhood bedroom was filled with old high school sports trophies, prom photos, and diplomas from various schools and universities. They looked like they might be in their late twenties, like me.

  “I don’t understand why we had to come here,” Benjamin said with frustration. “I thought we decided to cool it for a while, Karen.”

  “You left your cell phone in the car, right?”

  He held up both hands. “You saw me leave it in the console.”

  “Just making sure.”

  He patted the sofa next to him. “Would you please sit down. You’re making me nervous.”

  Karen took the chair next to him. “I have to do it this weekend,” she said.

  “We’ve already discussed this. It’s a crazy idea.”

  “You promised me, Ben. Now you’re backing out?”

  “I didn’t promise you anything.” Benjamin reached out and took her hand. “You know how busy work is right now. In a few months--”

  “No!” Karen pulled her hand away. “I can’t wait a few months. This has to happen now.”

  I stood on the balcony looking down. I held my breath, afraid they might look up and see me, and yet, I couldn’t tear myself away. My first thought was they must be having an affair, and she wanted to tell her husband the truth and ask for a divorce. Benjamin didn’t seem to embrace that idea.

  “When do your parents come back?” Karen asked, looking around the foyer as if she’d expected them to appear just then. “Where are they?”

  “A cruise. I think they come back from the islands next week. Why?”

  “I might need a place to stay for a few days, just in case things go wrong.”

  He shook his head. “I’d rather not involve my parents.”

  “They won’t be involved if they’re out of the country. Do they hire caretakers to keep an eye on the place?”

  “I think there’s a girl who comes by every day to look after Kippy. Besides that, I don’t know.”

  “Kippy is still alive? I thought they put that poor thing out of its misery.”

  Benjamin shrugged. “My mom could never put him down. She loves that thing more than her own kids.”

  Karen let out a long sigh and turned her body so that she was facing Benjamin straight on. “I know I’m asking a lot of you, but this has to happen.”

  He leaned toward her, elbows on knees. “This is serious. If we get caught, we could spend the rest of our lives in jail. Are you prepared to take that risk?”

  “Yes.” Her tone was resolute. “It’s going to happen this weekend, with or without your help.”

  All of a sudden, I had the feeling that their discussion was not about an affair, or Karen leaving her husband. What were these people planning to do if they were in jeopardy of going to prison for life?

  Karen abruptly got to her feet and headed for the door. “Take me back to my car.”

  “Wait.” He grabbed her wrist. “Just wait a second, OK? Give me some time to think about this.”

  “I need an answer tonight, Ben. Not next week. Not even tomorrow. If you aren’t going to help me kill him, I’ll do it myself.”

  Had I heard her correctly? Did she say she was planning to kill someone?

  “Karen, please.” Benjamin’s tone became more desperate. “I know this has been hard for you. Believe me, I don’t blame you for feeling the way you do. All I’m asking is that you think about it some more.”

  “It’s all I have been thinking about.”

  Ben closed his eyes. “I care about you, Karen. You know that I do, right?”

  “But your answer is no?”

  He opened his eyes and slowly shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

  Karen turned on her heel, stormed out of the foyer, and slammed the door on her way out. Benjamin swore to himself, got to his feet, and slogged to the door like all his energy had been drained. A minute later, I heard the car engine start and, through a window, could see the headlights retreating from the driveway.

  I let out a long breath and tried to make sense of what I’d just witnessed.

  Was this a conspiracy to commit murder? Should I call the police? What would I tell them? I couldn’t even give them Karen’s last name.

  I went downstairs and checked the door. Benjamin had forgotten to engage the dead bolt. It occurred to me that he might come back, after he had dropped Karen off at her car, wherever that might be. If he came back to find the dead bolt engaged, he might get suspicious.

  I decided to
leave the door just as he’d left it and went back to bed where Kippy was still snoring. Good thing he could barely hear. If he had started barking while Karen and Benjamin were here, who knows what might have happened.

  As I lay down on the bed and pulled the covers over me, I knew it would be another long, sleepless night.

  Chapter 2

  Molly

  The next morning I felt like a zombie as I went down the stairs with Kippy trailing behind. I envied the pooch because he had slept through the night, unlike me.

  I downed two cups of instant coffee, grabbed the leash, and we went out for a walk.

  As we circled the block, I tried to convince myself that the conversation I overheard the night before was none of my business. People talked a good game, but rarely did they act on their rantings. It wasn't a crime to talk about killing someone, was it?

  I didn’t want to get involved. I had my own miserable life to deal with.

  When Kippy and I eventually returned to the house twenty minutes later, I fed him, gave him a bath, and by 11:00 he was ready for his nap. Just as well since I had my appointment with Dr. Wheeler at noon.

  I started seeing Dr. Wheeler when I moved to Bridgeport a year ago. Before then, I had never been to a therapist. The only reason I kept the appointments was because I didn't have to pay for them. The government picked up the tab, and I never saw a bill.

  The sessions were held in Dr. Wheeler's home office, with a separate entrance so that I didn’t have to walk through her personal space. The room was painted in tranquil colors of lavender and beige, with lace curtains that let in the sunlight. The place always smelled like herbal peppermint tea. There were two overstuffed chairs facing each other, and I plopped down in my usual one.

  With a cup of tea in her lap, she waited patiently for me to settle in. “How was your weekend?” she asked.

  She always started with the same question. I always replied with the same answer. “Fine.”

  She set her tea down on the side table and looked at me through her glasses. Dr. Wheeler was in her fifties, I guessed, but she didn't look like a therapist. She reminded me of a hippy with her long braid and vibrantly colored outfits. Tie dye seemed to be her favorite fashion statement.

  “Last week we talked about your dream. The one where you felt you were being chased by a man in a mask. Would you like to explore that some more?”

  How could I begin to tell her the truth? That I was still in love with my fiancé, who also happened to be a murderer. Yeah, she’d probably look at me like I was a raving lunatic.

  “I'd rather not talk about dreams today,” I said. “But I do have a question about something else.”

  Dr. Wheeler perked up. Since I rarely confided anything to her, she was probably eager to feel helpful. “Of course, what is it?”

  “It's more of a hypothetical morality question. Let's say you overheard a conversation between two people, and one of them confessed to the other that she was going to kill someone. Would you be obligated to tell the police about it?”

  She tilted her head and blinked rapidly, as if thoroughly intrigued. “It's our duty as citizens to report a threat on somebody's life, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I know, but what if you don't have all the information? I mean, the person might not even be serious.”

  Her demeanor changed. “Did you overhear a conversation like this?”

  For a second, I wanted to tell her exactly what had happened the night before. It would be a relief to get it off my chest. “No. I was just curious. It happened in a movie.”

  She paused to look at me with those bushy eyebrows, as if trying to catch me in a lie. “Why did you bring it up, then? It must have struck a chord with you. Maybe we should talk about that. Do you feel as though you have an important secret that you are afraid to talk about?”

  Shoulda known that she’d read into my hypothetical. She shifted in her seat and said, “Molly, do you feel as though you would like to kill someone?”

  I sputtered a laugh. “Yeah. As a matter of fact, I’d like to kill that jerk who almost ran me over when I was walking here this morning. Guy was a maniac.”

  She nodded, as if pleased with herself. Like she was finally having a breakthrough with me. “It's OK to get angry. We all need to vent. It's also important to learn how to channel that negative energy in a positive way.”

  “Should I do some meditative techniques?” I asked, my tone a bit on the condescending side. She was always touting the virtues of meditation, visualization, and other forms of self-soothing techniques. I’d tried them all.

  She didn't pick up on the sarcasm. Or she had and didn't want to give me the satisfaction of reacting to it. She went on, “Meditation can be an effective tool, sure. However, we first need to address the underlying issues of your anger.”

  This was the point in the session where my eyes began to glaze over, so I was quick to change the subject. “Have you ever had a patient who killed someone?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I'm curious.”

  “Is there a specific event you're thinking of? Perhaps an event from your past?”

  She always had a way of bringing the conversation back to my past. The past she knows nothing about. “I know you can't name names,” I said, “but I’d like to know.”

  Dr. Wheeler licked her lips, and I could only guess what was going through her mind. She was trying to decipher how much she'd have to share with me before I'd open up and share with her. Finally, she cleared her throat. “I had a patient who killed his entire family. Wife and two daughters under the age of ten. Shot all three as they slept in bed.”

  “Why’d he do it?”

  “He claimed he loved his family very much, but he snapped. He had gotten fired from his job that day. He had worked for a demanding boss for twelve years. My client was belittled and bullied his whole life by his family and peers, and then his boss was the straw that broke the camel’s back. My client seemed like the most mild-mannered gentleman you’d ever meet, but he’d been pushed past his breaking point. You see, Molly, we all have breaking points. We, as a society, underestimate the effects of negative stress in our bodies and our minds. If we don't find ways to relieve that toxic energy, it can and will manifest in other ways. Sometimes, the worst ways possible.”

  Oh yeah, I had walked right into her trap. The story she’d just told me about her client was probably made up or, at least, a partial truth. “I know how to release stress,” I said, “but talking about my problems isn't going to fix ‘em. Nobody can fix ‘em.” How could I tell her that my ex-fiancé had a brother who belonged to the most dangerous gang in Miami. They murdered a teenaged girl, and I was the one who had gone to the police to rat him out. Yeah, she probably wouldn’t believe me.

  She said, “The fact that you show up here every week tells me that you seek positive change in your life, whether you want to admit it to yourself or not. I know it takes time, but in order for you to make any changes in your life, you need to accept the fact that maybe you can’t do it alone. That you need to trust someone.”

  Maybe she was right. Deep down I wanted to make peace with my past, but I didn’t trust anyone. Not even myself.

  For the rest of the hour I talked about a few movies, just to pass the time. Then, at the end of the session, she said she was proud of me for coming. As if the mere act of showing up and flapping my mouth was a victory of sorts.

  I guessed, in a way, it was.

  * * *

  When I left Dr. Wheeler’s office, I walked to the other side of town where my boss, Chad Newton, had his mobile dog-grooming van parked in the lot of a strip mall. I knew he’d be on his lunch break, and I wanted to surprise him with his favorite sandwich from Kelli’s Deli.

  He took one look at me and said, “What the heck happened to you? You look narcoleptic.”

  “Thanks,” I said, handing him the plastic bag with his lunch. “Whatever that means.”

  “It’s not a compliment,
my dear. Were you up all night again?”

  We went to a picnic table and unwrapped our sandwiches. I still hadn’t decided if I would tell him about Benjamin and Karen.

  He fondled the hood of my sweatshirt. “What’s with the heavy layers? It’s almost eighty degrees out. Don’t you own any T-shirts or tank tops?”

  I gave him a hard look. “What are you, the fashion police?”

  “Since you don’t have a vehicle, why don’t you let me take you shopping in Boston some time. I’ll bet you have a hot little body under all those baggy clothes you wear.”

  “If I didn’t know better,” I said, flicking a piece of wilted lettuce at him, “I’d think you were trying to get into my pants.”

  Since Chad was openly gay, I knew that would make him squirm and I was right.

  “Come on, Mole. When was the last time you got laid?”

  Mole was his nickname for me, and I hated it. I let him get away with it because Chad was my only friend in Bridgeport. Plus, I did sort of resemble a mole because I was always wearing dark hoodies. “I don’t want to get involved with anyone right now,” I said. “My last guy did a number on me.”

  “You never told me what he did to you. What was his name again?”

  I gave him a narrowed look. “I never told you his name.”

  “Why is it such a big secret?”

  “Because I swore I’d never speak his name again.” It was the truth, except not for the reason he was probably thinking.

  “I’m sorry he screwed you over, Mole. I hope the cheating louse gets what he deserves.”

  There was no point in correcting him. My fiancé wasn’t a cheater; he was much worse than that. And I was no better, because I still hoped he was alive, wherever he was. “So, as you know,” I said, keeping my tone casual, “I’ve been going to the Bailey’s house every day to take care of Kippy and, well, I’m just wondering how well you know that family.”