Dark Sides of Murder

By Misty Reddington

Molly, park ranger and small town cop, and her policeman husband, bring another killer to justice. Book is a light and entertaining read. All profits go to dog rescue.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9780359340118

Book preview

Prologue

Eric and I strolled along the beach, enjoying the late summer sunshine, while our two poodles chased seagulls at the water’s edge. The ocean glittered brightness all the way to the horizon, and the sky was a cloudless Carolina blue. My husband’s hand felt warm in mine, and I couldn’t think of any place I’d rather be than with my family on such an incredibly spectacular day.

I was off on vacation for two weeks, delighted that I had the time to spend with my loved ones when Eric’s cell phone rang, right there on the beach, on this spectacular day.

It was Deputy Police Chief Willie Monroe with some disturbing news, news that would change our lives forever.

Chapter One

My first thought was the man slumped over the steering wheel and shot in the chest looked a horrendous mess; his shirtfront drenched in ruby red blood and his blue jeans stained with urine. My second thought was that the guy resembled my husband; same blond hair and facial features. The man could have been Eric’s twin, but he looked a few years older.

I stared at my police chief husband. Do you know him?

I haven’t seen him around town, Eric said, seemingly mesmerized by the man’s face.

I glanced over at Willie. Willie’s expression must have mirrored my own, wondering if the dead man might be connected to Eric’s family tree. Maybe the guy came from out of town for the concert last night.

The dead man’s white Honda Civic was parked in the middle of the gravel parking lot at the fairgrounds, three miles outside our small New England town, population three thousand. The concert had been over for nine hours, and our medical examiner had yet to arrive to determine the time of death.

I bet he has a wallet in his back pocket, I said.

Marty is on the way out here with our crime scene equipment, Eric said, glancing across the parking lot at the highway, and then turning his gaze back to the dead occupant in the Honda sedan.

Willie examined the man for five more seconds. The guy looks familiar.

Eric, he looks like your brother.

Can’t be. I only have a sister, Anne.

Willie and I looked doubtful.

Ben Hawkins’ Buick cut across the gravel and parked by Eric’s truck. He opened the driver-side door and pulled himself out. He was a fiftyish man, overweight and balding and dressed in a medical examiner’s dark brown suit.

He nodded at us and looked down at the body, still slumped in the car. He froze for a long moment, looking confused. Eric, is this your brother?

No.

Look in the guy’s wallet for his ID.

Ben Hawkins did his examination, and then he took the wallet out of the dead man’s back pocket. He handed it to Eric with a grim smile. You do the honors.

Eric flipped the wallet open and found a driver’s license. I stuck my face close up and read the name. Peter Wade. Age forty. His address is here in town.

Can’t be, Eric insisted. There’s only the two of us.

You can figure that out later, Ben Hawkins said. All I can tell you is that he’s been dead probably eight to ten hours. I’ll know for sure when I do a more thorough examination of the body back at the morgue.

Seems likely he was killed after everyone else had left the parking lot, Eric said. I wonder why he was the last to leave?

Maybe he knew one of the band members and went back stage to say hello?

Willie, Eric said. I want you to track down the performers from last night’s concert and find out if they knew this Mr. Wade.

What about me? I said.

We’re going to go visit my sister to figure out who this guy was.

Anne might know if you had a brother named Peter?

Maybe, but I’m sure she would have told me, Eric said, with some uncertainty in his voice.

Eric and I waited for Marty to come with the crime scene equipment and for the van to come with the body bag to take Peter Wade to his autopsy. Then we drove Eric’s Chevy truck to his sister’s house, forty minutes away.

Chapter Two

Eric pulled into Anne’s driveway and stopped in front of a detached two-car garage. We walked along a brick pathway to the two-story brown-shingled house. The front door was open, so we walked right in, into Anne’s cozy living room filled with New England antiques and expensive braided wool rugs.

Photographs of her two young daughters, Emma and Lauren, were displayed on the end tables next to her green corduroy couch.

Anne, Eric shouted, with some urgency. We need to talk.

What’s wrong? Anne said, coming from the back of the house. Come sit down and I’ll fix coffee.

Eric and I followed her into the kitchen and sat at her oak table that matched the kitchen cabinets. Sunlight came through the screened back door, and everything looked golden from the early morning light.

There lingered the aroma of bacon and eggs that someone had cooked for breakfast.

I studied Anne and Eric; they both looked alike, blonde with blue eyes, and I was certain that Peter Wade was their brother.

Anne poured our coffee and joined us at the table. Tell me, she said.

Eric got right to the point. Do we have an older brother that I don’t know about?

What? Anne said, distressed.

I noticed an emotion flash across her face. Did she know about this Peter Wade?

Eric doesn’t miss much. You knew about him, but you never told me?

Anne sipped her coffee, giving herself time to think.

Once I heard mom and dad arguing about something. She hesitated. I could be wrong, but I think it was about child support payments to some woman in California.

Why didn’t you tell me?

I couldn’t believe that it had anything to do with our family. I thought they were talking about someone else.

Eric looked down at his cup of black coffee, studying the dark brown liquid. This morning Willie found a dead man in a car parked at the fairgrounds. His license said his name was Peter Wade.

I interrupted. He looked exactly like the two of you.

The three of us sat for a moment and contemplated the ramifications of this. Suddenly, Anne left the kitchen and returned in a couple of minutes with a photo album. It looked old; its pages had darkened and its spine had deteriorated. She opened it to the first page, and I gazed at a family portrait taken when Eric looked about thirteen, and she looked about ten.

Everyone in your family looks alike. Even your mother was blond. I reached over and turned page after page, viewing a lifetime of memories. I touched photos of the Grand Canyon and Disney World and Niagara Falls, and I flipped through about a hundred other photos taken on family vacations.

Anne stopped my hand when I got to the San Francisco pictures.

Wait, she said. Dad went to college in California. How old was Peter?

Forty, Eric said.

He was born when Dad was in college, Anne said. I wonder if his mother still lives out there?

I’m going to find out everything I can about him, Eric said.

Anne and I glanced at each other, not commenting. I sipped my coffee, thinking about my husband’s strong emotions, finding out that he had a brother that he knew nothing about. Anne leaned over