Scarlett Fire: A Mystery

By Gabriella Chester

Why has the twenty-eight year old graphic artist Scarlett Reid been sent an anonymous email with one line written in the subject line: “I need your help” and attached, a story written by an eighteen year old named Kendra? The story that Kendra tells, is about her travels to see several Grateful Dead concerts in Colorado in the summer of 1987. Kendra’s story, Scarlett soon reads, takes her from Red Rocks Ampetheatre to a campground just west of Boulder in which she comes across a body of a woman in the woods. After a reluctant and fearful road trip, Kendra’s story ends in Telluride. At first, Scarlett believes this seemingly random story is meant for someone else, but she soon finds out that the story is indeed meant for her to read. She has no idea who sent the story to her, nor does she know why. But, after reading an article about the remains of a body discovered in the mountains just outside of Telluride, Scarlett realizes that not only is Kendra’s story true, but the remains and Kendra’s story must somehow be connected. Suddenly, Scarlett finds herself at the helm of a 30 year old mystery that only she is meant to unravel. What follows is a wild journey that sends Scarlett and her cubicle neighbor and new-found cohort Sophie Campbell on the track of a killer. The two set out to discover who was responsible for the murder and as the suspect list and the body count grows, so does the possibility that they might be in great danger from someone who does not want the truth to come to light. As Scarlett Reid peels away the layers of the story and learns more about its characters, she soon discovers that the story is a link to a past she never knew.

A 30 year-old mystery buried deep in the Colorado mountains. Little does 28 year-old Scarlett Reid know how connected to the mystery she really is.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jan 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781480886728

Gabriella Chester

Gabriella Chester is a graduate of Sarah Lawrence College. She lives with her husband and three children, all avid skiers, in the mountains of Colorado. Gabriella is currently working on the second book in the Scarlett Reid Mystery series.

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Copyright © 2020 Gabriella Chester.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Archway Publishing

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-8671-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-8672-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019921236

Archway Publishing rev. date: 12/30/2019

Dedicated to

my grandmother Esther and my nonna Misa

Let my inspiration flow in token rhyme, suggesting rhythm, that will not forsake you, till my tale is told and done Terrapin Station (Garcia/Hunter)

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Acknowledgments

PROLOGUE

"Hang your head, Tom Dooley, Hang your head and cry

You killed poor Laurie Foster, And you know you’re bound to die." (Traditional)

S he stood just outside the front door of her cabin, clutching a cup of coffee. She looked out at the protective grove of pine trees that surrounded her. When the rain subsided, it had brought in unwelcome humidity. She watched drops of rain slowly fall silently from the trees onto the soft pine forest floor. Her small cabin was homey but only held the essentials: a bed, a couch, a kitchen and bathroom. There were some decorative things scattered around her cabin too. They were mostly momentos, like the postcard she got in Maryland that was pinned to the wall in her kitchen, or the framed photograph of her standing in front of a Welcome to Colorful Colorado sign that sat on her desk, the purple Indian tapestry she got when she was in high school hung above the couch, and the sketch she did of that cute kid Chuck who gave her a ride from L.A. to Oakland. In another life she might have had more, but she chose a secluded life when she left that day. It was a decisive retreat from the unconscionable act that only now had come to light.

She walked back into her cabin and sat down at the small desk that faced a small picture window, her laptop opened in front of her. She stared at the empty screen. The window was open, but no breeze blew inside. The lace curtains that had been there when she moved in thirty years ago were still. Beside the computer lay an old, worn writing journal. It lay open, the bulk of it already written in. The left-side page was full of handwritten words, but her focus was on the right hand page, which was blank. It seemed strange that all those experiences so long ago could be summed up with this last, empty page.

Her focus shifted to a newspaper article lying underneath the journal. The words remains have been discovered in bold type were legible. A rush of acid from her gut rose to her throat and she swallowed it. She wondered if they had used bloodhounds to search for her. She had not stuck around long enough to find out. All she knew was she had to leave, go away and never look back. But the past had caught up as it always does and she was now staring right at it. All those years of trying to forget what might have happened to her, she realized had just been an attempt to prolong the truth.

When she was in third grade, her friend Nadia’s sister was kidnapped. It was like one day she and Nadia were skipping down the tree-lined streets of her neighborhood after school, and next thing she knew, for weeks she would hear the howls of the bloodhounds as they searched for Sasha. They never did find her. Sasha had disappeared after shopping at the local market on a Friday afternoon to pick up a few things for her mom. Then the fires came and they had spread out throughout the hills of her town and the search for Sasha stopped. School was canceled for a week because of the fires and when she returned to school ash from the fire danced down the elementary school halls like tumbleweeds through a ghost town.

However, unlike Sasha, they found that girl in Colorado. She focused on the journal again and thought about all those years she had spent on the road: the music, the people and the places she traveled to. However, all of it, all of the vivid times always led back to this empty page, to the one she knew she would eventually have to fill.

She noticed a new email in her inbox and she clicked it open. It was another email asking her why. It was time she explained why she could not be the one to bring this crime to justice. The truth was, she had been scared, and for so long she had shrouded herself in the thought that the girl must have just run away. But she herself had been running away from the truth all along. There was something else, of course. She wasn’t the last person to see her alive. She took a deep breath and typed the words: This is what happened the last time I saw her.

In another hour, she found herself walking up the steps of the courthouse. She clutched the scarf that was loosely wrapped around her shoulders. At the top of the steps she leaned against a massive column holding up the portico that shaded the front of the building. She watched a dark-haired woman walk up the steps and she studied her face, she was the same one she saw sitting on the bench. She realized it must be her. The woman walked by and through the large glass doors of the courthouse building.

She waited a moment and then went inside. The security guard took her shoulder bag and ushered her through a metal detector. She felt sort of like a fish swimming against the tide as she made her way down the crowded hall like she was somehow moving backwards. Backwards to that place. To him. She found courtroom number three and paused before entering the room. Would she even recognize him after all of these years? He of course was much older now, his hair was probably grey like hers. She wanted to wrap her scarf around her head like a veil and hide so he would not see her. She did not want to see that look in his eyes, a look she remembered so vividly, one she had at one time mistook for benevolent.

The courtroom was almost half full, and she found a single seat one row back from the front. She looked around and saw the dark-haired girl sitting three rows back on the opposite side of the courtroom. The girl looked over and scrutinized her, as if she was trying to remember something. The room soon filled up with people. Not long after, a door on the opposite side of the courtroom opened.

The entire room came to a complete standstill as a guard led a man dressed in an orange prison-suit into the room. The sound of the chains that shackled his hands behind his back echoed through the quiet. She heard someone behind her whisper, Dead man walking.

CHAPTER

1

I told Althea I was feeling lost, lacking in some direction Althea (Garcia/Hunter)

S carlett Reid sat at her work cubicle staring at her computer screen. Lighting fixtures blah, she said, scrolling down the page. Furniture blah blah blah. She punched the scroll down arrow with purpose. She heard the swish swish of her boss’s movements approaching her desk. That swish swish was caused by the single fact that her boss’s skirt was too tight and her gait and resembled that more closely to that of a wooden toy soldier. The swishing stopped at her cubicle.

How are you coming along with the October issue, Reid? Marta Keene asked, looming over her. Marta was referring to the upcoming copy of Architectural Home. Marta called everyone by their last names. She was a tough nut in an even tougher shell, a woman in a man’s world, a world that she unfortunately ruled with more bravado than feminist right.

Good, just working on some furniture ads. Scarlett didn’t look up but instead clicked on a photograph of a very modern looking black leather chair and matching ottoman. At the moment, the chair and ottoman were more appealing to look and Scarlett typed in the words mid-century modern in a text box next to the photograph. She mouthed the words unenthusiastic as she typed them in.

Don’t sound so enthusiastic, Reid, Marta said sarcastically. Were they were kindred spirits, given the word choice? But then given the word choice, more like Oh hell no. This needs to be on my desk and finished by next Friday before I leave for London.

Marta spun around and swished her way back toward her office. Scarlett’s gaze followed the line of seam of her pantyhose that ran down from the bottom of her pencil skirt down to the top of her black sling-back heels.

Satan, Scarlett mumbled as she Marta closed her office door.Sophie Campbell, the girl in the cubicle next to her, peeked over the partition and peered down at Scarlett. Scarlett did not know Sophie very well, despite the fact that they had been cubicle neighbors for almost a year.

How’s it going, Scarlett? Her Rapunzel like blonde hair flowed over Scarlett’s side of the partition and dangled dangerously close to her coffee mug. Scarlett moved her mug away from Sophie’s tendrils.

What’s up? Kind of busy here. Scarlett paused. Sorry, that was really rude. She wasn’t really that interested in engaging in a conversation with Sophie, but on second thought, maybe it would be more interesting than what she was currently working on. I’m just trying to cram as many pictures onto the page without it looking like a complete cluster fuck. So, Scarlett asked, what does Marta have you working on?

Travel she said, baring her teeth in an oversized smile.

What magazine do you work on again? Scarlett asked nonchalantly.

Hashtag omg! You don’t know what magazine I work on? she said with a frown and an exclamation. That was not the response from Sophie that Scarlett was expecting, and she must have looked horrified, because Sophie added, OMG, I am totally kidding! I work on Travelogue.

Oh ha ha, Scarlett said, not really sure what to make of Sophie at this point. They were both part of the advertising department of the magazine conglomerate CooperHunt, which owned a multitude of magazines, including fashion, travel, architecture, and food amongst many others. Sorry, I guess I must have forgotten that. That’s cool, though, sounds more interesting than light fixtures and furniture.

Fer sure! I so want to go to Fiji someday. I’m working on an ad for this amazing resort there! Wouldn’t you just love to go to Fiji? Hashtag sign me up! Sophie smiled, her bright white teeth gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Scarlett realized, that if Sophie could insert emojis into her speech she probably would.

Yeah, I guess, maybe. Scarlett wasn’t really paying attention to Sophie or for that matter what she had said. Instead, she was staring at the word muscular on the screen, which was being used by a furniture company to describe a bulky leather couch. That sounds like it would be a good place to honeymoon. She changed the word muscular to jacked, and then changed it back. Marta would probably put a big red X over it.

OMG, are you getting married? Sophie’s voice rose to a decibel that was apparently audible to the rest of the room, because everyone looked in their direction.

Wait what? Scarlett asked now suddenly engaged in her conversation with Sophie.

Are you getting married? Sophie asked again.

Not that I know of. Didn’t you say it would be a good place to honeymoon? Scarlett asked confused.

No, Sophie said. You did.

My bad, Scarlett laughed. Did she really just say honeymoon, because that was the furthest thing from her mind. Jason, that’s my boyfriend, and I have no plans of getting married. Yet at least.

I want to meet him! Sophie said.

Who, Jason? Scarlett asked. She thought that it was a little odd that Sophie expressed an interest in meeting Jason when she and Sophie weren’t even friends. Yeah, sure. Scarlett said reluctantly. Well, gotta get back to work. Right after Sophie’s head disappeared from above the partition, Scarlett heard a scuffle then a squeal. She stood up and looked over into Sophie’s cubicle and saw Sophie sitting on her butt on the floor giggling. LMAO, I totally forgot that my chair wasn’t where I thought it was. Scarlett stared down at Sophie. She looked like a rag doll, with one foot pointing in one direction and the other in the other direction. Sophie flattened out her skirt that had bunched up above her knees. God, I’m such a klutz. She said and looked up at Scarlett with what just might have been the most innocent and sweetest smile Scarlett had ever seen.

Yeah you are, Scarlett said, laughing. She hadn’t thought she would, but she like Sophie.

Scarlett Reid was twenty-eight years old and about to turn twenty-nine, not quite the scary age thirty but seriously heading in that direction. She was a graduate of Sarah Lawrence College, and had landed this job right out of college, thanks to a connection from one of her professors senior year. Her cubicle was in a large open room filled with other cubicles that were flooded with fluorescent lights that were hidden in the tiles of a drop ceiling. It was sort of a factory for all the fancy magazines, the type that could be found on wealthy people’s coffee tables. She lost focus of the text on the screen and looked at her reflection. Scarlett’s just below the shoulder straight brown hair, parted on the side, was in dire need of a trim. She definitely needed to make an appointment at her hair salon ASAP. Feeling bored, Scarlett opened up her work emails. Amongst the office memos and the usual stuff forwarded to her from Marta was an email with an attachment and the word Please read this story written in the subject line. The sender’s email address was not one that Scarlett had seen before and consisted of what looked like random numbers and letters. Skeptically Scarlett opened the email. She read the email message.

"Dear Ms. Scarlett Reid,

Please read my story. I need your help."

There was no name from the sender below. Scarlett scrolled up and down, closed the email and then opened it back up. She rubbed her eyes and focused back on the screen and read the email again. What the …? she said, leaving the expletive out. Could this be some sort of phishing expedition? For some reason, she did not think so, so she clicked on the attachment and opened it. The title was simply August 17, 1987. It started with a very cryptic paragraph.

I got this journal as a present from my parents for my high school graduation. I packed it in my backpack just before I left for Colorado, even though, I really did not think I was going to write in it. That was until I found out a girl had been murdered.

Scarlett paused and looked up. She really was not quite sure what she had just read. Was this some sort of joke? She looked around her. There were no snickers or heads popping out from her neighboring cubicles looking at her and laughing. She looked back at her computer monitor. Why would someone send her this (was it a story?) and, ask for her help? Then she focused on the word murder. Scarlett considered it for a moment. Was this fiction? Was this even meant for her? Scarlett had the strange feeling that not only was this email meant for her but that it wasn’t fiction. She continued reading.

Let me back track to where my story began..

I looked out the window as the airplane came to a stop at Stapleton Airport. I really really hoped that Drew was here to pick me up. I only had a hundred dollars and my driver’s license in my little Guatemalan purse in addition to a bag full of homemade t-shirts to sell. I stashed the box of granola I had been munching from next to the journal in my backpack and looked out of the window onto the tarmac and beyond to the empty and flat expanse east of me. I waited for everyone to get off the plane before I stood up and walked out and made my way down the stairs. The air was thick with heat and I looked towards the mountains, which were barely visible through the haze. It was supposed to be a fun trip: go see the Grateful Dead, hike a fourteener and hang out in Boulder with Drew. Had I known what was going to happen, I would have walked right back onto that plane. If I had only known, I would have never gotten on that plane to begin with.

Scarlett really wanted to keep reading. She was curious to find out what it was that happened. Whatever it was sounded ominous. She rolled her chair towards the opening of her cubicle and looked down the aisle towards Marta’s office. Marta was standing facing out of the glass window with her hands on her hips and stared at Scarlett. Ugh, Scarlett mumbled and she rolled her chair back to her desk and closed the attachment. Scarlett then heard the swish swish hurrying towards her desk. Reid, get back to work! Marta exclaimed before she even got to Scarlett’s desk.

CHAPTER

2

Just like New York City, Just like Jericho, pace the walls and climb the walls, and get out when they blow Ramble on Rose (Garcia/Hunter)

S carlett made her way home from work with all of the other people making their way home from work. As chaotic the city was it was also so predictable. She was greeted by the doorman as she walked into the apartment building, and like every day she pressed the number 15 elevator button that took her slowly up to her apartment. Jason would be home by now, probably with a beer in hand, and possibly sitting at the kitchen island, but most likely on the couch watching baseball with more than likely a bag of Doritos at his side. Life on autopilot.

Hey, Scar, Jason said as she walked through the door. Scarlett had a full view of the living room and the kitchen from the front door. No, she was wrong, it wasn’t Doritos, it was Planters’ peanuts. His hand had just grabbed a fistful when she walked in and now he was shoving them in his mouth. With his mouthful of peanuts, she thought he said.

What’s up babe? She had lived with her boyfriend since college. They had a two-bedroom (or as what they described it as: one bedroom plus office) in a pre-war building on Avenue B between 9th and 10th Street.

Hi. Scarlett said staring at Jason, still standing at the door.

I’m fucking starving. I’m gonna order Chinese. Jason said, rubbing his stomach.

Well then, nice to see you too. She said.

Sorry babe, I love you. Jason said looking at her with a puppy dog face.

Jason, you are so freaking predictable, Scarlett laughed.

Nuthin’ wrong with predictability, Jason said, stumbling on the words. His hand pulled up his button-up shirt just enough to reveal the strip of dark kinky hair that ran from his crotch to his belly button.

How about Mexican tonight, you know, change things up a little?

Nah, Jason said. it’s Wednesday, we always do Chinese on Wednesdays. Scarlett sighed and dropped her keys with a perfunctory gesture into the glass bowl on the table by the door. She pulled her purse off her shoulder and put it down. She glanced at herself in the mirror by the door. Scarlett Reid definitely had a uniform, which consisted of button-up blouses, usually white with brightly colored low-waisted flat front pants and flats. Even her wardrobe was predictable. At least she was not short like Marta, who she towered over her at 5'9. Not only were flats more comfortable, but she didn’t need props to make her look taller. She sighed at her reflection, unfortunately being tall didn’t really make things less predictable. She turned away from the mirror and walked into the living room.

The living room window was open and a light breeze was blowing the sheer white curtain into the room. "I’m going to go sit on the couch she said, pouring herself a glass of chardonnay and carrying it over to the white upholstered sofa.

Jason watched a few pitches of the game before he announced, Let’s go out. It is a really nice night. The Yankees were probably losing, Scarlett thought.

Do I have to get up? Scarlett heard herself whine.

Yes, you do, it’s really nice out, Jason demanded and turned the t.v. off before Scarlett could get a look at the score. They walked out onto the balcony that overlooked Tompkins Square Park.

Yankees are losing? She asked.

Nah. Just the Red Sox are winning against the Orioles. It’s complicated.

Ahh. How was your day? Scarlett asked. Scarlett was tempted to tell Jason about the strange email and even stranger attachment she had gotten earlier that day but she was still so unsure of it herself and knew that by telling him would bring on an barrage of challenging questions, so she decided not too. Not yet at least, she had to read more before she said anything.

Jason carefully placed two coasters down on the glass-top outdoor wicker coffee table, a gift from his mother when they had moved into the apartment. Scarlett hated the thing. She thought wicker was tacky and out of place unless the house was close to a beach. She watched the glass top reflecting the passing of the clouds.

Good. I landed a new client today, a pretty big one actually. It could land me a monster bonus at the end of the year Jason said, puffing his chest out a little. How was your day?

The usual, boring, Scarlett said. I’d like to quit, like tomorrow.

Her gaze rose above the locals milling in the park below. With a wine buzz coming on, she pictured herself with a wide-brimmed hat, sitting on the edge of a private dock with her toes in the water in Fiji. Of course, she had never been to Fiji and was basing it solely on the photo she had seen on Sophie’s computer screen. It wwas not like she didn’t travel growing up, she traveled quite a bit. But it was always to Europe. Not that she was complaining. She loved Europe, especially Prague. Prague was underground, like a band that has not been discovered yet. She had once seen a policeman in uniform taking a shot of vodka at nine a.m. and the way the recorded voice announced all of the subway stops was hilarious - Mustek, Muzeum, and her favorite: Namesti