Sleeping Beauty

Chapter Thirty-Four

Jerry Philips pulled up at the VALET PARKING sign, and a college kid in a white shirt and black slacks swapped a claim check for his car. Jerry took Ashley’s hand and they walked up the driveway to the mansion that Casey Van Meter had inherited from her father. Miles Van Meter’s publisher had decided to kick off the book tour for the special edition of Sleeping Beauty exactly one year after Joshua Maxfield had been sentenced to death, and Casey had opened up Glen Oaks for the publication party.

All of the lights in the house were on, and the couple could hear music and laughter coming from the backyard where a band had been set up near the pool. People were chatting on the front lawn, waiters were offering hors d’oeuvres on silver trays, and Jerry had to shoulder his way through the boisterous crowd in the entry hall to get to the bar. Ashley was checking out the fashion statements and the jewelry while she waited for her drink when someone shouted her name. She turned and was swept up by Delilah Wallace, who embraced her ex-star witness, then held her at arm’s length.

“You’re looking a lot better than you looked when I saw you last,” said Delilah, who had not seen Ashley since Joshua Maxfield’s sentencing.

“You’re looking good, too, Delilah.”

“Nah. I’m as fat as ever, but I sure am happy, because I came here hoping to find you and here you are. So tell me what you’ve been up to.”

“I’m engaged,” Ashley said as she showed the prosecutor her ring.

Delilah grabbed Ashley’s hand and inspected the stone. “That’s lovely. Do I know the lucky man?”

“Merlot, madam,” Jerry Philips said as he handed Ashley a glass of red wine. “Hi, Delilah.”

“I was just congratulating Ashley. When’s the wedding?”

“Probably not until Ashley graduates,” Jerry said. “We’re both too busy for a honeymoon right now.”

“I’m going to Portland State,” Ashley explained. “I’m premed and that really keeps me hopping.”

“Did you have any trouble getting back in the swing of school after being away so long?” Delilah asked.

“It was tough at first. I was pretty nervous.”

“She’s getting straight A’s,” Jerry said proudly.

Ashley blushed. “What have you been up to?”

“The same old, same old. Murder and mayhem.”

Ashley was about to tell Delilah that she’d been reading about the DA’s most recent trial when Casey Van Meter walked into the entry hall and spotted Ashley. The mistress of Glen Oaks looked radiant. Except for a barely noticeable limp, all evidence that she had been one of the living dead had been erased during the past year, as had the presence of Randy Coleman, whom she had finally divorced. Casey had not resumed her duties as dean, leaving in place the capable woman Henry had hired while she was in her coma. But she had become active in civic affairs and was much sought after to sit on boards and committees because of her wealth and intelligence.

Casey said hello to Delilah Wallace. Jerry saluted Casey with his glass. Ashley had seen less of her mother since she started college. Her heavy premed load left little time for socializing. When she did have free time, she spent it with Jerry. Jerry wasn’t sorry that Ashley had cut down on her visits to her mother. Her relationship with Casey had helped her get through the Maxfield trial and had given her a new family, but Jerry thought that there was something cold and artificial about Casey Van Meter. Of course, he’d never said anything about his feelings to Ashley.

“Miles has been asking for you,” Casey said. “He’s signing books in the living room. Come on. Let’s visit.”

Ashley promised to talk to Delilah later. Jerry followed as Casey took Ashley’s arm and led her through the crowd. Heads turned and people whispered when they saw the two women. Miles and the media had made them celebrities. Ashley had never welcomed her fame and she was glad when the attentions of the press waned after the trial. She had not been thrilled when the publicity blitz for the special edition of Sleeping Beauty had raised her public profile again.

Miles was sitting with his back to a massive stone fireplace at a table piled high with his books.

“I’ve brought you someone,” Casey said. Miles had his head down and was inscribing a book for a couple. He looked up and broke into a grin.

“Ashley,” he said as he rose. “I’m so glad you came. Hi Jerry.”

Miles turned to a short, gray-haired man who had been watching the signing.

“Jack, this is Ashley Spencer and her fiancé, Jerry Philips. This is Jack Dunlop, my editor.”

Dunlop smiled and held out his hand to Ashley. “I’m so glad to finally meet you. After editing Sleeping Beauty and spending another couple of months with the new edition I feel like I know you.”

Ashley forced a smile and prayed that Dunlop would not ask her what she thought of the book, which she had never read. Ashley wanted to place the horrors perpetrated by Joshua Maxfield behind her. Every time she saw a copy of Miles’s book she felt old wounds opening.

“I have something for you,” Miles said, as he picked up a copy of Sleeping Beauty that was not part of the stacks of books that stood in front of him. He opened the cover and showed Ashley what he had written on the title page.

For Ashley Spencer, A special person whose courage has been an inspiration to me.

Miles Van Meter

“Thank you, Miles,” Ashley said.

“I’m sincere about that.” He turned to Jack Dunlop. “This is the bravest lady I’ve ever met.”

The party was still going strong around midnight when Jerry and Ashley left. She’d enjoyed talking to Delilah, but the attention bestowed on her by the guests had made Ashley very uncomfortable, and the couple begged off as soon as they could do so politely. Jerry drove them back to the blue, two-story Victorian on the east side of the river that they’d been sharing since the end of the Maxfield trial. A high hedge enclosed a small backyard and a covered porch fronted the street. There was a television, CD and DVD players, and a state-of-the-art sound system in the living room, but most of the furnishings were antiques, in keeping with the age of the house.

When Jerry went into the kitchen for a glass of water, Ashley carried Miles’s gift into the living room and put it on the bookshelf. Jerry came up behind her and laid a hand on her shoulder.

“Are you ever going to read that book?” he asked.

She reached back and covered his hand. “Maybe someday when I’m certain it won’t hurt too much.”

Jerry leaned down and kissed her neck. “Let’s get to bed.”

Ashley turned out the lights and they climbed the stairs.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Two weekends after Miles’s party, Stan Getz was playing low on the stereo and Ashley was curled up on the couch in the living room finishing her organic chemistry homework. She completed the last problem and closed the textbook. Organic chemistry made her brain hurt, but she got it and she was proud that she did. She stretched and walked over to the front window. A heavy rain was pounding the front yard. The white noise and the smooth jazz were making her sleepy.

Ashley went into the kitchen to fix a cup of instant coffee. While the water boiled she thought about her new beginning. She’d been nervous about going back to the classroom after being away for so long but she’d also been excited about living life like a normal person. Her years on the run had worn her down.

The water boiled and Ashley spooned some instant coffee into a mug. She took a sip then carried the mug back to the living room. Jerry was at the office for a few hours grinding out a brief. Thinking about him made Ashley smile. She had been so happy since she’d moved in with Jerry. His love, and the closure that Maxfield’s conviction had brought, had enabled her to deal with all of the death and despair that had made her so unhappy since her parents were murdered. Jerry had given her back her life and had provided her with a future.

Jerry wouldn’t be home for a while and she’d done the household chores during breaks from her homework. She didn’t feel like watching TV. Ashley scanned the bookcase for something to read. One title jumped out at her. She hesitated before pulling the autographed copy of Sleeping Beauty off the shelf. Just touching the cover made her nervous. Ashley carried Miles Van Meter’s book to the couch. She held it with both hands. The thought of opening the book frightened her. The murders of her mother and father were inside. So were Tanya Jones’s muffled screams and her own brushes with death. She steeled herself and turned to the introduction.

Ashley had read an account of a near-death experience in which a clinically dead patient told of floating above his own body in an operating room while he watched his doctor bring him back from the brink. Reading about her life from someone else’s viewpoint was a little like that. Some of the scenes made her shiver or sweat, but the printed words put distance between Ashley and the horror of the years that had started with the murder of her parents and ended with Maxfield’s trial.

There were many things that had gone on in her case that Ashley knew nothing about. The manhunt for Joshua Maxfield after his escape from the county courthouse fascinated her. Miles had interviewed FBI and Interpol agents and had detailed the steps that had been taken to find the fugitive. And the escape itself was amazing. Ashley could not help admiring the planning and imagination that had enabled Maxfield to conceive and execute his plan. Joshua Maxfield was brilliant, and she suddenly realized how lucky she was to be alive.

There were also several chapters about Casey and everything that had been done to help her while she was in her coma. Ashley was saddened by Miles’s account of Henry’s plight. Casey’s father had put on a brave front during their meals together. He had never let Ashley see the depth of his sorrow. Ashley had no doubt that watching helplessly as his daughter wasted away had shortened Henry’s life.

An hour after she started the book, Ashley reached the chapter detailing her escape from the Academy dormitory. Her eyes were tired from reading. Ashley closed the book. It was almost noon. She was hungry. She placed Sleeping Beauty on the end table and carried her mug into the kitchen for a refill. As she fixed a sandwich, Ashley tried to evaluate Sleeping Beauty. Miles had done an outstanding job of telling what had happened to her and her family, but he had failed to re-create the terror she had experienced. Ashley could not fault Miles for not succeeding here. Only someone who had lived through a rape or an attack knew what it was like. No one could imagine the despair, the disorientation and the stark terror, or the way your heart pounded.

Ashley was starting to put mustard on a slice of rye when she froze. Something was not right. She frowned and put down the knife. A moment later, she was in the living room thumbing through the bestseller until she found what she’d been looking for. She read the paragraph and lost her appetite.

“No,” she said out loud. “This can’t be right.”

So much time had passed. Her memory had to be faulty. There was a logical explanation. She just wasn’t seeing it. She read the paragraph again. When she finished, Ashley felt sick and confused. If she was right… But she couldn’t be. It didn’t make sense. She had seen Maxfield in the boathouse holding the knife that had killed Terri.

Ashley read the paragraph a final time. The words had not changed and neither had the import of those words. What should she do? She could talk to Jerry, but she didn’t want to worry him. And she didn’t have enough facts yet. To be certain, she’d have to review the police reports and the trial transcripts. How would she get them? Delilah, of course. And who better to talk to about what was troubling her.

Delilah picked up after three rings.

“Hi, this is Ashley.”

“What a nice surprise! You recovered from the Van Meter bash yet? I never saw so many VIPs in one place.”

“Casey knows how to throw a party,” Ashley agreed. Then she paused, unsure of how to proceed.

“What’s up?” Delilah prodded.

“There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“So talk. I’m listening.”

“Do you have the Maxfield file?”

“It’s at the office.”

“Does it have a transcript of the trial and the preliminary hearing and the police reports of my interviews?”

“Sure. Why?”

Ashley hesitated. The more she thought about it, the more certain she was that she was wrong.

“You still there, hon?” Delilah asked.

“I’ve been reading Sleeping Beauty. I never read it before.”

“I thought you wanted to put all that bad stuff behind you.”

“I did, but the book was there and I wasn’t reading anything and… Anyway, there were some things that Miles wrote about that I didn’t know. It made me curious. I was wondering if I could look at the file today or tomorrow?”

“You want to make me come down to the office on my days of rest?”

“It’s important.”

“Important how?”

Ashley didn’t answer. She was afraid of sounding foolish.

“What are you up to, Ashley? What’s really going on here?”

“Something might be wrong.”

“Wrong how?”

“I’d rather not say until I read the file. I’m probably way off base. I don’t want to waste your time if that’s the case.”

“I’m not following you. What type of thing is wrong?”

“What if we’re all mistaken about Joshua Maxfield?”

Delilah laughed. “Joshua Maxfield is a bad man, Ashley. Make no mistake about that. He’s on death row because he deserves to be on death row.”

“I know, but…”

“Look, the man is going to be executed and you had a lot to do with that. Any normal person is going to feel bad about having some responsibility for a man’s death even if that man is a monster. That’s why you’re not a serial killer, because you have empathy for people. But don’t let those feelings blind you.”

“Delilah, I’ve got to see the file. Please. I’m sure I’ve got this all wrong, but if I don’t…”

“Okay, sugar, spell it out for me. Let me hear what you’ve got to say. Be an advocate for your position. If you convince me, I’ll take you to the office in an hour.”

There were a few deputy DAs working in their cubicles when Delilah let Ashley into the district attorney’s office, but most of the office was dark and deserted. Delilah put Ashley into an empty room with a large table and returned fifteen minutes later pushing a dolly loaded down with banker boxes. Ashley helped stack the boxes on the table, and the two women unpacked them. One box contained Delilah’s files, including an indexed set of the police reports. Two large boxes held copies of the transcripts of Maxfield’s trial, which was under review in the Oregon Supreme Court. Several boxes contained exhibits that had been introduced at trial. Another box held evidence that Delilah had not entered as exhibits. While Ashley was unpacking the last box, Delilah disappeared. She reappeared moments later with a mug and a thermos of coffee.

“Figured you could use this. You’re in for a long day. And don’t worry, girl. This ain’t the horrid office brew. It’s Delilah’s caffeine special, a secret blend I perfected during years of late nights and early mornings.”

Delilah left and Ashley got down to business. She grabbed the transcript first. Since she knew what she was looking for she didn’t have to read all of it. She skimmed the opening statements and closing arguments of both attorneys, her testimony, and the testimony of Larry Birch and Tony Marx. When she was done with the transcript, Ashley read through the police reports, concentrating on the interviews that Larry Birch had conducted with her but also reading any report that summarized the case. Two hours later, she had not found what she was looking for, and that scared her to death.

Even if she was right about this one thing, there were other unanswered questions. She pulled the draft of Maxfield’s unfinished novel out of the court exhibits, hoping it would hold the answer to one of them. Delilah had not offered the whole manuscript into evidence. Only those pages that had scenes that corresponded to the evidence that had been withheld from the public had been marked as exhibits. Joshua Maxfield was printed on the top left corner of each page. She skimmed the one hundred and seventy-odd pages, but none of them contained an answer to her questions.

Ashley had read the police report that detailed the search of Maxfield’s cabin. She knew that an earlier draft of the novel had been found on a table in the room where Maxfield did his writing. After a few minutes of searching she found it. The earlier draft did not have Maxfield’s name on it and it was significantly different from the other draft. By the time Ashley was through reading it, she was certain she knew what had happened, but there was one more thing she had to do to be certain that she was right. She walked down the hall and knocked on the doorjamb of the prosecutor’s office.

“Delilah,” she said when the deputy DA looked up, “I have to talk to Joshua Maxfield.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

The Oregon State Penitentiary is located near the I-5 freeway in Salem, Oregon ’s capital. At ten o’clock on Monday morning, Ashley parked in the visitor’s lot. A tree-shaded sidewalk ran past a row of small white houses that served as offices for the prison staff. At the end of the walk, across a stretch of asphalt, was the prison with its egg yolk-yellow walls topped by razor wire and guarded by gun towers.

Ashley checked in at the visitors’ desk, then took a seat in the reception area. While she was waiting for the guard to call her name, Ashley almost changed her mind about meeting Joshua Maxfield. She was that frightened of him. Delilah had arranged for the interview and had volunteered to go along. Jerry had also volunteered, after his attempts to talk her out of the meeting had failed. She’d turned them both down, because she believed that she had a better chance of getting the death-row inmate to talk if she was alone.

The guard summoned Ashley to the metal detector. After she walked through without setting off an alarm, he escorted her down a short ramp to an enclosed area sealed off by two sets of movable bars. Inside the enclosure, behind bulletproof glass, were several members of the prison staff. One of them hit a button. There was a loud buzz and the bars in front of Ashley slid back. She entered the holding area and pushed her driver’s license through a slit in the glass while the bars slid back in place. As soon as her identity was verified, the guard pressed another button and a second set of bars slid back, admitting her to a narrow hallway that led to the interior of the prison. The walls of the hallway seemed to close in on her, and the clanging sound that the bars made when they slammed shut reminded Ashley that she was now locked in prison.

After a short walk her escort stopped in front of a thick metal door with a small window in its upper half. Ashley stood aside while he unlocked the door and admitted her to the visiting area. To the right was a large open room filled with prison-made couches and low wooden tables. A few vending machines stood against the far wall. At the end closest to Ashley a guard sat on a raised platform that gave him a view of the room. Her escort identified Ashley before returning to the reception area.

Ashley looked around the visiting room nervously while the guard phoned death row and asked to have Joshua Maxfield brought down. She had never been in a prison before. She half expected to see tattooed bodybuilders and greasy Hell’s Angels eyeing her coldly with rape on their minds. Instead she found the room filled with unspectacular-looking men dressed in jail-issue jeans and blue workshirts, who were talking quietly to family members and friends. One middle-aged man with a potbelly and a shaggy mustache was sitting on the floor playing with a little girl Ashley judged to be four. A shy young man in his late twenties was holding hands with a tired-looking young woman who was in the last stages of pregnancy. At the far end of the room, a short, skinny black man was laughing at something an elderly black woman had said.

After a fifteen-minute wait, a new guard entered the visiting room and spoke to the officer on the platform. A few moments later, he took Ashley across the hallway to another visiting section, where the only furniture was the hard metal bridge chairs that stood opposite windows of thick glass. Behind these windows, in narrow concrete rooms sat prisoners deemed too dangerous or too much of an escape risk to be allowed into the main visiting area. The guard led Ashley to two doors at the far end of the room. He opened one of them and Ashley found herself in a tiny cubicle. The only furniture was a bridge chair that faced a glass window. A small metal shelf protruded from the bottom of the window. There was a narrow slot at the bottom of the glass through which sheets of paper could be passed. Above the slit was an equally narrow metal grate that permitted people on either side of the glass to speak to each other.

“They’re bringing Maxfield down, now. He’ll sit in there,” the guard said, pointing at an identical cubicle on the other side of the glass. “This is the only place where visitors are permitted to talk to the inmates on death row. When you’re ready to leave, go back to the desk and we’ll have someone come down from reception and get you.”

The guard left Ashley alone in the room. The air was close and she started to feel claustrophobic. Delilah had told her that it would be impossible for Maxfield to get at her, but she had been afraid of him for so long that she had to convince herself that he did not have supernatural powers that would enable him to break through the thick glass and concrete that separated them.

The door to the other cubicle snapped open with a metallic click, and a guard prodded Joshua Maxfield into the narrow space. His hair had turned partially gray and his skin was pasty from lack of exposure to the sun. Ashley remembered how fit he’d looked on the day they’d met outside the gym. Now his skin looked slack. The only thing that had not changed was his eyes, which never left her while the guard unlocked his hand and leg irons.

“What a pleasant surprise,” Maxfield said as soon as the door closed behind the guard, but he did not look pleased.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Maxfield.”

“Credit my appearance to curiosity. Except for my lawyer, I haven’t had a visitor since I was sentenced. And I would never have guessed that you would be my first.”

“Are you being treated okay?” Ashley asked, trying hard to hide her anxiety. As soon as the words were out, she realized how inane the question sounded, but Maxfield took it seriously.

“Death row isn’t quite the Ritz, but I suspect I’m treated as well as one can be in my circumstances. The guards actually give me paper and pen and let me write. They probably assume that I’ll be more docile if I’m occupied.”

He smiled, but his face was tight. “You might be interested to know that I’m working on a novel about an innocent man who is unjustly sentenced to prison. I sent some sample chapters to my former editor in New York. He’s very interested but he doesn’t want to ink a contract if I’m going to be executed. The publishers are afraid that I won’t be alive long enough to finish the book. But enough about me. Why are you here?”

“I wanted to ask you some questions. If you answer truthfully I may be able to help you.”

“Help me what?”

“Get out of here.”

Maxfield cocked his head to one side and studied Ashley with renewed interest. “Why would you of all people want to help me?” he asked.

“I…I have some doubts about the verdict.”

“It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?” Maxfield laughed bitterly. “Thanks to you and Casey I’m a dead man.”

“You left out someone else who bears part of the blame.”

“Oh, and who is that?”

“You, Mr. Maxfield. You lied about key evidence. Your case might have turned out differently if you’d told the truth.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked warily.

“You lied about what happened in the boathouse. That’s the first thing. I don’t know why you did that but you did. And you lied about your novel.”

Maxfield colored and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “My novel?” he repeated.

Ashley steeled herself and looked Maxfield in the eye. “You didn’t write it. You plagiarized the serial killer novel.”

“Who told you that?” Maxfield asked angrily.

“No one. I figured it out. One thing always nagged at me. You’re smart. Everyone says so. You had to be, to write so well. My mother went on and on about your books. That’s why she took your course. And I couldn’t figure out how someone so smart would do something as dumb as read the part of your book where the killer eats the pie to one of the few people in the world who would understand its significance. But once I considered the possibility that you didn’t write the scene it all made sense. You had no idea that the person who murdered my father ate that snack.”

Ashley paused for Maxfield’s reaction, but he held himself rigid and gave her none.

“I read the two drafts, Mr. Maxfield, and I’ve read your books. You wrote the manuscript with your name on it. That manuscript has the same style as A Tourist in Babylon and The Wishing Well. The man who killed my father and Tanya Jones wrote the other manuscript. The first draft is so different that it had to be the work of someone else.”

Maxfield still said nothing, but he didn’t stop her either.

“I was in court when Delilah Wallace played the tape of the interview Detective Birch conducted at the jail in Omaha. You sounded shocked when he told you that the scene you read to my mother was just like what happened in my house. You didn’t know. You could have told Birch that the book wasn’t yours then, but, as bizarre as it seems, I think you’d rather die than admit you can’t write anymore.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it? You failed at everything you tried until you wrote Tourist. Your whole identity was wrapped up in the success of that book. Instead of being a screwup, you were suddenly revered, respected, rich, and world-famous. Then The Wishing Well flopped, and you came up empty when you tried to write another novel. You had your moment of fame and you wanted it back. You saw the serial killer novel as your way to return to the top. Who wrote the first draft, Mr. Maxfield?”

“You think I can’t write anymore? You’re accusing me of…of stealing someone else’s work?”

“I know you did, and I think your pride kept you quiet. We all thought that you were this superintelligent genius writer, but I think you’re really a one-book wonder who would rather die than admit you stole someone else’s idea for a book because you couldn’t think up an idea of your own.”

Maxfield’s eyes dropped. He looked utterly destroyed.

“The reviews, those first reviews. They said I was the new Hemingway, the new Salinger, the voice of my generation. Everyone said it. The money came so fast, everything came so fast.” Maxfield’s face fell. “And it went so quickly. When The Wishing Well flopped, my editor told me it was the sophomore jinx; that I’d tried too hard. He told me to take my time with the next book and that I’d be back on top in no time. Only there was no next book. I couldn’t come up with a single idea. Every time I tried I came up dry. Then the money ran out and they sued me. After I was forced out of Eton College I couldn’t get a respectable job. Everyone knew about my drinking and the falsified résumé and what happened with that student. I had to teach high school, for God’s sake. My only way back was with a new book.”

“Who sent you the serial killer novel?”

“I don’t know. I was critiquing manuscripts for money. Even with my salary from the Academy I was barely getting by. This one came anonymously through the mail, with a cash payment. There was a post office box for the return address. I saw the potential immediately. The writing was crude but there was such power in it. Now I know why. It was real: the horror, the reactions of the victims and the killer, the writer had experienced them.”

“The author was bound to read your novel. Didn’t you think he would recognize it?”

“I didn’t care. I was at rock bottom. And I figured I’d win any lawsuit. I was going to destroy his manuscript when I was done, and I was the famous writer. I thought I was dealing with a nobody.”

“Why didn’t you tell anybody that you didn’t write the book after you were arrested?”

“I tried once. Right before I testified, I told my lawyer that I’d stolen the idea for the book. He told me that no one would believe me. He was right. The manuscript was next to my computer. My handwritten notes were all over it. My name was on every page of my manuscript.”

“What happened in the boathouse?” Ashley asked quietly.

Maxfield kept staring at the floor. He said nothing.

“What does it matter now?” Ashley asked. “You’re already sentenced to death. It can’t get any worse.”

“You’ve got a point there. You certainly do.”

He ran a hand across his face. “I didn’t kill your mother. Terri was dead when I walked into the boathouse.”

“Go on.”

“I was almost there when I heard the first scream. I froze. That scream was terrible. It paralyzed me.”

Ashley knew exactly what he meant.

“When she screamed again I went to the boathouse.”

“Did you see Randy Coleman running away?”

Maxfield shook his head. “I made that up.”

Ashley looked shocked. “If the police believed you, Coleman could have been tried for murder.”

Maxfield’s features hardened. “He deserved to be. He tried to kill you in the parking lot at Sunny Rest. I didn’t lie about that. And he murdered Terri when he was trying to kill his wife.”

“But you didn’t see him at the boathouse?”

“No. He was probably hiding inside and got away when I chased you.”

“What really happened in there?”

“When I came in, Casey was kneeling over Terri. The knife was on the floor next to her. She grabbed it and jumped up. Then she screamed ‘Murderer,’ and ran at me. She looked terrified. She thought that I had killed Terri. She tried to stab me. It happened so fast that I didn’t think. I hit her on the jaw. She flew back and cracked her head on that oak column. The sound was sickening. I knew she was badly hurt as soon as I heard it. I was going to check on her when it dawned on me that Terri’s killer might still be in the boathouse. There hadn’t been that much time between hearing the second scream and my entering, and I hadn’t seen anyone go out the front door. Casey dropped the knife when I hit her. I picked it up for protection. A second later, I saw you at the window. I wanted to tell you that I was innocent but you took off before I could get close enough to say anything.” He looked away. “When it dawned on me that you’d tell the police that I killed Terri and attacked Casey I panicked and ran.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone what happened, later?”

“Who would believe me after you told the police what you saw and I took off?”

Ashley smiled confidently. “I do, Mr. Maxfield, and I’m going to make other people believe you. I know who killed my parents.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

It takes forty-five minutes to drive from Salem to Portland, and Ashley was thinking all the way. Joshua Maxfield had filled in most of the blanks, but one question still nagged at her. By the time she left the freeway, she thought she knew how to answer it.

Jerry was waiting for her in a dark booth in the rear of Huber’s, where they had arranged to meet for a late lunch.

“Well?” he asked as soon as she sat down.

“He didn’t kill them,” Ashley answered, “and I know who did.”

Ashley spent the rest of their lunch explaining her theory to Jerry. He played devil’s advocate, but she beat back all his arguments. When she had finished her presentation, Jerry sat back and thought. She watched him expectantly. Finally, he shook his head.

“My God, Ashley, I think you’re right.”

Ashley let out a pent-up breath. She had worried that Jerry would not agree with her or that he would find some flaw in her reasoning. It meant so much that he was on her side.

“One thing bothers me, though,” Jerry continued. “If you’re right, the murders in your house weren’t random. How did he know that you’re Casey’s daughter? That didn’t become common knowledge until the guardianship hearing.”

The question seemed to bother Ashley.

“Remember when we were in court for the hearing, the week I came back to Portland?”

“Sure.”

“You wanted to get the file on my adoption from the firm that represented Henry Van Meter. What happened?”

“Monte Jefferson couldn’t find it.”

“Why?”

“He thought it had been misfiled or thrown away by mistake. It’s over twenty years old. It happens.”

“What if the file wasn’t lost? What if it was stolen?”

The import of her question suddenly struck Jerry and he turned pale as he realized why Ashley was so upset. Jerry’s face crumpled.

“Once he found your file he had the names of everyone who knew that you were Casey’s daughter, including my father’s name.”

Ashley reached across the table and held Jerry’s hands. “He won’t get away with it. We’ll get him. He’ll pay. But we need proof. So, tell me, where did they store my file?”

Elite Storage owned a 186,000-square-foot warehouse in an industrial park in North Portland. Wide, metal overhead doors opened onto loading docks at set intervals around the building. Jerry and Ashley drove past several moving trucks parked at the loading bays. The office was located in the northeast corner of the warehouse. A balding, middle-aged man in a plaid shirt and khakis was doing paperwork when Ashley and Jerry walked in. A sign on his desk identified him as Raymond Wehrman.

“Help you?” he asked.

“I’m Jerry Philips, Mr. Wehrman. My dad was Ken Philips. You store our old law office files.”

“If you say so. We handle about seventy percent of the law offices in town.”

“I’m not surprised that the name doesn’t ring bells. My dad passed away and I’m a one-man outfit now. But you store Brucher, Platt and Heinecken’s files, don’t you?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s a big firm. I recognize that name.”

“This is Ashley Spencer. The Brucher firm handled her adoption twenty-four years ago. I’ve been representing her in a probate matter and we needed to see the file.” Jerry handed the man the document Judge Gish had signed ordering Miles’s attorney to hand over Ashley’s file. After Wehrman read the order he looked up. “Why are you here? Doesn’t the firm’s lawyer have to give you the file?”

“Yes, but he told us that the file is missing.”

“From our warehouse?”

“Yes. We were wondering if you could try to find it. It’s very important.”

“Even if it’s there, I can’t give it to you. I can only give it to a lawyer from the Brucher firm.”

“That’s okay,” Ashley said. “We just want to know if it’s here.”

The man checked his watch then looked at the piles of paper that covered his desk. He stood up.

“Let’s go see what I can find. I’ve been sitting behind this desk all day and I can use a break.”

Wehrman led Jerry and Ashley down endless rows of twelve-foot-high shelves illuminated by overhead fluorescent lighting until they arrived at the shelves rented by the Brucher firm. Wehrman pulled over a ladder and climbed up to the shelf that should have held the file with the record of Ashley’s adoption. After several minutes, he slid the ladder to another section. Finally, he gave up and climbed down.

“It’s not here,” Wehrman said.

“What does that mean?” Jerry asked.

He shrugged. “Any number of things. The file could still be at the law office. You know, they thought they sent it over but the problem happened at the firm. Or we could have misfiled it, which doesn’t happen much, but does happen every so often. Or someone could have checked it out and forgotten to return it.”

“If someone did take it out of the warehouse would there be a record?” Ashley asked.

“Yeah, we have everything on computer now, even the old stuff. Cost us a fortune.”

Back in his office, Wehrman typed in Brucher, Platt and Heinecken. Then he typed in the title of the file.

“Says here we received the file seven years ago.” He hit more keys. “That’s funny.”

“What is?” Ashley asked.

“The file was never checked out. It should still be here.”

“If I gave you a year and a name, could you find out if the person checked out a file in that year?”

“Sure. I’ll just run a search.”

Ashley told Wehrman the year Ken Philips, her father, Terri, and Tanya Jones were murdered and gave him a name. A short time later, Wehrman had her answer.

“Miles Van Meter checked out a file that year but it wasn’t yours.”

“I didn’t think it would be,” Ashley said.