The keep, p.1
The Keep, page 1
The Keep
An Almost True Crime Story
Greta Boris
Copyright © 2024 by Greta Boris
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Parts of this book were previously published as A Pinch of Gluttony.
Cover Design by ambient studios
Print ISBN 978-1-957529-31-8
Ebook ISBN 978-1-957529-32-5
Library of Congress Control Number 2024942560
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locations, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental. Brand names are the property of respective companies; author and publisher hold no claim.
Contents
Part I
season five; intro
Part II
season five; episode one
5.1.2
5.1.3
5.1.4
5.1.5
Part III
season five; episode two
5.2.2
5.2.3
5.2.4
5.2.5
Part IV
season five; episode three
5.3.3
5.3.4
5.3.5
5.3.6
5.3.7
Part V
season five; episode four
5.4.2
5.4.3
5.4.4
5.4.5
5.4.6
5.4.7
5.4.8
Part VI
season five; episode five
5.5.2
5.5.3
5.5.4
5.5.5
5.5.6
season five; episode six
5.6.2
5.6.3
5.6.4
5.6.5
5.6.6
5.6.7
5.6.8
If you enjoyed this book…
Also by Greta Boris
Part One
MURDERS UNDER THE SUN
SEASON FIVE; INTRO
* * *
MOLLY: Welcome to Murders Under the Sun, a podcast that explores a series of unusual crimes that have occurred in sunny Southern California.
I’m Molly Shure, your host. For the past five years I’ve worked as a journalist at a local news outlet. Stories of murder and mayhem come across my desk weekly, if not daily. However, one day last March, I noticed something startling.
There seemed to be a connection between several crimes that transpired over a five-year period—seven crimes to be precise. What connected them? Location for one. They all took place within a twenty-mile radius of each other, but that alone wasn’t significant.
The thing that pinged in my brain was that many of the people at the center of these crimes knew each other. Not the criminals, which would be an obvious thread, but the victims. I know, I know, six degrees of separation. Didn’t I already say the crimes took place in a twenty-mile radius? But we’re not talking six degrees here. It’s more like one degree.
You’ll see if you stick with me for all seven seasons of the show, the crimes circle back around. The people you meet in the first season play a role in Season Seven’s story.
Am I imagining things? Is the connection real? Is there one mastermind behind the crimes? Or are they linked by some kind of social, psychological or even spiritual force? I’m afraid that’s something you’ll have to decide for yourself.
Each season, I’ll do a deep dive into just one of these stories. You’ll hear from the people who were victimized, and listen to transcripts of journal entries, memoirs, and letters from others who were involved—sometimes the criminals themselves—and behind the scenes information you can’t get anywhere else.
So, get out your sunglasses. We’re pulling back the curtains and letting the light shine on some of Orange County’s darkest mysteries.
Part Two
MURDERS UNDER THE SUN
SEASON FIVE; EPISODE ONE
* * *
MOLLY: Welcome to Season Five of Murders Under the Sun. I’m Molly Shure, your host.
I’ve called this season The Keep. Keep, as a noun, has a few definitions. The first, according to Webster, is the means or provisions by which one is kept. You earn your keep, for instance. When it comes to physical structures, a keep refers to the most secure part of a castle or fortress. Prisons were also called keeps in times past. Every one of these definitions works for the story I’m about to tell.
However, we have exciting places to go before we get to the actual keep. This season revolves around Honeysuckle Wells, aka Honey. If you tuned in to Season Four, The Tower, you’ll recognize her as Rosie Ring’s closest friend and next-door neighbor.
As that season ended, Honey confided in Rosie that her brother-in-law Joe was in trouble—financial trouble. And Booker, Honey’s husband, went into their retirement fund without asking her to bail him out.
It was intended to be a loan. Not that it absolves him, but Booker told me he believed he’d be able to put the money back before Honey missed it. Unfortunately, Joe disappeared—absconded with the cash.
As the story opens, Honey is still dealing with the betrayal. I get that. I’d be pretty angry myself. She’s also struggling with anxiety. Honey didn’t grow up with money. That bank account represented security to her. She’s doing her best to forgive Booker, but ...Well, as you’ll see, she’s not having an easy time of it.
As with each season of the podcast, I’ve interviewed the people involved in-depth and have done my best to present their stories as they happened. I want you, my listeners, to experience things as Honey experienced them, including the timeline of the events.
Honey shared a series of emails with me that either she or Booker received from Joe. I’ll be reading them to you where they fit in the chronology of the story.
I realize that many of you already know the outcome of this crime. It made some ripples in the news when it happened. However, some are hearing about it for the first time. So, I’d ask that if you join the Facebook Group—and I hope you do—that you’d keep spoilers to yourself!
I’ll be asking a question of the week at the end of each episode. I’d love to hear your thoughts on those topics, though. The link to the group is always in the show notes.
I think that’s enough intro. Let’s dive into Honey’s story.
Honey marched forward into the maw of the mountains despite the growing gloom of the canyon. Despite the persistent feeling she was being swallowed alive. Despite the fact her feet were killing her.
So were her back, her knees, and her lungs. Honey was out of shape. She could stand in a kitchen for hours at a stretch, but hiking up steep inclines wasn't a normal part of her day. She trailed behind Booker, her husband, who was as fit as she wasn't.
Booker was a firefighter, but she bet she put out more fires than he did. If she had his schedule, she'd exercise all the time too. Honey tripped over a rock, put a hand on his shoulder, and righted herself. Okay, she probably wouldn't, but she would exercise more than she did.
"You okay?" He gazed at her with concern. The look in his eyes made her ashamed of her attitude.
"Yeah. Thanks," she added.
"The cutoff for the falls is right around the bend."
"But then how far to the falls?" She couldn't seem to get the adolescent whine out of her voice.
"We'll take a break when we get to the boulders." Unlike her, Booker sounded energized. He was enjoying his new role as her personal trainer, and anything that made Booker happy these days was something she'd go along with. Which wasn't to say she didn't wish it was something else. Something else like a good movie, dinner out, or a wine tasting. Most of the time, she was grateful her husband was a hunk. Not today. Today it was downright irritating.
At the end of last year, Honey's doctor had announced she was insulin resistant, which could turn into type two diabetes if she didn't make changes. Dr. Hillary also said Honey's cholesterol was high. If it got any higher, she'd have to go on medication. The doctor recommended regular exercise and cutting back on animal fats, simple carbs, and sugar.
Of course, Honey didn't do anything about the proclamation before Christmas. How could you bake cookies without butter and sugar and white flour? Booker wasn't happy about it but agreed they could jumpstart Honey's lifestyle makeover in the new year. It was now January, the month of resolution hell, hence the hike in Black Star Canyon.
Before they reached the path to the falls, Honey noticed the entrance to another trail branching off the fire road they were on. A barricade decorated with several pockmarked signs stretched across it. The signs read, KEEP OUT, BEWARE OF DOGS, and NO TRESPASSING. Were those pockmarks made by bullets?
Guns were also outside Honey's comfort zone. Guns were one of the reasons she and Booker had left Kentucky fifteen years ago. There were too many of them in Kentucky. Hunters shot up the hills every fall. They aimed for deer but took farmers' cows and even large dogs. It didn't seem like a safe place to raise a family even if she and Booker had made it out of childhood alive. Thinking about Kentucky reminded her of Joe and their l ost money. Her mood soured more, if that was possible.
"Friendly around here, aren't they?" Honey said.
"Well, you can't blame them. They've had their share of troubles."
"Like what?" She wasn't especially curious, but a story might take her mind off her feet.
"You know everyone thinks this canyon is haunted, right?"
"I heard it was something to do with Native American burial grounds."
"Sort of. Back in the eighteen-hundreds, the Natives were stealing horses from the Mexicans. Some fur trappers rolled into town and offered to take care of things. They found the Natives eating horse meat over there." Booker pointed up the mountain. "They slaughtered everyone who couldn't outrun the bullets and returned the live horses to the señors."
"On your right." A voice behind Honey made her jump. She turned to see five women in full riding gear pedaling up the hill. She moved to one side and watched them pass, admiring the definition of their thighs. It would be wonderful to have muscles like that. If only you didn't have to exercise to get them.
"Trail angels," Booker said.
Honey glanced around, looking for wildlife. "Where?"
Her husband jutted his chin at the cyclists. "Them. It's a group of mountain bikers. They call themselves Trail Angels. You should look into it. It'd be good for you."
She didn't respond. He couldn't be serious.
Booker made a right onto a dirt trail overhung with branches. The pungent odor of sage and wet leaves pinched Honey's nose, but the shade was pleasant. She was sweating even with the cool weather.
Booker said if you perspired, it meant you were healthy. She strongly suspected Dr. Hillary had exaggerated her condition. Her thoughts wandered to the frittata she'd make when they got home.
"The dead are said to haunt the old mines and trails of Black Star. The story attracts a certain element." Booker's words interrupted the bacon or turkey sausage debate running through her mind.
"Who bothers the locals up here, teens or crazies?" she said, pulling herself out of her mental kitchen.
"Both." Booker pushed aside a branch that crossed the trail and held it while she passed. "There are the usual ghost hunters, but there's also a fair amount of crime. Two girls were gang-raped and their boyfriends beaten to a pulp."
Honey's foot slid forward. She grabbed a tree branch to stop herself from falling. The past week it had rained for several days in a row, which was great for the environment, but the ground was slick. Honey's tennis shoes didn't have much traction.
Booker stepped around her and resumed his position as leader of the pack. "There are also Satanist wannabes who've been known to steal goats and sheep off local properties and sacrifice them on the rocks."
Why did he sound so cheerful? He'd been as somber as a turkey on Thanksgiving since Joe had disappeared. Honey shook her head. If she'd known all it would take to perk him up was rape and animal sacrifice, she'd have dragged him to a horror movie.
"The Sheriff's Department has cracked down on things," he continued. "But sometimes the locals get a wild hair and take matters into their own hands."
Why were they hiking here? She'd suggested several other destinations. There were so many pretty trails in Southern Orange County. She’d mentioned the one overlooking the ocean north of Laguna Beach, and the walking path near Oso Creek. Even a hike in hilly Whiting Ranch would have been better than this, but Booker was bound and determined to head out into this claustrophobic canyon. Honey shot a glance over her shoulder half expecting to see the bald kid from Deliverance hiding behind a tree. "We should have brought Fury," she said. Their black mutt wasn't big, but he had personality.
"His legs are too short for this hike," Booker said. The comment wasn't comforting. They walked on in silence, picking their way between the large rocks that littered the path. A narrow stream of water rushed past them.
"I bet the falls are really moving," Booker said. “Last time I was here, it was dry.” His face darkened.
Honey knew he was remembering when Joe had visited last September. They’d hiked the canyon together. At the time, she’d assumed it was just a brotherly outing, a bonding adventure. Now she knew better.
Honey searched ahead. She couldn't see the falls but noted the path disappeared, broken by boulders. "How are we supposed to get there?"
"We climb." Booker’s smile returned.
"Climb? Seriously? This is my first hike in—I don't know—five years. You want me to climb boulders?"
"It's probably been eleven or twelve years since you've hiked. I think the last time was in Mammoth when we went camping with Ash's Boy Scout troop." Ash, their son, was now twenty-two, so Booker’s calculations were probably correct.
"You're making my point for me. Twelve years. I don't think I'm ready for this."
Booker gazed at the sky for a moment before responding. "Let's sit, have some water."
Honey shuffled to the closest boulder and collapsed. Booker handed her a metal bottle, and she drank. It was funny, the doctor was after her to drink more water. Eight glasses a day, which seemed a ridiculous amount. But right now, she felt like she could drink all eight one after another. The water tasted like heaven.
After guzzling the entire bottle, she wiped her mouth with her hand. "Gosh, that's good."
"Better than coffee?"
Honey held up a hand. "Don't get carried away now. There's nothing as good as coffee." Wine crossed her mind as a close second, but she was too tired to mention it.
"So here's what I propose. . ." Booker launched into a plan for scrambling over rocks and hauling themselves over boulders that sounded both complicated and unpleasant. Honey allowed her mind to wander. If she was going to do this, it was better if she didn't think about it.
Some of the rocks were mottled. Rivulets of rain must have washed their soil covering away. It was kind of pretty. It reminded her of the pastry layers in a mille-feuille. Her gaze traveled uphill, curious to see where the water had come from.
A hiking boot rested on its side in the dirt about five feet away. That's what she needed—hiking boots. She should tell Booker that when he was done with his monologue. He'd love to buy her hiking boots. She would say she couldn't climb those boulders, not in the silly tennis shoes she was wearing. She'd break her neck. She'd promise to come back in the new hiking boots.
"It's not far, half a mile or so." Booker was still talking. "And, it's not all climbing. The path is washed out, but we can—"
A hawk screeched. Honey watched it soar above them and envied it. It would be wonderful to be above this narrow crevasse, to be able to see the surrounding cities hidden from view by the canyon walls.
She had two blisters, one on each foot. A half-mile sounded pretty far. Speaking of, why would someone take off their hiking boots here? When there was so much hiking left to do? Correction, hiking boot. She only saw one.
She pivoted on her rock and glanced around the clearing. No mate. Even more strange. She turned to inspect the lone shoe again. It looked fairly new. It was dirty, but the sole was intact. Even if a couple of teens had hiked in and taken off their clothes to mess around, they'd have had to hike out again.
"You ready?" Booker said.
She looked at him with alarm. "I don't think so."
"Come on, Hon. Just give it a try. The falls will be beautiful." He stood and thrust a hand toward her. She allowed him to help her up.
