Such a Perfect Wife

by Kate White

  What if Amy and Page had been involved in drugs, even operating as mules? They might have gone to the campsite and/or to Muller’s as part of doing business.

  Did that mean the killer was a drug user or drug dealer? Or—as crazy as I knew it sounded—was he a religious obsessive who targeted the girls because drug users and dealers were sinners and needed to be punished?

  The question that tugged at me even more was this one: How had Shannon managed to cross paths with the same person who had killed Amy and Page? In so many of the serial killer cases I’d either read about or covered, there’d been a pattern to each killer’s choices. Victims were snatched when they were hitchhiking, for instance, or working as prostitutes, or had made the mistake of agreeing to help an average-Joe-type guy—or average-Ted type, as in Bundy—because he was feigning vulnerability with something like a (fake) cast on his arm. In this situation, though, there didn’t appear to be any pattern. Shannon had either been jogging or still at home when she was attacked, and Page and Amy had come from a dive bar.

  Maybe the killer had targeted Shannon for being a sinner as well. If so, what in the world had her sin been?

  Chapter 14

  I WOKE THE NEXT MORNING TO THE SOUND OF RAIN COMING down in sheets, splattering across the parking lot and dripping hard from the narrow overhang above my unit.

  The rain, I realized, was not only going to make shooting the video a bitch but was also going to make me look like a soaked yak on camera. I decided to hold off on washing and blowing out my hair until right before the shoot.

  I threw on jeans, a pair of short boots, and a black leather jacket. The look was a little too biker chick for conducting interviews at St. Tim’s, but it was my best shot at not being totally defeated by the weather.

  After a quick breakfast in the village, I was back in my car by nine fifteen. I had a few minutes to kill before showing up at St. Tim’s, and it seemed like a sane enough hour on a Sunday morning to try to reach Kayla for a follow-up conversation.

  “How are you doing?” I asked when she finally answered. She sounded glum, though it didn’t seem like I’d woken her.

  “How do you think? I heard the news last night—that Amy’s definitely dead. She was murdered by a fucking serial killer.”

  “Kayla. I’m so sorry. I know this must be a hard time to talk, but I was hoping to ask you a couple more questions.”

  “I’ll do whatever it takes to find the madman who did this. Shoot.”

  “I went to the campground yesterday, and I saw what you meant. If Amy didn’t like the outdoors, it’s hard to imagine why she would have decided to spend two nights at that campsite. She never said anything that would explain it?”

  “No, but I always assumed Page talked her into it. Page could talk her into anything.”

  Interesting. Maybe Page had convinced Amy to check out Muller’s, too. And more.

  “Kayla, please understand that I’m not passing any judgment with this next question. Do you think Page could have talked Amy into using drugs? Or even selling them?”

  “No way whatsoever.”

  “Are you saying she wouldn’t sell them or use them or both?”

  “Both. Look, Amy wasn’t a saint. She drank and she liked to party. But she hated drugs. A guy she was friends with had died from an OxyContin overdose and she steered clear of them. She never even smoked weed.”

  “Okay, I hear you.” But Kayla might not have been clued in to everything there was to know about Amy. People using or dealing drugs became experts at keeping secrets from even their most intimate acquaintances.

  After saying goodbye and promising to do what I could to find Amy’s killer, I drove the short distance to the church. The parking lot—at least what I could see of it through the ribbons of rain—was about half full. I backed into an open spot, providing myself with a view not only of the front of the church but also of the side entrance, in case Nolan exited that way after mass. I cracked my window an inch to prevent the car from steaming up inside.

  Over the next twenty minutes I watched a steady flow of cars arrive and a number of parishioners making a mad dash to the front of the church, dodging puddles and grasping the outer edges of their umbrellas to prevent them from flipping inside out.

  The last car to arrive pulled in at seven after ten. The driver, a bald, middle-aged male, rushed for the steps with a newspaper over his head, cursing loud enough for me to hear him.

  For all I knew, he could be the killer. Or it might have been any one of the other men I’d seen scurrying towards the church and who was now kneeling in prayer or standing with his voice raised in song. No one I’d seen today had appeared creepy to me, but that didn’t mean anything. Serial killers often wore the so-called mask of sanity.

  I was aware from the several Catholic weddings and funerals I’d attended that I had about an hour wait ahead of me, but that was fine. I’d brought a take-out cup of coffee from the café, as well as my notes to review for the video.

  As I worked, the rain kept coming, at times drumming lightly on the roof of my Jeep and then suddenly accelerating, creating a frantic tattoo on the metal surface. The sound put me on edge, eager for action.

  At just before eleven, the downpour abruptly stopped, as if someone had jerked a faucet closed. I peered outside. The sky was still overcast, but light was beginning to seep through the clouds, like a flashlight burning inside a paper bag. I stepped from the car, stretched my legs, and positioned myself a few yards from the church. I had to make sure that Nolan didn’t escape before I could corner him.

  At five to eleven the wooden doors of the church opened and people began to emerge, stepping tentatively at first with umbrellas half-cocked and then relaxing as they saw that the rainstorm was over.

  To my surprise, Kelly and Doug Claiborne were among the parishioners. Some people found it difficult to be out in public right after a death in the family, particularly such a traumatic one, but perhaps Kelly had decided that any discomfort would be outweighed by the solace that came from attending mass. I was still eager for a chance to speak to her again, though Doug would surely shoo me away like he had the last time. I watched as he leaned in, one hand on his wife’s elbow, spoke quickly to her, and then hurried down the steps alone. He must have offered to bring the car around to the front. Kelly, dressed in a black trench, stepped back against the stone wall of the church. This was my chance.

  I took off like a bat, soaking my boots as I ran. As I neared the steps, a woman leaned in and murmured something to Kelly that looked to be words of comfort, and then moved on.

  “Kelly, hello,” I said, reaching the top of the steps. “Do you need a ride?” She looked tense and drained.

  “Please don’t tell me you came here for a quote. I’ve tried to be respectful of the press, but you guys go too far, you really do.”

  “No, I’m not looking for a quote. What I’m trying to do is find out anything that could aid the police in their inquiries.”

  She shook her head in dismay. Her hair, worn loose today, looked clean, as if she’d managed to summon enough stamina for a shampoo, but the only makeup she’d bothered with was a swipe of mauvy lip gloss.

  “I’m sorry to be curt,” she said. “But this has been hell on earth.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “How’s my poor mother supposed to deal with this? First my father, then my cousin, and now Shannon.”

  “Like I said, I want to help expose the killer. And the more information I have, the better.”

  She sighed, her shoulders dropping, and I sensed she was taking me at my word.

  “Okay, what is it you need to know?”

  “The other day when I asked you if Shannon had ever been to the retreat center, you didn’t have a chance to answer. Do you recall if she had?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. But there’s a four-year gap between us, and I was in college by the time Shannon entered high school. I didn’t always know what she was up to.”

 
“Did she ever talk to you about her decision to rejoin the church? Why she wanted to become involved again?”

  “She didn’t volunteer anything. It actually came as a surprise. I showed up at mass one Sunday and there she was.”

  Out of the blue. Just as J.J. had indicated.

  “Any thoughts on what led her back here?”

  Kelly turned her head slightly and stared into the middle distance, as if the answer might lie there. “Why does anyone come here? A yearning for spiritual guidance? A need for community? A desire to make amends? But what does it matter at this point?”

  “I’ve been wondering if someone she came into contact with here this summer, someone who knew about the center at Sunset Bay, might have targeted her.”

  She narrowed her tired eyes.

  “I can’t imagine that. Besides, isn’t it clear there’s a predator at large? And that’s what everyone should be focusing on.”

  Her gazed shifted again, this time to directly over my shoulder. “I need to go. My husband’s pulled the car up.”

  “Thank you for your time,” I said as she moved toward the steps, tightening the belt on her trench. There was still one more topic to explore in the seconds I had left. “I hope you have good friends you can turn to at a time like this.”

  “Fortunately, I’m blessed that way, yes.”

  “I spoke to Shannon’s friend J.J. I take it she’s been providing a lot of support at this time.”

  “J.J.?” She shrugged. “She was Shannon’s friend, not someone I really know.”

  With that she hurried down the steps and ducked into the same SUV I’d seen Doug drive the other day.

  What I didn’t want to do was lose my shot at Nolan, and that meant beating it back to where I’d been standing earlier. But as I started to descend the steps, I caught sight of him in the foyer, chatting with an elderly male parishioner. I slipped inside and parked myself by the holy water font. The church smelled faintly of incense and lemony furniture polish, a combination both comforting and exotic. Nolan soon caught sight of me out of the corner of his eye. He nodded a few times to the parishioner and then touched him reassuringly on the shoulder.

  The old man shuffled off, and Nolan made his way over to me. The misty weather had added a few more waves to his thick brown hair and one had formed into a little curl at the top of his forehead.

  “Hello, Ms. Weggins,” he said, friendly enough. “I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to return your call yet.”

  He looked like such a straight arrow, a guy who’d fought and survived a serious illness, who seemed more than eager to be of assistance to others. Was it a total stretch for me to consider that he was also a serial killer?

  “No problem, I’m sure you’ve been really busy, but I did want the chance to chat again. Are you aware that I was one of the reporters who came across Shannon Blaine’s body?”

  His expression darkened. “Yes, the Claibornes told me. That must have been a dreadful experience for you.”

  “It was, yes. I’m not sure if you heard this detail or not, but I was tipped off to the retreat center by a phone call. I have reason to believe that the person on the other end saw me talking to you—either in the parking lot here or earlier that day at Dot’s. Do you happen to recall anyone paying close attention to us at either location?”

  He slowly shook his head. “No, I don’t. As you can imagine, I had a lot on my mind, trying to help the Blaines and the Claibornes. Wh—?”

  “Could you have mentioned the conversation to anyone?”

  “Goodness, no. I don’t believe so. . . . No, I’m sure I didn’t. But what exactly did the caller say to make you think he saw us?”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m not allowed to share that.”

  His brow furrowed, suggesting frustration.

  I flashed a friendly smile, trying to look like I was on his side. “I wish I could, but the police made me promise not to divulge the details. . . . What can you tell me about the retreat center at Sunset Bay?”

  Nolan sighed, suddenly looking preoccupied, perhaps with my comment about the caller having observed us. “Not much really. I was vaguely aware the center was there, but it closed down before I began serving as a deacon. And even if things had still been operational, I probably wouldn’t have spent any time there.”

  “You don’t get involved in retreats?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t have at that location. Our parish apparently used it for retreats on only rare occasions.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “It wasn’t much of a retreat setting for people who live near the lake year-round. From what I’ve been told, the center was reserved mostly by other parishes in the diocese. It would be a special treat for members of their congregations to spend a few days on the lake.”

  I hadn’t ever thought of that, but I guessed it made sense.

  “Did anyone from this parish ever work there, do you know?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. It was really run by the diocese.”

  “Back to Shannon Blaine for a second. I know she’d been back at church for only a few months, but did you ever notice anything unusual? Someone paying too much attention to her?”

  “You mean, was someone obsessed with her?”

  “It doesn’t have to be obsessed. Checking her out a little too closely, for instance. Overly curious.”

  “No, nothing like that. Of course, she was a beautiful woman, and people noticed her.”

  And was Nolan one of them? I wondered.

  “It must be gratifying to have someone come back into the fold.”

  The muscles in his face sagged, leaving his face without expression, though his eyes were alert, as if he’d picked up a sound that was inaudible to me, like a border collie hearing a dog whistle.

  “It is gratifying, yes,” he said, “and we do what we can to support those people as best we can. Her death is a tragedy on many levels, including the loss it means for this community. Excuse me now. I see there’s a couple of parishioners waiting to speak to me.”

  He strode across the foyer and out onto the top step of the church, where he struck up a conversation with two middle-aged women. I couldn’t tell if one of them had tried to catch his eye, or he’d simply taken advantage of their presence to escape from me.

  I scurried past the group and splashed my way back to my Jeep. I hadn’t wanted to show up at the church with a pen and notebook in hand, but now I took the time to quickly scribble down what Kelly and Nolan had shared and then review their comments in my mind.

  I’d managed to score only a couple of minutes with Shannon’s sister, but the encounter had been enlightening on several fronts. First, there was the fact that Kelly didn’t know why Shannon had come back to St. Tim’s, which was interesting in itself. Based on what Matt Wong had revealed, there may have been a rift between them, even real antagonism.

  I couldn’t ignore Kelly’s remark about people sometimes rejoining the church to make amends. Had there been a reason for Shannon to make amends to her sister?

  There was also the revelation that Kelly didn’t consider J.J. a friend. So, clearly Doug hadn’t stopped by J.J.’s in order to receive succor from a good pal or return the platter for cold cuts that J.J. had dropped off earlier at the Claibornes’. I wondered if Shannon had learned of the affair or at the very least had developed an inkling.

  Of course, in the big picture, none of this family drama probably mattered, and I couldn’t allow myself to be sidetracked. But it intrigued me, and maybe, just maybe, it related in some way to Shannon’s death. What if Shannon had felt guilty about a transgression she’d committed against her sister or about the friction in the family that had resulted from Cody’s taking over at Baker Beverage? She might have returned to the church for spiritual guidance on how to reconnect with her sister and mentioned her own failings and/or moral shortcoming to someone in the congregation.

  Which brought me back to the idea I’d toyed with last night: the killer might be a
man hell-bent, so to speak, on punishing women who had sinned.

  I wondered if Tom Nolan had a harsh view of female sinners.

  It was almost eleven thirty by this point, and I was due back at the Breezy Point. Time to peel off my wet boots and pretty up for my video session, as much as I wasn’t relishing it.

  I stopped in the village to buy two slices of pizza to go and then headed north along Route 9N, consumed again by thoughts of the case. My attention was diverted briefly by a closed liquor store along the right side of the road. Damn. I’d promised Alice I’d arrive bearing wine, but I realized there wasn’t going to be any way to buy it on a Sunday. I called her from the parking lot of the motel.

  “Hey, hi,” she said when she realized it was me. She sounded distracted.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Um, yeah. I’ve just been at my dining table all morning, glued to my laptop. I need to come up for air.”

  Her voice still sounded funny to me. I wondered if coming across the bodies had been weighing on her as well.

  “You sure that’s all there is to it?”

  “Oh, you’re good, Ms. Weggins. Okay, I may have stumbled onto something today.”

  My heart skipped.

  “About the case?”

  “Right. A clue. Buried in something online. And it’s scary as hell.”

  Chapter 15

  I LET OUT A BREATH, MY THOUGHTS RACING.

  “About the killer?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Can you tell me?” It was hard to believe Alice would be willing to share a big scoop, but I had to ask.

  “No. I mean, yeah, I’d actually like to talk this over with you, but I want to see if I can gather some confirmation first. Let’s discuss it over dinner and then decide how to proceed.”