Such a Perfect Wife
Page 28
When I reached the hotel in an Uber, it was late afternoon, and I kept my eyes lowered as I trudged through the lobby, loathe to the idea of chatting.
Still, there was no way to miss him. His face was like a beacon—the hawkish nose, those mysterious dark brown eyes taking me in from his perch on the orange sectional. Beau Regan.
“Omigod,” I said, rushing toward him. “Wait, what are you doing here?”
“I know, sneaky of me. I couldn’t wait any longer to see you, so I drove up as soon as I’d dumped the equipment at my studio.”
I kissed him and then collapsed into a hug. It was intoxicating to feel his arms around me and take in the musky scent of his cologne.
“I’ve been so worried about you,” I murmured into his sweater.
“I’m really sorry. It was all a bit of a nightmare down there.”
“Why don’t we go upstairs and talk?”
As soon as we were in the room, we flopped on the bed, and I tucked my head into the crook of Beau’s shoulder.
“I read your last couple of posts in the cab from the airport early this morning,” he said. “Any major developments since then?”
“A few, but you first. What the hell happened down there?”
The good news, it turned out, was that Beau had managed to shoot almost everything he’d been commissioned to include in the documentary, and even a bit extra for color. But the day before they were going to wrap, a crew member was hit by a car, and Beau had to negotiate the best medical care while miles away from a decent-seeming hospital. And the cell service had sucked, of course. Beau had spent hours with the guy at the hospital and then taken a torturous bus ride back to Bogotá.
Eventually I sensed that the subject was exhausting him, plus, he was clearly eager to hear more about my situation. I relayed my conversation with Kelly, as well as the details Killian had discouraged me from including in my posts.
“Okay, just so I have it straight,” Beau said. “As of this moment, Sean, the guy who apparently murdered the two girls, hasn’t been located.”
“Right, though now that the cops have Dirk Hagen’s name, they can probably figure out who he is and where he is.”
“And this Sean guy must have a religious fixation, right?”
“It looks that way, though maybe it had less to do with an experience during his upbringing than the crazy state his brain was in when he was high on drugs. Clearly Dirk described the wounds to Cody and he replicated them on Shannon’s body so there’d be a connection.”
“Do you think Cody killed her at home?”
I shrugged, still unsure.
“I’m torn about that. In one sense it might have seemed safer to murder her at home, but a neighbor could have reported seeing his car pull into the driveway again. And Shannon might have been able to put up a decent fight on her own turf. So I’m thinking he drove around till he found her jogging on a deserted stretch of road and made up an excuse for why she needed to come with him—like one of the kids was in the ER. And he strangled her right in the car.”
“But would he have made the stigmata marks there, too?”
“No, it would have left blood in the car. Plus, he’s probably smart enough to know that you only have a short window before a body leaves a scent that a cadaver dog can pick up. I bet he drove her body to Sunset Bay as fast as possible and cut her before putting her body in the contractor bag.”
“Is he the one who called you?”
“Well, they found a voice adapter on him. I don’t think you need those for bottling beer and soda.”
“Why do you think he picked you to call and drop the clue to?”
“That was a fluke, I’d say. He wanted the bodies found fairly soon so people would blame a serial killer. He must have spotted me talking to the deacon and realized that by calling me and referencing Shannon’s Catholicism, he could make the religious angle even stronger.”
“So Shannon’s going back to church didn’t really play a role in everything, right?”
“Not directly. I pursued that line pretty aggressively, but I guess you could say my theory was right church/wrong pew, if you’ll excuse the expression. Shannon didn’t cross paths with the killer at church, as I’d originally speculated, but I bet she started going to mass again because she’d discovered her husband was a criminal and found herself in a terrible moral dilemma.”
I sat up, scooted to the edge of the bed, and kicked off my boots.
“You want a water?” I asked.
“Sure.”
As I grabbed us each a bottle, I could feel Beau’s eyes on me, watching intently. Maybe after days apart, he found me fetching in a top that I’d worn three times in a row without washing, though I suspected there was something else on his mind.
“Last night must have been terrifying for you, Bailey,” he said finally. “You going to cough up more details?”
“Sure,” I said, plopping on the edge of the bed. I fleshed out the situation for him, without obfuscation. More than once a little voice in my head whispered that because of the red-hot—and to some degree, self-engendered—danger I’d placed myself in, I was going to badly rock the delicate truce we’d established about my job.
When I was finished, Beau sat up himself and put an arm around me.
“I’m so glad you’re okay.”
“And?”
“You mean, am I upset?”
“Yeah.”
“I admit, this is tough to hear. But I made a promise to not rag on you about your job—and I’m trying to honor it. Besides, I’m hoping for a conjugal visit, and I don’t want to do anything to piss you off.”
I smiled. “Request for conjugal visit accepted. And, Beau, I really appreciate your understanding. More so now than ever. When I didn’t hear from you for so long, it freaked me out a little, and I had a taste of what you must go through when I’m working on a story.”
“Ahh, my plan worked.”
“And if it’s any consolation, I learned from last night. I should have handled a few things differently.”
We ended up eating dinner south of Lake George, at a restaurant that was basically a huge log cabin, with not another reporter in sight. Some of my tension and angst melted away, and I managed to leave all the crap behind me until I fell asleep in Beau’s arms that evening.
Beau had to leave by nine the next morning, but I was staying—for the arraignments of Cody, Riley, and her husband, and of course, for Alice’s service. And hopefully for the return of a man named Sean Castle, last seen living in Vermont. The authorities had determined that he was the person Dirk had referenced and they were now scouring New England for him. Dodson and I had agreed that I’d depart for the city on Friday but return down the line if necessary.
“You okay?” Beau asked over breakfast at the hotel.
“What do you mean?” But I realized I’d been poking at my eggs and my mood was turning glum again.
“You seem out of sorts.”
“I am, I guess. It’s been a lot to process.”
“Focus on getting back to New York. I’ll plan something fun for Friday night.”
As soon as he pulled out of the parking lot, however, I could feel myself sinking back into a nasty funk.
One of the things gnawing at me was the mistakes I’d made. As I’d confessed to Killian, it was dumb of me to buy Cody’s disclosure about Alice’s call to him. I should have been suspicious of anyone Alice had spoken to that day.
And then there was my stupid decision to kick the hornet’s nest at Baker Beverage. Once I’d read Cody’s comment about his army pal and realized that the implications could be serious, I should have shut the fuck up and, as Alice would have said, skedaddled out of there, instead of pricking and pushing in order to see where it could lead. Was Beau right last summer when he’d said I put myself in unnecessary danger?
Doubts and regrets often surfaced for me after a story was done—over details I’d missed, comments I hadn’t considered hard enough. And
nearly every crime story I covered served up its own emotional hangover—the result of contemplating senseless deaths, children’s lives overturned, and on and on. But this funk just seemed to be, well, funkier than some of the others I’d experienced.
Had I begun to have misgivings about my job, I wondered, and what I wanted out of life? Were those misgivings even at the heart of my hesitancy about marrying again?
Back in the hotel, I wandered to a table in the café, one with a view of the lake, and ordered a cappuccino. No, I told myself, gazing at that dazzling blue, I loved what I did. And I loved Beau. My current morose mood could surely be explained by the fact that this was the first time while on assignment that I’d lost someone I considered a friend.
Watching a boat zip across the lake, I thought back to what Alice had said over dinner when I’d asked her if the job ever got to her. Yes, sometimes, she’d replied. But when that happened, she fished, and by relishing the spaces between each catch—as my father had the spaces between each bird sighting—she regained her equanimity.
That’s what I’d do then. Not fish. Never. But back in New York this weekend, after I’d dumped my dirty clothes in the wash and Skyped with my mom, I’d take my father’s old binoculars to Central Park and tramp through the wooded areas, scouting for cedar waxwings and yellow-bellied sapsuckers. Sometimes I’d simply drop onto a rock and do nothing but relish the spaces between birds.
Then I’d go home and work on my next book and wait for Crime Beat to call again and ask me to take an assignment that hopefully, in Dodson Crowe’s words, would have “a few nice layers.” And I’d say yes. Because no matter how sad those stories could be, there was always the pulse-pounding rush that came from peeling all the layers away.
Acknowledgments
FOR THE MOST PART, BEING AN AUTHOR IS AN INCREDIBLY solitary activity, and yet at some point, in order for a book to succeed, you have to bring others into the mix—for research, editing, designing, promotion, and selling the final product. This is my chance to tell those people how grateful I am for their efforts.
First and foremost, I want to thank everyone who helped me with the research on Such a Perfect Wife, including Tim Dees, retired police officer and occasional writer and trainer; Will Valenza, Glens Falls Police Department, retired; Lauren Anderson, retired FBI executive; Barbara Butcher, consultant for forensic and medicolegal investigations; Nick Murphy; Kathleen Plalen Tomaselli, investigative reporter and author.
I also want to thank my brothers Mike White, Rick White, and Steve White for helping me with fact-checking in the Lake George area (a nice excuse to spend time with you, too!). And a shout-out to friend Beverly Place, whom I forgot to thank for helping me come up with the title for the last Bailey Weggins mystery, Even If It Kills Her.
Next, I want to express my incredible gratitude to not one editor but two: Laura Brown, for shepherding this book through its early stages (before she moved to another division at HarperCollins), and my incredible new editor, Emily Griffin, who took over and offered such fantastic guidance.
Thank you, too, to others at Harper Perennial, who are such a joy to work with: Amy Baker, VP and associate publisher; Mary Sasso, marketing director; Theresa Dooley, senior publicist; Robin Bilardello, art director; and to James Iacobelli for designing the cover, which I couldn’t be happier with.
I’d like to thank my wonderful agent, Sandy Dijkstra, and her team for all their efforts. We’ve been together from the beginning, and I feel very, very lucky to have the Dijkstra Agency in my life.
Finally, my gratitude goes out to my terrific home team: Isabel DaSilva, social media director; and Laura Nicolassy, my web editor. You ladies are my rock.
Oh wait, I can’t sign off without thanking all the Bailey Weggins fans who write me regularly and share their enthusiasm for this series. I so appreciate your support. It means the world to me.
Advance Praise for Such a Perfect Wife
“Intrepid—and stylish!—crime reporter Bailey Weggins finds herself on the front line of a murder investigation. . . . Fun and fast-paced. . . . Bailey is fearless, determined, and always fashionable. A grown-up Nancy Drew for grown-up girl detectives.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Highly entertaining. . . . The ethical and tenacious Bailey soon earns the respect of the local police who come to see her as an ally rather than an intruder. Readers will cheer her every step of the way.”
—Publishers Weekly
Praise for Even If It Kills Her
“White builds suspense masterfully, and this seventh in the Bailey Weggins series has the makings of another hit. Bailey is a smart, sexy sleuth, and her exploits make for thoroughly entertaining reading.”
—Booklist
“It entertains and excites from the very first page—I dare you to put it down!”
—Karin Slaughter, New York Times and international bestselling author
“Well-executed . . . The smaller the town, the bigger (and dirtier) its secrets.”
—Kirkus Reviews
Praise for The Secrets You Keep
“True to form, Kate White’s The Secrets You Keep kept me up way past my bedtime, anxiously turning the pages. Taut, tense, and utterly gripping, I could not go to sleep until I found out whodunit.”
—Jessica Knoll, New York Times bestselling author of Luckiest Girl Alive
“Suspenseful, twisty, and sharply observed, Kate White’s clever psychological thriller lures us into the life of vulnerable narrator Bryn whose marriage is not what she thought it was. The uncertainty develops as the stakes ramp up ever higher, and I was holding my breath as I turned the last few pages.”
—Gilly Macmillan, New York Times bestselling author of What She Knew
Praise for Eyes on You
“Sharp as a stiletto!”
—Lisa Gardner, New York Times bestselling author
“I couldn’t put it down.”
—Lisa Scottoline, New York Times bestselling author
About the Author
KATE WHITE, a former editor-in-chief of Cosmopolitan magazine, is the New York Times bestselling author of the stand-alone psychological thrillers The Secrets You Keep, The Wrong Man, Eyes on You, The Sixes, and Hush, as well as seven other Bailey Weggins mysteries. In addition, White is also the author of several popular career books for women, including The Gutsy Girl Handbook and I Shouldn’t Be Telling You This, as well as the editor of The Mystery Writers of America Cookbook. She lives in New York City.
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Also by Kate White
FICTION
Even If It Kills Her
The Secrets You Keep
The Wrong Man
Eyes on You
So Pretty It Hurts
The Sixes
Hush
Lethally Blond
Over Her Dead Body
’Til Death Do Us Part
A Body to Die For
If Looks Could Kill
NONFICTION
The Gutsy Girl Handbook: Your Manifesto for Success
I Shouldn’t Be Telling You This: How to Ask for the Money, Snag the Promotion, and Create the Career You Deserve
Why Good Girls Don’t Get Ahead but Gutsy Girls Do
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SUCH A PERFECT WIFE. Copyright © 2019 by Kate White. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form
or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
Cover design by Jacob Iacobelli
Cover photograph © plainpicture/Anja Weber-Decker
Digital Edition MAY 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-274746-4
Version 04062019
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-274749-5
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