The Last of the Moon Girls

by Barbara Davis

  “Probably because he already knows—or thinks he does. In his mind, there was never anyone but your grandmother. But I always had my doubts. Two beautiful girls. Why would she do it? But Fred grabbed the story with both hands. He needed someone to blame. Someone who wouldn’t make his precious Heather look like a bad girl—or him like a bad father. Your grandmother was the perfect scapegoat.”

  “Speaking of scapegoats, I’ve been wondering . . .” Lizzy broke off, not sure how to form the question. Bad-mouthing your ex was one thing. Admitting he might be capable of harming his own daughters was something else altogether. And yet it had to be asked. “Do you believe your ex-husband might be capable of violence?”

  Susan had been staring at the wadded napkins in her hand. Her head came up sharply. “Are you asking me if I think Fred killed our daughters?”

  “I suppose I am.”

  “Then no. My husband was a lot of things, but he would never hurt those girls. I know it sounds bizarre, but hurting them would have been like hurting Christina.”

  Lizzy nodded, not because she accepted Susan’s answer at face value, but because she was right about it sounding bizarre. What she’d just described was a complete reversal of the usual paradigm: the overprotective, chastity belt–minded father at odds with the seemingly too-lenient mother. In this case, Fred Gilman had not only not threatened his oldest daughter with a chastity belt; he’d given her a box of condoms, all the while claiming to be worried about her reputation. It boggled the mind. Which brought up another question.

  “I’m not making any judgments, Susan. I can only imagine how horrible that time must have been for you, but I do wonder why you never spoke up about your doubts. You were on the news nonstop, always being quoted in the papers, and I never once heard you contradict your husband’s assertions that Althea was responsible for what happened to Heather and Darcy.”

  Another ragged breath. A fresh rush of tears. “I was afraid of him back then. Still am, I guess. And I was drinking. Not just enough to get numb anymore. Enough to get unconscious. It was the only way I could get through the days, through the pain, and the guilt, and Fred’s constant rages. I kept my mouth shut and I drank. And I went on drinking. And Salem Creek went on believing your grandmother killed my daughters. I live with that too.”

  There was plenty for Lizzy to think about as she drove back from Peabody. The troubling dynamics of the Gilmans’ marriage for starters. Not only had Fred Gilman been emotionally abusive; he’d been obsessed with his daughters as well—or at least with Heather, because she’d looked like his dead wife. And there was something about the condoms and his paranoia about Heather’s reputation that didn’t square. Yet Susan had been adamant when she said her husband was incapable of harming his daughters, which basically left her nowhere on the question of Fred Gilman.

  But she had come away from the meeting with something—a pair of names scribbled on a paper napkin. Cynthia Draper and Jenny Putnam had been friends of Heather’s until a few months before the murders. It might come to nothing, but it was a place to start. Teenage girls didn’t take being dropped—ghosting, they called it now—lying down. They would have known exactly who had replaced them—and why. Now all she had to do was track them down and get them to talk.

  FIFTEEN

  July 27

  Lizzy wasn’t expecting to find Andrew on the front steps the next morning when she went out for the paper. She was used to him coming to the mudroom door. She was also used to seeing him in jeans, not a blazer and freshly ironed khakis. It was a new look. A good look.

  She pulled back the door, running her eyes over him. “What are you doing here?”

  “Good morning to you too.”

  “Sorry.” She was annoyed to find herself rattled by the sight of him. “I’m just surprised to see you. I was expecting the real estate agent. He’s supposed to come by this morning to discuss my options, none of which are likely to be good.”

  Andrew registered this without comment. “I just stopped by to tell you I’m heading out of town for a few days. And also to tell you the barn is now safe. Well, safe-ish. I replaced the cocked-up hinge yesterday, but I need to show you something if you have a minute.”

  Lizzy checked her watch. Bundy wasn’t due for another twenty minutes. She grabbed her coffee mug and followed him to the barn.

  Andrew lifted the crossbar and pulled the door back easily, nodding for her to go ahead of him. The interior was cool and dim, fragrant with the smell of fresh sawdust. He flipped on the light switch just inside the door. “There,” he said, pointing to the loft. “I took down the old ladder, but I noticed the frame around the window is ready to fall in. I’d steer clear of it for the time being. I’ll get to it as soon as I’m back from Boston.”

  Lizzy tipped her head back, eyeing the loft window. “Fabulous. What’s in Boston?”

  “Potential clients. They’re interviewing architects to renovate their Back Bay townhouse, and I’m on the list. It’s a big job, but it’s right up my alley.”

  “That explains the clothes.”

  He grinned, grasping his blazer lapels and striking a pose. “You never get a second chance to make a good first impression.”

  Lizzy took a sip of coffee, cold now, but welcome after a week and a half without. “How long will you be gone?”

  “A week, maybe ten days if all goes well. Anyway, that’s the other reason I’m here.” He reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out a business card. “I wanted to make sure you had my cell, just in case.”

  “In case what?”

  He shrugged. “You never know. Evvie said you went to see Susan Gilman yesterday.”

  Lizzy ignored the proffered card, wandering to the workbench instead. “I did. Turns out she never believed Althea was guilty. She also had some interesting things to say about her ex-husband.”

  Lizzy filled him in on the details: the drinking, the boys, the condoms, Fred Gilman’s disturbing relationship with his daughters, and the fact that Susan wasn’t their birth mother.

  Andrew’s brows shot up at this last bit of info. “I didn’t realize the girls were adopted.”

  “They weren’t. Gilman’s first wife died in a fire when Heather was three. Darcy was still in diapers. Apparently, he didn’t handle it well. He refused to let Susan adopt them.”

  “And that ties back to the murders how?”

  Lizzy shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe it doesn’t. It just seems . . . odd. I did come away with something, though. The names of two of Heather’s girlfriends. I thought I’d try to track them down. Girls talk to other girls.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to wait until I get back from Boston?”

  “Andrew, we’ve had this discussion. I need to do this, and I need to do it by myself. Besides, I don’t have all summer. Luc’s chomping at the bit.”

  “Your boyfriend?”

  “No, he’s . . . We . . .” She looked away, embarrassed by her fumbling. “He’s my boss.”

  “Is that your final answer?”

  Lizzy flashed him a look, annoyed that he’d picked up on her clumsy response. “I thought you had somewhere to be.”

  “Right. Guess I’m off to Boston.”

  She watched him go, already wishing she hadn’t been so abrupt. The man was persistent, she’d give him that. But he meant well. He’d always meant well. He just didn’t understand that for the Moons, self-reliance was genetic, a survival mechanism passed down through generations. Solitary meant safe.

  Lizzy’s cell was going off on the kitchen counter when she walked back into the house. Before she could grab it, the call went to voice mail. Seconds later, she heard the alert ping. She pulled up the message, listening as she carried her mug to the coffee maker for a refill.

  “Hi, it’s Catherine Daniels from Chuck Bundy’s office. He asked me to give you a call and let you know he’s not going to be able to keep your ten o’clock appointment. His little boy took a bad spill this morning, and he and his w
ife are at the ER, waiting to find out if he’s going to need surgery. He said he’d get back to you next week to reschedule.”

  Next week?

  Lizzy swallowed a groan. Everything was taking longer than she’d anticipated, and there were decisions that needed to be made, requiring vastly different sets of documents, phone calls, and legwork. She’d been counting on Bundy to nudge her in one direction or the other. Instead, she was in a holding pattern. Again.

  But in the meantime, maybe there was a different kind of legwork she could begin. She picked up her phone, opened the Facebook app, and tapped in Jenny Putnam’s name. There were five profiles listed, but only one Jenny Putnam in New Hampshire.

  Seconds later, Lizzy was staring at a photo of a petite blonde in cyclist gear, with a number on her chest. According to her profile, she was married with twin girls—Bella and Shay—and still lived in Salem Creek. Her married name was Wittinger—husband, Donny—and she worked at New England Regional as a labor and delivery nurse. A quick call to directory assistance and Lizzy had a phone number.

  She held her breath as the number connected, wishing she’d given some thought to what she would say if Jenny actually answered or, worse, if voice mail picked up. Maybe she should hang up, think it through, then call back. She was about to do just that when a woman answered.

  “Hello?”

  Her voice was thick and slow, as if she’d been asleep. “Mrs. Wittinger?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Lizzy Moon, and I’m calling—”

  “I’m sorry. You’re . . . Who are you?”

  “Lizzy Moon.” Lizzy held her breath, expecting the line to go dead. It didn’t.

  “What do you want?”

  “I was wondering . . . I spoke with Susan Gilman yesterday, and she gave me your name. I was hoping we could talk. About Heather.”

  “Why would I talk to you?”

  “Because Heather was your friend, and whoever hurt her—and Darcy—is still free.”

  “I heard you were back.”

  Lizzy ignored the dry response. “I have a few questions. About things Susan told me. I was hoping we could meet somewhere. I could—”

  Jenny cut her off. “I’m not meeting you anywhere. In fact, I’m not sure I want to talk to you at all.”

  “Please. I just have a few questions.”

  “You got my number from her mom?”

  “No. Information. But she gave me your name. She thought you might be able to help.”

  Another pause, longer this time. The sound of ice dropping into a glass, then running water. “What do you want to know?”

  Lizzy breathed a silent thank-you. “She said you and Heather had a falling-out.”

  “It wasn’t just me. She stopped hanging out with all of us.”

  “Why?”

  “Who knows? She’d been acting weird for a while—standoffish and kind of jumpy. Then one day she just stopped talking to us.”

  “She never said why?”

  “She never said anything. It was like we were invisible.”

  “Did she start hanging out with anyone else?”

  “Not at school. She kept to herself, sat alone, ate alone. Then she started skipping class. No one knew where she went. And after a while, we stopped caring. I know that sounds harsh, but if someone doesn’t want to be your friend, you can’t make them.”

  “No,” Lizzy said, noting the tinge of petulance in her tone. “You can’t. You said she’d been acting funny. Did you ask her why?”

  “She’d get mad when I tried to talk to her about it. We used to hang out at her house after school because her mom baked all this amazing stuff. All of a sudden she wanted to hang out at my house, or at Cynthia’s. It was like she hated going home. Maybe because of how things were between her and her mom. Heather called her Mrs. Nosy Pants, because she was always giving her the third degree.”

  “And Mr. Gilman? How did she get along with him?”

  “Okay, I guess. He was usually at work when we were there. I know he gave her things. One time she wanted this cute little skirt from Forever 21, but her mom said it was too short. Next thing I know, she’s wearing it. When I asked how she changed her mother’s mind, she said she didn’t. She got her father to buy it instead. She said she had him wrapped.”

  “Wrapped?”

  “You know—around her finger. She bragged that she could make him do whatever she wanted.”

  Like buy her condoms.

  Lizzy felt a wave of disgust. Susan had said the same thing. “Did she say why?”

  “No. I asked, but she just clammed up. Like I said, she got really weird.”

  “Did you ever see her with any cuts or bruises?”

  “You mean did her parents beat her?”

  “It happens.”

  “No. I never saw her with anything like that.”

  “Did she have a boyfriend?”

  “No. Not for a while. She and Brian Smith used to be a thing, started when they were in middle school, but that stopped around the time she ditched us. There was no one after that as far as I know, and then . . .”

  Yes. And then.

  “Did the police ever talk to you? Afterward, I mean.”

  “Yeah. Two guys came to the house and asked me some questions.”

  “Did you tell them what you told me? About Heather not wanting to go home?”

  “No. I should have, I guess, but it didn’t seem like anything back then. And I think I was still a little mad at her. But you think about things when you get older—when you have kids of your own—and you wonder if there was something you should have known, something you could have stopped. I don’t know what happened to Heather, or Darcy, but it’s hard not to think that the way she changed was a part of it somehow.” She sounded tired suddenly, and sad. “I have to go now. I’m on tonight. I should be asleep.”

  “Yes, of course. And thank you. You’ve been a big help. I was hoping to speak with Cynthia Draper too. Would you happen to know how I might get in touch with her?”

  “Cynthia died two years ago. Leukemia.”

  Lizzy’s stomach sank. “I’m so sorry.”

  There was a beat of quiet before Jenny answered, “I should have said something back then, but I was pretty freaked out. Still am, I guess. My dad’s in the Elks with Fred Gilman. He’d be wicked pissed if he knew I was talking to you. Anyway, I’m sorry about your grandmother. I remember her being nice.”

  Lizzy wasn’t sure what she felt as she ended the call. Sadness, revulsion, and anger all seemed to be warring for a place in her gut. Jenny had confirmed Susan’s version of things with startling clarity, painting a picture of Heather Gilman that asked more questions than it answered. Why had she cut her friends dead, and broken up with her longtime crush? And why had she suddenly stopped wanting to go home? Was it mere teenage angst, or something darker?

  She pulled up Roger’s number and hit “Dial.” It rang four times before kicking over to voice mail. For a retired guy, he certainly kept busy. She left a message, saying she’d spoken to Susan Gilman, and wanted to run some things by him.

  A knock at the door sounded as she hung up. She expected to find Evvie, her arms filled with the packages she’d gone to pick up from the post office. Instead, she pulled back the door to find a plumpish woman in sunglasses and a wide-brimmed straw hat.

  The woman smiled nervously. She smelled of bread dough, warm and yeasty. A good smell. A safe smell. “I doubt you remember me. My name is Penny Castle. I work at Wilson’s Drugstore, at the lunch counter.”

  Lizzy didn’t remember her, but she smiled back. “What can I do for you, Ms. Castle?”

  “Nothing, probably. But I thought I’d try. Your grandmother used to make me a tea for my migraines. It was the only thing that ever gave me any relief. When I heard you were back, I couldn’t help hoping—well, praying, actually—that you’d come back to reopen the shop.”

  “I’m sorry, no. I only came back to put the farm up for sale.”r />
  Ms. Castle’s face fell, but she nodded. “I can’t say I blame you. Still, it’s a shame. The end of an era, some might say. She had such a big heart, your grandmother. Never turned a soul away. Even the ones who couldn’t pay. It wasn’t fair, the way people . . .” She trailed off, pressing her fingers to her mouth. “I’m sorry to go on. It’s just that she was such a good woman. You’re like her, you know? Not just your looks, but the light in you. Althea had that. Anyway, thank you for your time, and I’m sorry to bother you.”

  Lizzy felt a pang of sympathy as she watched Penny Castle walk away. How many others were suffering for want of Althea’s remedies? And where would they turn?

  She was about to close the door when she saw Evvie’s battered station wagon lumbering up the drive. Evvie climbed out, arms laden with packages, and a bag brimming with several loaves of fresh bread. A canvas tote dangled from her wrist.

  “I stopped off at the farmers’ market on the way back. How does spinach salad with fresh strawberries sound for supper tonight?”

  Lizzy relieved Evvie of her packages and turned back toward the house. “It sounds good. It’s already way too hot to cook.”

  In the kitchen, Evvie set about opening her parcels—beads she’d ordered from a supplier in Vermont—while Lizzy pulled out a colander and began rinsing the strawberries. They worked in silence for a time, but Lizzy couldn’t get Penny Castle’s face out of her head.

  “We had a visitor while you were gone,” she said at last. “A woman looking for some headache tea.”

  Evvie looked up, clutching a bag of what looked like green agate beads. “Happens sometimes. People hoping there might be some of your gran’s remedies lying around.”

  “Her name was Penny Castle. She heard I was back, and hoped I was going to reopen the shop.”

  “And you told her you weren’t?”

  Lizzy blinked at her. “What was I supposed to tell her? By the end of the month, there will be a FOR SALE sign out front. It made me feel bad, though. She said some awfully nice things about Althea. About how she helped people, and never turned anyone away. Judith, from the coffee shop, said the same thing.”