The Last of the Moon Girls

by Barbara Davis

  Was she imagining the impatience in his tone? Probably not. And who could blame him? He had real clients, the kind who paid for his services and didn’t try to tell him how to do his job. “I do, actually. I sat down with Susan Gilman on Monday.”

  “So I gathered from your message. For the record, I sat down with her too, on numerous occasions.”

  “I know. I didn’t mean . . . she’s in a different place now, Roger. She’s free to say things she wasn’t back then. Did you know she had doubts about my grandmother’s guilt?”

  “I didn’t,” he said, after a brief beat of silence. “But her husband was vocal enough for both of them. The papers, the news, every day the same thing. Why hasn’t that woman been arrested yet? How many more innocent girls have to die? And not once, during any of that, did his wife contradict him.”

  “Because she was scared. She told me flat out that he was a bully, and after my conversation with him, I can personally attest to it.”

  “You’ve spoken to Fred Gilman?”

  In her eagerness to relate her conversation with Susan, she’d apparently forgotten to mention her visit to Meadow Park. “Yes. I went to his house, but he refused to speak to me. Though I definitely got the bully vibe. I can see why she was afraid of him.”

  “There was no domestic history. We checked.”

  “And we both know a man doesn’t need to use his fists to intimidate his wife.”

  “All right. I’ll grant you that. But there were no signs of violence in the home. No broken bones or black eyes, no frequent ER visits. Just the normal bumps and bruises. You’re saying she thinks it was him?”

  “No. Not exactly.”

  “Then what are you saying?”

  The impatience was back, his tone brisk and snappish. Lizzy pulled into the first parking lot she came to—Stay-Brite Dry Cleaners—and put the car in park. She needed him to hear her out, so he’d have a clear picture of life in the Gilman house. “I’m saying there were things going on back then that no one knew about. Creepy stuff. Like a father giving his fifteen-year-old daughter a box of condoms without telling her mother. Heather was running wild, skipping school and drinking. But Mr. Gilman didn’t want to hear it—and he didn’t want anyone else to hear it either. Especially the police. That has to set off some bells.”

  “You just said his own wife doesn’t think he did it.”

  “She doesn’t. But wives aren’t always objective, even under normal circumstances. And things in that house were far from normal.”

  “Sounds like you think it was him.”

  “I certainly think it’s possible. Susan said her husband had a kind of obsession with the girls. With Heather especially. But everyone was so convinced it was Althea that no one else was even considered.”

  Roger blew out a sigh. “That isn’t true. Just because we didn’t broadcast our every move doesn’t mean we weren’t doing our jobs. I can assure you we looked at him. In fact, we looked at both of them. Both had alibis for the night the girls went missing. Fred was seen by several neighbors out in the garage, working on an old Mustang he was restoring, and it was Susan’s turn to host her card club’s weekly canasta game, which didn’t break up until almost midnight. That’s when she realized the girls weren’t home. Unfortunately, she waited almost five hours before calling it in.”

  “Because Fred wouldn’t let her call sooner. He didn’t want the police involved, and still doesn’t, apparently. You don’t find that odd?”

  “His daughters are dead, Lizzy. Murdered. I can’t say I blame him for not wanting to dredge it all up again. That kind of pain never leaves you.”

  Lizzy bit her lip, recalling the death of his wife and son. “No. I suppose not.”

  “There’s also the possibility that this is some twisted revenge scenario on Susan Gilman’s part.”

  “Revenge scenario?” It was a possibility Lizzy had never considered.

  “Years in an emotionally abusive marriage, taking crap from a man who puts his daughters ahead of his wife. She leaves him, tries to put it all behind her. And then, out of the blue, you show up asking all sorts of questions. Bam. She sees a way to pay her husband back, by hinting that he might have had some sort of fixation with his daughters.”

  “Sounds like a bad movie plot.”

  “If you’re going to pursue the dysfunctional-family angle, you have to look at it from all angles. You can’t pick up one end of the stick without picking up the other.”

  Lizzy considered this. No doubt he’d seen his share of acts over the years, but her gut—and her nose—told her Susan Gilman’s pain was real. “She wasn’t faking it, Roger. No one could fake that.”

  “At the risk of sounding jaded, people are capable of faking all sorts of things.”

  “Maybe. But not in this case. If anything, she blames herself for not being strong enough to stand up to her husband the night the girls went missing. If she had, maybe things would have ended differently—for the girls as well as Althea. And maybe there would have been more than one suspect on your list.”

  “Fred Gilman, for instance?”

  Lizzy waited a beat before answering, trying to tamp down her frustration. “Tell me you wouldn’t have taken a second look at him if you knew Heather’s home life was falling apart. I spoke with a friend of hers from high school—Jenny Putnam—and she backed up everything Susan said.”

  “We questioned her right after the girls went missing. We questioned several of Heather’s friends. No one knew anything. At least not anything they were willing to share.”

  “Well, her memory seems to have improved with age. And maybe hers isn’t the only one. I’ve been thinking about looking up some more of her classmates, maybe knock on a few doors, see what people remember.”

  There was a long stretch of quiet. The kind that meant the person on the other end was forming a response that might not be well received. “I’m not sure that’s wise given what’s already happened.”

  “What’s . . . happened?”

  “Andrew told me about the doll. He also told me you refused to call the police.”

  “I didn’t refuse, Roger. I’m just . . . waiting.”

  “For what? A noose is a threat, Lizzy. There’s no other way to spin it. And you’re the one insisting there’s a killer on the loose in Salem Creek. Why not leave the door-knocking to me?”

  It irked her that he didn’t believe her capable of talking to a few ex-cheerleaders. She was also worried that a detective—even one not in uniform—would make them skittish. The good people of Salem Creek might claim to believe in law and order, but they had an ingrained distrust of those sworn to uphold it.

  “I’ll make you a deal, Detective,” Lizzy said, as she restarted the car. “I’ll track down Heather’s classmates and see what I can find out. If I stumble onto anything promising, I’ll turn them over to you for the thumbscrews and rubber hoses.”

  He sighed, a sound of resignation. “You do realize that you nosing around isn’t going to sit well with folks.”

  “I’m a Moon, Detective. We’re used to most things we do not sitting well with folks.”

  EIGHTEEN

  August 2

  The school office was smaller than Lizzy remembered, a warren of closed doors, scarred desks, and hideous chairs stamped out of orange plastic. The smells were the same, though: a combination of coffee, scotch tape, and printer ink perpetually suspended in the fuggy air.

  A woman behind one of the desks slid her glasses down her nose, brows raised. “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so. I was wondering if the school might have back copies of old yearbooks lying around somewhere.”

  The woman blinked at her. “Old yearbooks?”

  “I’m looking for 2012 specifically. I’m back for a visit and was hoping to look up some old acquaintances, but I’m afraid I need to jog the old memory.”

  The woman surveyed her with a bland expression. If she found the request suspect, she gave no sign. “You need the lib
rary,” she said crisply. “They have a full set going back to 1973, when the school was built. Ask for Jeannie. She’ll know where to find them.”

  Jeannie, as it turned out, ran the library like the Pentagon, requiring Lizzy to sign in at the front desk, including name, time of arrival, and the purpose of her visit. Standard procedure for all nonstudents, she explained brusquely. She was then asked about her intentions for the yearbook and informed in no uncertain terms that the books from the archives were for review on premises only, and never allowed off the property. Lizzy assured her the yearbook would be going no farther than the cafeteria. In the end, Jeannie relented, but only after Lizzy offered to leave her driver’s license as collateral.

  She was probably on a fool’s errand, but she had to at least try.

  She had jolted awake at 3:00 a.m. with an image in her head: a woman wearing a hairnet over a puff of mousy brown hair. The Lunch Lady—who smelled of violets and talcum powder, and had been kind to a girl who spent every lunch hour with her nose in a book. Sometimes an extra Jell-O had found its way onto her tray. Or a second cookie, when they were oatmeal raisin, because they were her favorite.

  At first, she couldn’t imagine why the memory had surfaced, but eventually it dawned on her. What better place to begin her search for Heather’s high school friends than with a woman who’d spent virtually every day of the last thirty years feeding Salem Creek’s teens?

  Louise Ryerson.

  Like most kids, Lizzy had known her only as the Lunch Lady, but Evvie had had no trouble coming up with her name, or confirming that she was still working at the school. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been able to provide an address, and directory assistance had been no help. Which left calling on her during her work hours, and asking if she’d be willing to sit down and look at a few photographs. It was a long shot, she knew. Nearly a decade had passed since Heather Gilman and her friends had walked the halls of Salem Creek High, but maybe the yearbook would help her remember.

  It was the start of August, when only summer classes were in session, and lunchtime to boot, leaving the halls eerily empty as Lizzy navigated her way to the cafeteria. A wave of déjà vu hit her as she stepped through the double doors, followed by a wave of nausea as she registered the stomach-churning pong of grease, ketchup, and overcooked vegetables.

  Scores of teenage eyes followed her as she moved between the rows of long tables—curious stares, mostly, wondering who she was and what she was doing there. A parent, perhaps, or a substitute teacher. They were all so young, so animated and carefree. The way she’d wanted to be when she was their age.

  She scanned the area behind the serving counter, where a pair of women in white coats were breaking down the steam table. If the clock above the door was right—and it always was—the bell would ring in four and a half minutes, signaling the end of lunch period. Until then, she’d find a quiet corner and do her best to blend into the woodwork—like old times.

  It took less than five minutes for the lunchroom to empty when the bell finally rang. Lizzy approached the counter, yearbook tucked under her arm, and waited to be noticed. After a moment she cleared her throat. Louise glanced up vacantly through steamy glasses, as if surprised to find an adult standing in her lunchroom. Her brow wrinkled as their eyes met, but there was no flicker of recollection as far as Lizzy could tell.

  “Mrs. Ryerson, you probably don’t remember me, but I was a student here a long time ago. My name is—”

  “Lizzy Moon,” she said, her face lighting up. “You’re Althea’s granddaughter.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “I heard you were back. So sad about your grandmother.”

  Lizzy smiled benignly. “Thank you. I was wondering if we could talk.”

  “Talk?”

  “I have some questions you might be able to help me with. I promise I won’t take up much of your time. If we could just sit down for a few minutes . . .” She paused as a woman with hair the color of Mercurochrome walked by with an armload of dirty trays, then continued in a lower voice. “I think you might be able to help me.”

  Louise nodded blankly as she peeled off her food-service gloves and tossed them aside. “All right then, if it won’t take long. We can sit over here.”

  Lizzy followed her to one of the long lunch tables and settled across from her. “Thank you for doing this. I’d like to talk about the Gilman sisters.”

  The corners of Louise’s mouth turned down. She’d changed surprisingly little over the years. Her puff of hair was nearly white now, and the lines on either side of her mouth had deepened, but her hairnet was still in place, and her face was still kind.

  “Such a shame. That poor mother. And your grandmother. What this town put her through—an absolute travesty.”

  “Yes,” Lizzy said, eager to get to the point. “Which is why I’m here. I know it’s a long shot, but I’d like to find out what really happened if I can, and I think talking to some of Heather’s friends might help me do that. The trouble is I don’t know their names, or how to contact them. I was hoping you might be able to help me there.” She paused, sliding the yearbook over to Louise’s side of the table. “I brought this. I thought pictures might help.”

  She opened the book to the tenth-grade section, scanning the photos until she found what she was looking for—Heather showing just a hint of dimple as she smiled for the camera. “This is Heather,” she told Louise. “Could you look at the pictures and see if anyone else jumps out at you? Someone who might have been her friend? A boy, maybe?”

  Louise looked at the yearbook, then back at Lizzy. “That’s been a long time ago now.”

  “I know, but could you at least look?”

  “I suppose I could try.”

  Louise pulled off her glasses and gave them a wipe, then returned them to her nose and bent her head to the open yearbook. Lizzy sat with her hands pressed between her knees, silent but alert for even the faintest flicker of recognition.

  It took nearly twenty minutes, but Louise finally reached the last page. She closed the book with a shake of her head. “I’m sorry. No.”

  “No?” Lizzy did her best to hide her disappointment. “No one looks familiar?”

  “There’s not a face that jumps out at me, except that Gilman girl’s. And yours, of course. You were always such a pretty thing. Still are. But that’s not why you came, is it, to hear me go on about you being pretty?”

  Lizzy shook her head.

  Louise met her gaze squarely, her expression one of genuine sympathy. “I know how badly you must want to get at the truth, and I wish I could help. Truly, I do. But after so many years, the faces blend together. The only reason I recognize that poor girl now is because her face was all over the news, along with her sister’s. As for names, I was never any good with those.”

  “But you always remembered my name,” Lizzy protested. “You remembered it today.”

  “Ahh . . .” Louise smiled, leaning in as if to share a great secret. “But you were never one to blend in. Even then, you were your own girl.”

  Lizzy wasn’t sure how to respond. Louise had meant the words kindly, but to someone who’d spent her entire scholastic career trying to blend into the scenery, the news that she had failed so completely wasn’t exactly welcome. She managed a smile as she reached into her purse for pen and paper.

  “This is my cell phone number,” she said when she finished scribbling. “If you happen to think of anything—anything at all—please call me.”

  She had picked up the yearbook and was preparing to leave when Louise put a hand out to stop her. “Before you go . . . I was wondering if I might beg a favor. Penny Castle told me you brought her some tea for her headaches, and I was wondering if there might be some of that baby soap your grandma used to make lying around—the kind that helps put them to sleep. It worked like magic for my little girl, and now my daughter has a little one of her own. Poor thing. She’s a year old and still doesn’t sleep through the night.”


  Lizzy knew the soap Louise meant. It was a blend of chamomile, lavender, and oatmeal Althea had whipped up out of desperation when Rhanna was a baby. She had dubbed it Sleepy Baby Soap, and it had quickly become one of her best sellers. But she’d just searched the shop yesterday, and there hadn’t been a bar of soap anywhere.

  “I’m afraid my grandmother left the shelves pretty bare.”

  “But you could make more,” Louise suggested hopefully. “You must know how she made it. We’ve tried all the things from the store—the washes and the lotions—but nothing works. My daughter’s exhausted.”

  Lizzy sympathized with Louise’s daughter, but making soap wasn’t just a matter of whisking a few ingredients together and then slopping it into molds. Good soap was an art form. There were techniques involved, the kind that required time and practice to master. And even if she did agree, there was the cure time to consider—at least four weeks. She doubted she’d even be here in four weeks.

  “Soap has to cure, Mrs. Ryerson. It wouldn’t be ready for at least a month, and I’ll be gone by then.”

  “Oh, but it wouldn’t need to be ready. It could—cure, did you call it?—at my house. You could make it, and I’ll just pick it up. I can pay you now if you like. My purse is in my locker.”

  Lizzy couldn’t help recalling the look on Penny Castle’s face when she had delivered her migraine tea, and how it felt to know she had helped put it there. “We’ll call it a gift instead. I’ll order the ingredients and let you know when it’s ready.”

  “My daughter will be so grateful. You don’t know how much a small kindness can mean when you’re at your wit’s end.”

  But Lizzy did know. Louise Ryerson had taught her a long time ago that kindness could come in many forms. Sometimes as cookies, sometimes as soap. “I’m happy to help, Mrs. Ryerson.”

  Louise held up a finger. “Don’t run off. I have something for you.”

  She disappeared through a set of swinging doors, returning a moment later with something wrapped in a paper napkin. “Oatmeal raisin,” she said, with the same kind smile Lizzy remembered. “They were always your favorite.”