by Beverly Long
“But he had abused your mother prior to this incident?”
This time, she nodded.
“Did your parents love each other?” Rena asked.
“I have no idea,” Gracie said. Her tone was sharp.
Interesting. Why would that question make her bristle? “Your mother remarried, right?”
“Yes. Jonas Mallor. That’s when we moved to Smithville.”
“Were you happy to leave the Gizer Hotel?”
“I was happy to leave Baywood.”
“Why?”
“Because it seemed as if everybody knew the story, and they looked at our family differently afterward.”
“Do you still have family in the Baywood area?”
“No.”
Technically, she was probably correct. But her ex-sister-in-law did live in Smithville, which was twenty miles north. “I recently had an opportunity to talk with Darcy Mallor. Do you know Darcy?”
“No.”
“Never met her?”
“No.”
“Have any idea who she is?”
“I recognize the name. I believe she’s married to my brother, Sean.”
“Did you know they were divorced?”
“No.” She did not, however, look surprised. Or sad to hear the news.
“Where was your brother at the time of the shooting, Mrs. Holt?”
“At the store. My mother wanted ice cream and she had sent him to the store.”
“By himself?”
“It was 1973. A different time,” Gracie said.
“True. You were twelve at the time of the shooting, correct? How old was your brother?”
“Ten. We were both born in January. Me in 1961 and him in 1963.”
Ten. Sean Mallor had been ten. The women who’d been killed were ten names down from one another, ten days apart. Was that simply another coincidence?
“When’s the last time you saw your brother, Mrs. Holt?”
She broke eye contact for the first time and looked down at her hands. “Since I moved out of the house after high school graduation.”
Wow. When Darcy had said they were estranged, Rena had not imagined that the estrangement had been for almost forty years. “You’ve had no contact since then?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Why would we?” Gracie asked.
“Well, you are family.” She wished she had the information about the deaths of Marcia and Jonas Mallor. “Not even when your mother and adoptive father died?”
“No.”
“You weren’t both at the funerals?”
“No. I didn’t attend either one.”
“Because?”
“Because I didn’t want to.”
Gracie Holt was one weird person. But did that make her a killer? “Gracie, where were you May 10?”
“What day of the week was that?”
“It was a Tuesday. Last Tuesday.”
“I take a gardening class on Tuesday. I was there.”
“All day?”
“Of course not,” she said. “I don’t understand—”
“Where else were you on Tuesday, May 10?” Rena asked.
“I...well, I guess I got up about seven, because that’s the time I get up usually. Then I met my friend Alice Mace, who takes the class with me, for breakfast at eight. Class started at ten and ended at one. I came home. No, that’s not right. I went to the grocery store, and then I came home and had lunch. Then I planted some pots, watched some television and, at six, went to Bible study at my church. I was home by nine, and I went to bed.”
“Where did you go to breakfast?”
“At the Coffee Perk and Things. Downtown Saint Paul.”
There were things in her story that could be easily verified. Her time at the coffee shop, either by video or personal recollection from staff. Her time at the gardening class. Even her grocery shopping. Certainly her participation in the Bible study. “When you were home, from approximately one-thirty in the afternoon until six that night, can anyone account for your time?”
“I’m a widow, and I live alone. There’s nobody here to account for my time. And quite honestly, Detective Morgan, I’m getting a little frustrated with your questions.”
Was that natural frustration, or did she think the best defense was to go on the offense? “What kind of car do you drive?”
“A 2013 Toyota Camry.”
That’s what was parked in the driveway. It was white. Certainly wouldn’t have looked like a black or blue sedan that Jane Picus’s neighbor had described. “Is that your only vehicle?”
“Yes.”
“Do you keep up with the news in Baywood?”
“No.”
Area newspapers as far away as Madison had run with the serial-murderer story, but Rena didn’t know if it had made its way to Saint Paul. “There have been four women killed in Baywood.” She deliberately didn’t mention the timeframe of the murders. “All four of these women were opposed to the razing of the Gizer Hotel and the building in its place of a modern multiuse development. A development that was spearheaded in part by your brother, Sean Mallor.”
Gracie said nothing, but her face was very pale, and her breath seemed shallow.
“What can you tell me about that?” Rena asked.
“I can’t tell you anything. Why do you think that I’d be able to tell you anything?”
“You have a reason to have bad feelings toward the Gizer Hotel. A horrible thing happened there. You might not want to see the property preserved.”
“I don’t care what happens to the Gizer Hotel. I don’t care what happens in Baywood. Look, I’m sorry that four women are dead. That’s awful. But I left Wisconsin when I was eighteen. I haven’t looked back. I made a life here in Saint Paul. A good life.”
She sounded very sincere. “I’m going to leave now,” Rena said. “I’ll be doing some follow-up on our discussion regarding your whereabouts last Tuesday.” She said it easily but she wanted Gracie to know that this was serious. “If you think of anything else that might be helpful, you should call me.”
Gracie showed no reaction to the request.
They’d also try to place her vehicle on the highway between Saint Paul and Baywood during the afternoon hours of May 10. Cameras. Toll-paying stations. Cell phone towers. They could check her credit card transactions and see if she’d purchased gas—if not in or near Baywood, then had she filled up in Saint Paul prior to the tenth and then very soon afterward, indicating that she’d driven some miles in between. There were all kinds of things that tripped up criminals.
Rena stood. “I’m officially advising you that you should not leave town without the express permission of the Baywood Police Department. Please confirm that you understand by repeating what I’ve just said in your own words.”
“I understand that I should not leave town unless you tell me I can.”
“Goodbye, Mrs. Holt,” Rena said, her handle on the doorknob.
Gracie did not answer.
* * *
When his phone rang, A.L. snatched it up, anxious to hear about Rena’s conversation with Gracie Sands Mallor Holt. “What did she say?” he answered.
Rena laughed. “A.L., I can tell you were not born in the South. You pay no particular attention to the importance of preliminaries. As in ‘Hello, Rena. How was your day?’”
A.L. sighed loudly. “Nice of you to call to chat, Rena. How was your fucking day?”
“Gracie was not terribly forthcoming with information. She claims to have cut all ties with her family—didn’t even go to her mother’s and stepfather’s funerals. Said she hasn’t been back to Baywood since she graduated high school.”
“Baywood High School?”
“No. Smithville, I assume. They moved t
here when Mrs. Sands married Jonas Mallor. I asked her about May 10, to substantiate her activities. There’s a period of time, roughly between 1330 hours and 1800 hours, that she was home. Alone. No one else can account for her.”
“Four and a half hours,” he said. “Barely, just barely, enough time to get from Saint Paul to Baywood, kill a woman and go home.”
“She went to Bible study that night.”
“Wish it had been confession. We maybe could have bribed it out of the priest.”
“Wait until I tell Gabe’s mother. She’ll have the family praying for you and your sacrilege.”
“Good. Somebody needs to be praying for me. I’m pretty sure Marie Wallace isn’t. What’s your next step?”
“Well, I told Gracie not to leave town.”
“Let’s have the Saint Paul police sit on her, just in case. Want me to call Faster since you’re driving?”
“Wow. Did you hit your head today? I think I heard you just volunteer to call Faster.”
“Weren’t you in the middle of telling me your plan?”
“Yeah. Wait, hold on. I’ve got Blithe on the other line.”
A.L. waited for her to come back on.
“I’m back,” she said. “Wow, I think Marcia Sands was born under an unlucky star.”
“Why?”
“I asked Blithe to look up the death records on Marcia Sands Mallor and Jonas Mallor. They died together, in a one-car crash, about fifty miles outside of Baywood almost thirty-five years ago. They weren’t married very long at all.”
“Unlucky star. Cursed. Something about that family gives me a tick.”
“I know what you mean. I do have one other interesting tidbit. The police report said that Marcia was twelve at the time of the shooting. She confirmed that. She also confirmed that her brother was ten. Ten,” she repeated.
A.L. said nothing.
“Well?” Rena prompted.
“We checked Sean Mallor’s alibi.”
“I know. But it’s weird, right?”
“Yeah, weird. I’ll talk to you later.” He hung up the phone. It was a maddening case. And time was not their friend. There could not be another dead woman. Tess or otherwise. It simply could not be allowed to happen.
* * *
“That was Rena,” he said, taking one end of the couch. Tess had the other. They’d eaten dinner, and while it might not have been the best Chinese food he’d ever had, it had been good, considering that the rental house didn’t have a wok and they’d had to make due with a skillet.
“Any news?” she asked, turning down the television so that they could talk. He wasn’t even sure what they were watching. At home, he watched almost no television because he was generally working.
“She spent some time in Saint Paul today, talking to Gracie Holt.”
“And why is Gracie Holt interesting?”
“Because she lived in the Gizer Hotel when it was low-income housing and at twelve years of age witnessed her mother shooting and killing her father in self-defense.”
“Holy crap.”
“Indeed.”
“I never heard that story, and I’ve lived in Baywood my entire life.”
“Me, either. It happened in 1973.”
“That’s probably why, then. I was born in 1979.”
He’d known that, but he didn’t want to point out that he had more information on her than she had on him. It seemed to load the tables in his favor. “So you’re thirty-nine?”
“Yes. I’ll be forty in a couple months. About the same time that I’ll get my prosthesis. Forty would have been hard enough. But forty and that, well, watch out world, ’cause it’s not going to be pretty.”
She said it rather matter-of-fact.
“I suspect you’re going to handle both things pretty well.”
“Why would you say that?”
He shrugged. “You’re taking this whole serial-killer thing in stride.”
“That’s because I’m not thinking of it. It’s the elephant in the corner that is eating the lampshades, but I don’t give a shit right now.”
“I think that’s probably a pretty good plan,” he said.
“It’s just that the damn elephant is a noisy eater...” she said, sounding somewhat defeated.
“What would keep your mind off his poor table manners?”
“I like cards. Poker, especially. But can’t quite manage to hold the cards and all.”
He studied her. Then got up, walked over to the corner shelves and squatted down in front of the lower cupboard. He opened the door, pulled out a Scrabble box and held it up.
“Not so much,” she said.
He ignored the comment and set the box on the kitchen table. Then he fished out two of the tile holders. Set them at her place. Closed the game back up. Went back to the cupboard and got a deck of cards. They were well used. Took a seat at the table, directly across from her spot. “Let’s go,” he said, and he started dealing.
She was smiling when she sat down. He dealt, and one by one, she picked up her five cards and spaced them out on the holders. It gave him a minute to study her. They’d taken another walk today, and the sun had been hot. Her nose and cheeks had the very slightest of sunburns. She looked relaxed and...maybe even happy.
“I’ll take two,” she said.
An hour later, well after he’d decided that she was a very decent poker player, he looked up. “How’s that elephant?”
“What elephant?” she asked. “I’m pretty sure the lampshades came that way.”
Twenty-Two
Wednesday, May 18, Day 8
Rena woke up, stretched and slid out of bed. It was early, but Gabe’s side of the bed was already empty. She walked down the hallway, saw Gabe sitting at the kitchen table with his computer open, staring at the screen, absently eating a bowl of cereal. She took a couple more steps. “Good morning,” she said.
He jumped. And she was close enough that she could see him immediately minimize his screen.
And maybe it was because she hadn’t had coffee. Maybe because the case was one frustrating dead end after another. Maybe because of Danny and being pissed that she felt like the guilty one.
Maybe it was even the damned pearls.
But the top of her head exploded. “Just what the fuck are you playing at, Gabe?”
“What?” He closed his computer.
“Are you having an affair?”
His eyes got big. “Why would you ask me that?”
“Because I’m not an idiot. I know what it means when a husband suddenly minimizes his screen when his wife walks into the room. Or when he suddenly has unexpected late-night meetings with somebody who doesn’t exist. Or when he,” she pretty much shouted, “meets up with a pretty blonde who wears linen and little pearl earrings. I fucking hate pearls.”
She could not look at him. Simply couldn’t do it. She walked over, poured herself a cup of coffee and saw that her hands were shaking. Tried to breathe, but her chest felt so tight.
There was absolute silence behind her. And she steeled herself to hear the confession. This happened to women every day. They handled it. Moved on. She could, too.
She turned. Could see that his jaw was rigid, as if he was angry. Fine. She was pretty goddamned pissed, too. She pulled out a chair and sat. Sipped her coffee. She would not say another word.
Would not let him know how much it hurt.
“Finished?” he asked.
“That’s your response? Really?”
“No,” he said quietly. “I guess it’s not.” He looked over her shoulder, toward the window that offered a view of the backyard. It was a sunny morning, and she could hear the birds chirping. Happy. Oblivious.
“I am not having an affair,” he said. “I have never cheated on you. I would not cheat on you.”
> Relief, raw relief, flooded her body. But she resisted. How many men would easily admit to it? “Who is Richard Jones? I called your office. There’s no one there by that name.”
“You called my office?”
“Yes.”
He ran his hand through his hair. “I work with Richard’s brother. Richard teaches science at the middle school. His last name is not Jones. It’s Nailor.”
“So why did you tell me it was Jones?”
“Because Nailor is pretty distinct. I know that you’re in and out of the schools for various reasons. I couldn’t think of a good reason why I’d be meeting a middle school teacher on our anniversary.” He threw up his hands. “He’s got four kids and he coaches girls’ golf. It was literally the only time he had available.”
“Why did you meet with him?”
“I wanted to ask him about his job.”
She hadn’t seen that one coming. “Because?”
“Because I’ve been thinking about going back to school. To be a teacher.”
Little pieces clicked into piece. Life coach. Career change. She felt her stomach muscles relax and realized she’d tensed them, as if she’d been waiting for a punch. “Are you unhappy?” she asked.
“With you?”
She nodded.
“Never.”
“With your work?”
“Not unhappy. But not happy. I want to make a difference. And at one time, I thought I was. Helping people understand the importance of saving for retirement, helping them ensure that the golden years weren’t going to be their poorest years.”
“But you want to teach?”
“My dad died when I was in middle school. I think it was Mr. Middleburg.” He stopped. “We used to joke about that. Middle school and Middleburg. But that man probably saved my life. If he hadn’t been there, supporting, teaching, encouraging, I don’t know what might have happened. But I never thought about teaching as a career. For God’s sake, Rena, I’ve got an undergraduate degree in finance and an MBA. For most people, that would be enough. They’d be happy with that. And at forty-one, I’m contemplating throwing it all away and going back to school to work at a job where I’ll earn forty thousand dollars less than what I’m making now. How the hell is that fair to you?”