by Cathi Stoler
KEEPING SECRETS
by
Cathi Stoler
Seattle, WA
Camel Press
PO Box 70515
Seattle, WA 98127
For more information go to: www.camelpress.com
www.cathistoler.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover design by Sabrina Sun
Cover illustration by Artist
KEEPING SECRETS
Copyright © 2014 by Cathi Stoler r
ISBN: 978-1-60381-947-3 (Trade Paper)
ISBN: 978-1-60381-948-0 (eBook)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013947811
Produced in the United States of America
* * *
For the girls:
Angie, Mary Kay, Marylou & Maxine
because old friends are the best friends.
* * *
Acknowledgments
Laurel and Helen are at it again, putting themselves in danger fighting off a nasty bunch of bad guys in the fictional lives I created for them. Fortunately for me, unlike my protagonists, my real life is a lot less dangerous and so much nicer because of the great bunch of supportive and caring people who fill it everyday.
Thanks to my publisher, Catherine Treadgold and assistant publisher, Jennifer McCord, of Camel Press for suggestions that made each of my character stronger and editing that helped the story flow beautifully.
A huge thank you to my agent, Dawn Dowdle, who believed in me from the start and who is always there to take my calls and answer my questions. You are awesome!
Thanks to Kathy Wilson and Terry Jennings, good friends and writing group partners who gave generously of their time to read and reread each chapter of the manuscript. Their suggestions kept me on track and kept me writing. And additional thanks to Terry for making sure my website stays up and running.
I’d like to thank all my family and friends who’ve encouraged me to write and come to my readings. You are true and faithful pals.
Thanks also to my New York/Tri State Sisters in Crime group who offer support and advice on an ongoing basis.
To those friends whose names I’ve used with wild abandon throughout the story: you might want to start thinking about which actor or actress would play your alter ego, just in case Hollywood comes calling.
And, to my family, my daughter Lauren, and my husband, Paul: all of this would be meaningless without your love and support. You guys are my sun, my moon and my stars … the brightest parts of my life.
“No good deed goes unpunished.”
—Maxine Litvinoff
Part I
Chapter 1
Monday, 9:40 a.m.
Laurel stared at her laptop, a puzzled look flashing across her face. What’s with all these emails from the same person? Her frown deepened as she scrolled down the list. The subject line was disturbing: “Please, can you help me?” Who’s Anne Ellsworth? Why was she so anxious to reach me this weekend?
She checked her watch. She had a few minutes before her late-as-usual Monday morning Women Now editorial meeting. She tapped on her keyboard, hoping to quickly scan through her other messages before opening Anne Ellsworth’s emails.
Laurel was pleased to see messages from several readers thanking her for her story on women in the military. The brief email from her boyfriend, Matt, brought a smile to her lips. It’s so convenient to be dating an international banker who’s smart as well as hot. She scanned the information he’d sent for an article she planned for later this year about women investing in the stock market.
Now, to the emails from Anne Ellsworth, whoever she is. Laurel sat forward, riveted as she scanned through them. Each email had the same message and ended with Anne’s phone number in Doylestown, Pennsylvania.
Ms. Imperiole,
I read your articles every month. I can tell you’re smart and that you know how to figure things out. I’ve recently become engaged and have discovered some information about my fiancé I don’t understand. I have no family in Doylestown, where I live, and not many friends to turn to. I’m confused and frightened and not sure what to do. I was really hoping you could help me. Please, if you could get in touch with me as soon as you can, I’d really appreciate it.
—Anne Ellsworth
Somewhat surprised, Laurel sank back into the soft leather armchair, contemplating this curious message. A chill crept down her spine. Even the cheerful atmosphere of the shimmering opalescent lighting in the open Women Now conference room couldn’t dissipate the feeling of foreboding.
“A problem?” Laurel jumped at the unexpected voice. Adam, the head of the marketing department, sat next to her. “That’s not a happy expression you’re wearing,” he added.
She looked around and realized the other staff members had trickled into the conference room and found their seats around the long chrome and glass table. “Someone sent me the same email five times this weekend asking me for help,” she said.
“Probably a nut case.” Adam tapped his head with his pen.
Before Laurel could respond, John Dimitri, the magazine’s publisher, entered the conference room.
“Good morning, everyone,” John said. “Shall we?” John’s voice was precise and his slight English accent commanded attention. Sitting down at the head of the table, he pulled back the cuff of his hand-tailored shirt and pointedly checked his watch. Laurel rolled her eyes as she snapped her laptop shut and turned her focus to the meeting.
Working their way around the table, the staff discussed the content for the regular columns and features. When John was done running through the senior editors’ assignments, he finally turned toward Laurel and raised one neatly trimmed eyebrow.
“I’ve been thinking about doing a story on the steps single women need to take to find safe and secure housing in big cities,” Laurel said, taking her cue. “I’d like to interview realtors, building managers, the people at those online roommate websites, and even the police.”
“The police?” John leveled a pointed gaze right at her. “Hmmm.”
Laurel understood that look, thinking that John must be thinking of her former boyfriend, Aaron, a New York City detective she dated a little over year ago.
“Yes, the police.” Laurel avoided his gaze and stared down at her hands.
She paused. Anne Ellsworth’s emails ricocheted through her mind like pings from a pinball machine. “The mail I’ve been getting from readers tells me that feeling safe is really important to them.”
“Not surprising, especially in light of the events over the last few years, terrorist acts, hurricanes and such.” John pitched his voice to reach each member of his staff. “I know you’re all passionate about providing information that can help our readers, and I applaud your efforts. After all, that is what Women Now is designed to accomplish. However, our readers need to have some fun in their lives, as well. So, by our next meeting, let’s think about some upbeat stories to balance things out a bit, shall we?” He planted his arms on the table and steepled his hands. “Anything else?” He looked around the conference table. “No? Dismissed.”
Laurel remained behind as John made his exit and the room emptied out. She flipped open her laptop and began typing up her notes about the staff meeting along with a few reminders to herself about ideas she wanted to pursue. Suddenly her email program popped up with another message, a small red triangle f
lagging it as urgent.
She clicked it open. The chill she had experienced earlier returned. It took a few seconds for her brain to comprehend the words filling her screen in huge, bold type that dripped with blood:
MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS, YOU FUCKING BITCH, AND STAY OUT OF MINE. IF YOU DON’T, YOU’LL BE SORRY. I’LL HUNT YOU DOWN, AND BELIEVE ME, I’LL MAKE YOU PAY.
Laurel’s hand automatically flew to her throat. Breathing hard, she looked around the conference room as though expecting to see the writer of these awful words spring out at her at any moment. Oh my god! Who could have sent this? Why?
There was no sign-off, or any clue as to who the sender was. Laurel checked the address line at the top of the email. It was [email protected], a user name and email address unfamiliar to her. Even if she asked the tech guys to check the Internet provider address, tracking down the sender could be next to impossible, especially if the email was forwarded several times through offshore remailers. Whoever sent this went to a lot of trouble to make the message as menacing, and as anonymous, as possible.
Did the PA18901 screen name have something to do with the supposedly frightened woman from Pennsylvania, Anne Ellsworth, who had tried to reach her this weekend? Was Adam right? Was Anne one of those nut cases?
Laurel shuddered and wrapped her arms tightly around her middle, seeking warmth. Whether or not these messages were connected, they had succeeded in doing one thing—scaring the hell out of her.
Chapter 2
Monday, 11:55 a.m.
The phone on Laurel’s desk shrilled, nearly causing her to jump out of her chair. Laurel was lost in thought about her recent emails and stared at the ringing phone, as if it was a snake about to strike. Pull yourself together. You’re here … in your office … safe … with loads of people around you. Nothing is going to happen. She reached to lift the receiver and silence the unrelenting machine, and saw John Dimitri’s name on the caller ID.
“A word with you, darling, if you don’t mind,” he said when she answered. “In my office.”
John was the last person she wanted to speak with right now. She hadn’t told him about the emails from Anne Ellsworth and she wasn’t about to tell him about the threat she had received If he knew, he’d go ballistic and tell her in no uncertain terms to ignore the woman’s missives.
She thought about why John could be summoning her as she made her way to his large, impressive corner office. The magazine occupied the entire thirty-fifth floor of the tower at Fifty-Second Street and Broadway, and John’s office looked out on the street below. Decorated in soft shades of beige, Laurel usually found it a calm, soothing space in direct opposition to the chaos surrounding it.
She inhaled deeply, knocked softly on the door, and entered. Her many fantasies of ousting John and sitting behind his custom-designed, inlaid burled wood desk took over the moment she entered the room, especially once her eyes fastened on its breathtaking vista of the city. Central Park, the George Washington Bridge, and an ongoing parade of fluffy, white clouds created a backdrop most people only saw in the movies. At least it distracted her from her problem, if only for the moment.
“… and the reservation is for eight-thirty at Provence Sud.”
“Sorry, uuh, reservation?” Laurel tore her attention away from the city laid out before her like an off-center geometric patchwork of steel, glass and greenery and tuned back into John’s voice.
“For your dad’s birthday dinner on Saturday evening, darling.” He arched one eyebrow. “You haven’t forgotten, have you?”
Laurel kicked herself mentally. She never forgot Dad’s birthday. With all that was going on this morning, she had momentarily put it aside. “Of course not. Dad invited Helen. Matt and I’ll be there, and Jenna, too, with a date.”
John gave her the slightly disdainful look that always came over his face when she mentioned Jenna. “I can just imagine what her date will be like: some spoiled, rich Euro-trash, no doubt.” No matter how many family events they attended together, John and Jenna had never gotten along. John, with his elegant English sensibilities, couldn’t handle Jenna’s high energy and sassy mouth.
Laurel ignored his taunting. I don’t care if they get on each other’s nerves. It’s not my problem, not until Friday. I’ve got bigger ones to face today.
“Oh, come on, stop making faces,” Laurel said. “She just likes to push those proper English buttons of yours. Besides, she’ll be cuddling up to Tony, who’s just as upper crust as you, and won’t pay any attention to a poor, old Englishman.”
“As you say. Just make sure your dad remembers to join us and doesn’t decide to stay late at the store.” John shuffled through a stack of papers on his desk, effectively dismissing her.
A vision of Imperiole Cigars flashed through Laurel’s mind. She could see her dad behind the counter of his emporium, running it like a king ruling over his country—a profitable country. With his crinkly smile and warm dark brown eyes, he drew his customers in and made them feel comfortable. Dad loves being at the heart of the action. It was hard to tear him away from his customers, many of whom he’d known for years.
A smile formed on her lips as she glanced at John, who was already busy making notes, and recalled how he and her father met when John had ambled into Imperiole Cigars looking for a Nicaraguan Figuardo, a hard-to-find cigar with a hefty price tag. Laurel was there that day and had been amused by the sight of these two very different men taking each other’s measure—one tall and elegant, the other stocky and feisty. Over the years, John became more than a customer, he became a good friend to her father.
Their friendship became her good fortune. After she graduated from college with a degree in communications, John told her to come see him when she was ready to work at Women Now. And here she was, nearly two years later, a senior editor.
She shook her head fondly at the image of these two mismatched friends. John seemed to have forgotten she was still there. “I’ve got to get back to my office.” Where god-knows-what is waiting for me. She left the room and softly closed the door behind her.
Chapter 3
Monday, 4:00 p.m.
Where did the day go? Laurel rubbed her eyes as she turned away from the myriad of open files on her computer screen and noticed the shadows filling the edges of her office. It had been nonstop from the moment she returned from her meeting with John. Marisol, her assistant, was waiting with a rewrite that couldn’t be put off. Then Laurel got several calls from people she had contacted about her safe housing story. By the time she finally grabbed a sandwich and spoke to Jenna and her dad, it was already late afternoon. For most of the day, she had effectively put Anne Ellsworth, the woman who asked for her help, and the threatening email out of her mind. She switched on her desk lamp; it was time to face the situation.
She opened her email program. If Adam was right; maybe this woman was a little nuts. If so, it definitely wouldn’t be a good idea to become personally involved. Usually readers wanted information on products or services she mentioned in an article or a referral for help with employment issues. The tone of this email nagged at her. The woman sounded genuinely distressed, not crazy. I’m going to call her. Maybe there’s something I can do to help.
Scrolling down, she saw that Anne had sent her yet another email. She clicked it open.
Ms. Imperiole,
I’ve been waiting all day for you to get back to me. I think I may have done something really stupid and I’m very frightened. I need to talk to you before David, my fiancé, gets home. Please call!
—Anne Ellsworth
Unable to ignore Anne’s frantic plea, Laurel picked up the phone and dialed.
A woman answered on the first ring. “Hello?” The voice was soft and tentative.
“Ms. Ellsworth, it’s Laurel Imperiole. I’m sorry I couldn’t—”
“Oh, thank God it’s you,” Anne said. “I just don’t know what to do.”
Laurel’s nervousness crackled through the air like a jolt of e
lectricity, but she managed to keep her voice composed. “Ms. Ellsworth—Anne—I got your emails. I think you should just tell me what’s happened. Take it slow and start at the beginning.”
Reaching for the pen and notebook she always kept close by, Laurel made notes as Anne’s story tumbled out.
“Six months ago I moved into my fiancé David’s, apartment, and well, everything seemed perfect,” Anne began. “Then this past weekend I hung a framed photo of David and me over the dresser in our bedroom. The photo slipped and I had to slide the dresser away from the wall to get it. That’s when I noticed a manila envelope taped to the back of the dresser. I… I had no idea what it could be, so I lifted the envelope away. I opened it and emptied its contents out onto the bed. Inside were four sets of IDs—passports, driver’s licenses, social security cards, credit cards and bankbooks. Every one of them had David’s photo but they all had different names: John Collier, Kenneth Martin, Jason Pitt, Robert Laird.” The words tumbled out almost too fast for Laurel to absorb.
Laurel was engrossed in Anne’s story. She hunched over her desk and scribbled furiously as the woman continued.
“I was overcome … like all the air was sucked from the room. I felt so dizzy and disoriented; I had to sit down to catch my breath. That’s when I noticed another piece of paper that had fallen out. It was a list in David’s small, meticulous handwriting, divided into three columns, each with a heading: Account. Number, Account Code, and Amount. Below each heading was a series of numbers and letters. I don’t know why, but looking at that paper really scared me.