Molly found herself clinging to Henry’s arm. Once he and Frank moved away, she wondered who she’d call if she got scared.
After Detective Blazevich finished his presentation, he passed around some Neighborhood Watch leaflets and had everyone sign an official attendance form. It was all so they could post a NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH placard by the NO OUTLET sign at the start of Willow Tree Court — as if that would keep away a serial killer.
Henry had to hurry off to an appointment. Molly retreated to the kitchen for the Tupperware container in which she’d brought her Toll House cookies. Only a couple had been eaten, and she didn’t want Squeaky throwing the rest away, which she most certainly would do — out of spite. Jeff, Chris, and Erin would be happy to eat them.
She was at the buffet table, transferring the cookies from Lynette’s plate to the plastic container, when Detective Blazevich came up to her side. Standing this close to him now, Molly felt a certain electricity from him that she hadn’t experienced with anyone since first meeting Jeff a year ago. She could tell he was attracted to her — and it was flattering, embarrassing, and titillating.
“I’d like to thank you, Ms. Dennehy,” he whispered.
“Molly,” she said, with a cordial smile.
“For a while there, Molly, you seemed to be the only one listening to me. . ”
She stole a glance at Angela in the kitchen, watching their every move. From the family room, Kay and Lynette were staring at them, too.
“Well, it seems you certainly have their attention now,” Molly said under her breath.
“Something tells me you’re the new neighbor on the block,” he said, helping himself to one of her Toll House cookies. “You don’t seem to be part of the clique here.”
Molly nodded. “You’re a very good detective.”
“Damn, these are great,” he said, munching on the cookie. “Better than the other batch. Why weren’t they passing these around?”
“Because I baked them,” she replied quietly. “Our hostess made the other batch. It’s a long story, Detective.” Grabbing a napkin from the table, she wrapped a few cookies in it and handed it to him. “Here, take some home with you.”
“Well, thanks.” His fingers grazed hers as he took the napkin.
Molly glanced at Angela in the kitchen and Angela’s gal pals in the Hahns’ family room. They were still staring.
Blazevich reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. “Listen — Molly, I appreciated your thoughtful questions earlier.” He handed her the card. “If you have any more questions or concerns, please don’t hesitate to call. My cell phone number is on there, too.”
Molly took the card. She saw the others were still watching and took a tiny step back from the cop.
“Well, I should head out,” he said. “Thanks again for the cookies.”
“Good-bye, Detective.”
Molly watched him return to the family room, where he also gave Lynette his card. He thanked everyone for their hospitality and said they should call if they had any questions.
Blazevich wasn’t quite yet out Lynette’s front door when Angela sidled up beside Molly at the buffet table. She took one of Molly’s cookies, broke off a corner, and nibbled at it. “He was very good looking,” she said. “And he was flirting with you.”
“Well, if that’s true, I’m flattered,” Molly replied, not looking at her. She kept busy putting the cookies in the Tupperware. “But he was wasting his time.”
“He gave you his business card,” Angela went on. “The rest of us have to share one. Of course, you’re the youngest and prettiest woman here. Why shouldn’t he pay more attention to you? So — how’s Jeff doing?”
Molly nodded a few more times than necessary. “He’s fine. Everyone’s fine, Angela. Erin’s looking forward to seeing you at her ballet recital on Saturday.”
“I was thinking it must be scary with this killer on the loose, and Jeff going out of town all the time,” Angela remarked. “I know all of his traveling drove me crazy after a while — along with the fact that he couldn’t keep it inside his zipper. . ”
Molly stared at her and blinked.
“I’m sorry, but if I were you, Molly, I’d have flirted more with that detective. Jeff doesn’t have any self-restraint. Why should you?” The way Angela spoke, she almost came off as a concerned friend who had had too many glasses of chardonnay — rather than the bitch she was.
Shaking her head, Molly snapped shut the lid to the plastic container. “I don’t need your advice, Angela,” she said evenly. “That problem doesn’t exist in my marriage.”
Angela gave her a smug smile. “You keep telling yourself that, honey.” Then she turned and joined her friends in the Hahns’ family room.
Molly didn’t waste much time getting out of there. After a few brief good-byes, she was out the door and walking down the cul-de-sac with her Tupperware container and what was left of her dignity. The sky was an ominous gray, and the wind started to kick up. It would be raining soon, she could tell.
She kept thinking that she shouldn’t have let Angela have the last word. She should have said, “The only problem Jeff and I have is you, Angela. Get over him, and get out of our lives.”
But she couldn’t have said anything like that to Angela’s face — not without feeling like a total ass afterward. In truth, Angela had every reason to be bitter. It was true. Jeff had been unfaithful on several occasions during the last few loveless years of their marriage. Jeff had told Molly all about it when they’d first started seeing each other.
At the time, Molly had been working parttime under a real bitch who was the events coordinator at the Capital Hilton in Washington, D.C. Jeff had been there for the New Drugs in Development Conference with the American Pharmacology Association. Molly was working the registration desk when Jeff walked up, introduced himself, and asked for his badge. She was immediately drawn to him. Not only was he drop-dead handsome, but he had such a warm, friendly, confident manner. She’d grown so tired of dodging passes from businessmen at these conferences, most of them with their wedding rings in their pockets.
Her time in D.C. had been like an exile. She’d gone there to forget — and feel somewhat anonymous. She didn’t know a soul in Washington, D.C. But after a while, the loneliness was too much. All she’d had were a few illustration assignments, a job she tolerated, and a boss she loathed. On more than one occasion, out of sheer desperation, she’d succumb to the charms of some lonely businessman. She didn’t ask too many questions or expect anything more than one or two nights of company.
But Jeff was different. The conference went on for three days, and on day two, he asked if she had time the following afternoon to go with him to the National Gallery. How could she refuse? On top of everything else, he appreciated art.
At the gallery, right in front of a Jackson Pollock painting, Jeff told her that he and his wife had separated only six weeks before. Molly didn’t want to date someone who was on the rebound. Reluctantly, she told him so, and Jeff seemed to understand. Then he showed her pictures of his kids on his cell phone, and he seemed so genuine, so proud of them. She couldn’t help falling for him, despite her resolve.
Jeff said he’d be back in D.C. for another pharmaceutical conference in three weeks. Could he take her out to dinner while he was in town again?
She said yes. Six weeks later, she flew into Seattle to meet Chris and Erin.
Two months after that, they were married. If it seemed rushed, that was probably her fault as much as Jeff’s. She was in love with him and eager to start a new life. She’d been so miserable in Washington, D.C., and the dark, gloomy paintings she’d produced during this period reflected that.
Then into her life stepped this handsome, sweet guy with two kids who was going to change everything around for her.
Yes, he’d had affairs and one-night stands while married to Angela. But Molly had to give him a second chance. She knew what it was like, not being let off the hook. Before he
r exile to D.C., she’d spent her last weeks in Chicago seeking forgiveness — and not finding it.
She still remembered standing at that woman’s front stoop on West Gunnison Street. She’d come there to tell her how sorry she was. “I don’t mean to bother you,” she’d told the middle-aged woman. “My name is—”
“I know who you are,” the woman had hissed, glaring at her. She’d had tears in her eyes and started trembling. She suddenly spit in Molly’s face. “Don’t come crawling around here, hoping I’ll accept any apologies from you, because I won’t! It’s not going to change a damn thing. Now, get the hell out of here — or I swear to God, I’ll kill you.”
Sometimes, Molly could still feel the woman’s spittle running down her cheek and hear her harsh words. She’d moved to D.C. to forget, but it hadn’t worked. She’d thought her chances might be better in Seattle.
She and Jeff were both starting over. She told him about Chicago. And Jeff kept her secret. There was no reason his kids needed to know about it, not for a while at least.
As she headed home, the wind seemed to whip right through her. Molly felt a few drops of rain. She wished she’d worn a coat for the half-block jaunt down to Lynette Hahn’s house.
She couldn’t get that conversation with Angela out of her head. Molly told herself the Jeff she knew was different from the Jeff who had been married to Angela
Shielding her head with the Tupperware container, she trotted up the walkway, unlocked the front door, and stepped inside the warm foyer. She set the container on the hallway table and headed up to the master bedroom. In Jeff’s closet, Molly started checking the pockets of his suits and his khakis. She was looking for matchbooks or cocktail napkins with phone numbers scribbled on them. But all she found were three wrapped Halls cough drops, a stick of Juicy Fruit, several wads of Kleenex, and about $1.30 in change.
She still felt uncertain and retreated downstairs — to Jeff’s study off the front hallway. The small room had a built-in, U-shaped mahogany desk — along with matching cabinets. A large-screen computer sat in the middle of the desk — in front of a picture window. Photos of her and the kids decorated the walls and desktop.
Molly opened the desk drawers and glanced at old bills and bank statements. She opened his appointment book and browsed through it. Nothing even remotely suspicious.
With a sigh, she plopped down in his chair and switched on the computer. She glanced at his e-mails — the ones he sent and received. Almost all of them were business-related, with a few correspondences to friends she knew. Four were from Angela, all within the last few days. They were curt inquiries about some book or CD that she’d accidentally left behind. Jeff was just as curt with his responses:
I’ll make sure Chris brings the Moody Blues CD to you next time he visits.—J.
Molly had no idea Angela was still bugging him about little things like that. His poor ex-wife just couldn’t let go— and that was why she’d tried to put these doubts about Jeff’s fidelity in her head. Molly felt stupid, listening to her.
She shut off the computer.
Carrying the Tupperware full of cookies into the kitchen, she set it on the counter, and then pulled Detective Blazevich’s card from her jeans pocket. She fixed it to the front of the refrigerator with a magnet.
She had to work on her painting. But before heading upstairs to her studio on the third floor, Molly wandered back into Jeff’s study. She gazed out the window — toward the start of the cul-de-sac. She could see the NO OUTLET sign was still there.
She just needed to make sure.
Incoming Call
206-555-0416
Angela Dwyer
Chris frowned at the little screen on his cell phone. He still wasn’t used to his mother going by her maiden name.
The phone was on vibrate, but it had still startled him. Chris had been slouched over a long desk in the school library, his arms folded on the tabletop, resting his head on them. He was a little out of it, but hadn’t really fallen asleep. He couldn’t stop thinking about Mr. Corson.
During swimming season, he was excused from gym, his last class of the day. So he often came here to kill time, get a head start on his homework, or nap before swim practice. He liked the arched windows and the quiet. Plus he had a little crush on the head librarian, Merrill Chertok. The pretty brunette was his swim coach’s wife. She got him hooked on books about time travel. When things hadn’t been so great at home, he’d sometimes stay at the library until it closed at five. Unlike the assistant librarian, who had a burr up her butt, Ms. Chertok let him nap there. He’d wake up and see her behind the desk, and somehow he’d feel all right for a while.
At the moment, Ms. Chertok was at her desk, shaking her head at him. She pointed to the door.
Chris got her drift: no talking on cell phones in the library. Nodding, he quickly got to his feet and stepped out to the empty hallway with his cell. He clicked it on. “Hi, Mom,” he said, leaning against the wall. “What’s going on?”
“I’ve been thinking about you all day — ever since I heard about Mr. Corson,” she said. “How are you doing, sweetie?”
Chris rubbed his eyes. “I’m okay.” He really didn’t want to talk to her about Mr. Corson’s death. His mom had played as pivotal a role as anyone in banishing Mr. Corson from the school.
“Listen,” she said, “if you’re confused or feeling bad, I want you to know that I’m here for you, Chris. You can talk to me. Or you can talk to your father. He’s a smart man, a very compassionate man.”
He couldn’t believe she was actually praising his father to him. It was touching that in order to make sure he had someone to talk to, his mom put aside her personal grievances with his dad.
“Thanks, Mom,” he said into the phone. “Dad and I talked this morning, and I’m okay.” He wanted to change the subject. “How are you? What’s going on?”
“Well, I was in the neighborhood today,” she said. “Lynette Hahn had one of those Neighborhood Watch meetings at her place, and this attractive, young policeman told us all about the Cul-de-sac Killer. Very scary stuff! Oh, and afterwards, he flirted shamelessly with Molly. Of course, she’s so pretty. Still, I didn’t see her do anything to discourage him. Sometimes, I really wonder about her. You get along with her, honey. Has she said anything to you about her family or her past? I mean, I’m absolutely clueless as to who she is or what she did before she met your father. And I’m supposed to entrust you and Erin in her care? It’s crazy.”
Chris wondered why — after all these months — his mother was suddenly dying to find out more about Molly. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you, Mom,” he said. “She doesn’t talk much about her background or her family. . ”
He remembered helping Molly move her stuff up to the third floor after she’d converted it into an art studio. A photo of a good-looking guy in his twenties had fluttered out of an open shoebox full of snapshots and postcards. Chris has asked who it was, and Molly had stared at it for a moment. Her eyes had filled with tears. “That’s my brother, Charlie,” she’d said at last. “He’s dead.”
“How’d he die?” Chris had asked.
“He — ah, he killed himself,” she’d admitted, her voice a little strained.
Not wanting to upset her any more, Chris had decided to stop asking questions about her dead brother.
He never asked Molly about her mother, either. But apparently, she was a widow who lived in St. Petersburg, Florida. Every once in a while, Chris could hear Molly talking on the phone to her — usually behind the closed door of the master bedroom or in her art studio on the third floor. The conversations didn’t last long, and Molly never sounded too happy. “Yes, Mother, I’ll get a check to you this week,” she’d say in a dull monotone.
Chris didn’t want to tell his mother any of this. It seemed wrong somehow. Besides, he needed to get off the phone and go to swim practice.
“Listen, Mom, I gotta wrap it up here, okay?” he said into the phone.
; “Well, I’ll see you weekend after next — if not sooner,” she said. “I love you. And call me if you start to feel sad or blue. Promise?”
“I promise,” he said. “Bye, Mom.” Chris clicked off the cell phone.
He ducked back into the library to grab his jacket and books. After a quick wave to Ms. Chertok, he headed out again.
The pool was in a different wing on the other side of the school. Chris kept his head down and eyes to the floor all the way there. It had become his posture of the day. He just didn’t want to talk to anybody.
As he stepped inside the locker room, he was hit with a familiar combo-waft of chlorine-chemical smell and B.O. Most of his teammates had already gone to the pool area, but a few still lingered at their lockers. He could hear them in the next row, belt buckles clinking against the tiled floor, locker doors banging.
“Hey, did you hear this one?” one of the guys was saying. It sounded like Dean Fischer, who was kind of a wiseass jerk. “What was Ray Corson’s favorite song?”
There was a silence. While Chris worked the combination of his locker, he imagined the other guy shaking his head.
“‘Don’t Let Your Son Go Down on Me’!” Fischer said, cackling. “Get it? That old song by Elton John. .”
Chris started to unbutton his shirt. He’d first heard that joke when Mr. Corson was forced to leave the school.
“Don’t you get it, moron?” Fischer was saying. A locker door slammed. “Corson and Ian Scholl, remember back in December? And at the same time, Corson was trying to get into Chris Dennehy’s pants, too. Dennehy’s the one who walked in on them. . ”
Disturbed Page 8