Rachel slurped the last of her milk shake through the straw, then sighed. “Anyway, that brings you up to date on moi—motherless, jobless, divorced, and independently wealthy for the time being.”
Molly shrugged. “Wow. Well, I’m glad you told me. Thanks.”
Rachel reached for her purse. “Don’t thank me yet, Molly. I just wanted to let you know about me and my background and my mistakes before I showed you this. . ” She pulled an envelope from her purse, and set it on the table. “Remember, this came to your house by mistake? You gave it to me last week when we first met.”
Molly remembered. It was the only piece of mail that looked like a personal letter.
Rachel pointed to the handwritten address in the corner of the envelope.
785 NW Fleischel Ave.
Portland, OR 97232
“That address is a fake,” she said. “I looked it up on Google. There is no Fleischel Avenue in Portland. And see, the postmark is Kent, Washington. Somebody in Kent wants me to think they’re in Portland — and they’re not doing a very good job. Anyway, open it up. . ”
Molly took out the letter. “Oh, my God,” she murmured.
It was a folded photocopy — in negative — from a microfiche file of the Chicago Tribune’s front page, from January 30, 2007. The headline read: 3 DEAD, 5 WOUNDED IN CAMPUS SHOOTING SPREE. There was a photo beneath it, which Molly knew very well by now: a cop comforting a crying woman with blood on her blouse. They stood in front of the community college’s front entrance with the crowd that had been evacuated from the school.
Someone had stuck a Post-it to the page. You might ask your new neighbor about this, it said.
“Isn’t your maiden name Wright?” Rachel asked gently.
Molly just nodded. The piece of paper began to shake in her hand
“I didn’t want to ask you about it until I knew you a little better,” Rachel said. “But I looked it up. So — this Roland Charles Wright, was he related to you?”
Molly nodded again. “He was my brother. He — he had some emotional problems, obviously.”
“I’m sorry,” Rachel said, putting a hand on her arm. “Who would send me something like this? Do you have any idea?”
Molly just shook her head. She couldn’t blame Angela anymore. The letter might have arrived at her house by mistake when Angela was still alive, but she knew Jeff’s late ex-wife hadn’t sent it. She couldn’t blame a dead woman for those strange phone calls she was getting. Sure, Angela had lied to her at that lunch when she’d claimed not to have told anyone else about Charlie. But what if that had been her only lie?
Someone else is behind all this….
This someone seemed to know everyone’s secrets. This woman knew about Charlie — and she also had something on Jeff, concerning his whereabouts the night Angela had been murdered. When Lynette’s kids were cut up by the glass in the vacant lot, Lynette had asked her, “You’re not the one who called me?” That had been a few days before Jeremy’s arrest. Had this woman hounded Lynette about Jeremy’s secret the same way she was now tormenting her about Jeff? A raspy-voiced stranger’s phone calls had haunted both Angela and Kay just days before they were killed. Angela was going to pay for something she’d done. And she’d asked Kay if she was a good mother or something along those lines.
“You know,” Rachel said. “I think this cul-de-sac must be cursed. I mean, the woman who lived in the house before me, your friend, Kay — she fell, hit her head, and bled to death. And the mother of your stepchildren was murdered. And just in the last week, Lynette’s little darlings. .” She nodded toward the play area, where Carson was teasing Dakota and Erin. “They were cut up in that empty lot. Then my toolshed mysteriously caught on fire. Lynette’s husband got arrested yesterday. And now this afternoon, Lynette’s daughter gets in a freak car accident. It’s like Willow Tree Court is one big bad insurance risk. I mean, please, tell me this isn’t normal.”
Molly’s cell phone rang. She immediately thought of the crazy woman caller, but when she checked the caller ID, she saw it was Lynette. She clicked on the phone: “Hi, Lynette. How’s Courtney?”
“In recovery,” she answered edgily. “They sent us home. So — I’m here at your house with Chris, and I don’t see my children. Where are my kids?”
“I took them out for dinner here at Burger King,” Molly said. “They’re fine, Lynette—”
“I need to be with my kids right now,” she said, her voice cracking.
“All right, we — we’ll leave now,” Molly said. “Do you want me to bring you something from Burger King? Does Chris want anything?”
“I just want my kids!” Lynette cried.
“All right, we’re leaving right now. Bye, Lynette.” She clicked off the cell and looked at Rachel. “God, she sounds absolutely crazed.”
“I could hear her,” Rachel said. She put her fingers in her mouth and let out a loud whistle. “C’mon, kids,” she called. “Your mom’s waiting for you.”
She folded up the microfiche photocopy with the Post-it attached and shoved it inside the envelope. “Do you want this?” she asked, offering the envelope to Molly. “It was addressed to me, but I think, well. . I think it was really meant for you, Molly.”
“Please, throw it away,” Molly said.
She watched Rachel tear up the letter and toss it in the trash receptacle.
Chris was in his bedroom, about to change out of his clothes. He desperately needed a shower. He still smelled like the hospital.
He noticed a bright light sweep across his windows, and he heard a car.
“Thank God,” he muttered. If Molly was returning with the kids, then Mrs. Hahn would be going home. He felt so horrible for her, and at the same time she’d practically sucked the life-force out of him for the last five hours at the hospital.
Chris had been waiting for Courtney outside the music building when another student asked if he’d heard about Courtney Hahn cracking up her car. A bunch of kids had seen the accident a few blocks from the school. Stunned, Chris called home to see if Molly had heard anything. She said Courtney had been taken to UW Hospital, and if he could catch a cab or a bus, Mrs. Hahn would probably appreciate having someone there with her.
But Courtney’s mom was like a crazy woman — sobbing one minute, and getting so angry-bitchy at all the doctors and nurses the next. It was embarrassing to be with her. The hospital staff she abused at every turn probably thought she was his mother.
He was so busy trying to comfort Mrs. Hahn and apologizing behind her back to half the hospital staff there really wasn’t much time to let it sink in about Courtney. The doctors explained that Courtney had second-degree burns on the right side of her face and neck, and third-degree burns on her right hand and arm. They said that she’d lost her right ear and two fingers from her right hand. They rattled off her various sprains, cuts, and contusions. And yet as Chris listened to them, he couldn’t really think about Courtney and her pain, because Mrs. Hahn became hysterical.
“Courtney will be all right,” Chris tried to tell her in the hospital corridor. “She’s tough. She’s going to get through this—”
“How can you even say that to me?” Mrs. Hahn screamed. “Didn’t you hear him? Weren’t you listening? She’s not going to be all right! My beautiful little girl will never be beautiful again. . ”
She settled down a bit after Courtney went into surgery. The doctors were hoping to save her right eye. It was only then that Chris could think about Courtney, and how pretty she was — especially this morning, without makeup. The thought of her face all burned up and mangled made him ache inside.
A nurse came out and explained to them that Courtney had made it through the surgery okay, and they were placing her in the ICU.
Mrs. Hahn had one final hissy fit, demanding to talk to a doctor. The ever-patient nurse managed to convince her that they’d know more in the morning and she should go home.
Courtney’s mom had another minor meltdown when they
’d gotten here and found that Molly and the kids were gone. But his dad came to the rescue and fixed her a drink. When Chris had slipped away and snuck up to his room, he’d left them standing in the kitchen with Mrs. Hahn crying in his dad’s arms.
He’d only gotten as far as unbuttoning his shirt when he heard the car. Chris stepped over to the window and watched Molly’s Saturn pull into the driveway.
“Call me if you need anything,” he heard their neighbor, Rachel, say as she climbed out of the passenger side of the car. She headed across the yard toward her house. Carson, Dakota, and his sister piled out of the back. Molly herded them toward the house. “C’mon, kids, let’s get inside,” she was saying.
Chris’s bedroom door was closed, and for a few minutes, he could only hear mumbling downstairs. It was hard to make out any of it.
But then there was a click, the sound of the front door opening. He went to the window again and watched Carson and Dakota amble down the driveway. Molly and Mrs. Hahn were so close to the house, he couldn’t quite see their faces. He was looking down at the tops of their heads.
“Call me if you need anything, Lynette, okay?” Molly was saying.
Mrs. Hahn nodded, and started to move away. But then she stopped and turned toward Molly. “Why is this happening?” she asked.
She sounded as if she expected Molly to have an answer to that question. He could see Molly shaking her head.
“Why, Molly?” she pressed. “In just one week, my little ones were cut up, I buried my friend, then my husband was arrested, and now, this. They still don’t know how it happened. One of the cops said it might have been some sort of cell phone malfunction. What does that even mean? Half of her beautiful face is burnt off. . ”
Molly reached out to her, but Courtney’s mom slapped her hand away.
“For two years, I lived here — and we were all very happy. Then you moved in,” Mrs. Hahn said. “And everything changed. Two of my neighbors — my best friends — were killed within six months of each other, a freak accident and a murder. Kay had dinner with you the night she died. Angela met you for lunch just hours before she was murdered. Do you expect me to think it’s all just a coincidence? I swear to God, I must have been out of my mind to leave my children in your care today. . ”
“Lynette, you don’t know what you’re saying,” Molly replied.
Mrs. Hahn backed away from her. “Something’s truly wrong with you,” she said. “Maybe you’re not so different from your brother, the one who shot all those people. Deaths and accidents and tragedies — they have a way of following you around, don’t they?”
“Lynette, your children are waiting for you and they’re tired,” Molly said in a steady voice. “Go home.” She turned and headed toward the door.
Chris heard it open and shut a moment later. Downstairs, he could hear Molly’s muffled crying.
He watched Courtney’s mother, slump-shouldered, wander toward the street, where Carson and Dakota waited for her.
He thought about what Mrs. Hahn had said, about all the bad things that had happened after Molly came to live here. But she’d left something out, something important.
Courtney’s mom must have forgotten all about Mr. Corson.
With a pair of tongs, she held the little, rubber-like blond doll over a Sterno flame. She had to be careful to burn just one side of it — so she could match how Courtney had been burned. The whole right side of her face is toast, wrote one of her classmates on Twitter. It might have been easier to just color half the doll’s head with black Magic Marker, but that would have been cheating. Besides, it was important to her that the doll was actually burned. The slightly melted rubber face made all the difference in the world.
She hadn’t a clue where Courtney would be when she pressed the Talk button on her rigged iPhone. So now she’d have to start shopping around for a little model car that looked like Courtney’s Neon. The thought of smashing up the front of the model car made her smile.
She had plenty of miniature trees in her supply of dollhouse accessories. She just needed to find one that was the right proportion to the car.
The patch of fabric from Courtney’s black pullover was in a plastic bag on her worktable. She would burn a bit of that, too.
She’d stopped work on the Dennehy dollhouse to create this little reenactment of Courtney’s accident.
But she would get back to the Dennehy house soon enough.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
With a pile of American Express and Visa bills, and her Edward Hopper wall calendar, which usually hung in the kitchen, Molly sat at Jeff’s desk in his study. On the calendar, she always marked the dates for Jeff’s trips and noted the city in which he was staying.
It was four-fifty in the afternoon, and she should have been up in her studio, working on her cola illustration. But Molly couldn’t focus on that.
Instead, she was trying to match Jeff’s travel dates and locations on the calendar with different purchases on his bills. Most of the time, he used his Visa for those business trips, and most of the time, Molly came up with a match. All the charges for his trip to Boston five weeks ago — the hotel, restaurants, taxis, a Barnes & Noble purchase, CVS Pharmacy, Logan Airport Gift Shop — were on his Visa bill.
Yet she couldn’t find any expenses during his two-day trip to Denver the following week, though it was marked on her calendar. She noticed one or two gaps like that nearly every month, usually brief trips, too.
It didn’t make sense. Why pay for most of his trips with this Visa card, and then sometimes not use the card at all?
Jeff must have had another credit card account, one she didn’t know about. Maybe the bill was sent to his office.
Molly was about to look at his checkbook when she heard a car horn honking. She glanced out the window and saw Rachel’s black Honda Accord in the driveway next door. Rachel stepped out of the car and glanced toward the house. She was wearing a sweater and jeans, and her brown hair was all windblown.
Molly went to the front door and opened it. “Hey, there,” she called.
“Sorry to honk the horn,” Rachel said. “I figured I’d rope you into helping me with some groceries. I went berserk in Costco. I mean, how can I pass up five pounds of snack mix? Do you have a few minutes to help a shopaholic in need?”
Molly laughed. “Sure, give me a second.” Ducking back inside, she went to the basement doorway and heard the TV down there. “Erin, I’m going next door to Rachel’s house for a few minutes,” she called. “Okay, honey?”
“ ’Kay,” she answered.
Molly threw on her heavy cardigan and headed out the door.
“I have enough Charmin here to last me until the rapture,” Rachel observed as they were carrying in the last of the groceries from the car. Molly followed her into the house with two light bags. She was taking it easy, because of the baby.
Except for a framed poster of the Eiffel Tower on the wall, Rachel hadn’t done anything yet to Kay’s old kitchen. The appliances were all white, and the breakfast nook was a little booth with built-in red leather cushioned seats. A window over the booth looked out to the wooded backyard. Rachel’s phone and an old answering machine sat on the kitchen counter — near where Molly set the groceries. The message light was blinking.
“Have you heard how Courtney is doing?” Rachel asked while unloading the contents from one of the bags.
“Chris called around lunchtime,” Molly said, leaning on the counter. “He talked to Lynette, and she said the doctors are very optimistic about skin grafts and a prosthetic ear. And they’re pretty sure her eye’s going to be all right.”
“Thank God for that,” Rachel said. She put two big jars of spaghetti sauce in the cupboard. “How’s Lynette holding up?”
“I wouldn’t know.” Molly sighed. “I don’t think Lynette and I are talking. Apparently, everything bad that has happened in her life lately is my fault.”
“Well, I knew you were to blame for global warming, but Lynette�
�s problems, too? My goodness. .” Rachel began to unload a second grocery bag. “I thought I heard a heated discussion going on outside last night. It didn’t have anything to do with me threatening bodily harm to her sweet little boy, did it?”
“Nope, it’s all me,” Molly said with a sigh. “You have a phone message.”
“Someone trying to sell me something,” Rachel said. “Last week, it was all those prerecorded election-related calls.” Reaching past Molly, she pressed a button on the machine.
A beep sounded, and then a perky recorded voice chimed in: “Hi, this is Claire from Comcast! Did you know you could have all the latest movies and the hottest TV shows right at your fingertips?”
“See? What did I tell you?” Rachel said. “All I get are salespeople and charities.” She went back to unloading her groceries while the recorded sales pitch went on and on. “I don’t need any help putting this stuff away,” Rachel said — over the recording. “This is the easy part. You don’t have to stick around — unless you want to stay for a glass of wine or something.”
Molly shook her head. “Thanks anyway, but Erin’s home, and I don’t want to leave her alone too long.” She turned toward the kitchen door.
On the message machine, the Comcast pitch had finally finished. The beep sounded, and another voice came on.
“Rachel Cross?” a woman asked.
Molly stopped in her tracks. She recognized that raspy, demented singsong delivery.
“Rachel, you’ll be sorry you ever moved onto that block… you stupid bitch.”
There was a click, and then a beep.
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