“Well, he better drive fast if he wants to get to them before they find out on their own.” The counterman dumps two sugars into one of the coffees and adds milk to the other without being told. Clearly, the men are regulars. “Everyone who’s been in here this morning is talking about it.”
“I’m not surprised it’s all over town. Cripes, that Mary she worked with at the real estate office is the town crier.”
“You got that right. I heard she called the Daily News and offered them an exclusive interview. Are you ready to order yet, Mrs. Hellerman?” the second counterman patiently asks the young mother in front of David.
“Yes, we’ll have a blueberry muffin and a bottle of orange juice with an extra cup.”
“No! Cranberry juice!” one of the kids screeches so loudly that David winces.
“Ashley, I’m not buying two juices when you each only take one sip as it is. Decide, girls. Orange or cranberry?”
“Orange!”
“Cranberry!”
“You can go ahead,” the woman tells David wearily, waving him past her children. “I have a feeling we’re going to be awhile.”
“Okay, sir, what’ll it be?”
“A large coffee to go,” David tells the counterman. Oh, what the hell? “And . . . an egg sandwich.”
“Bread or roll, ham or cheese?”
“Bread. Ham. And cheese.” If he’s going to eat, he might as well eat.
“White, wheat or rye? Swiss, Muenster, or American?”
“Rye, Swiss, and would you mind giving me directions to Colonial Drive?”
The place goes silent, except for the whining toddlers.
David glances around to see everyone—the countermen, the senior citizens, and the mother— staring at him.
“You with the press?” one of the old men asks, eyeing him with interest.
“The press?” David frowns. “No. Why would—?”
“I’ve had reporters in here all morning, asking me how to get to Colonial Drive. Let me tell you before you go to too much trouble, the street is blocked off and there’s cops all over the place.”
The woman raises a salon-arched eyebrow. “Really? But I thought she was killed over on Gilder Road.” On the word killed she lowers her voice and casts a protective glance at her oblivious children, who are happily poking holes in the wrapper of a loaf of bread on a nearby shelf.
“She was killed at that vacant place over on Gilder Road, but my nephew Tommy’s a cop and my sister-in-law says they’re looking for clues at her house. They don’t need a bunch of reporters getting in the way,” he adds with a meaningful glance at David.
“I have no idea you’re talking about.” Even as he speaks, David struggles to ignore the nagging inner voice telling him that he might very well have an idea.
“A woman who lives over on Colonial Drive was murdered yesterday,” one of the countermen says, as the other flips the egg on the sizzling griddle. “Stuff like that doesn’t happen in a town like this, so people are going nuts. She was a nice lady, too. Got really sick a couple of years ago and almost died. People were saying it was a miracle she got better after all that. Shame something like this has to go and happen to her now.” He shakes his head and shakes some salt and pepper on the egg.
David no longer has an appetite; his stomach is suddenly churning.
“What is . . . what was her name?” he asks the counterman, and holds his breath for the reply, already certain what he’s going to hear.
He shouldn’t be caught off guard when he hears the name. But he is. It knocks the wind right out of him, and he can’t decide whether suddenly everything—or nothing at all—makes sense.
“It was Isabel. Isabel Van Nuys.”
“Good morning, Bayview Books.”
“Bill?” At the sound of his chipper voice, she manages just that one word, his name, before her voice breaks. She’s crying again. She’s been crying for a few hours now, ever since she found the battered, bloody body of her murdered boss. The hysteria is subsiding but the shock, the sorrow, the fright are all more palpable now.
It isn’t like before, seeing Sam lying there.
Sam wasn’t bloody.
He was just . . .
Still.
Facedown.
There was no blood.
And anyway, she went right into shock when she found her husband. She doesn’t remember much about it.
This time, she isn’t crippled by grief, yet she can’t seem to block out the gory image.
“Rose?” Bill sounds alarmed. “Sweetie, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“No. Bill . . .” She sinks into a chair at the kitchen table, where the children’s toast has long since grown cold. “Luke is dead.”
“What?”
“He’s dead. He’s here, at my house, and the police are here, and I found him this morning, a few hours ago, and he’s—”
“Rose, slow down. You’re not making any sense. How can Luke be dead? And what’s he doing at your—”
“He was bringing me my paycheck last night. The police think he must have surprised a prowler, and . . .” She shudders, closing her eyes to block out the image of Luke’s bloody, gaping neck wound.
“A prowler killed him?” Bill, incredulous, says, “Oh, my God.” Then, again, “Oh, my God.”
“I know. I’m sorry to tell you like this, I just— I realized I should call you. I thought you’d probably be wondering where I am . . .” She looks at the clock. Quarter past ten. It’s only quarter past ten. It feels like an entire day has passed since she climbed out of bed.
“I was wondering. I just thought you were a few minutes late, so I didn’t call. Sweetie, tell me, are you okay?”
“Not really. I can’t even think straight. The police have been questioning me nonstop. I’m surprised they haven’t been to the store yet.”
“Oh, Rose . . . they don’t think you did it, do they?”
“I don’t think so . . .”
No. No, of course they don’t think she did it.
Who would possibly think she could be a murderer?
But then, who would think there would be a murderer anywhere in Laurel Bay?
“I see a patrol car pulling up at the curb right now,” Bill says anxiously. “What do you think I should do? Should I stay here? Should I close the store? Do you want me to come over there? You shouldn’t be alone.”
“I’m not alone. Leslie’s here, and the kids. She’s taking them to my in-laws’ house. We’re going to stay there for a few days . . . or maybe forever.” She exhales sharply, unable to imagine ever coming back to this house.
“Your in-laws’ house? The one here in town? You’re not going to Florida, are you?”
“No! God, no,” she says, vaguely noting that the top of her throat suddenly has that sore, pinchy feeling. “We just have to get out of here.”
“So you’re staying with your in-laws?”
“They’re not there. The house is empty. And Leslie’s place isn’t big enough, so . . .”
“That’s good, Rose. You should get out of there. What if whoever killed Luke comes after you?” He gasps, as though realizing belatedly what he’s said. “I’m sorry, Rose. Don’t worry. I’m sure you’re safe, but—”
“It’s okay, Bill. I know.”
It isn’t as though she hasn’t already considered the possibility that whoever was lurking outside of her house wasn’t merely a neighborhood prowler turned violent.
It isn’t as though she didn’t tell the police detectives about the anonymous phone calls, and the valentines, and the necklace.
“Who is Angela?” asked Detective Molinari, the main one assigned to the case.
“I have no idea. It doesn’t make any sense. That’s why I thought my son must’ve stolen the necklace.”
“Well, it sounds as though somebody may have been stalking you, Mrs. Larrabee.” Detective Molinari proceeded to ask her whether she had recently broken off a relationship with anybody, or received
unwanted attention from a stranger, or even a casual acquaintance.
She didn’t tell them her hunch that Luke might have been interested. Why bother now?
Nor did she mention that she fleetingly thought Gregg Silva might have put the chocolates in her car. It would be downright embarrassing if they went to question her son’s young, attractive teacher and mentioned that Rose thought he might have a crush on her.
And she certainly isn’t going to tell them about Hitch. He was Sam’s best friend. He’s her friend. It was a stretch for her to envision him as her secret admirer, let alone to imagine him killing a man.
“You should be careful, Rose,” Bill tells her. “Don’t tell anybody where you’re going to be staying. Just in case . . .”
“Rose?” Leslie’s voice calls from upstairs. “How many pairs of pajamas do you want me to pack for Jenna?”
How many pairs of pajamas?
It’s such a simple question.
There should be a simple answer.
But she can’t think what it might be. One pair? Four? All of them?
“Rose?” Leslie calls.
“Rose?” Bill asks gently in her ear.
Utterly numb, she tries to find her voice, to respond to him, and to Leslie . . .
But it’s overwhelming, all of it. How can she possibly cope?
I need Sam, she thinks desolately. I need big, strong, fearless Sam. He’s the only one who can help me through this, and he’s gone. I’m all alone.
“Rose, I have to go,” Bill is saying. “The police are here and they need to speak to me.”
The police. Of course. They’ll need to speak to Bill. Will they think he did it, too? He doesn’t like Luke.
Didn’t, she amends. Bill didn’t like Luke. Luke is dead.
She swallows hard.
Her throat hurts.
And she’s all alone.
You could call Hitch, a voice says, somewhere inside of her suddenly aching head. He’s big, strong, and fearless. And he really seems to care about you and the kids.
She should call Hitch. He said he’d stop by on his way back from the city. If he comes and sees the police cars and the crime-scene tape . . .
He’ll be worried.
Yes, she has to call him. Just . . .
Not yet.
A chill slithers over her.
Be careful, Rose. Don’t tell anybody where you’re going . . .
Maybe Bill is right. Maybe she shouldn’t tell anybody else. Not until the police at least narrow down the suspects . . .
Not until she knows there isn’t the slightest chance that Hitch might be among them.
Chapter Twelve
“Ben . . . where the hell are you?” Christine croaks into the phone when her husband’s office voice mail picks up yet again. “Why aren’t you calling me back? I need you. I’ve been trying to reach you all afternoon. And I need you to pick up more Advil for me on your way home.”
She left several messages and he never returned any of her calls. Nor did he call to check in at lunchtime. And whenever she dials his cell phone, it clicks right into voice mail, which means it isn’t even turned on.
Meanwhile, here she is, alone, burning up with fever, too sick to drive, and their neighbor’s yard has turned into a bloody crime scene.
The victim was a middle-aged man, no relation to the Larrabees, according to the police officer she questioned—who then turned the tables and questioned her.
Right. As though she could possibly summon the strength to wield anything more deadly than a tissue at this point.
Her gaze falls on the fireplace poker propped against the coffee table within arm’s reach. She put it there, just in case, when the police officer advised her to be cautious.
Apparently she had convinced him not only of her innocence, but that she didn’t see or hear anything, because he beat a fairly hasty retreat back to the other side of the shrubbery. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to catch this horrible flu.
Christine tosses the phone onto the coffee table and leans her head against the couch pillow again, gazing at the television with eyes that feel as though somebody boiled them.
She’s anxious to find out more about the murder, but the first evening newscast is still more than an hour away. Without cable, they don’t get the local Long Island station. The teasers the New York stations have aired throughout the afternoon have mentioned only the snow that is now falling over the entire metropolitan area. With a foot on the way, that’s sure to be the top story, but they should at least mention the murder.
Ironic that Christine has no other way of gleaning information when she’s a stone’s throw from the scene of the crime. Every time she worked up her courage and dialed Rose’s number, the line was busy. It’s undoubtedly been taken off the hook.
From her living room, through a dense curtain of falling snow, Christine can see news trucks parked at the curb in front of the Larrabees’ house, their camera crews and reporters held at bay by the police and a saw-horse barricade. A few times, they rang Christine’s doorbell, but the police quickly put a stop to that.
Though the police presence is reassuring, she made sure all the windows and doors are locked. She even chained the front door from the inside, something she habitually did in the city. It always seemed unnecessary out here, but now . . .
When Christine pressed the police officer for details, such as the victim’s name or relationship to Rose, the cop was frustratingly tight-lipped, saying he wasn’t at liberty to discuss those details. All he would say was that the victim must have startled a prowler; there was a scuffle; the victim was stabbed.
She told the officer about the other night, when she thought she saw somebody lurking in the bushes. He took notes, then told her that the detective in charge of the case would want to speak at length with both her and her husband.
Terrific. Ben is going to love that.
Now, in the wake of the news that whoever she glimpsed lurking in the neighbors’ yard that night might have been a cold-blooded killer, she sits here brooding, deathly ill, alone, becoming more furious with Ben by the minute.
Logically, she knows it isn’t his fault that an armed prowler is terrorizing this charming neighborhood where Christine is supposed to feel so safe.
But other things are his fault.
That she has this lousy flu.
That she doesn’t have cable television.
That she doesn’t have a baby.
Well, technically, that might not be his fault. It might not be either of their faults. Maybe something is wrong. Maybe there’s some physical reason they can’t conceive.
But when she brought up the prospect of seeing a fertility specialist, Ben hit the ceiling. He said they haven’t been trying long enough to resort to a specialist, and that the insurance won’t cover it, and they can’t afford it.
Money.
With him, it always comes back down to money.
She sighs, and tries to focus on the television.
A teaser for today’s Oprah catches her attention. It is followed by another local news teaser, as a reporter surrounded by whirling snow says, “Coming up at five, the metropolitan area is bracing for a major winter storm. How much of this white stuff are we going to get before it’s all over? Then, we’ll take you to a peaceful suburban town, where residents are shocked by a brutal murder—and the killer is still on the loose.”
There! There it is!
Christine sits up on the couch abruptly and watches intently as the scene shifts from the reporter to a long shot of a suburban house.
But it’s the wrong house, modern and ugly and in a remote area, surrounded by thick woods. It’s the wrong town. The wrong murder.
Christine leans back against the pillows, disheartened.
What a lousy world we live in. Lousy, and scary, and—
Suddenly, she hears a commotion at the front door.
She bolts upright again on the couch just in time to see the door thrown open, th
en halted abruptly by the chain.
With a trembling hand, Christine reaches for the fireplace poker and calls out, “Who’s there?”
“I wish Mommy was here,” Leo says, his little chin trembling as he looks around the living room.
“She’ll be here soon, sweetie. She just has to finish talking to the nice policemen.” Leslie goes around flipping switches, turning on every light in the room, but it still has an oddly murky feel.
It would be so different if Mom and Dad were here, where they belong, Leslie thinks angrily. First Sam abandoned us, and then they did. It isn’t fair that I’m the only one around to take care of Rose and the kids.
She tried calling her parents several times from Rose’s house, to tell them what’s going on, but she got no answer. They’re probably out playing bridge or hunting for early bird specials or whatever it is that’s important enough to keep them a thousand miles away from home.
“I don’t wike it here. Why can’t I go to school to see Mist-o Gwegg?” Leo asks, as he has repeatedly all day.
“I told you, Leo, you can go to school tomorrow.” At least, that’s what she overheard Rose telling Candy Adamski when she called the director earlier. She quickly explained what happened, and then Candy seemed to be talking her ear off before she finally made an excuse and hung up.
“It’s so cold in here, Aunt Leslie.” Still wearing her red down jacket, Jenna shivers. Snowflakes cling to her hair and eyelashes. It’s coming down hard out there.
Rose insisted that Leslie take her SUV to drive the children over here, and she’s going to come later in Leslie’s car. It’s less than a mile, but she has to go out on the highway.
I should call Peter and tell him to go get her in the truck, she decides. He’s coming over anyway, just as soon as he finishes working and goes home to check his mail. When she reached him on his cell phone to tell him about the murder at Rose’s, he was shocked. She expected him to drop everything and come to her, but he called back to say that Arty wouldn’t let him go. Peter and the other carpenters were racing against time to shore up the bungalow’s roof beams, worried it might collapse under the weight of the coming snow.
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