The Christine Murders

by Regina Fagan

  With a shaky hand, he opened the closet door ever so slightly, just enough to prevent the light from going on. From somewhere outside, he could hear the girl talking. That meant there was someone else here. He must have been seen then. But why weren’t they looking for him? Perhaps the girl was on the telephone, calling for help. Desperately, he strained to listen, picking up shreds of her conversation. She was speaking to someone, but he heard no replies.

  “Good heavens, Tommy, what’s got into you now? What’s wrong with you? Settle down,” she was saying.

  Tommy? Who was Tommy?

  Now he could hear the girl’s voice again. “Just calm down. I have to go now, but I’ll see you later tonight. I have lots of studying to do, so I’ll be able to stay with you a long time.” Her voice lowered so that Luther could hear no more of what she was saying. Whoever it was she was speaking to certainly wasn’t offering any conversation in return.

  It seemed like hours instead of the few minutes it actually took, but at last Luther heard the girl calling a final goodbye and then there came the sound of the front door opening and closing once more. She was gone. But who was Tommy? Was he still in the apartment?

  Hardly breathing, Luther stood rooted in the closet, trying to stop his body from trembling and mopping his brow with the back of his hand. What a foolish, dangerous thing he had done, trapping himself in here. How was he going to get out now? He stood, shaking, looking out through the crack of the door at the darkening room beyond. Evening shadows were filling the room. There was not a sound from anywhere inside the apartment.

  Then, as he stood there, frozen with fear, the door began to pull slowly open. Someone knew he was here. He backed farther into the closet, pushing himself in among Christine’s clothes. He was aware of the scent of perfume on her clothing.

  The door was opening slightly more now. Just as Luther was sure his heart would stop, the door opened fully and the overhead closet light flashed on. The space was flooded with bright light and Luther saw, standing on the floor a few feet from him, a large ginger cat. The cat stared up at him indignantly and then let out a long menacing hiss.

  Luther, weak with a rush of relief, fell to his knees and laughed slowly. So this was Tommy. Christine had a cat, a large ginger-red cat that was very obviously not pleased at finding a stranger in his territory.

  Luther stood up, and the hissing cat turned and ran out into the apartment. Luther disliked cats, and all other animals, in fact. His mother loved cats, and had kept many. She had always seemed to care more for them than she did for him, always yelling at him when he went anywhere near her cats. And all because he’d drowned two kittens when he was seven. For some reason, neither Mother nor Father had ever forgiven him for that. He walked out of the closet now, leaving the door partly open.

  The cat was peeking in at him from the hallway. Luther ignored him. Let the silly thing hiss and spit at him if it wished. He was safe, for the time being. Safe, and alone inside Christine’s apartment. He still realized what a precarious position he was in, but the situation had really been offered to him, dangled before him as if it was meant to happen, and look at how well it had eventually turned out. He deserved praise for his bravery.

  He had wanted so much to get inside this apartment. Well, here he was, and it all had been so easy. How clever he was. He felt giddy with happiness, filled with new energy and purpose.

  Forcing himself to calm down, he began to inspect the neat, comfortable apartment. Now that he was here, he would find out everything he could about Christine Lindsey’s private world.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Luther wandered through the apartment, examining everything he found. Christine had excellent taste. Her apartment was nicely furnished, and extremely feminine.

  Back in the large bedroom closet again, he ran his hands over her clothing. At her dressing table, he picked up her bottles of perfume, and opened drawer after drawer of lingerie and nightwear.

  There was a small den, filled with books and photographs.

  The framed photographs covering the walls and scattered about on shelves looked like family scenes. He recognized a much younger Christine in some family group photos. There were also photos of Christine in her airline uniform – one, a group graduation photo – many others with foreign backgrounds.

  Luther picked up one picture of Christine taken in Paris, with Notre Dame in the distance. She stood smiling with an arm around a very handsome young man who seemed familiar. Where had he seen him before? Then it came to him. This was the steward who had been working with Christine when he had first seen her. His name had been Bill. He and Christine had seemed quite friendly.

  Bill was much in evidence in Christine’s photos, together with another man Luther recognized immediately. Ted MacIntyre, of all people. Luther knew who MacIntyre was; everybody in San Francisco knew the MacIntyre family.

  There was a photo of Christine and Ted on a boat in San Francisco Bay. Another of the two of them in front of the State Capitol in Sacramento. Ted, the steward Bill, and three other people picnicking on the grounds of a Napa Valley winery. Obviously, Christine was involved with MacIntyre, and possibly with this Bill as well.

  Angry and jealous, Luther suddenly thought of Alyson. He turned from the room, flicking off the light and going back to the living room.

  He turned on a pretty lamp and flooded the living room with soft pink light. This was a wonderfully comfortable place filled with plants and flowers and still more books. On a coffee table stood the crystal vase and roses he had sent, which pleased him and took away the sharp anger that had started eating at him after seeing the photos of Ted MacIntyre and Bill.

  A desk stood near a window with a laptop, iPad, and small printer. There was also a Day-Minder next to the laptop which Luther picked up and began flipping through. This was just what he wanted – Christine’s flight schedules were neatly written out across each month. Pulling a piece of paper from a pad on the desk, he swiftly jotted down the information he needed and closed the book. This was wonderful! His spirits perked up again as he realized how much fate had been on his side today. Now he would see what other useful things the desk might contain.

  He did not have to search very far before he found the most valuable item. In the top drawer was a small box labeled “keys”. Luther removed the top and found several, all neatly tagged and identified.

  There were duplicate car keys, keys to Christine’s parents’ home, and best of all, four extra sets of keys to Sutter Court and apartment 608. Luther looked at the keys. How could this day have turned out so well? He thought about the terrible fear and panic he’d experienced when he had trapped himself in the closet, but finding her flight calendar and now these extra keys made all that suffering worthwhile.

  He knew now that he had Christine in his control. There was no way that she was going to put him off now.

  Suddenly he heard voices and laughter outside the apartment, in the hallway. Quickly and silently he shut the desk drawer and turned off the living room light. Then he crept to the door and listened. Someone was entering an apartment nearby. A door closed and the voices were gone. He let out his tightly held breath. It was high time for him to leave. He had what he wanted, and he could return when necessary.

  There was a muffled sound in the living room behind him. Turning back toward the shadowy room, he was startled and terrified to see two large yellow eyes glaring at him in the dark. Then he relaxed. It was the cat, only the cat. The creature had, of course, been hiding and watching him.

  Luther listened a few minutes at the door before leaving the apartment. Then, not wishing to risk taking the elevator, he found a stairway leading to the garage. Once there, having attracted no attention whatsoever, he used his new set of keys to let himself out of a gate at the back of the garage, dropped the keys in his pocket, and headed out into the cold evening air.

  Nearly intoxicated with pride and happiness, he strutted back to his car for his
return drive to Monterey, laughing out loud at his tremendous good fortune.

  Ted MacIntyre and that steward Bill might still be problems for him, but nothing he could not handle. Christine was firmly in his hands now.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  THURSDAY – OCTOBER 20th

  Flight 812 from Papeete to San Francisco was on schedule, until the aircraft lost power in one engine, requiring an unscheduled stop at Honolulu International Airport.

  The passengers grumbled at news of the unexpected delay. But no one on board was quite as upset as Bill Arnett.

  Trying hard to maintain composure while reassuring passengers that there was no danger, Bill was a jumble of nerves. He had spent a wretched day in Papeete, unable to do or concentrate on anything besides Luther Ross-Wilkerson and the murders in San Francisco.

  The more he looked at the composite, the surer he was that it was Ross-Wilkerson. And the more he studied the pictures of the victims, the more positive he became that Chris was targeted by Luther as well. He was sure the killings were all linked to some bizarre plan to murder Christine. Now all he wanted to do was get home and warn her.

  Yet now his flight home had developed a mechanical problem that could take hours to mend. God alone knew how long they would be delayed in Honolulu. The only thing Bill was relatively sure of was that he wouldn’t see San Francisco tonight.

  Exhausted from worry and lack of sleep, his handsome face drawn and his gray eyes bloodshot, Bill made his way through the cabin, serving free drinks and assorted treats. The drinks would pacify a good many people and ease their worries about missed connections in San Francisco. Bill wished that he could down a few himself.

  Repeatedly, he had asked himself if he was being ridiculous, hysterical even, just because he disliked Luther so much. Were all the similarities he’d found only coincidental? He wished he could talk to someone else. He wished Peter Breen were with him. Peter knew Chris well, and Bill knew he could trust Peter’s opinion. Lacking Peter, he was forced to keep his worries to himself. He couldn’t burden his already tired crew members this night with a story that might sound absurd to them.

  The plane landed safely in Honolulu Thursday afternoon. Everybody left the aircraft, and maintenance crews began work on the damaged engine. The passengers were made as comfortable as possible in the boarding lounges. No definite time of departure for San Francisco could be given.

  Free for a short time, Bill tried Christine’s cell phone; her mailbox was full, so he headed to a small bookstore at the side of the lounge. Copies of the morning’s San Francisco paper were already there. He bought one. He would have a little time here to read it before he was due back on board the aircraft.

  He found nothing new on the murders in the San Francisco paper. Fortunately, there were no new victims.

  Dropping the paper, he phoned Christine’s home phone number. The very least thing he could do now was leave a message, since she would undoubtedly reach home tonight long before he did.

  Her old answering machine was always left on. Bill waited impatiently for the message and signal to play out. “Chris, Bill here,” he began. “I’m stranded in Honolulu with an engine down and have no idea what time I’ll get home tonight.” He hesitated. How much should he tell over the phone? It wouldn’t be wise to frighten her too much when she was alone. He continued on, as calm as he possibly could be.

  “I have something very important to tell you, Christy, and I’ll call you just as soon as I get in. No matter what time it is, I’ll call. Please don’t go out anywhere. Don’t let anyone in either. Stay there until you hear from me. Call Ray or Laura’s parents if you need anyone. But wait for my call. It’s vitally important.”

  He hung up and went back to the boarding lounge. Some passengers were reading or playing with their phones or tablets while others were sprawled across seats sleeping. A few were engaged in arguments with airline ground personnel. It had been decided that everybody would still have to pass Customs in San Francisco, so no one could leave the transit area. Wait until we finally get back in the air, Bill thought. Then, as always, the flight attendants would become the final targets for the angry passengers’ outrage against the airline. As if we or anybody else would do this sort of thing on purpose for the fun of it, he thought. He joined his other crew members and then circulated among the passengers, doing his best to cheer them up. This group, so unlike his outbound Tahiti passengers, was a cantankerous bunch.

  Outside on the tarmac, pieces of the disassembled engine lay scattered across the ground beneath the aircraft. Maintenance workers, looking like so many ants, crawled in and out of the huge jet engine, while the Captain and flight deck crew mingled with the workers, talking and gesturing toward the ailing engine.

  From the look of things, it appeared a long night was ahead. A colossal delay was well under way, and there was nothing Bill could do now but pray that he would get home to Christine before Luther Ross-Wilkerson found her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The rain which had started early Thursday morning in San Francisco continued relentlessly throughout the afternoon and evening. Home from Tokyo, Christine waved goodbye to her crew and stepped off a bus at the hangar parking lot in a drenching downpour and ran through ankle-deep puddles to her car.

  She was cold and uncomfortable, and she turned on the car heater as she settled herself for the drive home. The sheeting rain would make her commute into the city longer than usual tonight. It had been a very long day, with a full load of passengers, and she was aching for her bed.

  Laura had left a light on in the living room, and the cat came galloping across the room to greet Christine. The place looked and felt delightfully warm and comfortable as Christine put down her luggage and picked Tommy up for a welcome home hug. His fur was soft and warm against her cold cheeks.

  It was a night that begged for hot tea. Christine carried the cat into the bedroom and deposited him on her bed. Then she removed her wet clothing and wrapped her hair in a towel before going to the closet for her robe. She stopped at the closet door. It was open, and the light inside was on. That was strange.

  She walked into the closet, noticing immediately that some clothes were moved about on the racks. She shivered ever so slightly, and then remembering that she was standing there naked, she reached for her robe and wrapped it around herself, at the same time pushing her bare feet into warm slippers. She heard a soft meow and looked down to see Tommy. He walked around the closet, sniffing shoes and clothing.

  Warmer now, Christine watched the cat. “Did you open this door, Tommy?” she asked him. She knew he was quite capable of pulling open kitchen cabinet doors with his powerful paws, but she was at a loss to understand how he would have managed to open the closet. There was a catch on the door. Some clothes had definitely been moved. Could he have done that, too? He certainly was showing a great deal of interest in the closet tonight.

  Maybe she had left the door partly open, in which case the cat could easily have pushed it the rest of the way. Or Laura might have opened the door for something. Odd, but – no matter. She lifted Tommy into her arms again, closed the closet door tightly, and went into the kitchen to make her tea.

  She put a kettle on to boil, and then switched on her answering machine, listening to the few messages left as she assembled her tea. Nothing very important, which was good. The fourth message, however, was from Bill. He sounded strange, she thought, nervous and excited. What in the world could have prompted him to call from Honolulu and leave such an odd message? She wondered if he had called her cell phone, and then remembered that she had forgotten to clear out her mailbox.

  She played Bill’s call back once more. He had asked her not to go anywhere. Well, it was hardly likely she’d go anywhere tonight in any event, but especially not in this weather.

  She picked up the phone and dialed crew scheduling. Bill’s flight was still on the ground in Honolulu, and it looked like it might be well after midnight or
later before the crippled jet reached San Francisco.

  The tea kettle began to whistle. Christine poured her tea, added lots of milk, and took it to the living room, where she popped in a CD, curled up on the window seat, and looked out into the dripping darkness of the night. The rain continued to beat steadily against the windows, while Adele sang tenderly of love lost. She wondered if she should try to call Bill but decided not to. He would have his hands full with his crew, keeping their weary passengers contented and calm. He said he would phone her as soon as he got in. So, although curious to know what was going on, she yawned and wondered how she would ever stay awake until his call.

  ***

  Eventually she dozed off, snug and warm on the window seat, waking again near eleven o’clock. The music had stopped. There was still no word from Bill. To keep herself awake, she turned on the TV.

  The late news had started, and across the screen flashed the composite drawing. Christine looked carefully at the face, listening as she did so to Lieutenant Kinsella’s description.

  Outside, the rain intensified, beating violently against the apartment’s bay windows. Inside, all was still except for John Kinsella’s voice on the TV news.

  Hardly breathing, Christine stood up slowly and walked to the TV set, her eyes riveted on the nameless face on the screen. The TV picture changed to close-ups of each of the victims, all of them so similar in coloring and appearance they might have been sisters. And there was something else. Something else about these women hit Christine.

  She felt as if her heart had stopped beating, as if all her blood had drained from her head and she was about to faint.

  And then she knew why Bill had called from Honolulu. She knew why he had been so nervous. He had seen these pictures, too. He had recognized Luther Ross-Wilkerson just as she had right now. He had also noticed what she hardly dared to admit to herself - that each one of the murdered women looked just like her.