“Why not?”
“Because historical documentation shows that there just weren’t very many of them in Buffalo. Slavery was abolished in New York State years before the Civil War started, so escaped slaves who made it into the city either stayed and lived openly, or they were taken from rural safe houses into the city and directly across the border crossing at Squaw Island.”
She added quickly, as if to soothe any hard feelings from her bombshell that the home hadn’t served some noble historic cause, “I’ve always admired this house though, and wondered what it looked like inside. Did I mention that this is my old stomping grounds? I grew up just a few blocks over, and I just moved back to the neighborhood.”
Yes, Sandra had mentioned that over the phone several times, and in e-mail, too. She has no qualms about sharing that she’s a recent divorcee living alone for the first time in her life.
“I bought a fabulous Arts and Crafts home on Wayside Avenue, just down the street from Sacred Sisters High School,” she prattled on, as if she were revealing the information for the first time, but quickly added, “Not that I went to Sisters, even though it was right in the neighborhood; I went to Nardin instead.”
Ah, Nardin Academy: the most upscale all-girls Catholic high school in western New York. No surprise there.
“Anyway, when I saw that house on Wayside come on the market, I snatched it up. Of course, it isn’t nearly as big or as old as this one, and it doesn’t have any secret compartments, but it does have all the original—”
“The notebook—what were you saying about finding the notebook?”
“Oh. Sorry. I guess I tend to ramble.”
No kidding.
If there’s anything I can’t stand, it’s a motormouth.
Sandra shrugged. “I was just going to point out that the secret compartment where I found it was different.”
“Different how?”
That was when Sandra’s phone rang. She checked the caller ID, said, “Excuse me, but I have to take this one,” and disappeared down the steps.
Now she’s back.
And now that I’ve seen what’s in that notebook, I really need to know what she meant about “different.”
“Sorry about that,” Sandra says. “I thought that call was only going to take a minute, but I had to go check some paperwork I left in the car. Oh, it’s warm up here, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
The windows are open, but there’s not a breath of cross breeze to diminish the greenhouse effect created by four walls of glass on a ninety-degree July afternoon.
Sandra fans herself with a manila folder, though she doesn’t appear the least bit flushed or winded from the climb.
A perfumed, expertly made-up fortysomething blonde wearing a trim black suit, hose, and high-heeled pumps, she’s probably never broken a sweat outside the gym or had a bad hair day in her life.
When she introduced herself, she pronounced her first name as if it rhymed with Rhonda. Most locals would say it Say-and-ra, the western New York accent stretching it out to three syllables with a couple of distinct flat a’s.
“I’m Sahndra,” she said as she stepped out of her silver Mercedes in the driveway to shake hands. Heat shimmered off the blacktop, yet her bony fingers were icy, with a firm, businesslike grip. “It’s so nice to finally meet you in person. How was the drive in last night?”
“The drive?” Oh, so we’re doing the small talk thing. Let’s get it over with. “It was fine.”
“Did you come alone or bring your family?”
Is she fishing for information or did I tell her I have a family?
Sandra had asked so many questions through their two months of long distance phone calls and e-mails, it was difficult to keep track of what she’d been told—truth, and lies.
“I came alone.”
“It’s about nine hours, isn’t it, from Huntington Station?”
Huntington Station. Not Long Island, not Nassau County, not even just Huntington, but Huntington Station. So damned specific.
“I went to college in the Bronx, at Fordham,” she mentioned, “and my boyfriend back then was from Levittown. A nice Irish boy—Patrick Donnelly . . . ?”
She actually paused, as if to ask, Do you know him?
Question met with a cursory head shake, she went on, “Well, anyway, I know exactly where you live.”
She has the address, of course. She’s been FedExing paperwork for a couple of months now.
Sandra went on to inquire about the suburban Buffalo hotel she had recommended for this weekend stay, referring to it not as the hotel or the Marriott, but the Marriott Courtyard Inn.
After being assured that the room was satisfactory, she said, “Be sure and tell the front desk manager, if you see her, that I referred you. Her name is Lena.”
“Is she a friend of yours?”
“Oh, I’ve never met her, but she’s a dear friend of a sister of a client.”
And so it became clear early on that Sandra Lutz is the kind of woman who not only tends to ramble on and make dreary small talk, but she also remembers the most mundane details. That characteristic probably serves her very well when it comes to her line of work, but otherwise . . .
Someone really should warn her that sometimes it’s not a good idea to pay so much attention to other people’s lives.
Sometimes, people like—people need—to maintain more of a sense of privacy.
“I always try not to take cell phone calls when I’m with a client,” Sandra says breezily now, pocketing her cell phone, “but that was an accepted offer for a house that’s only been on the market for a week. I thought it would be a hard sell, but it looks like this is my client’s lucky day. And mine, too. Let’s hope all this good fortune rubs off on you. Now that we’re finished looking the place over, we can—”
“Wait. When you said the compartment was different, what, exactly, did you mean?”
Sandra’s bright blue eyes seem startled at, then confused by, the abrupt question. “Pardon?”
“When you found the notebook behind the wall”—Careful, now. Calm down. Don’t let her see how important this is to you—“you said the compartment was different.”
“Oh, that’s right. I meant that it wasn’t original to the house. Here, let’s go downstairs and I’ll show you what I mean.”
She leads the way down the steep flight to a noticeably cooler, narrow corridor lined with plain whitewashed walls and closed doors. Behind them are a bathroom with ancient fixtures, a couple of small bedrooms that once housed nineteenth-century servants, and some large storage closets that are nearly the same size as the bedrooms, all tucked above the eaves with pairs of tall, arched dormers poking through the slate mansard roof.
The third floor hasn’t been used in decades, perhaps not even when the previous owners, a childless couple, lived here. The first two floors of the house were plenty large enough for two; large enough even for four.
And then there were three . . .
No. Don’t think about that.
Just find out where the notebook was hidden, and how much Sandra Lutz knows about what’s written in it.
Down they go, descending another steep flight to the second floor.
Here, the hallway is much wider than the one above, with high ceilings, crown moldings, and broad windowed nooks on either end. A dark green floral runner stretches along the hardwood floor and the wallpapered walls are studded with elaborate sconces that were, like most light fixtures throughout the house, converted from gas to electricity after the turn of the last century.
“The same thing was probably done in my house,” Sandra comments as they walk along the hall, “but I’d love to go back to gaslights. Of course, the inspector who looked at it before I got the mortgage approval nearly had a heart attack when I mentioned that. He said the place is a firetrap as it is. Old wiring, you know—the whole thing needs to be upgraded. It’s the same in this house, I’m sure.”
“I’m sure.
”
The mid-segment of the hall opens up with an elaborately carved wooden railing along one side. This is the balcony of the grand staircase—that’s what Sandra likes to call it, anyway—that leads down to the entrance hall. Or foyer, pronounced foy-yay by Sandra.
Realtors, apparently, like to embellish.
The master bedroom at the far end of the hallway isn’t large by today’s standards. And it isn’t a suite by any stretch of the imagination, lacking a private bath, dressing room, or walk-in closet.
But that, of course, is what Sandra Lutz calls it as she opens the door for the second time today: the master suite.
The room does look bigger and brighter than it did years ago, when it was filled with a suite of dark, heavy furniture and long draperies shielding the windows. Now bright summer sunlight floods the room, dappled by the leafy branches of a towering maple in the front yard.
“Here.” Sandra walks over to the far end of the room and indicates decorative paneling on the lower wall adjacent to the bay window. “This is what I was talking about. See how this wainscot doesn’t match the rest of the house? Everywhere else, it’s more formal, with raised panels, curved moldings, beaded scrolls. But this is a recessed panel—Mission style, not Victorian. Much more modern. The wood is thinner.”
She’s right. It is.
“And this”—she knocks on the maroon brocade wallpaper above it, exactly the same pattern but noticeably less faded than it is elsewhere in the room—“isn’t plaster like the other walls in the house. It’s drywall. Did you know that?”
“No.”
There wasn’t even wainscoting on that end of the room twenty years ago. Obviously, someone—Father?—rebuilt the wall and added the wainscoting, then repapered it, undoubtedly using one of the matching rolls stored years ago on a shelf in the dirt-floored basement.
“There’s a spot along here . . .” Sandra reaches toward the panels, running her fingertips along the molding of the one in the middle. She presses down, and it swings open. “There. There it is. See?”
Dust particles from the gaping dark hole behind the panel dance like glitter into sunbeams falling through the bay windows.
“Like I said, it’s about two feet deep. I wish I had a flashlight so that I could show you, but . . . see the floor in there? It’s refinished, exactly like this.”
She points to the hardwoods beneath their feet. “In the rest of the house, the hidden compartments have rough, unfinished wood. So obviously, this cubby space was added in recent years—it must have been while your family owned the house, because as I said, the room was two feet longer when it was listed by the previous owner.”
“When you opened the panel, was there . . . was this all that was inside?”
“The notebook?” Sandra nods. “That was it. It was just sitting on the floor in there, wrapped in the rosary. I gave it to you just the way I found it. I figured it might be some kind of diary or maybe a prayer journal . . . ?”
The question hangs like the dust particles in the air between them and then falls away unanswered.
Predictably, Sandra waits only a few seconds before filling the awkward pause. “I just love old houses. So much character. So many secrets.”
Sandra, you have no idea. Absolutely no idea.
“Is there anything else you wanted to ask about this or . . . anything?”
“No. Thank you for showing me.”
“You’re welcome. Should I . . . ?” She gestures at the wainscot panel.
“Please.”
Sandra pushes the panel back into place, and the hidden compartment is obscured—but not forgotten, by any means.
Does the fact that the Realtor speculated whether the notebook is a diary or prayer journal mean she really didn’t remove the rosary beads and read it when she found it?
Or is she trying to cover up the fact that she did?
Either way . . .
I can’t take any chances. Sorry, Sandra. You know where I live . . . now it’s my turn to find out where you live.
That shouldn’t be hard.
An online search of recent real estate transactions on Wayside Avenue should be sufficient.
How ironic that Sandra Lutz had brought up Sacred Sisters’ proximity to her new house before the contents of the notebook had been revealed. In that moment, the mention of Sacred Sisters had elicited nothing more than a vaguely unpleasant memory of an imposing neighborhood landmark.
Now, however . . .
Now that I know what happened there . . .
The mere thought of the old school brings a shudder, clenched fists, and a resolve for vengeance. That Sandra Lutz lives nearby seems to make her, by some twisted logic, an accessory to a crime that must not go unpunished any longer.
They descend the so-called grand staircase to the first floor.
“Shall we go out the front door or the back?”
“Front.”
It’s closer, and the need to get out of this old house, with its dark, unsettling secrets and lies, is growing more urgent.
“I thought you might like to take a last look around before—”
“No, thank you.”
“All right, front door it is. I never really use it at my own house,” Sandra confides as she turns a key sticking out of the double-cylinder deadbolt and opens one of the glass-windowed double doors. “I have a detached garage and the back door is closer to it, so that’s how I come and go.”
Oh, for God’s sake, who cares?
“You know, your mother just had these locks installed about a year ago. She was afraid to be alone at night after your father passed away.”
Mother? Afraid to be alone?
Mother, afraid of anything at all—other than the wrath of God or Satan?
I don’t think so.
“What makes you assume that?”
“Not an assumption,” Sandra says defensively, stepping out onto the stoop and holding the door open. “Bob Witkowski told me that’s what she said.”
“Who?”
“Bob Witkowski. You know Al Witkowski, the mover? He lives right around the corner now, on Redbud Street, in an apartment above the dry cleaner’s. His wife just left him. Anyway, Bob is his brother. He’s a locksmith. I had him install these same double-cylinder deadbolts in my house when I first moved in, because I have windows in my front door, too. You can’t be too careful when you’re a woman living alone—I’m sure your mother knew that.”
“Yes.” The wheels are turning, turning, turning . . .
Stomach churning, churning, churning at the memory of Mother.
Mother, who constantly quoted the Ten Commandments, then broke the eighth with a lie so mighty that surely she’d lived out the rest of her days terrified by the prospect of burning in hell for all eternity.
“A lock like this is ideal for an old house with original glass-paned doors, because the only way to open it, even from the inside, is with a key,” Sandra is saying as she closes the door behind them and inserts the same key into the outside lock. “No one can just break the window on the door and reach inside to open it. Some people leave the key right in the lock so they can get out quickly in an emergency, but that defeats the purpose, don’t you think? I keep my own keys right up above my doors, sitting on the little ledges of molding. It would only take me an extra second to grab the key and get out if there was a fire.”
“Mmm hmm.”
“Of course, now that it’s summer, I keep my windows open anyway, so I guess that fancy lock doesn’t do much for me, does it? I really should at least fix the broken screen in the mudroom. Anyone could push through it and hop in.”
It’s practically an invitation.
Stupid, stupid woman.
Sandra gives a little chuckle. “Good thing this is still such a safe neighborhood, right?”
“Absolutely.”
Yes, and thanks to Sandra’s incessant babble, a plan has taken shape.
A plan that, if one were inclined to fret about br
eaking the Ten Commandments—which I most certainly am not—blatantly violates the fifth.
Thou Shalt Not Kill.
Oh, but I shall.
It won’t be the first time.
And it definitely won’t be the last.
If you missed
Wendy Corsi Staub’s
first two books in this thrilling series,
take a look at
NIGHTWATCHER
and
SLEEPWALKER
On sale now!
An Excerpt from
NIGHTWATCHER
September 10, 2001
Quantico, Virginia
6:35 P.M.
Case closed.
Vic Shattuck clicks the mouse, and the Southside Strangler file—the one that forced him to spend the better part of August in the rainy Midwest, tracking a serial killer—disappears from the screen.
If only it were that easy to make it all go away in real life.
“If you let it, this stuff will eat you up inside like cancer,” Vic’s FBI colleague Dave Gudlaug told him early in his career, and he was right.
Now Dave, who a few years ago reached the bureau’s mandatory retirement age, spends his time traveling with his wife. He claims he doesn’t miss the work.
“Believe me, you’ll be ready to put it all behind you, too, when the time comes,” he promised Vic.
Maybe, but with his own retirement seven years away, Vic is in no hurry to move on. Sure, it might be nice to spend uninterrupted days and nights with Kitty, but somehow, he suspects that he’ll never be truly free of the cases he’s handled—not even those that are solved. For now, as a profiler with the Behavioral Science Unit, he can at least do his part to rid the world of violent offenders.
“You’re still here, Shattuck?”
He looks up to see Special Agent Annabelle Wyatt. With her long legs, almond-shaped dark eyes, and flawless ebony skin, she looks like a supermodel—and acts like one of the guys.
Shadowkiller Page 34