Thinking of that photograph now, Ellie was glad she didn’t own a terrycloth bathrobe. She was also grateful Nate had volunteered to sleep over. She didn’t want to risk being alone tonight.
So it seemed Nate was there to offer his protection—and nothing more. At least, that was how she’d interpreted things so far this evening. In his overnight bag, he’d brought along the revolver his brother’s partner, Frank, had given him.
If Ellie was correct, the copycat killer was going to murder a teacher tonight.
Of course, she’d been fired yesterday evening, so technically, she was no longer an instructor at Our Lady of the Cove. But the copycat killer might not know that.
Cleaning out her office this morning, Ellie had managed not to break down crying in front of the campus security guard—a short, pale, forty-something mustached guy who barked instructions at her. He chewed his gum loudly and walked with a macho swagger. She’d felt his beady eyes staring at her as she’d removed all her writing awards and framed citations from the wall.
Adding to her hurt and humiliation, someone in campus administration had posted her home address on her now-defunct university email account. Ellie imagined Father O’ Hurley dictating the officious message to Grandma Walton as she typed up the notice. They’d also blocked Ellie from contacting anyone through the university email system. So she couldn’t send out a warning to her fellow teachers about tonight.
At least she’d managed to get her home address deleted from the email message they’d posted, but it had been up there for several hours for anyone to see—including her “fans” with the American Family Preservationists. That was another reason she appreciated Nate’s company right now.
But she also felt vulnerable, sad, lonely—and suddenly, without purpose. Would it be crossing a line if she wanted more than just a bodyguard tonight?
She couldn’t help feeling as if this was strictly another vigil, like their stakeout in the wee hours of Sunday morning. Once again, they were merely waiting out the night together while a killer was out there. And they had to brace themselves for the possibility of seeing him face-to-face some time in the next few hours.
The circumstances were hardly conducive to an evening of wild, hot passion. She wasn’t expecting that. Still, she would have given anything for Nate to take her in his arms and comfort her.
But right now, as they sat at her kitchen table together—like buddies or business partners—that kind of intimacy seemed out of place. He hadn’t even put his hand on hers. The hug she’d given him at her front door had been the only time they’d touched.
There had been at least a couple of moments during Monday night’s dinner date—if it was even a date—that she’d been certain he was about to kiss her. Maybe she’d been projecting. Yet she had good reason to believe they felt the same way about each other. And he seemed as extra-cautious as she was.
So they’d kept things merely cordial over dinner. Nate told her how he’d spent his day trying to track down Vivien Houghton. After checking with dozens of local nursing homes, he’d finally located the Bonners’ former housekeeper at Mary of the Rosary Nursing and Rehabilitation Center in Wilmette. He would visit her tomorrow. There hadn’t been much about Vivien Houghton online, not even her age. Nate said he hoped she was still sharp enough to answer some questions about Rachel and her family.
He felt they’d gotten as much information as they could from Alden in regard to Rachel’s older, married lover. Alden’s reaction when Hannah had questioned him about it seemed to give credence to Kayla’s story. Nate wondered out loud if Ms. Houghton might know something about it.
“I’m still not sure how I’ll get this old woman to open up to me, but I guess I’ll figure something out,” Nate said. He crumpled up his napkin and set it on his plate. “I’m trying not to invest too much hope in this. For all I know, this Houghton woman could totally clam up on me. Or she could talk my ear off and still not tell me a thing that would give us any insight as to why Gil, Cheryl, and Rene were killed—or why Eden O’Rourke disappeared.”
Ellie got up from the table and gathered their plates and flatware. “I still say this copycat killer has her locked up in a shed somewhere.”
“I’d like to think you’re right. At least, with your theory, Eden is still alive.”
Ellie grimaced at the thought of the poor girl already dead—like Kayla Kennedy. She set the dishes in the sink and turned on the hot water. “Well, you’re the only one who even almost agrees with me,” Ellie sighed. “It looks like Hannah now concurs with her parents that Eden ran away because she was afraid of losing her scholarship or some such nonsense.” With another sigh, she started washing the dishes. “Though I guess it’s logical on some level. Hannah’s father made a good point about the laundry room fire and Eden’s disappearance. . .”
“You mean that the person who set fire to the doll can’t be taken seriously?” Nate came up beside her and handed her the ladling spoons and serving forks. “And how that same guy couldn’t have done something as grave as abducting a girl and holding her against her will for over a week? I’ve been thinking about that, and I have a nice rebuttal for Mr. O’Rourke. The Immaculate Conception Killer didn’t murder a baby fifty years ago. The infant’s poor delusional young mother did. Why would this copycat murder a child if he didn’t have to? The original guy didn’t do it. And if this new guy used a real baby, he’d have had the police and the press swarming all over the campus in record time. So he set fire to a doll as a reminder of what had happened fifty years before. Everyone called it a prank, right? That was probably just what he wanted. If people took it seriously, he couldn’t keep operating under the radar the way he has.”
Ellie turned off the water and turned toward him. “You’ve thought about this a lot, haven’t you?”
Nodding, Nate moved over to the carryout containers and started closing all the lids. “If I’m wrong and you’re right about why Eden O’Rourke disappeared, then this copycat certainly picked the perfect girl for it.”
Ellie dried off her hands with a dishtowel. “Yes, just like Crystal, Eden has a sister also attending the school . . .”
“Not just that,” Nate said. “He chose a girl who has a history of running away and disappearing for days at a time. I told you how I started following Hannah on social media over the summer. Well, she mentioned in at least a couple of tweets about Eden disappearing—much to her parents’ annoyance. If I found out so easily about Eden’s penchant for vanishing, chances are this guy found out about it, too.”
“So the copycat knew he could abduct Eden on the anniversary of Crystal Juneau’s disappearance without anybody seeing a connection. It would be Eden O’Rourke, going off on her own again. It allowed him days to keep working before anyone started to worry or suspect anything.”
“Like I said, he’s working under the radar.” Nate glanced at the containers on the counter. “I hope you have room in your refrigerator for all this . . .”
“Just leave it—leave it,” Ellie said distractedly. She grabbed his arm and led him back to the table. They sat down again. “‘Under the radar,’” she repeated. “Detective Castino used that same expression. He said there couldn’t be a copycat killer, because, if there was, the guy was ‘sure working under the radar.’ Castino kept saying that’s not how a copycat killer would operate.”
“He’s right,” Nate replied. “This guy isn’t a copycat. If it had looked like Justine or your friend Diana had been murdered, the whole campus would be on alert. He couldn’t get anywhere near his next victim.”
“So, instead, we have an apparent suicide and an apparent accident,” Ellie said. Then she shuddered. “The original victims were strangled. So this new guy did something to the new girls’ necks. He must have forced Diana to go up that ladder and put the noose over her head . . .”
Nate nodded. “And he probably broke Justine Everly’s neck before he threw her down those stairs.”
“The way he’s chosen th
e victims,” Ellie said. “Diana looked like Greta Mae, and Justine had the same initials as Jane Marie Eggert. Plus he left some little calling card behind to link their deaths to the original murders—the book Look Homeward, Angel with Diana, and the shoe that fell off of Justine’s foot.”
“But that doesn’t make him a copycat,” Nate said.
“No,” Ellie whispered. She clutched at a napkin still on the table. “No, that’s where I was wrong. These murders are tributes.”
Nate nodded. He put his hand over hers.
Neither of them said anything for a few moments.
“Are you going to call Detective Castino or the school and tell them any of this?” Nate finally asked.
Ellie slowly shook her head. “They wouldn’t listen. I’ve already tried and tried with them. Besides, I wouldn’t be offering them any real proof. I’d just be expounding on my theory.”
“I suppose you’re right,” he said.
Ellie looked down at his hand on top of hers.
She found some comfort from his touch. Still, she couldn’t help feeling that, right now, some teacher at Our Lady of the Cove was going about her business—and had no idea she’d be dead by morning.
Wednesday, 10:13 P.M.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“I’d love to,” Pamela said. “But I have an eight-thirty class in the morning—and papers to grade tonight.”
She had the door unlocked and open. She inched toward the threshold. Ron still lingered on her front stoop.
It was the end of their first date—and the end of their brief association as far as Pamela Rothschild was concerned.
She was a forty-six-year-old divorcée and a psychology professor at Our Lady of the Cove. Pamela had two kids in college and still lived in the same split-level home they’d grown up in on Greenwood Avenue in Delmar. Over the summer, her well-meaning daughter had signed her up on Cupid.com.
Ron was pretty typical of the guys she’d met through the dating site so far. He looked about ten years older than the photo he’d posted on his profile. She’d been willing to overlook that—along with a few chauvinistic remarks he’d made during dinner at Bellini’s. And she’d been fine about splitting the bill. But as they’d walked out of Bellini’s, Ron had made a joke about bulimia. Pamela had forced a laugh but then started to share with him a few facts about the disorder. She didn’t mention that she’d suffered from bulimia for a short spell after her divorce—or that she’d published an article about her experiences in a psychology journal two years ago. She just wanted to educate him a little. It wasn’t as if she was giving him a thirty-minute lecture. She’d been talking for only a minute or two when he interrupted with some story about a woman cutting him off in traffic. It didn’t have anything to do with bulimia.
By the time he finished his story, Pamela had decided they were finished, too. She wasn’t really attracted to him anyway.
But Ron seemed to think he’d swept her off her feet.
“C’mon, just one drink,” he said, still hovering by her front door. He looked like he was leaning in to kiss her. “The night’s still young . . .”
“Not for us, Ron,” she said. “But seriously, thank you for dinner—or at least, for driving us to dinner. Good night and good luck.”
Pamela slipped inside and closed the door on him. She turned both locks and applied the chain. Then she prayed he didn’t knock or ring the bell. She just wanted him to go.
She stood in the dark front hallway, listening to his retreating footsteps. Then she moved over toward the shadowy living room and looked out the front window. Because of the streetlight in front of her house, she had a clear view of Ron as he climbed into his car. Once the headlights went on and the car pulled away from the curb, Pamela began to breathe easily again.
But that feeling of relief lasted only a few moments.
As she started to peel off her coat, Pamela realized that, if not for the streetlamp outside, the house would be completely dark. The outside light came through the living room windows, making the furniture cast long shadows across the carpet.
This wasn’t right.
Whenever she went out at night, Pamela always left a light on in the front hall and in the kitchen, above the breakfast table. It had become an established routine now that she was an empty-nester. Had she been so preoccupied about her date that she’d forgotten her routine earlier tonight?
She switched on the overhead in the front hall and then hung up her coat in the closet.
With a bit of trepidation, Pamela poked her head into the kitchen and then reached in and flicked on the overhead light.
A place was set at her kitchen table—with a whole small cooked chicken, a cluster of grapes, and a bowl of cherries. A white terrycloth robe that wasn’t hers had been draped over the back of one of the chairs.
From the dining room doorway, a man stepped out of the dark—into the lighted kitchen.
Pamela gasped. He was strange-looking, with shaggy dark blond hair, a mustache, and thick glasses. All of it seemed like a disguise. With his mustard-colored turtleneck, brown vest, and oatmeal-colored bell-bottom corduroys, he looked like he was on his way to a 1970s theme party. Everything about him seemed fake—except for the gun in his hand.
Pamela’s heart stopped. She opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t get any words out.
He pointed the gun toward the place setting on the table—and then at her. “I made you a late-night snack, Pam.”
She glanced at the food he’d set out for her. She noticed there wasn’t a glass of water to help wash any of it down. It took a moment before she could speak. “You—you expect me to eat all of that?” she asked timidly.
“No,” he whispered. “I expect you to choke on it.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Wednesday evening
All the food had been put away and the dishes washed.
After dinner, they sat on opposite ends of the sofa and watched Sweet Smell of Success on TV. They’d both taken off their shoes. Nate’s overnight bag—with the gun in it—was beside the couch, on the floor.
Nate said the movie was one of his favorites. He’d seen it with his brother about ten times. But Ellie had a tough time concentrating on the film. About halfway through, Nate asked if she wanted to watch something else. She said no, she was fine, just a little tense. Then he asked if she wanted a foot rub. She said yes.
It was heaven. He knew all the pressure points. At times, Ellie couldn’t help moaning or shuddering gratefully. It was strange to feel so relaxed and stimulated at the same time. She now knew why he’d received so many five-star reviews on the massage sites.
But even with her feet resting on his thigh, Nate remained very professional about everything. He kept watching the movie while his hands worked their magic on her heels, ankles, arches, and toes. His face looked so handsome in the flickering light from the TV screen. Once in a while, he’d look at her and smile. “Is this okay?” he’d ask.
“Wonderful,” she murmured each time.
Ellie didn’t remember when he’d stopped—or when she’d fallen asleep.
She’d thought she’d merely closed her eyes for a few minutes. But opening them again, Ellie saw some obscure movie from the early thirties on TV. She didn’t recognize any of the stars, and everyone seemed to talk in muffled, squeaky voices over the crackling soundtrack. The clock on the cable box read 12:13. Ellie’s bare feet were wedged between the cushion and Nate’s left thigh. He still had one hand on her ankle. But he was slouched over in the other direction, asleep with his head on the armrest pillow.
My, what a sexy couple we are, Ellie thought drolly.
But then the refrigerator kicked in with a noise that gave her a start, and Ellie remembered why Nate was with her tonight. Suddenly, she was on edge again. She’d been lucky just to get comfortable enough to fall asleep for a couple of hours. And for all she knew, the tribute killer may have already struck. According to one article she’d read
online, Valerie Toomey’s approximate time of death had been eleven at night.
Ellie listened to the refrigerator humming. She muted the TV so she could clearly hear any other noises—from inside and outside the townhouse. A part of her wanted to wake Nate, but she didn’t have the heart. From the hall closet, she pulled out an afghan with reindeer on it her parents had given her several Christmases ago. She covered Nate from the chest down with it. He barely stirred.
Creeping to the window, she moved aside the curtain and peered outside. Everything seemed quiet. Nate’s Ford Fiesta was parked across the street, a couple of houses down. She didn’t see any other strange cars, nothing new at least.
In the kitchen, she checked the back door and glanced out the window again. She’d left the back light on—and it would remain on until morning. She had a view of her garden and the small backyard, bordered by hedges. There was only one tree, a big elm. Its branches were still. Standing by the window, Ellie remembered the police composite sketch of Lyle Duncan Wheeler in the disguise he used—the shaggy-haired, mustached man with glasses. She wondered if his self-appointed disciple was out there someplace. She shuddered.
“Nobody’s there,” Ellie told herself, backing away from the window. She took a couple of deep breaths and tried to relax.
She cracked open a fortune cookie from the take-out dessert bag they’d left on the kitchen counter. She read the fortune:
The year ahead will bring much travel.
Munching on the cookie bits, Ellie figured the fortune wasn’t too far off. If she survived the evening, she’d soon be looking for another job, possibly in another city.
She set her laptop on the kitchen table and turned it on. It was probably way too soon for the police to discover anything, but Ellie went to Google News and tried searches with keywords like Our Lady of the Cove, death, and teacher. Nothing came up. She found a site with live audio feed of local police and fire dispatches. She listened for twenty-five minutes, but didn’t hear anything that sounded too serious.
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