He found another obituary for Marcia on the Donnellan Funeral Home website, but it was the same as the one in the Tribune.
Nate tried linking her name to Bonner and got no results.
He figured Donald Sloane’s company had already taken care of that.
Ms. Houghton returned, wearing a black velvet sweater-jacket. She said she’d already signed them out at the front desk. She’d also written a note on Our Lady of the Rosary letterhead stationery:
Do Not Touch! 9/24
She set it on top of the unfinished jigsaw puzzle. Then she took a small crucifix on a stand from a nearby table and placed it on top of the note—so it wouldn’t blow away.
It took her a while to get to his car—and into the passenger seat. Patiently walking alongside her, Nate was reminded of driving his mother to and from her doctors’ appointments when she’d been so ill. He also thought of all the disabled vets he used to work with.
Ms. Houghton said she wanted to have lunch at Con-vito Café, which was only a couple of blocks away in the Plaza del Lago on Sheridan Road. She knew the way and barked directions at him until he pulled into the shopping mall across the street from the lakefront.
“I can’t believe we’re really here,” she murmured once he pulled into a parking spot near the restaurant. She laughed. “Did you decide I deserved one last meal or something?”
Turning off the engine, Nate gave her a mystified grin. “I beg your pardon?”
“You don’t work for Sloane?” she asked. “I thought for sure you were one of Sloane’s goons, checking up on me—trying to figure out whether or not I was a liability.”
“No.” He laughed. “I don’t understand . . .”
“Do you know what else I’m fond of besides jigsaw puzzles?” she said.
Nate shook his head. She wasn’t making any sense.
“I like old movies, Mr. Falco,” she said. “Sweet Smell of Success, 1957, Burt Lancaster as J. J. Hunsecker and Tony Curtis as Sidney Falco—they showed it on TV last night. The minute I saw that nametag on your lapel, I knew you were a phony.”
“You thought I worked for Sloane?”
“His men have come by and tested me before, pretending to be someone else as they asked me about the Bonners. It’s always been kind of scary, but less so with each random visit. I found that I just have to act a little daffy, and they leave me alone.”
“I still don’t understand,” Nate said. “If you thought I was one of Sloane’s goons, why did you tell me so much?”
“I’m ninety-four years old. Everything aches. I hate where I live. Every day, I see people getting sicker and crazier. It’s just downhill from here. I’d like to go quickly. So—when you walked into the dayroom, and I saw the name on your guest pass, I figured, Here’s your chance, Vivien. He has good taste in movies, and he’s handsome, polite, and charming. If he’s one of Sloane’s crew sent to test you, then make sure he’s the one who kills you. He’ll be a gentleman about it . . .”
Gaping at her, Nate shrugged. “Well, I’m sorry, Ms. Houghton, I have no intention of doing away with you.”
“So I told you all of that for nothing,” she said, frowning.
“Not for nothing,” Nate replied. “You’ve been very helpful.”
“Well, who are you then?”
Hesitating, he tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.
“Never mind,” she said, waving away the question. “I might forget myself and say something about you to the next henchman Sloane sends to question me. Better I just don’t know. But now that I think about it, I wonder if your private detective who died in an accident is the same one who swept Marcia off her feet . . .” She quickly shook her head. “No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know that either. If anyone ever asks, you were Sidney Falco, a handsome charmer who took me to lunch so he could dig up some dirt on the Bonners—just like in the movie. Now, help me out of this car so we can go eat . . .”
Now that Ms. Houghton’s candor was no longer part of her secret death wish, Nate had expected her to clam up during lunch.
Instead, over her chicken Caesar salad, she vented about having to suffer in silence for over two decades while working for a man she utterly despised.
“Richard Bonner is a good businessman, but a terrible human being,” she said. “Candace was a kind, lovely woman when they first got married. But she changed after that. He changed her. He was psychologically abusive. He berated her and was forever critical of her parents. He blamed her for not being able to have children. He cheated on her all the time, everyone knew. He publicly humiliated her . . .”
Ms. Houghton wasn’t a fan of “daddy’s little girl,” either. The Bonners considered their adopted baby a blessing, but according to Ms. Houghton, little Rachel turned out to be a curse. “He spoiled that girl rotten,” she said, fishing a crouton out of her salad. Her hand shook as she set it on the edge of her plate with the other croutons. “That’s the word for her, all right, rotten. Rachel had a habit of loving every new toy she received—loving it to death. As soon as she got bored with it, she’d break it. That included a pony she got when she was eight. She adored it for a few weeks. Then one day, the stable hand made the mistake of leaving her alone with the pony for a few minutes. And in that time, little Rachel beat the poor thing with a rake. Fortunately, they didn’t have to put the animal down. But after that, Candace wouldn’t allow her to have any pets. Little Rachel was always begging for a dog or a cat. Mr. Bonner didn’t see the harm in it, of course, because his little girl could do no wrong. But Candace stuck to her guns, thank God.”
Ms. Houghton glanced out the window. From their table, they had a view of the parking lot and, across the street, Lake Michigan. “Rachel had a little girlfriend for a while,” she said, frowning. “Karen was a neighbor’s child from the apartment building next door. They were thick as thieves for about a month. Then Karen came over to spend the night. Rachel got into some kerosene we had in the storeroom. They used to have gas lights out in front of the house. Rachel and Karen had gone to the basement to play. I still remember hearing the shrieks from that poor child. And the whole time, Rachel didn’t utter a peep . . .” Ms. Houghton slowly shook her head. “Rachel wasn’t hurt at all, of course. The other girl had third-degree burns up her arm, on part of her torso, and along the side of her neck. I suppose you know what that’s like—if your story about setting your bed on fire is true. That sweet little girl, she was a pretty thing, too. The Bonners paid for the best surgeons to perform the skin grafts. But the girl ended up scarred for life. Her parents were paid off to keep quiet about it. Donald D. Sloane saw to that.”
“What about Alden?” Nate asked. “I hear he and Rachel have been friends since they were kids. How did he manage to survive?”
“I think all his scars are on the inside,” Ms. Houghton said, staring pensively out at the lake. “He’s two years younger than her. He spent his whole childhood trying to please her, putting up with her mixture of warped love and abuse. At a very young age, she was making him do sexual things with her and for her. I did my best to protect him from her, but they were always together, and I had a household to run. That poor child—and such a handsome boy, too—he never had a chance. She made certain he never had any friends except her. Rachel held it over him that all she had to do was say the word, and he’d be out on the street with no place to live. I remember hearing her say that to him once, when she was eleven and he was nine. ‘I just have to snap my fingers,’ she said, ‘and you’ll end up in some foster home.’ Poor Alden, he lost his mother so young. He got passed around from servant to servant. He wandered around that big house without anyone ever really noticing him. He didn’t have anyone else, just Rachel . . .”
“By all reports, he seems to be doing okay now,” Nate said. “He’s in college with Rachel at Our Lady of the Cove.”
“Where she can keep him all to herself,” Ms. Houghton murmured. She sipped her iced tea and straightened in her chair. “The last time I
laid eyes on Rachel Bonner, she was twelve years old. I’d like to think maybe she’s changed. But I still hear from a few of the people who stayed on at the house after I left, and they told me she hasn’t changed much. She has some people fooled because she’s pretty and she knows how to wear the right clothes. She’s involved in a lot of charities, but she doesn’t do a damn thing but attend their parties, sit at the VIP table, and get her picture in the newspaper. At least, that’s what I hear.”
Nate nodded. This confirmed what Kayla Kennedy had told him about Rachel. It made sense now that her parents had a bodyguard/chauffeur keeping tabs on her while she was at school. The guy was probably hired by Sloane’s firm.
“Did you ever hear anything about Rachel getting involved with a married business associate of her father’s?” Nate asked.
Ms. Houghton sighed. She suddenly looked fatigued. “No, but I’m not surprised.”
“Do you want to get back to the ranch—and your jigsaw puzzle?”
“After dessert.” She smiled tiredly. “They have good ice cream here. I’m not in any hurry to go back. No one will touch my puzzle. Everyone’s scared of me there. Now that I think about it, back when I worked for the Pierces and the Bonners, the rest of the staff there was pretty scared of me, too. But I had a big household to run. I had to be tough. You know the only one who wasn’t scared of me?”
“Rachel?”
She nodded. “That little bitch wasn’t scared of anything.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Thursday, 3:48 P.M.
She had to hand it to Lance, the creepy custodian. He’d done a pretty good job cleaning up the laundry room since the fire in there two weeks ago. He’d even repainted the ceiling and one wall. Hannah had two loads going in the washers. She was alone, sitting in a folding chair and trying to get through a chapter in her philosophy book that had to be read by tomorrow.
She’d decided to get out of the bungalow because Lance’s crazy mother, Alma, was cleaning the place; and even though the woman stayed out of Hannah’s bedroom, she made a lot of noise and was always talking to herself or humming. Hannah didn’t want to contend with that—or Alma’s constant dirty looks.
She needed to wash her favorite pajamas for tomorrow night anyway.
Rachel’s parents were headed to their summer home in Lake Geneva for the weekend, and all the staff at the Lake Shore Drive house would be taking off. So Rachel was hosting a “secret slumber party” there. She already had two other friends coming—Kim Langford and Madison “Maddie” Coughlin, both juniors, and both slightly stuck-up. Alden was trying to recruit a posse of guys to come “crash” the slumber party. “We don’t want your roommate, Turner, the Fart Machine, coming and polluting the place,” Rachel had insisted—in front of Hannah. “The guys need to be cute—and nice. Three guys besides you, one for each girl . . .”
Hannah imagined pairing up with Alden tomorrow night. Rachel had already figured out that the boys could sleep in the extra bedroom in the basement—or on the sofas in the game room. The girls would all be together in her room. “But I won’t keep track of where everyone ends up,” she’d told Hannah with a wink and a giggle. “So who knows what the night will bring?”
The whole evening was being planned on the sly. Mr. and Mrs. Bonner had no idea their home was being invaded. Maddie had a car, so she’d be driving them. (“That’s mostly the reason I invited her,” Rachel had confided to Hannah.) Rachel planned on giving Perry the slip. She didn’t want any of this to get back to her parents. Alden and the guys would probably take the train downtown and Uber it from there.
So it was crucial that Hannah’s cutest pair of pajamas was clean.
As she listened to the washer machine churning, it occurred to her that the timing of this slumber party was perfect. Tomorrow night would mark the fiftieth anniversary of the Immaculate Conception Killer’s “doubleheader” in the bungalow that used to be next door to her and Rachel’s place. Hannah was glad to be spending the night miles and miles away—with seven other kids.
Her phone rang, and she glanced at the screen. It was Ellie again. She’d texted about two hours ago:
Give me a call as soon U can, will U? Need 2 talk.
But Hannah had purposely blown her off. It had been so disturbing to see Ellie hug that slimy massage guy and invite him into her house last night. Okay, so recently, Ellie had claimed he wasn’t such a creep. But they’d looked so chummy-chummy, it was positively gross. If Ellie was involved with him, why hadn’t she said something? And how long had they been friendly? What was the big secret?
Staring at the phone, Hannah debated whether or not to answer. With a labored sigh, she finally touched the phone screen to take the call. “Yes, hello,” she said flatly.
“Hi, Hannah, did I catch you at an okay time?”
“I guess so. I’m just sitting here doing laundry.”
“Sorry if I sound weird. I’m in my car on the expressway, talking to you on the speaker phone.”
Hannah didn’t think the connection was bad. But Ellie sounded kind of rushed. “It’s okay,” Hannah said listlessly.
“Listen, you know the whole Immaculate Conception copycat theory, the one that no one was taking seriously? Well, there’s been a new development—a disturbing, sad, new development. I can’t remember if you’re taking Psych one-oh-one or not . . .”
“No, I’m waiting until next year.”
“Then you didn’t know Professor Rothschild, who teaches that class . . .”
“I’ve heard of her. Why? What’s this about?” Hannah was getting impatient.
“Professor Rothschild was killed last night—on the anniversary of the day the Immaculate Conception Killer strangled a teacher from the school. Pamela Rothschild died in her kitchen, wearing a terrycloth bathrobe—just like the teacher murdered in 1970.”
Bewildered, Hannah didn’t say anything. This upsetting “new development” suddenly gave credence to Ellie’s copycat theory. But Hannah was still so disillusioned about her teacher-friend that she didn’t know what to think.
She’d told Rachel about seeing Ellie with Nick Jensen last night. “That’s fucked-up,” Rachel had concluded. “What kind of game is she playing? I’ve always thought she was a user. I wouldn’t trust her . . .”
Even if everything Ellie said right now was true, Hannah couldn’t help wondering if she was working some kind of angle.
“You know how Diana’s death looked like a suicide, and Justine’s death looked like an accident?” Ellie asked. “Well, I guess, last night was supposed to look like another accident—like Professor Rothschild had choked to death. In my research on her this afternoon, I found she published a piece about her one-time struggle with bulimia. I’m pretty sure this copycat killer read the same article. Actually, we decided he’s not really a copycat, these murders are more like tributes . . .”
“Who’s we?” Hannah asked pointedly. She wondered if Ellie was working on this case with Nick Jensen. Though, from what she saw, they looked like work partners with benefits.
“Just—just a general we,” Ellie replied haltingly. “I think it was supposed to look like Professor Rothschild choked to death while gorging herself. But things must not have gone according to plan, because the police found ligature marks on her wrists. The police think someone must have tied her hands behind her and then force-fed her until she choked. You see what the killer was trying to do? He couldn’t strangle her, so he did something to her neck or throat—just like the others. I was at the scene. In fact, I discovered the body and called the police.”
“What were you doing there?” Hannah asked.
“It’s a long story. Anyway, all the food on the table in front of Pamela was a choking hazard of sorts. Detective Castino showed up after the first round of nine-one-one responders, and even he admitted the whole thing looked suspicious. There were signs of a struggle and food stains on the robe. The police think it’s even possible there were two killers. They figured someone had
to be holding Professor Rothschild at knifepoint or gunpoint while the other tied her wrists behind her. Anyway, this changes everything. Now the copycat or tribute killer hypothesis is something they’re taking very seriously. They’re going back to reexamine the deaths of Justine Everly and Diana. This is where you come in, Hannah. I’m talking about Eden—and the very real possibility that she didn’t run away. If someone’s out there pulling off these tribute killings, it seems more and more likely that Eden was abducted, and right now, that same someone is holding her prisoner . . .”
Hannah didn’t know what to say. It was all coming to her so fast—and from somebody she no longer completely trusted. She imagined Eden trapped in a shed in some lunatic’s backyard, subject to all sorts of horrors.
The humming mechanics of the washer seemed to get louder and louder.
“Hannah, are you there?” Ellie asked. “Did we get cut off ?”
She cleared her throat. “I’m here. I’m listening.”
“The thing is,” Ellie said, “as you know, I got fired. So, I don’t have to tiptoe around Father O’Hurley anymore. I’m getting together with a reporter friend of mine from the Tribune, Garth Trotter, and we’re going to write about these tribute-murders. That’s where I’m headed right now—the Tribune Tower. We have five hours to put this story together for tomorrow’s edition. Eden is an important part of this piece—and so are you. She’s missing—like Crystal Juneau went missing fifty years ago. And that makes her a major player. But also, both you and Eden already have some notoriety. People remember you from everything that happened in Seattle two years ago.”
“In other words, our names in this story are going to help you sell newspapers,” Hannah said. She realized Rachel was right about Ellie. She was a user. Maybe Ellie had been using her from the start.
“That’s not it at all,” Ellie said. “Hannah, you sound upset. Are you angry at me?”
The Bad Sister Page 37