Four smiling faces are circled in thick black marker: Brynn’s, Fiona’s, Cassie’s, and Tildy’s.
And both Cassie’s and Tildy’s are crossed out with an ominous, blood-red X.
“He was about to blackmail her to get the cash he needed to save his mother’s house.”
Deb is talking about Ray Wilmington and Matilda Harrington.
“He admitted that in his suicide note?” Quincy tilts the phone out from his ear so that Mike can hear, too.
“He sure as hell did admit it. And you know why?”
“Why, what?”
“Why he could blackmail her?”
Quincy hates guessing games. “Cut the crap and tell me, Jackson.”
“You’re not going to believe this,” Deb says again, obviously sitting on something that’s going to blow the case wide-open, and relishing Quincy’s suspense.
“Try me.”
“Because not only did he find out that Matilda Harrington was sneaking around with a married man—”
Bingo, Quincy thinks.
“—but because of who that married man happens to be.”
“Wilmington knew who he was, then?”
“Everyone knows who he is.”
Deb pauses.
If Quincy was in a room with her, he’d be tempted to collar her and shake her right about now.
“Who is he, Jackson?”
Deb announces almost gleefully, “The holier-than-thou Republican governor who’s supposed to be running for president; the one with the wife and triplets. Troy Allerson.”
PART IV
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DEAR FIONA
CHAPTER 18
Amazing, Brynn can’t help but think as the month wears on, how daily life can whisk you along like a moving sidewalk.
Regardless of where your head and heart are, regardless of almost constant apprehension, you just keep moving forward physically, propelled through each day from dawn to dusk with almost disconcerting normalcy.
It’s been over a week now since she got home from the Cape.
Over a week since both she and Fiona received that bone-chillingly altered composite sorority picture.
At least they’ve both heard from Cassie since they said good-bye to her that Saturday in Boston, when she said she was thinking of going into hiding.
Apparently, that’s what she’s done.
She’s sent a couple of reassuring e-mails to Brynn and Fiona:
Hi, guys, just wanted to let you know I’m safe. Let me know that you are, too.—Cassie
Me again. Still hanging in there. Hoping to come home soon.—Cassie
Just checking in. Hope you guys are okay. Miss you.—Cassie
Brynn wrote back every time, telling Cassie that she and Fiona are fine.
But Tildy…
Tildy is gone.
Every time she thinks about what happened to her, Brynn wants to scream, cry, faint, vomit.
But, miraculously, she doesn’t do any of those things…
Well, except vomit. Mostly in the mornings.
Garth has yet to catch on, though. For him, things seem to be status quo.
His flight was delayed several hours on Monday night because of a mechanical failure. There was trouble with one of the engines before takeoff; he called from the plane to say it was being repaired. Predictably, he was a nervous wreck—too nervous, at least, to note any tension in Brynn’s voice.
By the time he got home late that night, she was asleep. She was dimly aware of him leaning over to kiss her, whispering, “I’m home,” but she was too exhausted to fully wake up.
Nor did he stir when she woke to find him sleeping beside her in their bed—just before she ran to the bathroom.
The past week the Saddlers have resumed their usual routine: Garth coming and going from campus; Brynn carting the boys around, doing the housework, making meals.
All the while, she can think of little but that ominous picture she hid behind stacked sweaters on the top shelf in her closet.
But she can’t do anything about it.
Unless she wants to risk upsetting the already precarious balance of her life.
And she doesn’t dare. Not right now, anyway.
So, like Fiona, she’s come to realize that there’s simply nothing the two of them can do now.
Nothing but wait.
Feeling, every second, as though they’re playing out their lives in the crosshairs of an invisible rifle scope.
“That’s it. Emily…You’re fired.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” Seated at her desk, Fiona waves her hand at the girl. “Get your stuff and go.”
“But—”
“You’re fired,” she repeats.
“Who are you supposed to be, Donald Trump?” Emily protests, her intended sarcasm largely overshadowed by blatant dismay. “You can’t fire me for one little mistake. That’s not f—”
“I can, I did, and I’ll mail your last paycheck. Get moving.”
Emily hovers in the doorway of Fiona’s office another split second before she turns and scurries away. Moments later, Fiona hears her close the outer door.
“Good riddance,” she mutters, and lights a cigarette with a shaking hand. Screw the no-smoking rule.
She realizes Emily left behind her open can of Diet Pepsi on Fiona’s side table, where she set it—without using a coaster, of course.
I doubt she’ll be back for it.
I doubt she’d even come back for her paycheck if I don’t mail it.
Maybe I shouldn’t.
Fiona inhales a stream of smoke—and with it, all right, maybe a bit of remorse. But it doesn’t last for long.
She’ll send Emily her paycheck, but she won’t feel bad about firing her. This has been a long time coming.
And it wasn’t about just one little mistake, as Emily claimed. She’s made plenty.
But this one, in particular, is unforgivable.
Emily forgot to send out an important client document. She took it with her to Mail Boxes Etc., and lost it somewhere along the way. Then she apparently forgot all about it.
“What do you mean, you forgot?” Fiona demanded of Emily, who shrugged.
Fiona was already having a bad day before this happened. A bad week, really.
All right, perhaps the worst week she’s ever had in her life.
What with that creepy picture showing up on her doorstep, Cassie still in hiding but sending e-mails, Brynn calling her every five minutes, skittish and apparently just making sure Fiona is still alive, and her own birthday looming just days away…
And then there’s James.
He hasn’t returned her calls in the last few days.
He had an assistant return them…as though he assumed she might be calling him about something business-related.
Of course, she had to pretend that she was.
She even tried e-mailing him, yesterday—a simple Hi, what’s up?—but there’s been no reply.
So, yes, she’s been in a foul mood.
And, yes, Emily was on the receiving end of the inevitable fallout just now.
But she deserves it. She screwed up.
And now I’m going to have to deal with an irate client, and a million stupid, mindless administrative details Emily should have been taking care of.
She doesn’t need any of that. Especially not now.
The phone rings.
Speak of the devil, she thinks dismally. It’s probably her client.
The phone rings again.
It takes Fiona another moment to remember that she has to pick it up herself.
“Fiona Fitzgerald Public Relations.”
“Hey, it’s me,” her twin sister says. “I’ve had three messages from you in, like, three days. What’s up?”
“Where the heck have you been and why don’t you get a real phone?”
“I’ve been here, and this is a real phone.”
“Then why don’t you return calls?”
&nb
sp; “Because you keep asking me if I’m coming up there for our birthday this weekend, and I’m still not sure what I want to do.”
“Well, it’s not like it’s months away, so, obviously, you aren’t coming.”
“Not necessarily. I’ve been toying around with it.”
“Is it that Antoinette doesn’t want you to come up? Because you’re both welcome.”
“No, she actually thinks I should come. And she can’t, herself, but she doesn’t care about that.”
“So do you want me to buy you a ticket?” Fiona offers, and takes a deep drag off her cigarette, trying to calm her nerves.
“No, I can get my own ticket.”
“It’ll cost you a fortune.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of last-minute ticket deals?”
“So get one.”
“I will…if I decide to come.”
“Dee”—the childhood nickname spills from her lips and her sister doesn’t protest—“please come.”
“I might.”
“But you might not. Where’s Antoinette? Put her on the line.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to tell her to bring you to an airport and put you on a plane.”
“She doesn’t follow orders, and, anyway, she’s not here right now. Listen, Fee, if I can get there, I will. I even still have the key to your house, so maybe you’ll come home from work and I’ll be there to surprise you. Okay?”
Fiona hesitates. No. That’s not good enough. I need you. Now.
That’s what she wants to tell her twin.
Instead, she says just, “Okay, try hard,” and hears her voice crack.
Terrific, she’s on the verge of tears.
“Fee? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” She sinks the remains of her cigarette in Emily’s Diet Pepsi can. “Call me when you know what you’re doing.”
As she hangs up, Fiona hears a muffled movement in the next room.
Someone is there.
For over a week now, Quincy has been trying to figure out where that piece of an old sorority sweater fits into the Harrington case.
The fact is, it fits in about as well as Governor Troy Allerson would fit in working a factory assembly line.
If it wasn’t for that scrap of gray and red wool—which lab tests proved were embedded with microscopic particles of soil and vegetation ordinarily found at a much higher elevation—Quincy would be feeling a lot better about Allerson as a potential suspect.
No, he doesn’t doubt what Ray Wilmington revealed in his rambling note, which was primarily an apology to his mother for the shame he had brought her.
Sprinkled in with ad nauseam Please forgive me’s and I never meant to hurt you’s was that believable revelation about Matilda’s clandestine relationship with her godfather.
There’s not a doubt in Quincy’s jaded mind that a man like Allerson, whose esteemed and promising political career is built entirely on his wholesome family-man image, would kill in order to protect that image.
So maybe he jilted Matilda and she threatened to go to his wife. Or the press.
More likely, maybe Ray Wilmington made that threat, as he claimed.
Blackmail.
That was why Ray was hanging around that night in front of the victim’s house.
He confessed that he was planning to extort money from her in exchange for keeping quiet about her affair with Allerson. When he saw that she was inebriated—a fact corroborated by the coroner’s office—he left without confronting her.
Or so he claimed in his letter.
He also claimed that he never approached Allerson at all.
Quincy’s team is doing its best to gather evidence of the high-profile politician’s involvement with Matilda Harrington. But so far, they’re having a hell of a time. Allerson covered his tracks remarkably well.
Not just the affair, but the murder as well, if he really was behind it.
Citing routine procedure, Mike and Deb questioned him yesterday, to no avail. They even came right out and asked him, point-blank, about an affair. They said he went pale, but kept his composure, and admitted nothing.
Wilmington didn’t come right out in his letter and accuse Allerson of the murder. He didn’t even write that he saw him there the night of the murder.
But did he?
They’ll never know.
Quincy can’t help but acknowledge that a guy like Allerson pays people to cook for him, clean for him, shop for him, and probably to buff his toenails. He wouldn’t choose to get blood—even if it is blue blood, like his own—all over that fancy wardrobe of his. Not if he could help it.
Did he hire someone to do it for him? The lack of prints at the scene would indicate premeditation and, perhaps, professionalism.
But the overkill element would seem to indicate a crime of passion. Or is the demonstration of passion deliberate, intended to cover up the real motive?
And what about the bizarre calling card left at the scene?
None of it fits together.
And it’s giving Quincy one hell of a perpetual stomachache.
For a moment, Fiona sits, absolutely frozen, her thoughts whirling immediately to Tildy’s murder.
What if…?
Suddenly, she finds herself more outraged than afraid.
She takes her jewel-handled letter opener from her desk and clutches it in her hand like a weapon.
Then, holding her breath, her pulse roaring in her own ears, she sneaks over to the door and pulls it open a crack.
Emily is back, furtively going through the top drawer of the desk…which happens to be where Fiona keeps the petty cash.
“What are you doing?” she asks sharply, and the girl jumps and presses a hand to the base of her throat.
“You scared me.”
“Ditto.” Fiona tosses the letter opener back on her desk. “I thought you left.”
“I did, but…” She trails off.
“What are you doing?” Fiona repeats.
“Just looking for that package. I thought if I could find it—I really need this job.”
“Forget it. You’re done. I have a copy of it that I can print out and send again, and I wouldn’t give you your job back even if I thought you really were looking for the original.”
Emily’s eyes flare. “Are you calling me a liar?”
Fiona shrugs.
Emily slams the drawer closed so hard the framed photo of Ashley on its surface tips over. “Fine, I’m out of here.”
“Wait.” Fiona reaches around the corner into her office, then extends the can of Diet Pepsi. “This is yours.”
Emily storms silently out the door, carrying the can.
Watching her go, Fiona finds herself smiling for the first time all day.
The ringing telephone startles Brynn from a sound sleep, and it takes her a moment to get her bearings.
Oh. Right. It’s the middle of the afternoon, and she’s taking a nap on the couch while Jeremy takes one in his bed.
The cordless phone is on the coffee table; she set it there after she hung up with Garth right after lunch. He said he’ll be home late tonight…again.
He’s been working full speed ahead on his book, fueled, apparently, by his experience at the symposium. He’s spent every weeknight and most of this past weekend at the campus library.
Snatching up the phone before the ringing can wake Jeremy, Brynn is surprised—and dismayed—to hear Fiona’s voice.
“What’s wrong?” she asks immediately. Fee rarely calls her; it’s usually the other way around. Especially during a workday.
“I have an offer for you.”
Brynn relaxes her grip on the phone a bit. So it isn’t bad news. Thank goodness.
“What kind of offer?”
“How would you like to earn some cash?”
“How?” Maybe Fiona needs her to stuff envelopes again. Brynn did that for her last year, from home, and earned enough to replace the broken bedroom tele
vision.
“I need a new assistant. I just fired Emily.”
“Oh…Fee, I can’t come to work for you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have Jeremy.” And another child on the way.
“You can put him in day care. The woman I used for Ashley is still—”
“Fee, stop, I can’t put him in day care.”
“Why not?” Fiona answers her own question. “It’s not that you can’t, it’s that you won’t.”
“You’re right. I won’t. I’m a stay-at-home mom, Fee. That means I stay at home.”
“But you guys are pinched for cash. You’ve said it yourself. How about if you just help me out temporarily, until I can hire someone full time?”
“I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“Fine. I just thought I’d try to help you out, but…”
No, you didn’t. You thought I’d help you out.
“Thanks anyway,” Brynn tells her. “Good luck finding someone.”
Fiona hangs up without saying another word.
If Cassandra Ashford’s corpse has been found by now, it hasn’t been identified yet.
That’s going to be an interesting challenge for the investigators when they can’t immediately find her wallet, her car—her fingers, or her teeth, either.
It was worth the extra time to painstakingly pull them out and pocket them, rendering Missing Persons’ dental records useless. And cutting off her hands to eliminate her fingerprints took no time at all.
It was a challenge to dispose of the teeth and hands, but they’re well hidden, buried a good foot beneath the earth, several yards into fairly remote underbrush off a highway somewhere in central Massachusetts. The wallet was tossed into a strip-mall Dumpster, the identification removed, and burned.
So when somebody finally does check that cabin, and finds a decomposing corpse—wearing a pointy party hat, of course, and surrounded by birthday party trappings—it won’t immediately be clear that it belongs to Cassandra Ashford of Danbury, Connecticut. She herself made sure of that, having used cash and a pseudonym to maintain her anonymity.
So she was running for her life, obviously. Which is why her family has yet to even report her missing. She probably told them she was going away for awhile.
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