Darkness on the Edge of Town (24 page)
Read Darkness on the Edge of Town Online
Authors: J. Carson Black
She stared at the photographs. All three girls looked alike. The same type. Similar hair length, if not style, same pert nose. A dusting of freckles. Innocent, wide blue eyes.
Jessica was the anomaly. Brown eyes. Light-boned, small for her age. Jessica was the mistake. The abduction of Jessica Parris was an act of impulse, after de Seroux failed to get the girl he wanted.
The waitress appeared and upended a brown ceramic mug. “Coffee?” she asked.
Laura nodded. The blonde waitress looked to be in her sixties. Laura was mesmerized by the woman’s upper eyelids, the color of purple grapes and almost as puffy, ending in eyelashes heavily lined in black. Her nameplate said “Marlee”.
She glanced at the photograph of Linnet Sobek. “I sure hope she landed someplace good.” She gave Laura a searching look. “You a reporter?”
“No.”
Laura just wanted to be left alone, but the waitress was friendly. “You don’t sound like you’re from around here,” the waitress added.
“I’m from Arizona.”
“Well, isn’t that a small world? I lived with my daughter and her husband in Phoenix up until a year or two ago. Where you say you were from?”
“Tucson.” She wished the woman would leave her alone to think.
“I grew up here, never wanted to leave, but my daughter wanted me to come live with her and I wanted to be near my grandchildren…now the kids are grown and I just couldn’t stop being homesick for this little town. So I finally made a break and came on back. One thing I’ve got is really good feet, that plus stamina, so I figure I can work until I’m seventy at least. Plus, I like the work, being around people.”
Laura could appreciate that, but she just wanted to be left alone with her blue funk.
“What’ll it be? The biscuits and gravy are good.”
She remembered how when she was a kid she always ordered a BLT on white toast with a side of pickles. She hadn’t eaten white bread for years, but suddenly craved it. Must be the influence of the south.
The waitress pushed back a strand of brittle hair and said, “Sure thing, honey.” She whisked away with the menu and headed for the kitchen.
There was some kind of heating vent near the back wall and Laura could feel it on the back of her neck, steaming her clothes. The place looked none too clean, either—a greasy spoon. Her dad loved greasy spoons. She’d forgotten about that.
Laura replaced the photographs of the girls with the picture of Jimmy de Seroux. Maybe she was wrong—what if it
was
Lehman
?
She reached into the wooden bowl of dried olives in front of the table jukebox, suddenly starving, took one and bit. It wasn’t an olive—the thing was salty and kind of mushy. She had no idea what it was.
“Never had a boiled peanut before?” asked Marlee coming by with a fresh pot.
“Who’d want to boil peanuts?”
“You just keep on eating them, and sooner or later you’re gonna be addicted.” She set the plate with the BLT down on the table with a plastic click and glanced at the photograph of de Seroux. “You know Dale?”
“Dale?” Laura was confused.
“Dale Lundy. That’s got to be Bill Lundy’s son. What’s that say?” she added, craning her neck to see the writing on the bottom. “Best Wishes…Jimmy.”
Laura said, “Jimmy de Seroux.”
She frowned, as if she were trying to access something on her hard drive. “No. That just can’t be.”
“This is Jimmy de Seroux. He plays piano at the Gibson Inn.”
“No, that’s got to be Dale Lundy. He looks just like his daddy.”
Laura felt as if she’d just slipped down the rabbit hole. This woman obviously didn’t know what she was talking about. Everyone she’d talked to had assured her that this guy was Jimmy de Seroux. He’d signed his name Jimmy. It was Jimmy de Seroux.. Laura reiterated that.
“Nope, that’s Dale Lundy. He looks so much like his daddy.” The woman’s conviction was unshakable. “Maybe you’re getting them confused because they were neighbors.”
There was something about the way she said it. As if she were holding back an unsavory detail. Laura remembered something Judge Lanier had said: The de Serouxs have been through enough.
“The de Serouxs and the Lundys were neighbors?”
“Next door neighbors.”
“You knew the de Seroux family?”
“I surely did. They used to come in every Saturday. Henry always ordered biscuits and gravy. Never ate anything different That could have been a warning sign in itself.”
“Henry?”
“Henry de Seroux. More coffee?”
Laura put her hand over the mug, natural curiosity getting the better of her. “What did you mean by ‘warning sign?’”
Suddenly, Marlee looked uncomfortable. “It was a long time ago. You don’t want to hear about that.”
Something bad—Laura could feel it. The judge’s statement, Chief Redbone’s evasions. He hadn’t told her anything about the de Serouxs. “What did he do?”
“I guess it’s no secret. He killed his own family.”
Laura stared at Marlee’s mouth, the net of wrinkles moving. Now that Laura had finally pried it out of her, Marlee was happy to share the gory details. “Slaughtered his wife and two little girls one afternoon then turned the gun on himself. Shotgun—heard he had to use his big toe.”
“What about his son?”
“His son? Oh, the little boy. He died when he was younger—had leukemia. Can’t remember his name.”
“Then who’s Jimmy de Seroux?”
“Well, he could be a cousin. But that’s no de Seroux.” She tapped one long lacquered nail on the photocopy. “That there is Dale Lundy. I know that because his daddy died must be eight, nine years ago and he’s the spitting image of his father.”
Laura was having trouble absorbing this. “Dale lives here?”
“He might’ve come back, I don’t know. When his father died, an aunt took him in. She lived in Alabama.”
“You knew the father well?”
“Just to say ‘hi’ to. Not that he was what you’d call friendly. Bill was an oysterman.”
“And this Dale—did you know him?”
“Not hardly. I don’t think anybody saw much of that kid.”
Laura couldn’t make sense of what she was hearing, but she asked anyway. “Why was that?”
“His mother home-schooled him. Nothing wrong with that, plenty do, but there was more there than met the eye.” Marlee refilled Laura’s cup. “That’s a story in itself. She ran off and left the boy and his father to their own devices.”
Laura was still trying to reconcile the one man and two names.
Marlene continued, “Alene Lundy belonged to some religious group. These days you’d call it a cult. Everybody knew she was a little strange and she seemed to get worse, keeping to herself, keeping that son of hers away from other kids, and you know that’s not natural. If any family was going to end in tragedy, I’d a bet it would have been them, not the de Serouxs.” She nodded to the photo. “I don’t know who’s been pulling your leg, but that’s Dale Lundy.”
Laura caught Redbone as he was coming down the stairs of the police department. “Why didn’t you tell me about the de Seroux family?”
He paused in the stairwell, a Co’ Cola in his hand, the heat making his proximity stiflingly close. Laura saw little lumps of ice on the bottle. A Co’ Cola would really hit the spot right now, but for once he didn’t offer her one.
“Can’t talk, now. I’m on my way to a meeting,” Redbone said, continuing down the stairs. Laura followed him out into the heat haze.
“I want to know why you didn’t tell me about the de Seroux murders.”
“Holy Jesus
Lord
, it’s hot today.” He pressed the Coke bottle to his sweating cheek. Perspiration like giant inkblots soaked his shirt. Looked at her. Good ol’ boy with eyes of steel. “That de Seroux story was a long time ago. That’s why.”
“Maybe so, but it could have affected my case.”
“And how would that be?”
“Whether it did or not, you should have let me know. At least then I’d have some idea what I was dealing with.”
“He’s a cousin from the outside,” he said, stressing the word “outside.” “He had nothing to do with any of that.”
“You had to know I’d find out. A mass murder in a small town isn’t—“
“That’s all water under the bridge. Folks here don’t like to talk about it. We don’t like to even think about it.”
“So the piano player is Jimmy de Seroux..”
“He is to the best of my knowledge.”
“What does that mean?”
He shrugged. “I know the family had cousins somewhere. He showed up and said he was a cousin. He owned the house. That was good enough for me. People here mind their own business.”
“But didn’t you wonder about his resemblance to Lundy?”
“I thought that wasn’t any of my business, either.”
“What? Oh.” She got the inflection. “You think Bill Lundy might have—“
“I think we’ve aired enough dirty laundry for one day.” He unlocked his car.
She persisted. “How would that happen?”
He took off his straw hat and placed the Coke against his forehead, smearing his dripping coils of hair. “The way it always happens, I guess.”
“You’re saying Bill Lundy and Mrs. De Seroux had an affair?”
“Look, missy, I don’t know. Could be a lot of things happened. Henry had a sister, a real spinster type, if you’ll excuse the saying. She lived there for a while. Don’t ask when because I don’t remember. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m late.”
“I want you to run Dale Lundy for me.”
“When I get back I’ll do it first thing,” he said, hefting his bulk into his unit.
The doors to the
Apalachicola Times
were locked; closed even though it was the middle of the day. So Laura went looking for the library.
The library was located on a quiet Apalachicola street; a redbrick one-story building with white trim. Laura asked the librarian if she had newspapers or microfiche dating back to the time of the de Seroux murders.
The librarian looked at her, a vague uneasiness creeping into her deep violet eyes. She was a pretty woman, powdered and small, somewhere in her thirties. “The de Seroux murders?”
“That’s what I heard. Someone named Henry de Seroux killed his wife and daughters here in Apalachicola.”
The librarian looked shocked. “When was this?”
“A long time ago. It’s not something that people would forget, though.”
Definitely flustered. “Excuse me, let me take a look, see what I have on the data base.”
She went into the back room. Laura waited.
At last she returned. “I couldn’t find any references on the computer, but that doesn’t mean anything. We have back issues of the Times going back to the mid-seventies.”
“So you never heard that story? Have you lived here long?”
“Twelve years.”
“I guess it would be before that, then.” A mass murder would appear on the front page, so all she’d have to do was look for the headlines. She’d start with 1990 and work her way back from there.
The librarian took her to the little alcove where the microfiche machine was. She showed Laura how to wind the tape on the spool, and Laura let her, although she’d done this many times before.
There was no reference to a mass murder in 1990. Or 1989, 1988, 1987.
By the time she got to 1983, her neck was beginning to ache.
And then she saw it: Page One, June 12, 1983.
“LOCAL MAN KILLS FAMILY, SELF”
She read quickly, getting more excited as she read.
Henry de Seroux, a respected dentist and family man, had cancelled the newspaper subscription, the water, the electricity, and the gas; gave his golf clubs to his surprised receptionist, and went home to kill his family and himself.
No mention of a young man who could be a cousin. No mention of any other family at all.
There was a picture of the family, though. A studio portrait with a gauzy blue background. The two girls were pretty and blonde. One of them, sitting on her mother’s lap, was five or six. Her name was Carrie. The other, standing, was older—eleven? Twelve?
Marisa.
She looked familiar, and Laura suddenly realized why. Marisa de Seroux looked a lot like Linnet Sobek.
And Alison Burns.
And Jessica Parris.
Laura hit the button to photocopy the page.
Back in her room, Laura started a fresh page of her legal pad. Looking for links.
1) The XRV tire treads in de Seroux’s driveway were the same make and type as the ones found up on West Boulevard.
2) The resemblance among Alison Burns, Jessica Parris, Linnet Sobek, and Marisa de Seroux was uncanny.
3) Jimmy de Seroux might or might not be a man named Dale Lundy, the son of the next door neighbor.
4) Dale Lundy/Jimmy de Seroux—whoever he really was—had access to the original proofs of Pete Dorrance’s publicity photos.
Laura, herself, had seen him at the Copper Queen Hotel.
She stared at the list. A couple of things occurred to her immediately.
Punching in 1411, Laura requested the number for the Copper Queen Hotel in Bisbee, Arizona, then called the hotel. The front desk answered.
“I wonder if you could help me,” Laura said. “I was in the bar last weekend when you had the pianist there. I liked him so much I asked if he could play for my wedding. We exchanged cards, but I can’t find his anywhere, and the wedding is in three weeks. Could you help me out? I think his name was…” She looked at her notes. Jimmy or Dale: Pick one. “Dale.”
“Let me take a look,” the woman replied. “Hold on.” The phone clattered.
A minute passed before the woman picked up again. “Dale Lundy, right? He’s playing this weekend, too. All I have is a cell phone number.” She recited it.
“Thanks so much! This will make all the difference.”
“Just make sure you have a good photographer. I stinted and it was the worst mistake we ever made. Good luck!”
Laura loved small towns. People still saw strangers as human beings.
Next, Laura opened her laptop and connected to the Internet. She’d already bookmarked TalentFish.com. She opened it up now and compared the Talentfish photos of Peter Dorrance to the one Detective Endicott sent her.
One of the Talentfish photos, the three-quarters shot in front of the house, was almost identical to the photo from Alison Burn’s computer. Laura held the 5 X 7 digital print-out up near the computer, eyeballing one and then the other.
In the Talentfish photo, Laura could see half the saw palmetto fronds behind Dorrance, but in the Burns photograph, she could see only one-third. Dorrance’s smile was different, too. Just a millimeter this way or that.
Laura had been to photo sessions before. A photographer took many shots of one pose. The Talentfish photo and the Burns photo were in the same sequence, but slightly different.
She reached Myrna Gorman at the Strand Talent Agency on the first try. “How many different photos do you have of Peter Dorrance?” she asked.
“I’ll have to look to be sure, but usually we get a headshot and a composite.”
“How many in the composite?”
“Three or four.”
“Did he send his photos to Talentfish.com or did you?”
“We did. We have an agreement with them. You want to hold? I’ll get his file.”
When she came back she said, “It’s what I thought. We sent the composite. Four pictures.”
“Can you describe them for me?”
They corresponded with what she saw on the screen. Laura found Chief Redbone’s card and asked her to fax them to the Apalachicola Police Department.
She didn’t need any more convincing, though.
The digital photo that had been sent to Alison Burns did not correspond to any of the photographs up on Talentfish.com. That meant that no one could have downloaded the photo and sent it on to Alison Burns. Either Peter Dorrance had placed publicity shots on another site, or the person who sent the photo had access to all the rolls of film they shot that day.
That meant either Peter Dorrance or Dale Lundy sent the photo to Alison Burns.
And Peter Dorrance wasn’t playing at the Copper Queen Hotel next weekend.
“He’s not gonna like seeing us again so quick,” Chief Redbone said as he turned onto Avenue B. “If we get the warrant, let’s do it tomorrow. That old house hasn’t been lived in for a long time. It can wait till morning.”
Thaddeus Lanier lived in a large Federalist red brick building with a gracious white portico and two tall live oaks dressed in widow’s weeds.
Laura was feeling good—especially after they ran Lundy on NCIC. Unlike Jimmy de Seroux, Lundy had two arrests for sexual offenses: peeping and masturbating outside a grade school, both in Dothan, Alabama. One when he was twenty years old, another when he’d just turned twenty-one.
Nothing since then, but if he was the man she thought he was, Lundy had learned to fly under the radar, graduating from peeping and masturbating to taking young girls. His crimes fit into a predictable timeline; a clear trajectory. He had been given time to develop predilections and rituals—like dressing girls up in his doll dresses.
He’d learned his craft.
Laura had no doubt he kept a rape kit in his motorhome, with all the tools he needed to capture, subdue, and kill his victim.
She had been right about the motorhome. Dale Lundy owned a 1987 Fleetwood Pace Arrow. He also owned the house next door to the de Seroux house—the one she’d noticed because it was boarded up.
Vindication.
The Lundy house had been empty and boarded up since Bill Lundy died all those years ago, but had never been put up for sale. Dale Lundy had used the address when he bought the motorhome, and it was the address listed on his credit cards.
They crossed the neat lawn and knocked on the front door.
Lanier appeared in khakis and a knit shirt—relaxing after a hard day of torpedoing search warrants. A dour, long-faced man with wire glasses perched on his nose, he looked down that nose now. Two grouchy-looking King Charles spaniels barked and yapped at his feet. “What do you want now?” he asked.
Redbone scratched his ear. “Well, Thad, more evidence just turned itself up. Looks pretty convincing to me.”
“Very well.” Lanier opened the door and stood back.
The front room was palatial. High ceilings, plaster rosettes in the corners. A gleaming hardwood floor. A grand piano with a mirror finish. Striped silk Queen Anne chairs.
Lanier led the way to his study, followed by the two muttering King Charles spaniels. He sat down at his massive mahogany desk and directed them to sit too.
His sigh was long-suffering. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
He perched the glasses farther down on his nose and started reading.
Twenty minutes later they had their search warrant.
