No One Needs to Know (27 page)

His father grabbed his cane and got up from the chair. “Aw, poor Adam,” he said. “You poor guy, they said you’re the one who found them . . .” He hobbled over to him, opened his arms and fiercely hugged him. The old man still smelled of Mennen Speed Stick. He patted Adam on the back. “Isn’t it awful?” he whispered.

Adam had hurried here to help his senile father through this. But his dad was lucid, and comforting him. Adam didn’t expect this, and he didn’t expect to start weeping again. He clung to his dad. “I don’t understand it,” he cried. “Why Dean and Joyce? I don’t understand why this happened . . .”

His father kept patting him on the back. “I think they were getting even,” he said.

Adam pulled back to stare at him. His father looked clear-eyed and cognizant. “Who’s ‘they’?” Adam asked. “What are you talking about, Dad?”

In response, the old man tenderly put a hand to Adam’s face and wiped the tears away. He gave him a sad smile. Then those clear, old eyes of his seemed to glaze over. Leaning on his cane, he made his way back to the Barcalounger and sat down.

“Dad, what are you talking about?” Adam asked. “Who’s getting even—and what for?”

His father gazed out at the garden.

“Dad?” Adam said,

He seemed unreachable now, in his own little world.

“Looks like the rain stopped,” the old man murmured—as if talking to himself.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

Monday, 1:22
P.M.

“L
ook at those bloody morons,” said Danny in his crisp accent. He wore jeans and an untucked striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Holding an umbrella over his head, he stood about a third of the way into the driveway of the Gayler Court house.

Laurie and he were watching a demonstration by at least thirty Hooper Anarchists outside the front gate. Most everyone in the group wore scarves over the bottoms of their faces or ski masks. About half of them sported Trent Hooper T-shirts or sweatshirts. They’d started gathering out there at ten o’clock. Cheryl and Laurie had returned in the food truck around the same time. The rowdy group screamed and chanted. Some brought tin lids from garbage cans to bang together—anything to make noise so they could screw up the film shoot. One of them even yelled through a bullhorn—until a cop took it away from him. The protestors were nearly matched in their numbers by policemen, security people, and TV reporters on the scene.

“They wouldn’t be carrying on like this if the television news people weren’t here,” Danny pointed out. “They’re feeding off each other.”

So far, the demonstrators hadn’t interrupted much. The crew had spent most of the morning setting up lights and sound while the director rehearsed with Paige and Shane and other people in the scene. They hadn’t shot anything yet. That was scheduled for after lunch. By then, they’d hoped the idiot protestors would get tired of standing out there in the rain.

After Cheryl’s little breakdown at the start of the day, the rest of the morning had gone pretty smoothly. She’d spent about five minutes in the bathroom, before emerging with her face washed and her eyes slightly pink. “Sorry about that,” she’d said, getting back to work on the breakfast spread. “I was trying to act so nonchalant. I guess I was a little more squeamish about this place than I wanted to let on. How’s the coffee urn? Did it survive the crash?”

Later, between the meal services, while returning to Gayler Court in the food truck, Laurie had tried to think of a casual way to ask Cheryl about something that had been bothering her most of the morning.

“Well, at least we won’t have to work inside that house again,” she said, watching Cheryl at the wheel. “You must be almost as relieved as I am . . .”

“Actually, we’ll have to go back into the kitchen to set up your blond brownies and the cookies—and make sure there’s enough coffee and soda,” Cheryl replied, eyes on the road. “But you don’t have to worry about that. I’ll handle it alone.”

“Are you sure you’ll be okay? I mean, earlier this morning, when we first stepped into the kitchen—”

“I’ll be fine,” Cheryl said, cutting her off.

“I wanted to ask you something about that. How did you know where the bathroom was?”

Cheryl had shot her a look. “What are you talking about?”

“When you ran to the bathroom, you seemed to know just where it was. Yet that was your first time inside the house, right?”

Cheryl said nothing for a moment. She kept her eyes on the road. “I got a look at the layout ahead of time,” she finally replied. “I asked for a diagram of the house so Bonnie would know where to set up this morning. You know, Isernio’s makes a good chicken bratwurst. I was thinking about adding a bratwurst sandwich this week—maybe with some melted provolone on a potato bun . . .”

The not-too-subtle subject change wasn’t lost on Laurie, who decided to drop it. But she knew Cheryl was lying. The original plan had been to set up breakfast in a tent outside, but the rain had made them move it inside to the kitchen.

Once they’d finished with the lunch rush, Laurie told Cheryl she needed to stretch her legs. What she really wanted to do was talk with the production assistant, Danny, to see if there was any truth in Cheryl’s diagram story.

She’d found him here in the driveway, watching these obnoxious protesters. She figured the TV news cameras were focused on them—and not her. She was far enough away that no one would take her picture.

A few protesters were really laying it on thick for the cameras, too—yelling and shoving their fists in the air. One of them hurled a rock at a policeman, which erupted into a small skirmish. Two cops grabbed him and wrestled him to the ground—amid outcries from several of the rock-thrower’s fellow anarchists.

“God, what a mess,” Danny sighed. “We better hightail it out of here, before they start throwing things at us.”

Huddled beneath their umbrellas, Laurie and Danny headed back toward the house. “Cheryl mentioned that someone gave her a diagram of the house,” Laurie said ever so casually. “Was that you or one of the other production guys?”

He squinted at her. “A diagram of this place? You mean a layout of where the rooms are and all that?”

Laurie nodded. “Cheryl said somebody gave her one so the breakfast woman would know where to set up the coffee and pastries.”

He shook his head. “You must have misheard her. Besides, we didn’t know until early this morning that we’d be using the kitchen. Good thing they cleaned it ahead of time. Anyway, as far as I know, the only thing close to a diagram we have is a rough sketch of the grounds—so we could figure out where to park the trucks. Maybe that’s what Cheryl was talking about.”

“No, she said she had a diagram of the kitchen and the bathroom in back.”

He shook his head again. “The set designer came up with some sketches and maps of the house, but there’s no reason Cheryl would be getting those. Anyway, the kitchen area isn’t even in there.”

Laurie stopped walking for a moment. “It isn’t?”

“The kitchen in this house is a remodel from the nineties,” he explained. “They built a set in L.A. to match the original 1968 kitchen. We shot all the kitchen scenes in the studio three weeks ago. That’s the set that caught on fire. Anyway, we don’t have any kind of diagram showing the kitchen in this house, because we’re not using it. I don’t know what Cheryl’s talking about.”

Laurie said nothing.

Danny gave her a nudge. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “Ah, I must have misheard her. Could you do me a favor and not say anything to Cheryl about this? I wouldn’t want her to think I wasn’t listening to her when she’s telling me something.”

Before Danny could answer, his cell phone rang. Under her umbrella, Laurie stayed beside him while he answered it.

“Hello, this is Danny,” he said into the phone. Then he listened. “I’m here about halfway down the driveway chatting with Laurie . . . yes, Laurie from the food truck . . .” The noise from the protestors swelled. “What?” he said into the phone. “Oh, God, that’s terrible . . . Are they connected to the film? Anyone we know?” He paused. “Uh-huh . . . Well, I doubt they’ll shut down for the rest of afternoon. It would cost them about thirty thousand dollars. That much respect for the victims they don’t have . . . Yeah, well, okay. I’m on my way there now. Bye.” He clicked off and shoved the cell phone back inside his pants pocket.

“What happened?” Laurie asked.

He slowly shook his head. “A Seattle couple was murdered last night, a copycat killing—just like Elaina and Dirk. The wife’s nightgown was found on the front gate of the house. The killers snapped her neck and twisted her head around.”

The protesters started screaming louder and banged their garbage can lids. Danny glanced back at them with annoyance. “I wonder if any of those assholes are responsible . . .”

Laurie shuddered. “Were there—were there any children?”

“No, just the husband and wife,” he said. “A couple named Holbrook. They’re not connected to the movie . . .”

Laurie closed her umbrella and shook off the excess water. Then she stepped inside the food truck to find Cheryl had practically everything put away and cleaned up. Her boss was giving the food-prep area a final wipe down with a spray bottle of Lysol countertop cleanser and a sponge.

“I’m sorry,” Laurie said, standing in the doorway. “I could have helped take care of that. I didn’t mean to ditch you during the cleanup.”

“Hey, you needed the walk,” Cheryl replied, not looking up from her work. “Believe me, I know what it’s like to start feeling cooped up in here.” She glanced out the order window. “What’s going on?”

Over Cheryl’s shoulder, Laurie could see several people gathered under the canopy of a large half-tent pitched beside them on the driveway. One of the crewmen hurried past them.

“Hey, what’s happening?” Cheryl called.

“There’s a report on TV about the copycat murders!” he replied, looking over his shoulder at them.

Cheryl turned to Laurie. “Do you know what he’s talking about?”

Wincing a little, Laurie nodded. “I just found out about it. A couple was killed—just like Elaina and Dirk. They even broke the woman’s neck and twisted her head around.”

“Oh, Lord,” Cheryl murmured. “That’s awful . . .”

“Danny said he was pretty sure they weren’t connected to the filming. I think he said the last name was Holbrook.”

“What?” Cheryl whispered, her eyes widening. She took a step back and bumped into the counter. The Lysol spray container slipped out of her hand.

“Did you know them?”

“No, I—” Cheryl shook her head again. Her face turned ashen.

“Danny thought maybe one of those crazy Hooper Anarchists might be responsible,” Laurie said. “Or maybe it has something to do with the anniversary . . .”

Cheryl shot a quick glance out the order window again. Tossing aside the sponge, she almost knocked Laurie over as she hurried out the door.

Stepping over cables, Laurie followed her to the half tent, where at least a dozen members of the crew had gathered. They huddled around a TV monitor on a tall metal stand. Over the tops of several heads, Laurie saw Dolly Ingersoll on the monitor.

“Well, that explains why Dolly wasn’t hanging around here today,” she heard one of the crew people say. “But what’s she doing covering real hard-hitting news?”

“It’s show business,” another one replied. “Or at least, show-biz-related . . .”

Laurie tried to keep under the canopy, but she was edged out by the crowd. She felt the drizzle on the back of her neck. Cheryl was in the same predicament, but she didn’t seem to notice the precipitation. She was gazing at the screen.

“I’m told Adam Holbrook has just arrived,”
said Dolly into a handheld mic.
“He is the younger brother and brother-in-law of the two victims. He discovered them dead in their home early this morning . . .”

The picture switched to a thin, handsome man who looked haggard as he made his way through a crowd of reporters and bystanders. The shirt he wore was smeared with blood.

“Adam!”
Dolly said, lunging at him with the mic in her hand.
“Why do you think your brother and his wife were targeted by these copycat killers?”

He shook his head and moved on.

Laurie turned to Cheryl. “Are you sure you don’t know these people?” she whispered. “Because when I said Holbrook, you went white as a—”

Cheryl shushed her. “I’m trying to watch this.”

On the TV screen, Dolly faced the camera. Laurie noticed several of the bystanders surrounding her were elderly.
“That was Adam Holbrook, here to console his widower father. Adam Holbrook, once again, is the brother of Dean Holbrook, one of the victims of the Styles-Jordan copycat killing. Holbrook and his wife, Joyce were brutally murdered in their home early this morning . . .”

Then the image changed to a photograph of an attractive couple, which must have been taken at a swanky party. Both were dressed semiformally, and they had cocktails in their hands as they smiled for the camera.

“I’m told Dean and Joyce Holbrook were quite active in Seattle social circles,”
Dolly was saying in voice-over.

The wife was pretty with short brown hair. But Laurie barely noticed her. She was staring at the doomed husband. That good looking man with the salt-and-pepper hair had been in Volunteer Park with Cheryl four days ago. Laurie could still see them arguing by the donut sculpture.

She turned to Cheryl again. “You
do
know them,” she whispered. “I saw you talking to that man in Volunteer Park on Thursday . . .”

Cheryl frowned at her. “No, you didn’t.”

“But I did. I think you saw me, too—”

“No, you’re wrong,” she hissed, eyes still narrowed at her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never seen that man before. You’re mistaken, Laurie. Now would you please quit interrupting? I’m trying to watch this, for God’s sake.”

Cheryl turned, folded her arms, and focused once again on the TV screen.