No One Needs to Know (33 page)

The woman kept dragging her up to the next step and the next. She was relentless. “Is your computer in your hotel room?”

Dolly just nodded. She was too winded to talk.

“Room five-nineteen, at the Fairmont Olympic, right?”

Dolly nodded again. She wondered how they knew her room number. She realized these two weren’t part of that Hooper Anarchist mob. They were much smarter than that. Were they someone Cheryl Wheeler had hired?

She noticed another landing—and another bench—a few more steps up. She was sweating, and her perfectly coiffured blond wig was slightly askew. “We—we’ve got to stop up here,” she panted. “You’re giving me a heart attack . . .”

“Maybe that’s the point,” the woman replied, tugging at Dolly’s arm again.

But Dolly grabbed hold of the banister with her free hand, and she held on. She wasn’t going to take another step. With what little strength she had left, she resisted.

“Move it,” the man said.

“Screw you,” Dolly gasped, her lungs burning. “Screw both of you. You don’t—you don’t scare me. You two are ridiculous . . .”

The man chuckled and moved aside.

Clinging to the banister, Dolly gazed down at the seemingly endless row of steps she’d just climbed.

“You’re the one who’s ridiculous,” the woman whispered, “with your bad plastic surgery and that crooked wig. You look like a frail, old clown.” She finally let go of her arm. “One good push is all it will take, Dolly. Just imagine your brittle bones shattering against each one of those hard concrete steps. And if that doesn’t kill you, believe me, bitch, you’ll wish you were dead. You’ll be begging me to come down, snap your neck, and end it for you.”

Dolly shook her head defiantly. “You can’t kill me here,” she said, her voice a bit stronger now. “You can’t kill me until you’ve double checked my room and my computer. How can you be sure I haven’t been lying to you all this time?”

“You know something, Dolly?” the woman said. “I trust you.”

“What?”

She looked at the stun gun in the woman’s hand. Before Dolly could recoil, the woman shoved the device against the side of her neck.

Dolly heard it hum, and she smelled her flesh burning. She was helpless. She couldn’t even scream. All the breath was sucked out of her again. It felt as if some monster had grabbed her by the throat with its talons. The pain was excruciating. She wasn’t aware of anything else.

Dolly didn’t realize she’d let go of the railing. She didn’t even know she was tumbling down the long, endless stairway—until her body slammed against the concrete step.

Then she felt one of her brittle old bones crack.

That was only the first step. And it was a long, long way down.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-
FIVE

Tuesday, July 8, 4:08
P.M.

Duvall, Washington

“L
ook at these gorgeous beets, all the different shades,” Cheryl said. “We need to put a beet salad on the menu this week.”

Laurie admired the vegetables on display at the farmer’s market. There were baskets full of butternut squash, asparagus, beets, red potatoes, carrots, radicchio, and nearly every kind of salad staple. As they perused the vegetables, Cheryl seemed the happiest Laurie had seen her all week. She was in her element.

Or was she just happy because Dolly Ingersoll was dead?

Laurie couldn’t help remembering how Dolly had practically threatened Cheryl:
I’m going to get the goods on you if it’s the last thing I do . . .

Dolly’s death was all they’d talked about on the film set this morning—until the Hooper Anarchists had started showing up around eleven o’clock—with recruits. At least a hundred of them had gathered out there by noon. Making all sorts of racket, they threw things over the fence—and at the police. There were several arrests, and for a while, it looked as if a full-scale riot might break out. All of it was utterly pointless—just a bunch of jerks with their faces covered, acting up for the TV news cameras.

Laurie made sure to stay out of camera range today.

If the atmosphere on the set weren’t tense enough, things between her and Cheryl hadn’t changed since yesterday. They got through the day being polite to each other, but there wasn’t much camaraderie. When the news broke about Dolly, they didn’t discuss it with each other. And Laurie didn’t dare bring up the fact that Dolly Ingersoll wasn’t one of Cheryl’s favorite people. Laurie kept getting updates from Danny and other crew members about Dolly’s death, which seemed to give some credence to the “curse” plaguing the
7/7/70
production. Sometime last night, TV’s reigning gossip queen had fallen down a long stairwell between North Capitol Hill and Eastlake. She’d broken her neck. Laurie didn’t share any updates with Cheryl.

The protestors had dispersed by the time she and Cheryl had gotten out of there. They hadn’t even hung around to see if her cupcakes were a hit. After lunch, they’d set the cupcakes out on the kitchen counter of the “murder house,” and then left. Once in the truck, Cheryl had announced that she wanted to buy some produce. So they’d driven directly here to this farm in Duvall. And once there, Cheryl’s whole demeanor changed. She seemed so relaxed. She even looked younger.

“This is one of the things I love best about cooking,” she said, examining some asparagus. “Seeing where the food is grown and talking with the people who grow it, I feel so lucky. And you can see the pride they take in what they’re doing. It really inspires you to become a better cook, don’t you think?”

Laurie found herself smiling at her boss for the first time all day. She nodded. “This reminds me of my cooking classes in Paris. They took us on a field trip to a farm about ninety minutes outside the city, and we got all these fresh ingredients for the dishes we were cooking. You’re right. It makes such a difference.”

“Oh, I’m so jealous,” Cheryl sighed. “I’ve never been outside the United States or Canada. My cooking classes were with a bunch of other kids who needed rehabilitating. Half of them you wouldn’t trust with a carving knife. But we had a great teacher and chef.” She picked up a head of butter lettuce. “I think we should get a dozen of these, and of course, we’ll need arugula . . .”

Laurie wanted to ask Cheryl about that time in her life. She wanted to ask her about the little boy she’d lost. But whenever she started to feel a connection with Cheryl, a wall went up. The sad thing was she liked Cheryl and admired her. She was grateful to her for this job. And even if the apartment had belonged to her dead predecessor, Laurie still thought it was a great place for her and Joey—especially when she stacked it up against the dumpy townhouse in Ellensburg.

She hated not being able to trust Cheryl. But it was clear Cheryl was lying to her about a number of things. Yet none of those things concerned Laurie directly. To explain how she knew where the bathroom was in the Styles-Jordan murder house, Cheryl had claimed to have seen a diagram of the place—when no such diagram existed. Was it possible that during her misspent youth, she’d been one of the scores of teens to explore the closed-up mansion? Maybe Cheryl just didn’t want to admit that. And perhaps she didn’t want anyone to know she’d met with Dean Holbrook days before his murder, because that might mean having to talk with the police. She’d had enough run-ins with the law when she was younger. She’d probably been asking Holbrook to use his clout and connections to get her a catering gig at the rest home where his father lived.

Still, she couldn’t press Cheryl on these issues, not without pissing her off.

While Cheryl placed her produce orders, Laurie wandered over toward the food truck and a hand-painted sandwich board sign for the farmer’s market. She checked her mobile device for the latest update on Dolly Ingersoll’s death. Through Google, she found a
Los Angeles Times
article that was twenty-two minutes old:

GOSSIP ICON DOLLY INGERSOLL, 76, DIES IN FALL

Laurie skimmed over the first few paragraphs, searching for some new details. She found something six paragraphs down:

Ingersoll had dined at the Seattle restaurant, Daniel’s Broiler, earlier on Monday night with Gary Korabik, her book editor at Matterhorn Publishing. According to Korabik, they left the restaurant separately at around 11:45. The restaurant is approximately half a mile from Seattle’s Howe Street Stairs, the 388-step hillside stairway where Ingersoll’s body was discovered. Her rental car was parked near the bottom of the steps. Police have been combing the wooded area surrounding the stairs for Ingersoll’s purse . . .

Laurie remembered hearing the front gate clank at around 11:20 last night. And Cheryl’s apartment had been the only other one with any lights on. It was about a ten-minute drive to those stairs from their apartment complex. This was the second night in a row that someone Cheryl knew had been killed—and both deaths had occurred just minutes away from La Hacienda.

“Laurie, can you give me a hand here?” Cheryl asked, approaching the food truck with two bags full of vegetables.

Startled, Laurie put her mobile device in her pocket and quickly opened the back door of the food truck.

“We have six more where these came from,” Cheryl said, handing her the bags, which were heavy.

Once Laurie loaded them in the truck, she caught up with Cheryl on her way back to the vegetable stand for the other sacks. “Boy, I don’t know where you get your energy,” she said, catching her breath. She was trying to sound as casual as possible. “You should be totally pooped after the day we had yesterday. Plus I noticed you were still up when I went to bed around midnight last night. Did you get any sleep at all?”

Cheryl stopped and gave her a baffled smile. Then she retrieved two more bags. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was in bed by ten-thirty.”

“Well, your lights were on,” Laurie said.

Cheryl seemed stumped for a moment, but then she nodded. “Oh, yeah, I was so tired I forgot to turn them off before going to bed. C’mon, grab a couple of bags. We’re going to have two new sides on tomorrow’s menu—beet salad and garlic green beans.”

Laurie picked up the sacks of produce and caught up with her again at the food truck.

She wasn’t sure if she believed Cheryl or not. But she wanted to.

“Once we get home,” Cheryl said, “how would you and Joey like to come over and help me with some prep work?”

“Ah, I have a couple of things to take care of first, if that’s okay,” Laurie said.

“That’s perfect. I’ll cook us some dinner.” Cheryl set the sacks down by the truck. “You stay put. I’ll get the last couple of bags.”

Laurie watched her trot toward the produce stand. She was thinking of Dolly Ingersoll’s “accidental” death.

And she just couldn’t get over how happy Cheryl seemed.

Dear Adam,

I’d like to extend my condolences. I was so sorry to learn about the deaths of your brother and sister-in-law. I didn’t know them, but I have a friend who did. At least, she knew your brother, Dean. Please forgive me for intruding on your privacy during this very difficult time. But I’m wondering if you could spare a few minutes to meet with me this week. If you name a time and place that’s convenient for you, I’ll be there. It’s rather important. Otherwise I wouldn’t intrude on your grief like this. Thank you very much.

Sincerely,

Laurie Trotter

206-555-0607

Hunched over the laptop on her desk, Laurie hesitated before sending the e-mail.

The TV was on. Joey sat in his playpen, mesmerized once again by the same
Sesame Street
episode she’d played for him last night.

Earlier today, Laurie had searched the Internet, and found that
Adam Holbrook, Artist,
had a Web site—with a contact page. He also had a bio page—with his photo. When she’d seen him on TV yesterday, it certainly hadn’t been the best of circumstances. From his laid-back good looks—the unkempt hair and cute smile—she’d expected his work to be pretty unconventional, nothing to take seriously. But his paintings and drawings impressed Laurie. They reminded her of Edward Hopper with the beautiful use of color and shadow.

Contacting Dean Holbrook’s brother had been one of the things she’d had to “take care of” before meeting with Cheryl again. She wasn’t sure how much good it would do—or how much Adam Holbrook knew about his brother’s activities. She hated bothering him right now, but she had to know what Cheryl was up to—before someone else died.

Taking a deep breath, Laurie clicked on the Send icon.

She figured she had a snowball’s chance in hell of hearing back from him.

She heard the front gate clank, and glanced out the window. In his white short-sleeve shirt and black tie, Vincent started up the courtyard path. He had his red Safeway apron folded and tucked under his arm.

A brief visit with Vincent was the other thing she needed to “take care of.”

“Hey, Joey,” she said, switching off the laptop. “We’re going to pay a call on our neighbor. C’mon, let’s say go say hi to Vincent . . .”

“Hey,” Vincent said, with a surprised smile as he opened the door. His eyes lit up behind his glasses. “Hi, Laurie, hi, Joey . . .”

“You seemed to enjoy my lemon bars the other day,” Laurie said. She held Joey in one arm and had a Tupperware container in her other hand. “So when I made cupcakes last night, I made a few extra for you.”

“Wow, thank you.” Vincent took the container from her, and opened his door wider. “Would you like to come in?”

“Sure, if we’re not intruding,” Laurie said, stepping over the threshold.

“You’re not intruding yet,” he replied. “
Big Bang Theory
isn’t on until seven, so I still have some time to talk to you, then take my shower, and get dinner started before then. Tonight is Stouffer’s Lasagna night.”