No One Needs to Know (45 page)

Laurie squirmed in the passenger seat. In the back were trays full of tapas, mini-sandwiches, quiches, hors d’oeuvres, and Laurie’s desserts. Yet all that beautiful food seemed like part of some pretense. Cheryl had another agenda. But Laurie still couldn’t figure out what it was. Did Cheryl honestly think that after feeding Gil a few canapés, he’d sit down with her and tell her about his part in the Styles-Jordan murders and what followed?

Laurie hadn’t said much during the twenty-minute drive that had taken them across Lake Washington from bohemian Capitol Hill to this pristine millionaire haven in Medina. But Cheryl chattered practically nonstop—mostly about the food, what to say to Gil, and what not to say. Cheryl had gotten rather dressed up for the occasion, too: a white tuxedo blouse and black slacks. Laurie wore a nice black top with beige slacks.

Gil’s block was gated, with a security guard in a little chalet-style post and a crossing gate.

Cheryl pulled up to the gate, and lowered her window.

Now that they were here, Laurie felt her stomach tighten.

“I’m Cheryl and this is Laurie,” she announced to the thin, thirtysomething guard. “Mr. Garrett is expecting us. We’re the caterers.”

He checked something on his iPad, and nodded. “It’s the third house down on the right. I’ll let them know you’re on your way.”

“We have some food trays we’d like to take directly into the kitchen,” Cheryl told the man. “Could you let him know that we’ll meet him in back?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the guard. He ducked into his guardhouse and raised the gate.

Laurie gazed at the clean, tree-lined road ahead. She took a deep breath. “How much do you think Gil really knows about Trent Hooper and the murders?” she heard herself ask.

“What?” Cheryl turned to squint at her.

“That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? That’s what this is about.”

Cheryl shifted her focus back to the road. “This is about an important, prestigious catering job I’ve been wanting for nearly a year now. So please, don’t blow it for me by saying stupid things like that—especially in front of Gil. Good God, Laurie, please don’t do this to me now.”

Laurie just shook her head. Then she turned and glanced out her window. Between the trees and the big, modern mansions, she caught a glimpse of the Lake Washington waterfront.

At the third driveway on the right, a tall double gate was open. Near one of the gateposts was a security camera.

“I’m sorry,” Cheryl said, turning down the driveway. “You shouldn’t kid around like that. I’m a little nervous right now.”

“I wasn’t kidding,” Laurie said.

At the end of the long driveway, Gil Garrett and Shawna Farrell’s home looked every bit as impressive as it had on the TV special with Dolly Ingersoll. The elegant Mediterranean-style mansion was surrounded by beautiful trees and potted blooming plants. The engraved double doors in front looked like something from an old Spanish church. Laurie counted five chimneys. The connecting garage looked like it housed four cars. A BMW and a Range Rover were parked in the turnaround.

Cheryl seemed to know exactly where she was going, because she turned off the driveway to a parking area by a guest house or staff member’s residence, which was also Mediterranean-style, but about an eighth of the size of Gil’s home. There was another turnaround, with room for several cars to park—and a walkway to a back entrance of the estate.

Laurie wondered how Cheryl knew about this. Had she studied a diagram of Gil’s mansion?

“Let’s put on our aprons, and bring in some of the smaller trays first,” Cheryl said, parking in the turnaround. “It makes a better impression if we come to the door with food.”

Laurie stepped out of the truck, then donned her maroon apron and grabbed a tray of mini-quiches. As they started toward the back entrance, she glimpsed—beyond a fence and some symmetrically pruned hedges—the stunning pool she’d seen on that television special. The back entrance was surrounded by several strategically placed potted plants, many in full bloom. The colors were gorgeous. Everything looked so clean, so perfect.

Cheryl had a tray of tapas in one hand and a fat, clunky purse hanging from her shoulder. She knocked on the tall glass panel in the door.

A short, heavyset Latino girl appeared on the other side of the glass. With a smile on her pretty face, she opened the door as if she were expecting them. Laurie guessed she was about eighteen years old. She wore a white polo shirt, khaki shorts, and sneakers. Her long, thick black hair was in a ponytail. “Laurie?” she said.

“Yes, hello,” Laurie nodded, brandishing the tray of food.

“Come in, come in,” she said in a thick accent. “Mr. Garrett will be right here . . .”

She guided them into a kitchen with beautiful wood cabinets that matched the polished floor. It had stainless steel appliances, marbleized-granite countertops, and in the eating area, a cobblestone fireplace. There was an island with a sink. Four barstools were lined up on one side of the island. Above it was a rack that held copper pots and pans, all polished and gleaming.

Cheryl set her tray down on the island’s counter. “Hi, I’m Cheryl,” she said to the girl, talking a bit loudly and simplistically—the way some people did when addressing a foreigner. “Is there anyone else home, besides you and Mr. Garrett? Anyone else on the grounds?”

The girl shook her head. “No one else is here. Mr. Garrett is coming. Please, make yourself comfortable. . .” She started toward the front of the house.

Laurie put her tray on the island countertop. She’d never been in a kitchen this big before.

“Well, that’s good,” Cheryl murmured to her. “We won’t have a lot of staff people here bothering us. Ye gods, can you believe this place?” She moved to the oven, turned a dial, and then opened the door to make sure the oven had started heating. “Let’s start by getting the tapas warmed up . . .”

Laurie heard the Latino girl in the front of the house. “Mr. Garrett?” she called. “Laurie and her friend are here with the food for you!”

“Wonderful!” he replied, a distant voice from another room. “Be right there!”

Cheryl pulled a bottle of red wine from her big purse, and then fished out a corkscrew. Her hands shook a bit as she set them on the island counter. She picked up the tapas tray and carried it to the oven. Obviously, the oven wasn’t preheated yet, but she slid the tray inside it anyway.

Laurie wondered if Cheryl was on the level after all. Was this really nothing more than a food audition for Gil Garrett? Could it be there was no ulterior motive?

She heard dogs yapping, and Gil’s gravelly voice again, much closer this time. He seemed to be talking to the girl. “Sweetheart, you know how much I can’t stand these little shit-machines,” he said. “Would you keep them away from me, for chrissakes?”

The girl muttered an apology, and the dogs’ yelping got louder. Two Pomeranians scampered into the kitchen, their paws clicking on the hardwood floor. Showing their teeth, they growled at Laurie and Cheryl. Laurie remembered there were three dogs in the CNN interview. She wondered what had happened to the third.

From the snipping dogs she looked up to lock eyes with the man who had been her elusive, glamorous godfather.

His eyes were half-hidden behind big, tinted glasses. He wore a shiny, powder blue sweat suit, and held a cigar in one hand. Laurie noticed two gaudy, jeweled rings on the fingers of that hand. His thinning hair was dyed black, and despite a dark tan, he had a waxy pallor that made him look sickly. “Well, my God, if you’re not the spitting image of your beautiful grandmother!” he declared. “Look at you, darling. Aren’t you lovely?” He took Laurie’s hand, and kissed it.

Laurie smiled, and felt herself blushing. “It’s really nice to meet you at long last, Mr. Garrett.”

“What’s with this Mr. Garrett nonsense?” he said, still holding on to her hand. “It’s Gil—or Uncle Gil, if you must. Your grandmother was my very first love, Emily Hatch, the most gorgeous girl in Boulder, Colorado. How’s your dear mother? I haven’t seen her in at least twenty-five years.”

Laurie realized he must not have read the note with her package of Christmas cookies. She winced a little. “Ah, my mother passed away about two years ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, darling,” he said.

Laurie nodded toward Cheryl at her side. “Gil, this is Cheryl, who owns the catering company.”

“Hi, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Garrett,” she said, talking loudly over the barking dogs.

At last, he let go of Laurie’s hand, then took Cheryl’s hand and kissed it. “Please, call me Gil,” he replied. “My God, I have two beautiful women working for me. I feel like Hef.” Then he turned toward the front of the house. “Anita!” he yelled. “Anita, come here and do something about these mutts, will you, sweetheart?”

Cheryl fished the keys out of her big bag and handed them to Laurie. “Could you get the tray with the mini-sandwiches on it?” she whispered. “And there’s dipping sauce in the fridge.”

As Laurie headed to the door, she heard Cheryl going into her professional pitch: “Now I have some delicious tapas heating up for you. And this wine I’ve brought goes wonderfully with most everything you’ll be sampling . . .”

Laurie stepped outside and headed toward the food truck. It seemed as if this food audition was indeed just what Cheryl had said it would be. She checked her watch, and figured Adam was now in the nearby park with his dad. It looked like he’d come all the way here for nothing.

Even with all his money and his past accomplishments, Gil Garrett struck her as sort of pathetic—and so archaic in his attempts to charm them. Did he actually think they’d be flattered when he said he felt like Hugh Hefner, having them work for him? Laurie had set him up on a pedestal most of her life. It was kind of disappointing to meet him now. Not only did he look a bit sickly, he also seemed slightly drunk. Then again, maybe that was just his manner.

When she stepped back into the kitchen with the mini-sandwiches and dipping sauces, Laurie got a strong whiff of Gil’s cigar. The housekeeper was corralling the yapping Pomeranians into the eating area. She must have gotten out some plates and glasses for Cheryl, because the wine was poured and the tapas were plated. Gil, seated at the counter, was eating a tapa—and making yummy sounds. “I definitely want these for the party,” he said. “Anita, get over here and try these . . .”

By the time he had his third helping, he’d drained his wineglass. The young housekeeper seemed to approve of the tapas as well. She had two. The dogs begged and whined at their feet. Cheryl poured Gil another glass, then started serving up the variety of mini-sandwiches with the different dipping sauces. “That’s a bacon-wrapped teriyaki chicken with Swiss, and the dipping sauce is a pineapple chutney,” Cheryl was saying.

Gil said the party for Shawna would be informal with tables set up in the backyard and by the pool. There would be about a hundred guests. “It’s going to be a surprise,” he said, his speech a bit slurred. “Anita here is sworn to secrecy. As for me, it’s easy to keep secrets from my darling wife, since I rarely see her anymore—except in public. It’s an arrangement that suits us both.”

Laurie was a bit surprised he’d admit that to them. She figured he was indeed pretty drunk. Hunched over the counter with his smelly cigar in an ashtray, he stuffed a mini-sandwich into his mouth. The housekeeper quickly polished off three sandwiches, and announced that she liked the smoked pork tenderloin the best.

Laurie quietly stood by the counter, letting Cheryl run the show. Cheryl asked Gil if he had any particular theme in mind for Shawna’s surprise birthday party. But he didn’t seem to hear her. “Anita, give these damn mutts a Milk Bone, something to make them stop whining and begging, I can’t stand it.”

Laurie noticed the girl weaving slightly as she crossed the room and took some dog biscuits from a lower cabinet. Unlike Gil, she hadn’t had a drop of wine.

The Pomeranians yelped and jumped at her legs as she held up a couple of dog treats. “Mr. Garrett, is it okay if I go to my room for a while?” she asked. “I’m suddenly really tired.”

He nodded over his wineglass. “You go ahead, sweetheart. Have yourself a little nap.”

Laurie glanced at the half-eaten sandwich on his plate. Then she looked at Cheryl, who was totally focused on Gil, watching his every move.

Laurie had a horrible feeling that all her suspicions about this food audition were coming true. “Cheryl?” she whispered. “Cheryl, what . . .”

The young housekeeper almost stumbled as she headed toward a hallway off the kitchen. She braced herself against a counter and then made her way to the corridor.

“Are you okay there?” Gil asked.

“I have to lie down,” the girl answered in a quiet voice.

With a spatula, Cheryl set another mini-sandwich on Gil’s plate.

Rubbing his forehead, Gil stared at the small hors d’oeuvre and then squinted at Cheryl. “What—what the hell did you put in these?”

She said nothing. She just stared at him.

“Goddamn it!” he cried. With one broad sweep of his arm, he knocked the plates, the glass, and the ashtray off the counter. They fell to the floor with a clatter, the glass shattering.

The Pomeranians yelped and growled as they fought each other for the fallen scraps of food.

Gil climbed off the stool, but he was teetering. He clung to the edge of the counter. “What have you done? What have you given me, you bitch?”

“Oh, God, Cheryl, no,” Laurie whispered.

Cheryl was still focused on Gil, her eyes cold and remorseless. She didn’t seem a bit nervous anymore. “I’m holding you accountable,” she whispered to him.

She took a step back—just as Gil Garrett collapsed in front of her on the hardwood floor.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
-
THREE

Saturday, July 12, 2:57
P.M.

Medina

F
ive blocks from Gil Garrett’s estate, Adam sat with his father on a bench in Medina Park. They’d gone for a short walk along one of the many trails—at one point, crossing a wooden bridge over part of a lagoon. But they didn’t venture too far from the parking lot. Adam didn’t want to put too much strain on his father’s leg. And he wanted to be close to the car—in case Laurie called and needed him.