No One Needs to Know (50 page)

All the while, the three strangers stood and watched. The one by the car had turned his back to the picnic area. He kept looking down at the ground and rubbing his forehead.

Natalie couldn’t figure out what was going on. But her mother must have. She suddenly dropped the bag of groceries. She swiveled around and started to run toward the Vista Cruiser.

“Dino, grab her!” shouted one of the men.

The younger one by the Cadillac turned. He was the closest to her mom, but he froze.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going, honey?” yelled the mustached man. He pulled a gun from inside his suit jacket and shot her—twice.

Horrified, Natalie watched her mother hit the ground, a plume of dust enveloping her.

The gunfire scared the baby, and he started to cry. Natalie held him tighter, and ducked down from the window. She couldn’t stop trembling. Tears streamed down her face.

She could hear the other women screaming. Their shrieks must have drowned out the sound of the baby.

When Natalie peered outside again, the scene near the picnic tables was utter chaos.

Another woman had collapsed, leaving Moonbeam and the teenage hitchhiker huddled together close to the ground, crying and rocking each other. The others were all dead.

Natalie realized that now. The lemonade must have been poisoned.

Trent and JT were arguing with the trio of strangers. “This isn’t how it was supposed to go down, Freddie!” Trent shouted at one of them. “Gil’s guy promised me . . .”

JT started pushing another one of the men—like he was trying to start a fight. In response, the mustached man stepped up to JT, raised the gun just inches from his ear, and fired. JT flopped down on the ground.

Trent started screaming and cursing—until the man turned the gun on him. He shot Trent in the forehead.

His head snapped back, and then he keeled over on top of his dead friend.

All at once, it was so quiet.

There was just Moonbeam, sitting in the dirt, crying softly and waiting to die. She was the last one. The teenage hitchhiker, who had joined them yesterday, was now lying beside her, lifeless.

Buddy was whimpering. Natalie held him close to muffle the sound.

All the while, the younger man in the white shirt and tie kept backing away from the picnic area. He got closer to the Vista Cruiser with every step.

“Dino, check the car!” one of the trio called.

With her arms around the baby, Natalie ducked down in the backseat—until she was curled up on her side. She was certain she and Buddy would be killed if the man saw them.

Buddy started to cry again. “Please,” Natalie said under her breath. “Buddy, please be quiet . . .”

Past the baby’s whimper she heard footsteps approaching.

“See anything?” one of the men called.

“Just some groceries!” the younger one called back. He cleared his throat.

Buddy wouldn’t be still. The younger man they called Dino certainly must have heard him. Natalie raised her head just far enough to see over the backseat. The man poked his head in the open window. He was staring right at her. Natalie saw tears in his eyes. “You’ve got to keep the baby quiet,” he said in a hushed voice. “For God’s sake, they’ll hear it. Please, keep the baby quiet . . .”

Nodding, Natalie drew Buddy as close as she could to muffle the cries. She was terrified she might smother him.

“I thought I saw someone in the backseat!” one of the men yelled.

“I checked!” the young man called. Natalie could hear him walking away. “There’s nobody! Just some grocery bags . . .”

“I count twelve,” announced one of the other men. “That’s how many we’re supposed to have here—twelve.”

Natalie realized if it weren’t for the hitchhiker JT had picked up, the trio of men would have kept hunting for the twelfth person until they found her and Buddy.

The one they called Dino had saved her life.

“Dino is Adam’s father, Dean Holbrook, Sr.,” Laurie said, staring down at Cheryl. “That’s why you wanted a catering gig at Evergreen Manor, isn’t it? You needed to get in there and talk to Mr. Holbrook. Good God, why go to such lengths? Why didn’t you just go visit him?”

“I tried that—several times.” Cheryl got up and went to the mirror. She winced at the cut above her eye. “The security in that place is like Fort Knox. All visitors have to be cleared through the residents’ next of kin. I tried phoning Dean Holbrook, Jr., but he wouldn’t take my calls. When you saw us at Volunteer Park, it was our first and only meeting. I asked to talk to his father—and even told him what it was about. But he flatly refused.” She turned away from the mirror and faced Laurie. “So imagine my shock when I found out a few days later that he and his wife were murdered—and the way they were murdered.”

“I don’t have to imagine,” Laurie replied. “I saw it on your face when I mentioned the name Holbrook.”

“So, you tracked down the other son, Adam?” Cheryl asked.

Laurie nodded. She figured he’d be relieved to know that his father hadn’t killed anyone at Biggs Farm. She couldn’t help wondering where he was right now.

“Well, you beat me to the punch,” Cheryl sighed. “I was going to try Adam next, but I was worried the same thing would happen to him that happened to his brother and sister-in-law.”

“Cheryl, if you’ll only let me get my phone,” she said. “I’d really like to call and tell him I’m okay. Plus I’m worried about him . . .”

Cheryl was shaking her head. “You can’t call anybody. I’m sorry. If the police see you made a phone call while all this is going on, they’ll never believe you weren’t an accomplice in this. I don’t want to get you into any more trouble than I already have. You can call him when this is over.” She turned toward the bathroom door.

With a sigh, Laurie followed her out to the hallway. Cheryl reached into her bag and took out a tiny recorder. She switched it on, and then stepped into the nursery.

Slumped over in the chair, Gil looked exhausted and miserable. He looked up and frowned at them.

“So, did you hear any of that?” Cheryl asked. She set the recorder on top of one of the boxes.

“Bits and pieces,” he grumbled. “So a bunch of hoodlums threw my name around at Biggs Farm. It doesn’t mean shit. And what’s ‘Gil’s people’ supposed to mean? I’ve had thousands of people in my employ. Do you even know the names of these gangsters who supposedly worked for me?”

Standing in front of him, Cheryl folded her arms and nodded. “I stayed in the back of the Vista Cruiser for at least an hour while your errand boys made the picnic area outside the farmhouse look like a mass suicide. . .”

“Not
my
errand boys,” he interrupted.

“They talked a lot—mostly about how gullible Trent was, about how he’d agreed to pin the murders on JT and the women. Apparently, he felt the rest of us would just have to be sacrificed for the greater good of his film career. He thought he’d be starring in your next picture . . .”

Gil nodded emphatically, and the chair wobbled beneath him. “That’s just my point, goddamn it. They were lying to him! I’d never even heard of the son of a bitch until I read in the newspapers that he was dead.” He winced. “Jesus, my head is splitting and I can’t see a damn thing. Are what’s left of my glasses anywhere on the floor there?”

Laurie picked them up. She glanced at Cheryl, who nodded. Then she carefully put them on Gil’s red, sweaty face.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” He gazed at her for a moment. “Jesus, you really do look like Emily. I’m sorry about earlier when I called you a stupid bitch. It was a moment of anger and frustration.”

“It’s okay,” Laurie murmured.

“But to your friend here, I won’t apologize.” He sneered at Cheryl. “I hope your head hurts
at least
as much as mine, which is saying a helluva lot, sweetheart. I feel like I have a brain hemorrhage here. Those head butts in the movies aren’t at all like the real thing. That goddamn Bruce Willis makes it look so easy.”

“Earlier, you asked if I knew the names of these gangsters,” Cheryl said. “I heard them talking about how they had to go through the house and Trent’s room to remove all evidence that he had a connection to you.”

“Not me,” he interjected.

“The one who saved me, Dino, he called the others by their last name. It seemed to be out of respect—Mr. Rothschild, Mr. Lawless, and Mr. Rooth. They also addressed each other by their surnames. I’ve had over forty years to figure out who they were. Dino is Dean Holbrook, Sr., currently suffering from dementia in a rest home here in Seattle. His older son was murdered last week because he knew too much—and maybe because someone saw him talking with me.” Her voice quivered as she said that. “Larry Rooth was the one who did all the shooting, and he was gunned down himself in 2002. Arthur ‘Art’ Lawless died of an apparent heart attack last year, and Freddie Rothschild was murdered just a few months ago—after I spoke with him in his home in Phoenix . . .”

“Never heard of any of them,” Gil muttered.

“That day at the farm, they kept mentioning a man who worked for you, someone named Arnie.”

Behind the broken glasses, Gil’s eyes narrowed at her. He didn’t say anything.

“I asked Freddie Rothschild who Arnie was,” Cheryl explained. “He said the man’s name was Arnold Shearer and he worked for you for nearly two decades. That’s all I could get from him. I guess Freddie figured he was safe telling me that much, because Arnold died in 1989. I couldn’t find anything beyond that online, and nothing linking him to you. But I’m pretty sure Freddie must have told me the truth, because someone put a knife through his eye after that.”

Gil let out a long sigh. “Well, sweetheart, you finally got to a name I know. Arnie Shearer worked for me from the late sixties through the eighties. But you won’t see his name in the credits of any of my films . . .”

“I know,” Cheryl said. “I looked and looked.”

“Arnie handled the occasional union problem for me and he took care of other matters.”

“What kind of other matters?”

“Like muzzling reporters who dug up certain dirt—you know, this leading lady has a heroin problem or that leading man has a thing for underage girls. Arnie could make those problems disappear. A little intimidation goes a long way. He was a connected guy, if you get my drift. But I never—ever—had him kill anybody for me. And to my knowledge, no one else in my employ ever used him—or even knew him. I didn’t make it a habit to hang out with him. But once in a blue moon my wife and I saw him socially so he wouldn’t feel insulted that I was just using him for business. So, how’s that for candid and honest? Now, I don’t know what kind of line this Freddie character was feeding you about Arnie, but it’s just not true.”

Laurie cleared her throat. “I have it on good authority that someone powerful down in Los Angeles hired three mob-connected men to investigate the Styles-Jordan murders. You were living in L.A. at the time. And that totally backs up Cheryl’s story. Who else could have been behind it?”

“Well, it wasn’t me, sweetheart,” Gil said. “I was in no shape to do anything after Elaina was killed—except drink until I was numb. I loved that woman. She and your grandmother were the two great loves of my life.”

Laurie thought it was strange that he didn’t mention his wife of forty-something years. Then again, he’d hinted earlier at his house that things with him and Shawna weren’t all they appeared to be.

She heard something outside. It sounded like a car coming up the driveway.

Gil must have heard it, too, because he suddenly sat up and started yelling: “HELP ME! HELP ME!”

Cheryl lunged at him, tipping over the chair—with him in it. It crashed to the floor, and he cried out in pain. One of his shoes flew off.

Once again, Cheryl’s gun fell to the floor. And again, in a panic, Laurie didn’t know what to do for a moment. She stood over the two of them, unable to move.

Gil kept screaming for help. Cheryl put her hand over his mouth, but it wasn’t doing any good. He kept turning his head away and yelling out again. Gil’s ankles were still tied to the chair legs. Cheryl reached for his shoeless foot and pulled off the sock. She wadded it up and shoved it in his mouth. Resisting, he kept jerking his head from one side to another. But Cheryl was relentless.

Laurie realized this was her chance to put an end to this now. She went for the gun.

But Cheryl pounced on it. “Don’t!” she said, turning around and pointing the gun at her.

Laurie froze. She heard car doors slamming. She wondered if it was the police. Could they see the food truck parked near the back of the house?

Gil tried to shout out past the gag in his mouth, but all that came out were strained, muffled moans. Cheryl glared at him. “Don’t make me knock you out,” she said, catching her breath. She raised the gun. “Don’t make me hit you over the head with this. I might end up killing you. Just lie there and shut up.”

“Cheryl, I think he’s in pain,” Laurie whispered. “At least put the gun away. If the police see you have that, they might—”

Cheryl shushed her. Gil was suddenly quiet.

Downstairs, there was a faint clicking sound of a key in the front door. Laurie heard the door open. “. . . I don’t care if he’s one of the producers,” someone said. “If he leaves his stupid phone behind, he should go back and get it himself—instead of sending us.”

“News flash, that’s why they call us ‘gofers.’”

Laurie recognized the voices downstairs. They were two guys on the film crew.

The front hall light went on—and it illuminated part of the second floor corridor.

“This is totally screwing up my Saturday. Let’s hurry up and find the damn thing. This place gives me the major heebie-jeebies . . .”

A phone rang, playing the
Star Wars
theme.

It gave Laurie a start. Then she realized they were calling the producer’s cell number to locate the phone from its ring.

She glanced over at Cheryl, perfectly still as she crouched over Gil on the floor. Laurie thought about screaming for help—just to put an end to it. But she was almost certain Cheryl would shoot Gil rather than surrender without his confession