No One Needs to Know (54 page)

Laurie turned to Vincent. “You’re from Spokane, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but after Mr. and Mrs. Taggart became my foster parents, we lived in Pullman for a while. Then we moved to Spokane.”

“Taggart? I thought your last name was Humphries.”

“Maureen talked me into changing it to Humphries about six or seven months ago. Actually, my full name is Thomas Vincent Taggart. But no one ever calls me Thomas . . .”

Laurie squinted at him. “Did Maureen say why she wanted you to change your name?”

He nodded. “It was on account of some woman who was looking for me. Maureen said she might be trouble. I think she could have been after the money my foster parents left me. There are bad people like that, I guess. Anyway, about seven months ago, this snoopy woman called my parents’ neighbor, Mrs. Blankenship, who was Maureen’s friend, too. She asked Mrs. Blankenship about my folks and me. So Mrs. Blankenship called up Maureen . . .”

Staring at him, Laurie thought,
And Maureen had her tell the snoopy woman that you’d drowned in a boating accident a week before your twelfth birthday.

He shrugged. “After that, Maureen wanted me to change my name. And boy, that took a lot of work, too. It was a real hassle. Maureen handled most of it. Funny thing is, less than a week before she died, Maureen said I would be going back to my old name again soon. She said . . .”

He trailed off. “I think I hear the baby,” he said.

Laurie heard him, too—over the monitor. He was crying. “Oh, Lord,” she gasped. “I need to run. Thank you, Vincent!” She hurried to the door, with Vincent trailing after her.

He called out good-bye to her as she ran to her own door.

She’d never left Joey alone for this long. What was she thinking? Her hands were shaking as she unlocked the door. Once inside, she raced upstairs to his room. Her heart was beating wildly.

By the time she reached his crib, Joey had started to settle down. He kicked a little and murmured some sleepy baby talk. Laurie readjusted his blanket, then crept out of his room and padded down the stairs.

She gazed at all the papers on the floor—from Maureen’s files. Obviously, Maureen had started the file after her brother’s girlfriend was killed in the murders of July 7, 1970. And she’d started the file on Cheryl Wheeler after Cheryl had phoned Mrs. Blankenship. She needed to protect the identity of the sheltered man who was in her care. So, she’d had Mrs. Blankenship lie about the child dying. Maureen made it a point to get to know Cheryl. She did “homework” on her. She kept her close. And then she finally discovered that Vincent had been in this woman’s care at one time, too.

She remembered what Vincent had said just before they’d heard Joey crying:
“Funny thing is, not long before she died, Maureen said I would be going back to my old name soon.”

Apparently, Maureen was killed in the food truck explosion before she ever got a chance to tell Cheryl that they were “almost like family.”

Laurie realized she needed just one more thing from Vincent to confirm that all of it was true. She would only be a minute this time. She wouldn’t even have to step inside.

But she wanted to bring him something for his troubles. She hurried into the kitchen and grabbed the Tupperware container with the last of her cupcakes in it. She was so rushed and so busy thinking about Vincent and Buddy and Baby Patrick that she didn’t notice something unusual in the kitchen.

She hurried out the door, leaving it ajar, because she knew she’d be right back.

Laurie hadn’t seen what was on Maureen’s dinette table. Someone had emptied out her salt shaker, and left a little white mound beside it.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
-
EIGHT

Monday, 8:19
P.M.

Bainbridge Island, Washington

C
heryl had the taxi drop her off three blocks away from Gil and Shawna’s Bainbridge Island retreat. Lugging her bag, she stayed in the shadows along the roadside and then skulked into the turnoff—marked PRIVATE—for Sand Path Court. The beachfront houses were huge—and spaced far apart. Through the trees, she glimpsed the water. She finally reached the beautiful beachfront “cabin,” which she’d seen in a
House & Garden
layout a few years ago. The sprawling house had dark brown shingles with white shutters and trim. She spotted a Mercedes in the driveway, and there were lights on inside the house. The front gate was open.

Creeping up to the front windows, Cheryl didn’t see any activity—just gorgeous “rustic” furniture that looked like it belonged in a Ralph Lauren ad. She figured if a servant was there, she’d just have to deal with the extra person the best she could. At this point, she didn’t care if she ended up in jail. She was going to extract a confession from this woman. She’d waited forty-four years for someone to be accountable for those murders.

At the risk of setting off an alarm on the grounds, Cheryl crept around the house and peeked into a few more windows. One of the kitchen windows was open—obviously to take advantage of the cool breeze off the water. As she pried off the screen and climbed inside, Cheryl couldn’t help remembering the open kitchen window in the house on Gayler Court on that summer night in 1970.

Once she climbed over the sill, Cheryl glanced around the big kitchen—with its stainless steel appliances, tile backsplash, and granite countertops. The under-the-counter lights were on, creating a warm glow. The light fixture above the breakfast table was Chihuly glass. A bottle of Merlot and a half-full wineglass were on the counter; otherwise, the place was spotless.

Her stomach was in knots as she set her bag on the table. She took out her recorder and the gun.

Just then, she heard a noise outside, and froze. In another room, somewhere in the front of the house, one of Shawna’s Pomeranians let out several yelps.

Cheryl peered out at the front hallway, where Shawna was heading to the front door. She was dressed in a sexy black nightgown and robe set. Her blond hair was tied up off her neck with a black ribbon. “Shame on you, Jeremy, making me wait!” she announced, flinging the door open.

Obviously, she was expecting someone. That must have been why she’d left the front gate open.

But no one was there. Visibly disappointed, Shawna stepped back inside. “Hush, you,” she snapped at the dog.

With a shaky hand, Cheryl clicked a button on her recorder, and set it on the table. She had the volume cranked up, and Dirk Jordan’s song, “Elaina,” blasted through the entire house. Within moments, Cheryl got the response she’d wanted.

Her lacy nightgown and robe flowing, Shawna rushed into the kitchen. The small dog followed her, yapping incessantly.

Seeing her, Shawna’s eyes widened, and she stopped cold. “Who are you?” she gasped, a hand over her heart.

With the gun pointing at her, Cheryl pulled out one of the chairs from the breakfast table. “Have a seat, Shawna,” she said over the blaring music. “You might be in for a long night.”

Shawna gave her an icy, defiant stare. She scooped up the lapdog, and sat in the chair.

“Would you turn off that racket?” she said loudly.

Cheryl switched off the recorder. The sudden quiet was jarring.

“I’ve always hated that song,” Shawna muttered. She looked Cheryl up and down. “I know who you are,” she said. “You’re the crazy bitch who abducted my husband on Saturday.”

“Why do you hate that song, Shawna?” Cheryl asked pointedly. “Because it reminds you of the woman you had murdered?”

Shawna shook her head at her. “You’re insane. You won’t get away with this. I’m not the soft touch my husband is. There won’t be a repeat of the incident with Gil on Saturday. It’s not going to happen. I’m expecting a friend at any minute.”

“That just means both of you will die,” Cheryl said—almost believing it herself.

For a second, Shawna gave herself away, and she looked a bit frightened and vulnerable.

“You should understand about collateral damage, Shawna,” Cheryl said in her best ironic tone. “You didn’t seem to mind that Dirk Jordan and Patrick’s nanny were murdered—just as long as your killers did away with Elaina. Gil told me how Elaina was the love of his life.”

She laughed, and stroked the dog. “Why the hell would he tell you that?”

“Because it’s true,” Cheryl said. “And because I’m not just some caterer who had a nervous breakdown. I’m a survivor, Shawna. My mother was one of Trent Hooper’s women. I was there that night they killed Elaina, Dirk, and that poor girl. And I was there when your hired gunmen ‘cleaned up’ Biggs Farm. I saw the whole thing.”

“Well, no wonder you’re crazy,” Shawna hissed, “You had a mother who hung out with that scummy bunch.”

“I was twelve years old when I saw them gun her down,” Cheryl said. She clicked the recorder mode of the little machine. “That group may have been ‘scummy
,’
but they’re the ones Arnie Shearer hired to kill Elaina for you.”

Shawna stared at her. Suddenly, she didn’t seem so coolly defiant anymore. “Did Gil tell you that?” she asked.

“I’ll ask the questions,” Cheryl said, pulling out another chair and sitting down across from her. She kept the gun trained on Gil’s wife. She realized she’d stopped trembling. “It must have been such a blow to your ego to know that he preferred Elaina to you. You were this big star—back in the day when there weren’t many good roles for women. And you were married to the biggest producer in the business. But he still loved Elaina. He originally picked her over you for that movie role—the one you got the Academy Award for. You were Gil’s second choice. How that must have burned you . . .”

“She was an empty-headed no-talent little bitch!” Shawna screamed. “She was just a
body,
nothing else.”

“So you had her murdered . . .”

“Yes, goddamn it, I had her murdered. I told the man who arranged it to make it look like another Manson thing. And I got away with it, too. No one would have been the wiser if they hadn’t decided to make that stupid movie—and if you hadn’t started tracking down Arnie’s hit men. Is that what you wanted to hear? Are you satisfied?”

“What about all the others who were killed—besides Elaina?” Cheryl asked. “All those other lives snuffed out, all that collateral damage, was it really necessary? Did your murder scheme have to be so elaborate?”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Shawna replied coolly. “Up until now, it was the perfect murder.”

Cheryl switched off the recorder. She was surprised that Shawna had admitted so much—and with very little prodding, too.

The floorboards squeaked.

Across the room, in the glass door of the stainless steel oven, Cheryl saw a reflection. Someone stood behind her. “Put the gun down on the table,” she heard a woman whisper.

Cheryl slowly turned to see a woman standing in the entryway to the dining room. She was thin with black hair. She perfectly fit the description in the newspaper of the woman who had abducted Adam Holbrook’s father on Saturday.

And she had a revolver pointed at Cheryl. “Put the gun down,” she repeated.

Cheryl obeyed. She started to tremble again.

“You’re back,” Vincent said, standing in the doorway. “How’s Joey?”

“Fine,” Laurie said. She handed him the Tupperware container of cupcakes. “These are for you.”

“Well, gosh, thank you.” He eyed the cupcakes, and then smiled at her. “Did you want to come in again?”

“Oh, no, thanks. I just want to ask you for one quick favor.” Laurie hesitated. “Could you—could you take off your glasses?”

“I can’t see without them,” he said.

“Just for a minute, please.” Laurie pleaded.

Shrugging, Vincent obliged her and removed his glasses.

Laurie gazed at him. “You have a birthmark,” she heard herself say.

“Yeah, it used to be bigger, but my face grew around it. Can I put my glasses back on now?”

“Yes, of course,” she whispered. “Thank you, Vincent.”

He put the glasses on again. “Is that all?”

She nodded. “For now, yes. But I—”

“Mommy . . .”

The distant voice came through her baby monitor. It was a man’s voice, teasing and singsong.
“Mommy . . .”

“Oh, my God,” Laurie whispered. “Vincent, call nine-one-one. Somebody’s in my apartment. I think they’re going to hurt Joey.”

Dumbfounded, he stood in the doorway for a moment.

“Please!” she cried. “I’m counting on you, Vincent.”

He quickly nodded and ducked back inside.

Laurie ran to her door. It was open about an inch—just as she’d left it. She hesitated, and glanced toward the front gate. She could see the unmarked police car from here. Laurie frantically waved at it. She sprinted across the courtyard, waving her arms. She wondered if he’d fallen asleep. Flinging open the gate, she raced to the driver’s window.

With what little breath Laurie had, she let out a sickened cry.

The cop sat at the wheel with his head tipped back—and a crimson slash across his throat. His eyes were still open. Blood covered the front of his plaid short-sleeve shirt. On the seat beside him was the baggie with one cupcake left.

“Where’s your little boy, Mommy?”
Ryder asked over the baby monitor.

Staggering back from the unmarked car, Laurie turned and ran into the courtyard again. She hadn’t heard Joey crying. Was Ryder or one of his girls holding a hand over Joey’s mouth? Or had they put a pillow over his face?

Laurie hurried to her apartment, and threw open the door. The papers from Maureen’s file fluttered and scattered on the floor.

It was quiet. Her lungs burning, Laurie frantically glanced around the living room.

She ran up the stairs to Joey’s room—where she’d checked on him less than five minutes ago. But his crib was empty now.

The baby monitor fell out of her hand onto the floor.

Laurie couldn’t breathe. For a moment, she couldn’t move.

Then she heard the voice in another part of the house: “Will you play with me?”