Tell Me You're Sorry (6 page)

Laurie spotted the cordless phone on the end table where CC's aunt said it was. As she crossed the room, she noticed a
Seinfeld
rerun on the muted television. She also noticed the tipped-over TV table by the lounge chair. The toppled plate had held a half-eaten piece of pumpkin pie. Shards of glass sat in a small puddle of milk.

She stepped around the mess and headed for the cordless phone on its stand on the end table. With a shaky hand, she snatched it up and pressed 9-1-1. “Okay, I'm calling them right now,” she whispered into the cell.

But the screen on the phone didn't light up. And she didn't hear any tone as she pressed the numbers on the keypad. Laurie glanced down at the baseboard—and her mouth dropped open. “Oh, no, they cut the phone wire . . .”

“Okay, get out of there! Just get out of there!”

Laurie froze at the sharp cry from one of the rooms down the hall. And there was that tinny clanking noise again. For a few moments, she couldn't breathe.

“Laurie?”

Tears in her eyes, she threw the cordless on the sofa and hurried toward the brick fireplace. She grabbed a poker from the antique set by the hearth. Clutching it in her shaky hand, she started toward Ernie's room.

“Laurie?” CC's aunt repeated over the cell.

“Shhhh,” she whispered.

The rattling, tinny sound got louder. Laurie switched on the hallway light with her elbow. The doors to the utility room and Ernie's bedroom were closed. The noise came from inside the bedroom. Laurie glanced toward the bathroom—with the door open and the light off, it didn't look like anyone could be in there. Yet she was afraid to turn her back on the dark little room.

“I—I have to put the phone in my pocket for a few seconds,” she whispered into the cell.

“Wait! What for? What are you doing?”

Laurie didn't reply. She slipped the cell phone into the pocket of her sweater. She kept the fireplace poker raised and ready to strike. With her other hand, she reached for the knob and turned it. As she opened the door, the hallway light spilled across Ernie's bedroom carpet—where two of the bodies were.

A loud shriek made her jump.

In the corner of the room, a large bird darted about its pen. Feathers flew as it squawked again and clawed at the cage.

Everyone else in the room was utterly still.

Mr. Hamner and Ernie lay facedown on the floor—almost as if they were asleep there and letting the women have the twin beds just beyond them. Thick pieces of rope bound their hands behind them—as well as their feet. On the back of Mr. Hamner's and Ernie's heads, their hair was all mussed and glistening. Blood soaked the backs of their shirts.

The bird let out another piercing cry. Its claws on the cage made a tinny clatter.

Laurie didn't even flinch this time. She still held the poker in her fist. CC's aunt was saying something, but her voice on the cell phone seemed far away. Horror-struck, Laurie stood in Ernie's bedroom doorway gaping at her onetime best friend.

In a tee and panties, CC looked so pitiful, lying on top of one of the beds with her face toward a blood-splattered wall. Her hands were tied behind her, too. On the wall, above all that blood, several framed photos of antique cars had been knocked askew.

Across from her—and past the bodies of Mr. Hamner and Ernie—on the other bed, the new Mrs. Hamner was sitting up with her head tipped against the wall. She wore a white terrycloth robe. The entire front of it was crimson. Unlike the others, Mrs. Hamner's hands weren't tied.

At least, Laurie was pretty sure it was Mrs. Hamner.

She couldn't be certain, because most of the woman's face was gone.

 

 

On her cell phone in the Salt Lake City Holiday Inn's mini-gym, Stephanie stood by the window to the pool area. Clutching her stomach, she listened to the screaming on the other end of the line. Then she finally realized it had to be Ernie's pet cockatiel, Edsel, squawking.

Stephanie anxiously waited for Laurie to get back on the line—and confirm that for her. She still clung to a slim hope that everyone in the house was all right.

“Laurie?” she cried into the phone. “Laurie, answer me! What's happening there? Please, honey, talk to me . . .”

At last, she heard a rustling—and then Laurie sobbing on the other end.

“Are you there?” Stephanie asked. “Honey, what's going on? What is it?”

“They're dead,” she whimpered. “They're all dead. They've been shot . . .”

Stephanie gasped. She felt as if someone had punched her in the gut. Her legs gave out from under her. She slumped against the gym's wall and sank to her knees.

The only family she had was dead.

“Get out of there,” she managed to say. Her throat was closing up, and she started to cry. “Run home as fast as you can, and call the police. Do you hear me? Get out of there . . .”

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

 

S
tepping inside the Croton Colonial Diner, Stephanie saw the two crisscrossed flags on display behind the cozy restaurant's bar. She immediately thought of Ernie, when he was younger, saluting those flags every time they arrived at and left the diner. She'd eaten here with Rebecca and the kids countless times. All those memories came flooding back to her now.

She found Scott's mother, Marlene, waiting for her in a booth by the window. “I'm sorry,” Stephanie told her. “I'll be right back, Marlene.” With tears in her eyes, she struggled out of her coat, and tossed it on the seat. Then she hurried to the ladies' room. Stephanie thanked God no one was in there.

She leaned against the sink counter and broke down sobbing.

The last twenty-four hours had caught up with her.

She'd left directly from Salt Lake City yesterday morning and gotten into Westchester County Airport last night. Renting a car, she drove to the DoubleTree in Tarrytown.

She'd talked with Jim, who couldn't make it to New York. He said he wasn't able to get away from his family and his political commitments. Plus, he admitted he couldn't afford to be seen with her there. The Thanksgiving night murders in Croton had become national news, and the funeral would be covered by the press. He kept apologizing to her. Stephanie cut the conversation short. She'd lied and said room service was knocking on her door.

This morning, the police had asked her to accompany them on a walkthrough of 159 Woodland Trail. They wanted her to point out if any items of value were missing. Stephanie did her damnedest to stay focused on their mission—and not dwell on the framed family photos, her favorite comfy spots where she and her sister had talked late into the night, and all the knickknacks that had been in her family for as long as she could remember. It broke her heart to see so many of those pieces—candy-dishes, figurines, and even kitchen utensils—sealed in bags marked
EVIDENCE
. Those things used to conjure up such sweet memories, but never again. She noticed fingerprint dust everywhere—and some unfamiliar, funky art pieces in the living room and TV room. She figured they'd belonged to Halle.

Sticking to the task at hand, she managed to tell the police about several missing things, including her mother's silver service set, some candlesticks, an art deco clock, and at least a dozen Waterford crystal pieces Rebecca used to display in the dining room breakfront. It was silly, but among all the items that had been stolen, she was most upset about a missing Royal Doulton figure. It was of an old lady selling balloons. It had been her grandmother's, then her mother's, and then Rebecca's. And now some murdering son of a bitch was pawning it someplace. And for what? A little bit of money.

In the kitchen, there was a spot on the counter where everyone recharged their laptops, phones, and iPads. She noticed nothing was there anymore, except the power strip.

The police asked her to check Ernie's room for more missing items, but one glimpse inside, and she had to turn around. Yellow police tape saying
CRIME SCENE—DO NOT CROSS
cordoned off the entire area just beyond the entrance. The beds had been stripped, but blood had seeped down into the mattresses. Crimson splotches marred the walls and the beige-carpeted floor.

After they finished, Stephanie hurried back to her rental car, where she sat behind the wheel and cried for twenty minutes.

When she'd left for the restaurant to meet Marlene, she'd been stupid enough to think she was all cried out.

Now, at the ladies' room sink, Stephanie splashed cold water on her face and dabbed it dry with a rough paper towel. She glanced in the mirror. Her eyes were still puffy and red. She couldn't do anything about that. So she fussed with her hair, and checked for wrinkles on her standard, no-iron traveling outfit—a black skirt and a dark blue flower-print pullover.

She had a long day ahead. After brunch with Scott's mother, they were due at the funeral home to make the arrangements. She wanted to call Kit Boling to check on how Laurie was doing. Then somewhere along the line, she had to swing by a mall, where amid the mobs of Thanksgiving-weekend shoppers, she had to find herself a halfway decent black dress for the funeral.

Stephanie put on some lipstick. Then she stepped out of the restroom.

The restaurant was busy that Saturday morning—and noisy, thanks to someone who had brought along their screaming twin toddlers.

“Sorry about that,” Stephanie told Marlene. She slid into the red-faux-leather seat across from her.

“I ordered us each a Bloody Mary,” Marlene said. “I remembered you liked them. Scott served Bloody Marys at that Easter brunch where everyone got so pie-eyed a few years ago.” She smiled, but it quickly faded. “Anyway, I figured you could use a drink after what you've been through this morning. We both could. I think I told you, I gave the police the same guided tour early Friday morning.”

Scott's mother sipped her water. In her mid-seventies, Marlene Hamner was a handsome woman with carefully coiffured gray hair. She wore a dark paisley print dress with long sleeves. She was holding up well enough, considering the toll the last forty-eight hours had taken on her. Still, she had a slightly brittle look to her—as if one more little knock would shatter her to pieces.

Scott had been an only child, and Mrs. Hamner was a widow. Unlike Stephanie, at least she had two siblings to help her through all this. She also had Ernie's cockatiel—whether she wanted it or not.

A stout, brassy-haired waitress set their Bloody Marys in front of them. “Have you girls decided yet on breakfast this morning?”

Stephanie worked up a smile for her. “We're still waiting for one more.”

“Okey-doke,” the waitress said. She hurried over to another table, where the screaming twins had finally shut up. Mrs. Hamner took a long swig from her glass.

Stephanie thought about what she and Scott's mother had seen inside that house. How many Bloody Marys would it take until those images were washed away?

According to the newspapers, Scott, CC, and Ernie had all been shot, execution style, in the back of the head. The killers had put two bullets into Halle's face, firing at close range. Stephanie remembered poor Laurie as she'd run home, gasping into the phone:
“Mrs. Hamner—she—oh, God, her face is gone!”

After her walkthrough at 159 Woodland Trail on Friday morning, Scott's mother had had to go to the morgue and identify the bodies for the police.

Stephanie nervously fingered the celery stalk in her drink. “I'm sorry, Marlene, but I need to ask. Was it—well, wasn't it difficult identifying Halle?”

Scott's mother shook her head and shrugged. “I couldn't. Even if they hadn't done that to the poor girl's face, I still wouldn't have recognized her.” She reached for her glass again. “I never got a chance to meet Halle.”

“You're kidding,” Stephanie whispered. It didn't make sense. Scott had been married to Halle for nearly a month—and he'd been dating her several weeks before that. His mother was a little over an hour away in Montclair. How could Marlene not have met her? “I don't understand. . . .”

Marlene glanced out the window. Stephanie followed her gaze. They had a view of the parking lot and beyond that, the railroad tracks, the leafless trees, and the Hudson. It was gray and bleak outside.

“I'm pretty sure I was
persona non grata
with Halle and my son for a while,” she sighed. “I wasn't exactly thrilled to hear he'd latched on to some woman—a stranger practically—so soon after Rebecca. I told him so.”

“Well, that makes two of us,” Stephanie said. “So I guess we were both on the outs with them.”

Scott's mother nodded. She was still gazing out the window. “A couple of weeks ago, I had a long talk on the phone with Scott, and we patched things up. He invited me over for Thanksgiving. But on Tuesday, he called and canceled. Apparently, Halle was extremely nervous about meeting me and cooking dinner for the family. It was all too much for her. What could I say? I told him it was no problem. My neighbors—Tom and Liz, a very nice young couple—they'd invited me to their Thanksgiving potluck. So at least I had a backup plan.”

Stephanie squinted at her. “That's awfully strange. I mean, okay, she was nervous, I get it. But to
disinvite
your new mother-in-law to Thanksgiving dinner when you haven't even met her yet? That's matrimonial suicide. Who does that?”

“Halle, I guess.” Marlene looked at her and let out a pitiful laugh. “I decided not to make a federal case out of it. Scott put her on the phone, and she was really very sweet and apologetic. I could tell she was nervous, too. She asked if we could all go out to eat somewhere in Croton on Sunday. ‘Nothing fancy,' she kept saying. I told her that would be lovely.”

Marlene took a sip of her Bloody Mary. “I spoke with her again, briefly, on Thanksgiving morning. All Halle said was, ‘See you on Sunday,' and something about how she was looking forward to it. The sad thing is I never really got to see what my son's wife looked like. The photo of her and Scott that CC e-mailed me wasn't very good. Halle had her face turned to one side.” Marlene glanced down at the tabletop and shrugged. “All I'm left with now is what I saw of her in the morgue. I don't know why the police insisted on showing her to me. I didn't know her.”

The detectives had told Stephanie this morning that Halle's father had flown in from Manassas, Virginia, on Friday afternoon. He'd identified his daughter from a birthmark on her right shoulder and a scar on her knee. Her dental records had been faxed from Washington, D.C., for a more positive identification. Apparently, there were still enough teeth left in Halle's head for that.

“I must have gotten the same photo you did,” Stephanie said. “I'm not sure I . . .” She trailed off as she noticed Scott's lawyer friend, Bradley Reece, stepping inside the restaurant.

Years ago, Scott and Rebecca had tried to fix her up with him, but the chemistry just wasn't there. She'd seen him again—along with his wife—at Rebecca's funeral. They had two kids. Tall and thin, Bradley was 42. With his wavy brown hair and thick, black glasses, he was handsome in an aging-preppie way. He wore a jacket over a crewneck sweater and khakis, and had a laptop case hanging from a strap on his shoulder.

Stephanie waved to him. His face lit up and he smiled at her—but only briefly. As she watched him make his way to their booth, Stephanie had a feeling his somber look went beyond the sad occasion. This meeting had been his idea.

Brad leaned down and kissed Mrs. Hamner on the cheek. “I'm sorry, Marlene,” he whispered. “I still can't believe it . . .”

“Thank you, Brad,” she murmured, tears in her eyes. She patted him on the shoulder.

He slid in next to Stephanie, and shook her hand. “Steffi, I'm so sorry,” he said, his eyes not quite connecting with hers. He set his laptop case on the floor and wriggled out of his jacket. The waitress came by, and he ordered a coffee. All the while, Stephanie wondered what he had to tell them that he couldn't have said over the phone. Officially, Bradley was Scott's attorney. Unofficially, he helped him with his finances and taxes.

Bradley asked how they were both holding up, and admitted that he was still in shock. The waitress brought his coffee, and asked if they were ready to order some food.

“Could you give us a couple more minutes?” Stephanie asked. “Thanks.”

Then she turned to Bradley beside her. “There's something you want to tell us, Brad, isn't there? I wish you'd just come out with it.”

He gazed down at his coffee cup and frowned. “Scott's money's all gone.”

He waited a few moments, perhaps to let the news sink in.

Stephanie looked at Marlene, and then at Bradley again. “How did that happen?” she asked.

“Well, he took a big hit for Rebecca's funeral,” Bradley explained. “But that's not what did it. It was the way he spent money on Halle. In the first month alone, he gave her five grand—just to help her out, because she didn't have a job or a decent place to live. I told him he was bat-shit crazy—” Bradley winced at Mrs. Hamner. “Pardon me, Marlene. I just didn't think it was wise. He hadn't known her very long. Anyway, Scott and I didn't talk for a while after that. . . .”

Stephanie stared at him. She could see a pattern here. “Did you ever get a chance to meet Halle?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Actually, no. I ended up calling Scott a couple of weeks after they got married. We talked some more about his finances. He admitted his funds were dwindling, which turned out to be a major understatement. He went on to explain that he hadn't gotten Halle an engagement ring. So he bought her some jewelry to make up for it—several thousand dollars' worth. He converted his savings, checking, and credit cards into joint accounts . . .”

“Oh, Lord,” Mrs. Hamner muttered.

“Between the two of them, they drained their savings and maxed out on the credit cards with several cash advances—”

“Are you sure it was the
two
of them?” Stephanie asked.

“Scott did his part,” Bradley admitted. “But yes, Halle did most of the spending—on what, I'm not sure. I really don't know where all the money went. Anyway, I'm sorry. There's nothing left.”

“What about the house?” Marlene asked.

“There's still a mortgage. It's underwater. Even if you price it way below market value, you'll have a hard time selling—after what happened in there.” He sipped his coffee and sighed. “That's why I wanted to meet with you before you made the funeral arrangements. You—well, you should be careful how much you spend. I'm afraid it's going to be out of your own pockets.”