CHAPTER TWELVE
It seemed like the start of a crisp,
overcast autumn day as Natalie What’s-Her-Name trotted up the
cul-de-sac, back from her morning run. Natalie wore black bicycle
shorts and a clingy blue top. Molly guessed the thin,
thirtysomething ash-blonde might have been a lot prettier at one
time, but she had a hard-edged look to her now. For the last six
weeks, Natalie had been house-sitting for Dr. and Mrs. Nguyen. She
had guys going in and out of the place at all sorts of hours. Jeff
had a theory that Natalie was turning tricks in the Nguyens’ house.
But according to Lynette, she was a secretary in an ad agency
downtown. Whatever, it was unsettling to have strangers cruising up
and down the cul-de-sac—especially after midnight, especially when
a serial killer was still on the loose.
Molly had tried to introduce herself to
Natalie a while back. She’d been standing just where she was now—at
the end of the driveway. And she’d been retrieving the
morning-delivered Seattle Times then, too.
She’d spotted Natalie, power-walking up the cul-de-sac—with a
baseball hat, a Windbreaker, and the bike pants that showed off her
bony ass. Two fingers to the side of her neck, Natalie had been
consulting her wristwatch.
Molly picked up the newspaper, and
waved at her. “Hi, I’m Molly!” she called as Natalie approached
her. “I’ve been meaning to welcome you to the block—”
Her lip curled, Natalie glared at her.
It was such an annoyed look that Molly fell silent. Natalie pulled
her cell phone from her Windbreaker pocket and started muttering
into it. Then she continued up the cul-de-sac to the Nguyens’
house.
To this day, Molly still didn’t know if
the sneer was directed at her—or at whoever had phoned Natalie at
that moment. Molly tried not to take it too personally. Just the
same, she never made another effort to introduce herself to
Natalie. They nodded to each other on occasion, but that was about
it.
Molly didn’t even get that now. She
waved at Natalie, who glanced away and ran past her—toward the
Nguyens’ house.
“Yeah, good morning to you, too, Nat,”
Molly muttered—almost to herself. Rolled-up newspaper in hand, she
paused near the start of the driveway. “You’re a real sweetheart. .
. .”
Molly wasn’t too crazy about her other
new neighbor, either. A forty-year-old widow named Jill Emory had
moved into Hank and Frank’s house. She had a little boy and worked
at the Art Institute of Seattle. Plump, with tawny, auburn hair,
she’d seemed down to earth. Molly had hoped to connect with a
fellow art lover. But Jill was in Human Resources and pretty much a
cold fish—at least, toward her. However, she’d instantly bonded
with Lynette—and Angela, who still made her presence felt on Willow
Tree Court.
Molly really missed Henry. She still
felt so isolated and friendless. Jeff seemed to go out of town on
business even more frequently. And whenever she started to feel
close to Chris or Erin, they’d spend another weekend with Angela
and come back treating her like a housekeeper they barely
tolerated.
Glancing next door at Kay Garvey’s
house, Molly noticed the fallen leaves scattered across the front
lawn, some blowing over onto their driveway. The real estate sign
was still standing. It had gone up with the SOLD placard already on
it. There had been an offer on the house before it had even gone on
the market during the summer. A divorcee with no children had
bought the place, but she’d yet to show her face on Willow Tree
Court. Her name was Rachel Cross. Molly knew, because she’d already
gotten a few pieces of her mail by mistake last week—some junk
mail, but also what looked like a personal letter from someone in
Portland.
For now, the house next door stood
empty.
Molly had blamed herself for letting
Kay go home so intoxicated that night six months ago. Of course,
Lynette Hahn and Angela just had to get in a few jabs about that.
At Kay’s funeral, Molly had overheard Lynette telling the mother of
one of Madison’s classmates: “Everyone knew Kay had a drinking
problem. At parties, I always used to get some coffee in her before
sending her home. Poor Kay, she needed a real friend looking after
her that night. . . .”
Apparently, Kay had at least one more
glass of wine at home before tripping and hitting her head against
the nightstand in her bedroom. Madison found an empty wine bottle
beside her mother’s body on the bedroom floor. Her mother had
passed out and bled to death.
On her Facebook page, Courtney Hahn had
provided all the details about her BFF’s mother’s death, and said,
“We all have to be real supportive of Madison right
now.” Courtney texted several friends from Mrs. Garvey’s
wake, and she loaned her cell phone to a friend and had her snap a
picture of her comforting Madison at the cemetery. She featured the
photo on her Facebook page, too.
Molly attended the funeral and thought
Courtney’s behavior was obnoxious. Lynette’s other two children,
Carson and Dakota, were extremely bratty, too. One of them got a
case of the giggles in the cemetery. Lynette didn’t seem to
notice.
Jeff kept telling Molly that she was in
no way responsible for Kay drinking too much that night. “You were
supposed to walk her home and tuck her into bed?” he’d asked,
incredulous. “It’s not like you let her drive home drunk—and I’ve seen Angela and Lynette do
just that several times, because they didn’t want to leave a party
early. Don’t listen to those bitches. . . .”
Jeff had talked to Angela about that
mystery man in Chicago, the one asking all those questions. Angela
insisted she knew nothing about it. Molly didn’t believe her for a
second. She e-mailed Doug at the art gallery, and apparently the
nosy guy had never come back. She was pretty certain Jeff’s little
talk with his ex had inspired her to call off her private
detective.
Molly felt very lucky to be married to
such a sweet, considerate guy. Last night Jeff, Erin, and she
carved pumpkins together. Even Chris had gotten into the act at the
last minute, helping Erin with her jack-o-lantern.
She turned and looked at the carved
pumpkins by their front door, a reminder of how good she had it.
Molly just wished she had some close girlfriends who could tell her
what it was like in the first trimester.
Jeff didn’t know yet. The home
pregnancy test had come up positive on Wednesday, and she’d made
the doctor’s appointment for the coming week. She’d tell Jeff once
she got confirmation from her doctor.
So far, the morning sickness wasn’t too
bad at all, just a few mild bouts of nausea. She hadn’t even thrown
up yet.
Still, she felt sick to her stomach
when she thought about having to see “those bitches” in just a few
hours. They were having another Neighborhood Watch potluck at the
Hahns’, a Saturday session. Jeff would be missing it, the lucky
stiff. Chris had a swim meet this afternoon, and that took
precedence. But Angela would be attending again. The same cop as
last time, Chet Blazevich, was making a return engagement as their
guest speaker. Molly kind of looked forward to talking with him
again.
Of course, the handsome cop wasn’t
coming there to socialize—or flirt with her. It was all about
neighborhood safety.
As far as Molly knew, the last
cul-de-sac killing had been over two months ago. In her current
condition, she felt even more vulnerable. She couldn’t help
thinking about Sharon Tate, the victim of a ritualistic murder
while in the last stages of pregnancy. Molly remembered reading
that Sharon’s baby had been a boy. She tried to blot out the
thought, but with this maniac out there, the same thing could
happen to her and her unborn child.
Was it too much to hope—after two
months with no murders—that perhaps this killer had moved on or
died? This was the longest he’d gone without killing someone. Molly
had actually stopped checking the NO OUTLET
sign at the beginning of their block every day. She’d stopped
obsessing about it.
Now she had something else to obsess
about, something good—a baby on the way.
With a contented sigh, Molly headed
toward the house. She started to unroll the newspaper and suddenly
stopped dead. As she stared at the headline, a wave of nausea swept
through her:
3
TxEENS SLAIN IN
ANOTHER
CUL-DE-SAC KILLING
CUL-DE-SAC KILLING
An hour before the Neighborhood Watch
potluck, Molly was alone in the house. Jeff was dropping Erin at
Debi Donahue’s birthday party on the way to Chris’s swim
meet.
Sitting on the tiled floor of the
master bathroom, Molly listened to the toilet flush. The last time
she’d thrown up had been two years before—as a result of some
questionable shrimp she’d eaten at the Bounty Buffet in Alexandria.
She’d almost forgotten how horrible it felt after vomiting: the
burning in her throat, the bilious taste in her mouth, the
shakiness, and the awful sensation that she just might hurl
again.
Her mother used to give her Saltines
and 7UP when she was sick to her stomach. Did that help for morning
sickness, too? She missed her mother so much right now. She still
felt nauseous, but rode it out.
She hadn’t had this problem until two
hours ago. Seeing that newspaper headline triggered something.
Before stepping inside the house, she’d paused at the front stoop
and scanned the story on the front page. The murdered teens were
Chris’s age, two boys and a girl. The girl’s parents, Mr. and Mrs.
Wallace Manning of Federal Way, had become concerned when their
daughter, Sarah, hadn’t returned home from a friend’s house by
midnight—and on a school night, too. Sarah hadn’t answered her
cell. Mr. Manning had finally called one of her friends, and
learned Sarah was at the house of a new boyfriend, Rob Sessions,
whose parents were out of town. Mr. Manning got the Sessions’
address from his daughter’s friend and drove to the house on Laurel
Lane. He noticed all the lights were on.
When no one answered the door, Mr.
Manning phoned the police. Officers found the front door unlocked.
The bodies of the two boys were discovered, bound and gagged, in
the master bedroom closet. They’d been stabbed repeatedly. Sarah
Manning’s body was in a guest room closet. Her hands tied behind
her, she’d been strangled and stabbed.
The Seattle
Times reported that the DEAD END
sign at the start of Laurel Lane was missing.
When Molly had come inside with the
paper, Jeff had noticed right away that she looked sickly. “You
okay, babe?” he’d asked, staring at her. He’d stood at the kitchen
counter, pouring coffee into the WORLD’S GREATEST
DAD mug Erin had given him last year. “Jesus, you’re white
as a ghost. . . .”
Her hands shaking, she’d shown him the
newspaper. Molly had felt sick for the rest of the morning, but
managed to keep from throwing up until just now. She’d vomited
three times in a row.
Unsteadily, she got to her feet. She
gargled with mouthwash and splashed her face. In the mirror above
the sink, Molly could see she was starting to get some of her color
back. She took a few deep breaths, and then sprayed the place with
Glade. It didn’t quite eliminate the vomit odor. Instead, it merely
smelled like someone had puked in a pine forest.
Five minutes later, while picking out
what to wear for the potluck, Molly couldn’t believe it, but she
was actually hungry.
The doorbell rang, startling
her.
Molly glanced out the bedroom window
and recognized Angela’s SUV in the driveway. “What the hell?” she
muttered.
Zipping her jeans back up, she threw on
the periwinkle top she’d planned to wear and hurried down the
stairs. Molly unlocked the front door and opened it. “Hi, Angela,”
she murmured, puzzled.
Jeff’s ex stood on the front stoop with
a tray of hummus, raw vegetables, and pita bread. Her silver-brown
hair was slicked back in a small ponytail. She wore big gold
earrings and a silky bronze-colored V-neck top over black jeans.
She’d laid the makeup on a bit thick.
“The potluck is at Lynette’s,” Molly
said, her hand on the doorknob.
“I know,” Angela replied sheepishly.
“Can I come in?”
Molly opened the door wider. “I’m just
getting ready. It’s in forty-five minutes, isn’t it?”
Angela didn’t seem to hear her. She
stood in the front hallway, gazing around. She took a deep breath.
“It’s exactly the same. I thought it would be
different.”
Suddenly, it dawned on Molly that
Angela hadn’t been inside the house for well over eighteen months.
She noticed the tears in Angela’s eyes. “Here, let me take that for
you,” she said, relieving her of the hors d’oeuvre tray. She
carried it into the kitchen and set it on the counter.
Following her, Angela pulled a
handkerchief from her purse and blew her nose. Molly watched her
assessing the kitchen and family room. Two months ago, Molly had
gotten rid of Angela’s ugly maroon drapes with the fleur-de-lis
design and replaced them with some heather-green curtains from
Pottery Barn.
“I see a few changes,” Angela
announced, “but nothing really drastic. If I were you, moving into
another woman’s house, I’d have gutted the place and started all
over again.”
“The kids were going through enough
transitions,” Molly explained. “So—Jeff and I decided to take it
slow with the redecorating. I didn’t throw anything out. I put it
down in the basement. If you want your old curtains—”
“God, no,” she said, with a wave of
dismissal. “I don’t care. Give them to Goodwill.” She wandered over
to the breakfast table and stood behind Molly’s chair.
Molly realized it used to be Angela’s
chair. She hadn’t thought about it until now.
Angela put her hand on the top of the
chair’s backrest and sighed. “I took everything I wanted out of
here when I left. Anything you decide to replace, you can throw
out. Except one thing—the white wicker rocking chair in Erin’s
room—it used to be my mom’s. She rocked me in it when I was a baby,
and I rocked Chris and Erin in it when they were babies. I want
Erin to have it.”
Molly nodded. “I know, Jeff told me.
Erin’s room is just the same as when you left.”
“Would it—would it be okay if I went up
there?” Angela asked.
Molly gazed at her. “Is this why you’ve
dropped in—because you want to see the house again?”
Angela nodded. “I knew Erin had a
birthday party, and Chris had a swim meet—which Jeff wouldn’t miss
for the world. I didn’t want to come back here while anyone else
was home. I didn’t know how I’d react. . . .” Her voice started to
quiver. “I lived here for two years, and some of that time was very
happy. I’ve missed this place. . . .”
Molly didn’t say anything. She wasn’t
quite sure she believed Jeff’s ex had dropped in for solely
sentimental reasons. Up until now, she’d been so manipulative and
catty. She watched Angela dab her eyes with the handkerchief
again.
“Sure, you can take a look at Erin’s
room,” Molly said finally. She started up the stairs. “For a
change, it doesn’t look like a cyclone hit it.” While Angela
followed her up the stairs, Molly wondered if she’d ask to see the
master bedroom, too. She didn’t want Angela in there. It was just
too weird.
Letting Angela step inside Erin’s room
first, Molly stood in the doorway. Angela reached down and
rearranged two stuffed animals—a giraffe and a pig—on Erin’s
pillow. She moved to the empty rocker and tipped the arm, so it
rocked back and forth for a few moments. The squeaking sound filled
the silence between them.
“I hear you turned the attic into an
art studio,” she said, at last. “Would you mind if I took a
peek?”
Molly worked up a smile. “Sure, why
not?” She led the way up the third-floor stairs to her
studio.
“Oh, this is wonderful,” Angela said,
glancing around. “You put in a skylight. I didn’t realize how
gorgeous the light is up here. What a great use of this space . .
.”
Molly watched Angela wander over to the
bookcase. “I don’t see any pictures of your family
around.”
“I have them in photo albums,” Molly
said.
“I know your father passed away. But
your mother’s still alive, isn’t that right?”
Molly stared at her. “That’s right,”
she said steadily. “Are you going to ask about my brother
now?”
“What do you mean?” Angela let out a
skittish little laugh. “Molly, if I’ve made you uncomfortable,
I—”
“Aren’t you going to ask about my
brother? Or did you already find out enough about him from
your—detective or whoever he was?”
“Jeff said something to me about that a
few months ago,” Angela replied with a hand on her hip. “And I’ll
tell you what I told him. I have no idea what you’re talking about.
I didn’t hire anyone to snoop into your family background, Molly.
I’m not getting that much alimony. I really can’t afford to waste
my money on something so silly.”
Molly’s eyes wrestled with hers. She
could tell Angela was lying.
“Oh, what’s the use? You don’t believe
me.” Angela brushed past her on the way to the stairs. “When you
first married Jeff, I tried to reach out to you and be your friend,
but you were cold and distant. . . .” She stomped down the
steps.
“Why in the world would I want to be
friends with my husband’s ex-wife?” Molly shot back. She trailed
after her down the stairs. “My God, practically every time I see
you, Angela, you tell me what a lying cheating sack of shit Jeff
was to you. Well, I’m sorry, but I really don’t need to hear that!”
Molly paused at the top of the second floor landing. “And I don’t
think your son needs to hear it, either. . . .”
From the bottom of the stairs, Angela
glared up at her. She opened her mouth to say something but quickly
shook her head. She flounced toward the kitchen.
Molly hurried down the stairs and found
Angela by the kitchen counter, the hors d’oeuvre tray in her
trembling hands. Angela stared down at it. The bowl full of hummus
was moving slightly. Tears ran down her cheeks.
“Goddamn him!” she screamed, throwing
down the tray. It hit the tiled floor with a clatter. The bowl of
hummus smashed, and the thick brown goo splattered against the
lower cabinet. Pieces of pita bread and vegetables scattered across
the floor. “God, I’m so stupid!” she cried, bracing a hand on the
countertop. She shook her head. “I thought if I gave him custody of
the kids, he wouldn’t be able to raise them without me. I thought
he’d beg for me to come back, and he’d finally grow up. Instead,
Jeff just moved on. And the worst thing is—a part of me knew he
would. On a certain level, I knew he’d find someone younger and
prettier to replace me—and look after my
children. Now I don’t have anything. I gave up my kids, hoping
somehow . . .” Angela trailed off. She dug out her handkerchief
again and blew her nose.
With uncertainty, Molly moved toward
the kitchen, but she stopped at the breakfast table, giving Angela
a wide berth.
“God, how could I be so stupid?” Angela
asked with a pathetic little laugh. “I can’t believe I’m telling
you this—you of all people.” She wiped her eyes, and then shook the
wadded-up handkerchief at Molly. “You know, I carry these around
all the time now. I keep having these—these crying jags. They just
sneak up on me sometimes. God, I think I’m losing my mind.” She
shook her head. “I shouldn’t even be talking to you about
this.”
Molly took a deep breath. “You’re
right, Angela, you shouldn’t,” she said, very carefully. “You ought
to confide in a therapist or maybe a good friend—like
Lynette.”
“Lynette? Are you kidding?” With a
sigh, Angela bent down and turned over the serving tray. She
started to collect the scattered pieces of pita bread and cut
vegetables, and then tossed them on the tray. “Lynette would only
say, ‘That’s too bad, I’m so sorry,’ and then she’d tell me about
how Jeremy chases her around the bedroom. And that’s such a crock
of shit. Have you seen the two of them together? I mean, please,
anyone who has half a brain and one good eye could see Jeremy can’t
stand her. Talk about stupid—and self-delusional. I don’t need any
marital advice from my friend Lynette. No, thank you very
much.”
Angela missed some stray pieces of
broccoli and baby carrots on the floor. She also left the broken
bowl and spilt hummus. But she set the tray on the kitchen counter.
“You’re right, Molly. I shouldn’t be telling you any of this. I’ve
said too much already. I should go.” She wiped her hands on a dish
towel that hung from the oven door handle. “I’m sorry I left you
with this mess,” she said in a shaky voice. “Please, make my
excuses to the girls at the potluck. I don’t think I could face
them right now. I just don’t have it in me.”
She touched Molly’s shoulder as she
hurried past her and headed for the front hall.
Bewildered, Molly didn’t walk her to
the door. Before she could even react, she heard the door open and
slam shut.
From a second-floor window, she watched
Angela Dennehy storm out of the house. She spied her through a pair
of binoculars, but still couldn’t quite tell whether or not the
ex-Mrs. Dennehy was crying. She certainly looked upset as she
hurried toward her SUV in the driveway.
Fifteen minutes ago, when Angela had
first arrived at her former home, she’d brought in a tray of
something that might have been hors d’oeuvres. But she didn’t have
it with her now. She jumped into her car, backed out of the
driveway, turned around, and headed out of the
cul-de-sac.
Funny, she’d thought for sure Angela
would be attending the Neighborhood Watch potluck at Lynette Hahn’s
house.
She wondered what this visit between
the two Mrs. Dennehys had been about—and what exactly had gone on
in there. Whatever had happened, it was upsetting enough for Angela
that she must have changed her mind about the potluck.
It was scheduled for 12:30—fifteen
minutes from now.
She knew, because she’d been
invited.
Something else she knew: Soon, there
would only be one Mrs. Dennehy.
She’d already started building the
dollhouse.