CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Are you crazy?” Angela asked, with a
glass of white wine in her hand. They sat in a booth at Palomino in
the City Center Building. The elegant restaurant was busy and noisy
with the lunch-hour crowd. Gorgeous, opulent Chihuly glass vases
were strategically placed between booths; and the wait-staff all
wore black pants, white shirts, and ties beneath their
aprons.
Angela had been sitting in the booth
and sipping her wine when Molly had arrived promptly at
one-fifteen. It reminded Molly of a line she’d heard in a gangster
movie once, something about always arriving extra early when
meeting with the enemy. With her navy-blue
dress and pearls, Angela looked like she was going to a wedding.
Molly felt underdressed in her black slacks and a sage-colored
sweater.
She wished she’d chosen another
restaurant for their rendezvous, ideally a cafeteria where diners
paid up front. This lunch with Angela promised to be very
confrontational, and they’d both be stuck there at the table,
hating each other and waiting for the bill.
Right now, Molly was waiting for her
Diet Coke. They hadn’t even ordered their food yet, and already
things were getting a bit hostile.
“Molly, you’re not making any sense,”
Angela said, rolling her eyes. “I mean, really, why in God’s name
would I break the lock off Chris’s school locker and leave him some
snide note about you? Talk about crazy. It’s as nutty as you
accusing me of smashing the pumpkins on your front stoop—and then
breaking into the house. I know how much Erin loves Halloween. Why
on earth would I want to ruin that for her?”
“Well, if you didn’t do it, who did?”
Molly pressed. “Who else has a key to the house?”
Angela leaned forward. “I don’t have a
key to the house anymore. I gave it to Jeff when I left. And I
don’t know where Chris’s locker is at school. If I was sneaking
around the school hallways, don’t you think Chris would have
noticed—or one of his friends would have seen me and told him? Why
would I do something so silly? If I wanted to tell Chris something,
I’d sit down with him and tell him—face-to-face.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Molly countered.
“You wouldn’t want your son to know you hired a private detective
to look into my family background. So you planted that note in his
jacket. You have a history of being underhanded and sneaky and . .
.”
The waitress returned with her Diet
Coke, and Molly fell silent. She worked up a smile, shifted in her
seat, and tried to look interested in her menu.
“We still haven’t decided on lunch
yet,” Angela told the waitress. “Give us a few
minutes.”
“Certainly, take your time,” the
waitress said.
Angela waited until the waitress walked
away, and then she turned toward Molly. “You know, I’m getting
pretty sick of all your accusations,” she said. “And I don’t
appreciate the threatening phone calls on my cell,
either.”
“What calls?” Molly scowled at
her.
“Are you on the level?”
“Yes,” Molly said. “I haven’t a clue
what you’re talking about.”
Angela took a sip of wine. “Someone
called me on my cell three or four times this week. It was one of
those blocked numbers, and all they said was, ‘You’re going to pay for what you did.’ That wasn’t
you?”
Baffled, Molly shook her
head.
“It’s a woman’s voice—all raspy and
crawly. At first, I thought it was that crazy Cassandra, who Jeff
was seeing on the sly while we were married. But then I figured,
why would she call me? She’d be calling and harassing you now.
So—then I figured you had to be the crank
caller.”
“Well, it’s not me,” Molly
murmured.
“I have a tough time believing you,”
Angela replied. “I mean, who else would be calling me like that?
You’re the one accusing me of doing all these bizarre things—things
that hurt my own children. It doesn’t make any sense.” She shook
her head. “You need help, Molly. I’m serious. Insanity must run in
your family.”
The reference to Charlie stung. At the
same time, Angela was finally admitting that she knew about him.
Molly glared at Jeff’s ex and told herself she wasn’t going to tear
up. “Nice, Angela,” she said in a low voice. “Now that you found
out from your private detective what my brother did, I suppose from
now on you’ll get your little digs in wherever you can. Have you
sprung the news on Lynette and Jill yet? Is it going to turn up in
one of Courtney Hahn’s texts or Facebook announcements
soon?”
Frowning, Angela didn’t say anything
for a moment. She glanced down at the tablecloth. “I’m sorry,
Molly,” she whispered finally. “I apologize. That was—that was a
terrible thing to say. You should know, I haven’t told anyone about
your brother.” She sipped her wine, and then shrugged. “Don’t get
me wrong, that’s just what I intended to do when I—when I hired a
private detective to dig up whatever he could on you. I’d hoped
he’d find something to make you look bad, some good dirt I could
share with Jeff and your neighbors. I didn’t expect something
so—tragic and awful. It made me ashamed that I hired someone in the
first place.”
Molly studied her, and as much as she
felt sorry for Angela, she didn’t trust her one bit.
“Believe it or not, Molly, I used to be
a nice person,” she said. “I think having an unfaithful husband
turned me bitter. Maybe you’re luckier than me. Maybe Jeff has
changed his ways. I suppose some people can change.” Angela leaned
forward. “I’m being honest with you now. So can you return the
favor? Tell me the truth about these calls on my cell. You really
don’t know anything about them?”
Molly shook her head.
Angela slumped back in the booth.
“Damn, I was almost hoping it was you,” she admitted. “Then at
least I’d know who was threatening me. I’m a nervous wreck. It’s no
help that someone tried to break into Larry’s house two weeks ago.
They didn’t get in—at least the police didn’t think so. Nothing was
missing. But they’d pried a screen off a kitchen window. Don’t say
anything to the kids. I don’t want them worried about me—or about
staying there. I thought I’d have to be alone in that house
tonight. Larry was supposed to chaperone an overnight in Olympia
with Taylor’s class. Thank God it got canceled.”
At that moment, the waitress returned
to their booth.
“I’ll have another one of these,”
Angela said, pointing to her near-empty wineglass. “And the chop
salad, dressing on the side.”
The waitress looked at Molly, who shook
her head. “Nothing else for me, thank you.” She had no intention of
sticking around.
As the waitress left, Angela nervously
drummed her fingertips on the tabletop. “Listen, Molly. Let’s call
a truce and put our heads together on this. I didn’t break into
Chris’s locker and leave that note. And I didn’t smash the pumpkins
on the front stoop or let myself into the house. And you say you’re
not the one calling and threatening me. That means someone else is
behind all this, some woman—at least it was a woman calling me. Do
you think it’s possible somebody is trying to pit us against each
other?”
Molly frowned. “For what
purpose?”
“I don’t know, but it doesn’t seem to
matter to her if my kids get hurt, and that really scares me. We’ve
both been married to Jeff—you in the present tense, and me in the
past. I wonder if that crazy Cassandra woman is back in his life—or
if maybe Jeff has found someone new, and she wants to sit back and
watch us scratch each other’s eyes out. I don’t know.”
Shaking her head, Molly grabbed her
purse. “Okay, I’ve had enough.” She fished a five out of her wallet
and slapped it down on the table. “I’m sick of you implying that
Jeff is screwing around on me. I don’t need to hear it—and it’s not
true. Of course, the truth and you have always been strangers.
Lying seems to come easily to you. . . .”
“Now, wait a minute—”
“Screw you, Angela.” She scooted out of
the booth. “Last May, you denied over and over again that you’d
hired a private detective. And now, you admit you did. You’re a
real piece of work. Why should I believe anything you
say?”
“Molly, wait!” she said
loudly.
A few people at nearby tables stopped
and gaped at them. Molly hesitated.
Angela glanced around for a moment, and
then she cleared her throat. “I didn’t hire a private detective in
May,” she whispered. “I was telling the truth back then.” She
nodded at the other side of the booth. “Please, Molly, sit
down.”
She didn’t budge. She stood by the
booth, scowling at Angela.
Jeff’s ex-wife stared right back at
her. “I hired my guy last month,” she explained carefully. “I got
the idea after Jeff accused me. But I didn’t act upon it until last
month. My guy got all his information off the Internet. It only
took him two days. He never went to Chicago.”
Bewildered, Molly sat down at the
booth’s edge. “But back in May, who. . .”
“That’s just what I’m saying,” Angela
whispered. “It’s someone else doing all this.”
Molly shook her head. She felt a little
sick.
She had the horrible feeling Angela was
telling the truth.
With her tan trench coat draped over
the back of her chair, the woman sat at a small table in Palomino.
She hadn’t touched the Cobb salad set in front of her ten minutes
ago. There wasn’t much chance of anyone recognizing her, but she
wore a black pageboy wig just to be on the safe side. She watched
the two Mrs. Dennehys talking heatedly in a booth on the other side
of the crowded restaurant. She wished she could hear what they were
saying.
She wondered if Angela Dennehy realized
how pathetic she was. Ray Corson had figured her out immediately.
Chris Dennehy’s old guidance counselor had taken some notes after
meeting her:
I’m guessing Angela
Dennehy was very beautiful once. She still has some panache, but
there’s a lot of bitterness in her, and it shows on her face.
Clearly, her husband’s womanizing has taken a toll, and she’s
trying to turn Chris against him. As difficult as it was for Chris
to adjust to his father’s remarrying, it must have been utterly
defeating for Chris’s mother. The new Mrs. Dennehy is younger &
prettier. Plus she seems like a good person. Chris’s mother can’t
be happy about that. I don’t know why she gave up custody of her
children, but clearly, she’s doing all she can to poison Chris’s
relationship with his dad. It’s horrible to say this, but in many
ways, Chris would be better off without her. . .
.
She sipped her merlot, and thought,
Not just Chris, the whole world would be better
off. . . .
She was careful not to spill any wine
on the small square of cotton material she’d set by her place
setting. The little patch had a pattern of tiny blue rosebuds on
it. She couldn’t resist gently running her fingertips over the
fabric as she focused on Angela Dennehy across the room. She
imagined the material wrapped around a little doll with
silver-brown hair.
Had Angela noticed yet that her
nightgown had a small square cut from the hem? It had been that way
for two weeks now.
She thought about what Ray Corson had
written in his private journal, after Angela and her friends on
Willow Tree Court had waged their campaign against
him:
Molly Dennehy
handled things rather quietly & it might have stayed under the
radar. But the former Mrs. Dennehy has really gone on the warpath.
I wonder how much of her animosity toward me is based on genuine
concern for her son. Or is it a means for Angela Dennehy to
reestablish her maternal turf & show up her successor as an
ineffectual & incompetent mother? I used to feel sorry for
Angela Dennehy, but not anymore. . . .
The woman carefully folded the small
patch cut from Angela Dennehy’s nightgown. She slipped it inside a
little plastic bag and stashed it into her purse. She gazed over at
the two Mrs. Dennehys again.
She decided that Ray Corson was a
better person than her. She never felt sorry for Angela Dennehy. In
fact, it gave her great satisfaction telling Angela over the phone
that she was going to pay for what she’d done.
The digital clock on her nightstand
read 1:42 A.M. Molly was pretty certain
both Chris and Erin were asleep. She was the only one hearing the
sounds of the house settling and that one tree branch scraping
against the bathroom window screen every time the wind kicked up.
She pulled the sheets up around her neck and rolled over to face
the bedroom door. The glow from Erin’s Cinderella night-light spilled beyond her room, bathing
the hallway in dim blue shadows.
Molly thought about how she’d given
away all of Charlie’s things to charity—except for a dozen of the
two hundred elephant figurines he’d collected in his lifetime.
Those were the only things from her past that she wanted to hold on
to.
But now someone had dug everything up
again. She’d thought Angela was behind it. She’d thought Jeff’s ex
was responsible for all the recent strange occurrences. But it was
someone else.
Molly had a feeling they were just
getting started.
The last thing on her mind right now
was the Cul-de-sac Killer.
In a split-level home on a Bellevue
cul-de-sac called Alder Court, another woman, a year older than
Molly, was also lying in bed alone. Her husband was out of town on
business, too. The pretty redhead named Paulette LaBlanc had two
children asleep down the hall from her, Matt, six, and Brendan,
three. Brendan was getting over a cold.
After putting the kids to bed, Paulette
had caught up on some editing she’d been contracted to do for
Boeing. Then she’d made the mistake of watching the eleven o’clock
news. They’d released one of those creepy composite sketches of a
“person of interest” spotted Thursday night near Laurel Lane in
Federal Way, where those three teenagers were slaughtered. The man
they sought had been seen emerging from a silver Honda Civic. He
was about six feet tall, approximately one hundred eighty pounds,
between thirty and forty years old, and had thinning brown hair. He
was wearing a tan jacket. The sketch showed a cold-eyed man with
thin lips and a very high forehead. The news segment featured a
brief clip of paramedics at night carrying one of the covered
corpses from the house—amid swirling police lights and popping
flashes.
Paulette was kicking herself for
watching the news story. As she tried to sleep, she kept seeing the
cold-eyed man in that police sketch again. She imagined getting out
of bed and finding him in her hallway. Stop
it, she told herself. She and the kids were safe. She’d
locked up and double-checked all the windows downstairs. She even
had a little canister of pepper-spray on her nightstand—within
reach. Yet Paulette still felt on edge. She kept tossing and
turning. She thought about taking a sleeping pill. But what if
Brendan woke up coughing again—as he had last night? She’d given
him two spoonfuls of children’s cough syrup, and took him into the
bathroom, where she let the hot water go full blast until the place
was like a steam room. She’d lowered the toilet seat lid and sat
there with him in her lap, telling him a story until he’d stopped
coughing and fallen asleep again.
If she took a pill, and he needed her
again tonight, she wouldn’t be able to wake up—much less
function.
She desperately needed her sleep, too.
Matt would be up for school in less than five hours. Plus she still
had eighty-seven pages to edit, and it was due in two
days.
As she lay there in bed, Paulette tried
to assure herself that the Cul-de-sac Killer couldn’t possibly come
to her house tonight. After all, she’d just watched that story on
the news. It would be way too much of a coincidence if he broke
into their home tonight. Her being scared was her insurance that it
wouldn’t really happen. It was like taking an umbrella outside with
her to make sure it wouldn’t rain.
As Paulette drifted off to sleep, she
realized that kind of logic made absolutely no sense
whatsoever.
“Mom? Mom, wake up!” Matt
whispered.
Paulette sat up in bed and rubbed her
eyes. Her son was at her bedside in his Pirates of
the Caribbean pajamas, doing a little dance like he had to
go to the bathroom. She glanced over at the clock on her
nightstand: 3:21 A.M. “Honey, what’s going
on?” she asked, her head in a fog. “Is it Brendan?”
“There’s a man in our room,” he said in
a scared, tiny voice.
Suddenly, Paulette was wide awake.
“What?”
“I saw him sneak in, and now he’s
hiding in there,” Matt said.
Paulette grabbed the pepper spray off
her nightstand and climbed out of bed. She was wearing one of her
husband’s T-shirts and a pair of panties. Matt clung on to the hem
of her T-shirt as she walked across the room. “It’s okay, Matt,”
she said, trying to act brave for him. Yet her heart was racing.
“You probably just had a bad dream. And sometimes they seem so
real, I know. . . .”
Pausing in her doorway, Paulette
reminded herself that Matt recently had monsters under the bed,
clowns hiding in his closet, and a vampire outside his window.
Still, she couldn’t help wondering, What if it’s
real this time?
He hovered beside her, whimpering. She
could feel him shaking.
“Is Brendan asleep?” she
whispered.
“I don’t know,” Matt whined. “I
couldn’t see him. The man was standing between our
beds.”
The very notion sent a chill racing
through her. Suddenly, Paulette couldn’t get her breath. She
started shaking now, too. She thought about telling Matt to go lock
himself in her bathroom. But that might just scare him even
more.
“Brendan, honey?” she called nervously.
She switched on the hallway light.
There was no response. Her hands
trembling, Paulette took the cap off the pepper spray. She padded
down the hall with Matt trailing after her. He still clutched the
bottom of her oversized T-shirt. She stepped across the threshold
to her sons’ room and flicked on the light switch.
She stared down at Brendan in his bed.
He stirred and coughed a little, but he didn’t awaken.
Paulette let out a sigh, and put the
cap back on the pepper spray. She glanced around the room—with the
Mariners, Seahawks, and Sonics posters on the walls and the
matching Transformers covers on the beds.
The toys and books on their bookshelves were undisturbed, and the
goldfish were peacefully swimming around their bowl on Matt’s
desk.
“No one’s in here, honey,” Paulette
whispered. “Now, it’s late—”
“Check behind the door!” he
cried.
“Hush, you’ll wake Brendan,” she said
quietly. Obliging him, she peeked behind the door, then half closed
it—so he could see no one was hiding behind it.
“Okay?”
“What about under the bed?” he
whispered.
With a sigh, she got down on her knees,
and lifted the dust ruffle. “Candy wrappers. Have you been eating
candy in bed?”
“Just on Halloween,” he murmured,
sheepishly.
Paulette gathered up the Reese’s and
Hershey’s wrappers, and tossed them in the trash pail by Matt’s
desk. “Do you need to go to the bathroom?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“Into bed now, c’mon,” she whispered.
“You have school in a few hours.”
Matt climbed under the covers, and she
switched off the light. Paulette checked on Brendan again, feeling
his forehead to make sure he wasn’t running a fever. Then she came
over to Matt and tucked him in.
“Could you check the closet, Mom?” he
asked in a hushed voice.
Paulette hesitated for a second.
Suddenly, she was scared again. She glanced across the dark bedroom
at the closed closet door—with a poster of the Seahawks symbol on
it. The boys had a fairly large closet. She couldn’t help thinking
about the Cul-de-sac Killer. He left the bodies of his victims in
closets. Was that where he liked to hide, too?
She took a deep breath and moved across
the room. She took the cap off the pepper spray again, then reached
for the doorknob with her other hand. The hinges squeaked as she
opened the door. In front of her, she could barely make out the
clothes on hangers on each side of the dark closet. They were just
black, bulky shapes. Her hand waved at the air as she blindly
reached for the pull-string to the overhead light. At any minute,
she expected someone to grab her wrist.
She found the string and pulled it. The
closet light went on. Paulette glanced around. “It’s all clear in
here, honey. Nothing to worry about,” she announced—to both her son
and herself.
Paulette kissed Matt good night, and he
asked if she could leave the hallway light on. “No problem,” she
whispered. “Now, get to sleep—and no candy in bed.”
Paulette figured she wasn’t going to
fall asleep now. Her heart was still pounding furiously. Maybe a
hit of brandy and about fifteen minutes of infomercials would calm
her a bit.
She headed downstairs, and checked the
front door dead bolt again. In the kitchen, she tested the back
door. It was still locked. She switched on the TV in the family
room, and glimpsed some before-and-after photos of a middle-aged
woman whose crow’s-feet, eye bags, and turkey neck had miraculously
vanished.
Paulette set the pepper spray on the
kitchen counter, and she poured some brandy into a jelly glass,
filling it halfway. She took a belt. It burned a little, but she
immediately felt better. How did she let herself get so
scared?
She glanced out the kitchen window—at
her neighbor’s house, a two-story Colonial. The lights were on.
People were still up next door in Larry’s house. If she’d known
that, she might not have been so nervous earlier.
Standing at the window, Paulette took
another swig of brandy. She was wondering if Larry’s girlfriend
Angela had her two kids over tonight—the sweet little girl and that
cute teenager. Was he the one who was up so late?
But it wasn’t just one window with the
light on.
“Oh, Jesus, all the lights are on,” she
whispered.
The jelly glass slipped out of her
grasp and broke on the floor. But Paulette didn’t look down at
it.
She was staring at a tall, shadowy
figure darting past the lights from Larry’s front
window.
He was running away from the
house.