CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“Hi, it’s Todd. You’ve
missed me, but you got my voice mail. You know what to do. Talk
after the beep. Ciao for now.”
Standing in the driveway, Molly held
the cell phone to her ear. At this point, she really didn’t expect
him to pick up or call her back.
With a sigh, she clicked off her phone
and shoved it in her purse. She already had a supply of peppermints
to ward off morning sickness in there. She set the purse on the
front passenger seat of her Saturn. Also on the seat were MapQuest
directions to various spots in La Conner, and her sketch of
Natalie. A bottle of water was in the cup holder.
She’d put Erin on the school bus, and
her stepdaughter had actually hugged her good-bye—the first
demonstration of affection since the yellow-paint incident. Chris
had taken his dad’s Lexus to school. He and Elvis had picked it up
at some police holding lot on Monday. Molly figured the cops had
taken it from the hotel so they could search it for
drugs.
Before leaving the house, she’d called
Rachel to make sure she was all right. “Not really,” her neighbor
had replied, sounding groggy. “I didn’t sleep well last night, and
I’m feeling a little baby barfy right now. Call me when you get
back from La Conner, okay?”
Molly hadn’t slept too well herself.
She’d kept listening for a car on the block but never heard
anything. She’d finally dozed off at around three in the morning.
Without her usual two cups of Starbucks Breakfast Blend, she still
felt sluggish. But at least she wasn’t sick.
It was chilly and overcast out. She had
on a black sweater, jeans, and a pea jacket. Before ducking behind
the wheel, she glanced once more down the block at the Nguyens’
house. The windows were dark, and Natalie’s car wasn’t in the
driveway.
As far as Molly knew, Natalie hadn’t
come back since the funeral yesterday. If that woman shouting,
“Jenna!” at her hadn’t sent her scurrying,
an obvious bulletin from Todd about her precarious living
arrangement certainly had. That meant her things were still
there—maybe even some personal items like an appointment book or a
journal.
Molly made sure her car doors were
locked; then she hiked up the collar of her pea jacket and started
down the street toward the Nguyens’ house. Lynette’s car wasn’t in
the driveway, and it hadn’t been there yesterday, either. Next
door, Jill’s Toyota was parked in front of her garage.
Heading up the Nguyens’ walkway, Molly
glanced over to Jill’s house to make sure no one was watching her.
She rang the Nguyens’ bell twice and then tried the door.
Locked. After a cautious glance over her
shoulder, she crept behind some bushes alongside the house to the
first window. The curtains were open, and she studied the formal
dining room—with a chandelier over the table for six. She saw a
sweater, some magazines, and what looked like a pile of mail on the
table. Over on the side table, there was a boom box.
Molly had been inside the Nguyens’
house twice—once for a party, and another time to pick up donations
for a charity drive. She remembered a beautiful silver service on
that side table. A silver bowl with two silver candelabras had been
in the center of the dining table. Molly wondered if the Nguyens
packed up all that stuff and put it in storage whenever they went
to Denver.
“Have you seen this
woman take anything from house?” Mrs. Nguyen had
asked.
Perhaps Natalie—or whatever name she
used with the pawnbroker—had sold a few household items for some
quick cash.
Molly skulked out from behind the
bushes and crept around to the back of the house. She tried the
kitchen door. It was locked, too. The kitchen window was open a
crack, but she couldn’t reach it. By the garbage cans, she noticed
an empty square plastic crate to collect recycling. Grabbing the
crate, Molly threaded her way through some bushes by the house. She
found a bare spot beneath the kitchen window, set the plastic box
upside down, and stepped up on it. The crate didn’t feel too
sturdy. She nervously clung to the windowsill. She was terrified of
falling and possibly harming the baby.
Past the screen window, she peered into
the Nguyens’ kitchen. It was a mess. When Molly had last seen the
place, Mrs. Nguyen had the kitchen looking spotless, and on the
counter had been a collection of top-of-the-line cooking aids—a
Mixmaster, rice cooker, blender, and toaster oven. None of those
things was there anymore. But the counter was cluttered with dirty
plates and glasses, empty bottles and cans, Styrofoam containers,
and fast-food bags.
To get inside, she’d need a screwdriver
or something to pry the screen off the window. And even then, she
couldn’t boost herself up past the sill to climb in—not from this
vantage point. She needed a ladder and someone to spot
her.
Molly stepped down from the crate. She
crept along the side of the house, stopping at every basement
window, and then getting down on all fours to see if any of them
were unlocked. She rounded the corner and was about to test the
fourth basement window when she heard a twig snap behind
her.
Molly turned and saw someone standing a
few feet away, staring down at her.
“Oh, Jill, God, you scared me,” she
said.
“What are you doing?” her neighbor
asked.
Molly straightened up and then stepped
around the shrubs. “Oh, I—I was looking for Erin’s pet ferret,
Fergie. She—she got out, and I chased her down the block to the
backyard here. You haven’t seen her, have you?”
With a baffled look, Jill shook her
head.
Molly glanced toward the Nguyens’
house. “I hope I didn’t disturb Natalie.”
“I don’t think she’s home,” Jill said.
“I haven’t seen her since the funeral yesterday. How are you
holding up?”
Molly shrugged. “I’m a little better
than yesterday. Thanks for asking.”
“Listen, if Natalie doesn’t come back
tonight, you and Rachel will have the cul-de-sac to yourselves,”
Jill said. “Lynette and the kids are staying at her sister’s,
because she’s closer to the hospital. And Darren’s sleeping over at
a friend’s tonight, so I’m going to our cabin on Anderson
Island.”
“Well, have a good time,” Molly
said.
“That detective mentioned at that
block-watch meeting that we should let neighbors know if we won’t
be home, so I figure what the heck. Anyway, I should get cracking
if I want to catch the next ferry.” She turned and started toward
her house. “I hope you find your ferret!” she called over her
shoulder.
“I’ll weed her out!” Molly
replied.
Five minutes later when she got back to
her car, Molly dug the cell phone out of her purse and dialed
Rachel again. She still sounded sleepy when she picked up.
“Hello?”
“I’m sorry to bother you again, but
could you do me a big favor?” Molly asked.
“What is it?” Rachel asked,
yawning.
“Just make sure if Natalie comes back,
that she doesn’t leave again. I don’t want her clearing out the
house and then disappearing. Could you keep a lookout while I’m in
La Conner?”
“I’ll set up a roadblock should she
return,” Rachel said. “Seriously, I might go to the mini-mart for a
few minutes, but I won’t linger. I promise.”
“Thanks,” Molly said. “When I get back
this afternoon, we’ll have the entire block to ourselves. Everyone
else will be gone. If Natalie left anything behind in the house,
this is our chance to sneak in there and take a look. How would you
like to help me get inside the Nguyens’ later today?”
“You mean like breaking and
entering?”
“Well, you’d hold a ladder while I pry
a screen off the kitchen window and climb inside. So—yes, breaking
and entering.”
“Sounds like fun. Sign me up. Listen,
I’m still not feeling a hundred percent right now. But I should
rally by the time you get back. I’ll call your cell if Nat makes an
appearance.”
“Thanks, Rachel,” she said. “Feel
better. And be careful. Watch your back, okay?”
“I will. Good luck up in La
Conner.”
Molly heard her hang up on the other
end. She clicked off and set the phone down on the passenger
seat.
Biting her lip, she started up the car
and pulled out of the driveway. She glanced over at Rachel’s house.
She wondered if her neighbor really took her seriously. Did she
have any idea just how dangerous Natalie could be? Rachel was the
only friend she had right now, and she didn’t want to lose
her.
As she pulled out of the cul-de-sac,
Molly was still worried about Rachel.
She didn’t notice the NO OUTLET sign at the end of the block was
missing.
Chris didn’t take his father’s Lexus to
school.
He drove it to the Marriott by the
airport. He parked in the same tiered lot his father had probably
used five days ago. He’d brought along a photo of his dad. He
wasn’t sure how much he believed Molly’s rants about a woman
causing all these recent deaths and accidents; but he knew she was
right about something. His dad wouldn’t have been in that hotel
room alone.
He decided to try the coffee house off
the lobby first. It looked like they were finishing up the last of
the breakfast rush crowd. He ordered a bowl of Rice Krispies and an
orange juice, which cost him $13.50. He showed his dad’s photo to
the waitress, and she didn’t recognize him. The busboy who filled
his water glass didn’t recognize his dad, either. And the photo
didn’t look familiar to two waitresses Chris stopped on his way out
of the restaurant.
Wandering around the hallways, he
stopped three maids and showed them his father’s picture. None of
them had seen his dad on Friday.
In the lobby, he stopped to talk to a
uniformed guy who was holding doors and hauling suitcases. He was a
good-looking Latino not much older than him. His Marriott name tag
said FELIX. Chris showed him the photo of his dad. “Did you happen
to see this man here on Friday?”
Felix popped three Tic Tacs in his
mouth and immediately started munching them. “He looks just like
you,” he said, studying the photo. “Who is he?”
“My—my uncle,” Chris lied. “He
overdosed in one of the rooms.”
“Oh, shit, man, that’s the guy the
police were asking about,” Felix said. “He’s your
uncle?”
Chris nodded. “I want to find out if he
was alone or not.”
Felix glanced past Chris’s shoulder.
“C’mon, step out with me. The desk clerk is looking at us. Goddamn
weasel is always on my case. . . .”
Chris went through the lobby doors with
him to the covered atrium, where there was a baggage cart for
pushing suitcases and a valet station. He zipped up his school
jacket. “Anything you heard, anything you could tell me would be
really helpful,” he said.
“Well, I hear he had himself a real
party there in 104,” Felix said. “If you gotta go, that’s the way
to go. Wait here. . . .” He took the photo over to a tall, blond
guy at the valet station.
Shoving his hands in his jacket
pockets, Chris stood by the door. He watched Felix show the photo
to his pal. He whispered something to the blond guy, and they both
chuckled. Chris had a bad feeling about this. His eyes started to
tear up.
Felix came back, fanning himself with
the photo. “Yeah, I didn’t see him myself, but my buddy and I know
the girl who waited on him in the bar. The police didn’t talk to
her. But I can track her down for you for . . . twenty
bucks.”
“Twenty bucks,” Chris repeated. He held
out his hand. “Can I have the photo back?”
Felix gave it to him.
Pocketing the photo, Chris backed
toward the lobby door. “Thanks,” he said. “And fuck you. I’m going
to have a talk with your pal, the desk clerk, and then I’ll tell
the police you were holding out on them.”
“Hey, now, wait a minute, wait a
minute,” Felix said. “First off, hot shot, dry your eyes. That
wasn’t your uncle in the picture, was it? He looked too much like
you. He was your dad, wasn’t he?”
Chris quickly wiped the tears away.
“Are you going to help me or not?”
Felix nodded. “A friend of mine,
Roseann, she’s a parttimer here, and she uses her sister’s green
card. She’d be in a shitload of trouble if the hotel or the cops
got wind of that. So her sister is covering for her, and saying she
worked Friday. She’s saying she saw nothing and they’re sticking to
that. But between you and me, your old man came into the bar, and
Roseann waited on him. Rosie remembered, because they found him
dead and his picture was on TV the next day. Anyway, Rosie said he
was with a woman.”
“How can I get ahold of this Roseann?”
Chris asked.
“You can’t. And you aren’t repeating
what I just told you to anybody, because if you do, I’ll kick the
shit out of you.”
“Please,” Chris whispered. “I think
this woman might have killed my father. I need to know if your
friend heard anything or if she can describe her. I promise I won’t
use your friend’s name or say where I found out. Please, I’ll pay
you. . . .”
“Jesus, don’t start crying on me again,
man,” Felix whispered. He glanced over at a Lincoln Town Car
approaching the drive-thru. “And I don’t want your stinking money
anymore, either. . . .”
Chris stood by while Felix opened the
back door of the Lincoln Town Car. His smile and his enthusiastic,
“good morning” were ignored by the rich-looking middle-aged woman
who emerged from the back of the car. He hurried to get the lobby
door for her, and she walked through without glancing at him. Then
Felix retreated to the back of the Town Car, where the driver had
popped the trunk. He collected two big bags and brushed past Chris
as he loaded them onto the baggage caddy. “Roseann’s working her
other job today, selling dried flowers at Pike Street Market,” he
whispered. “She has the first dried-flower stand down from where
they throw the fish.”
“Thanks,” Chris said. “Thanks a
lot.”
Felix nodded. With a grunt, he pushed
the baggage cart toward the door.
She started to slow down for the turn
to Willow Tree Court up ahead. She could see the black Honda Accord
pull out from the cul-de-sac. It was Rachel Cross’s car, and it
passed her going in the other direction.
In the rearview mirror, she took one
last glance at Rachel’s Honda Accord, growing tinier with the
distance. Then she turned onto the dead end. She’d borrowed a
beat-up old station wagon from a friend. She had a lot of packing
to do today, and the Mini Cooper couldn’t have handled the
load.
Her days of free room and board at the
Nguyens’ were a thing of the past. It had been a sweet setup for
nine weeks. She’d had a good run, but it wasn’t quite over
yet.
She studied the Dennehys’ house as she
drove by. The widow’s car wasn’t in the driveway. It didn’t look
like anyone was home at Lynette’s or Jill’s either. So her timing
was pretty close to perfect.
She pulled into the Nguyens’ driveway,
then quickly jumped out of the car and let herself inside the
house. She hurried through to the garage entrance, where she pushed
the button for the automatic garage door. Once it was open, she
pressed the LOCK button. Running back to the station wagon, she
climbed inside, started it up, and pulled into the garage. In less
than a minute, she pressed the OPERATE button, and the garage door
closed again.
It took a half hour to load up the
station wagon with all of her stuff—along with a few things that
the Nguyens wouldn’t miss. Hell, the things they’d really miss—the
valuable items—she’d already sold at the hock shop weeks ago. All
that remained were some DVDs and some fancy scarves and clothes
belonging to the wife.
She glanced out the front window at the
other houses on the cul-de-sac. There still weren’t cars in any of
the driveways. She was wearing a fatigue jacket, a black tee, and
jeans, perfect camouflage clothes.
The November wind whipped at her long,
dark blond hair as she stepped outside. She cut around back and
made her way along the edge of the woods—into the Dennehys’
backyard. She crept up to the sliding glass doors and peered into
the family room. A fancy floral arrangement was on the table by the
sofa—no doubt, condolence flowers from some family
friend.
She realized her nose was fogging up
the glass. She gave the door handle a tug, but it didn’t give. She
glanced around for a flowerpot under which a key might be hidden.
But there wasn’t one. She felt along the top of the frame to the
sliding glass door, but again, no luck.
Undaunted, she moved onto the next yard
and the next house. It took her only five minutes to find a key
underneath one of the flowerpots by Rachel Cross’s screen porch.
She tried it on the back door and felt the lock turn. She held her
breath for a few seconds as she opened the door and waited for an
alarm to sound. But it stayed quiet.
The house smelled like cinnamon toast.
The kitchen was pretty spotless—except for a near-empty glass of
milk by the sink. She didn’t linger. She moved toward the front of
the house and started up the stairs.
She wanted to see the
bedroom.
The windmill in front of Windmill
Antiques & Miniatures stood about ten feet high. The store
itself looked like a slightly decayed antebellum mansion—with white
pillars, a porch, and a porch swing. Posted along the front lawn
was a collection of novelty wind toys: a man rowing in a boat, a
woman swimming, a sailor with flags, and a British bobby directing
traffic, among others.
Molly hoped she would have better luck
in the antique store than she’d had at the La Conner Channel Lodge.
In the chalet-style lobby, she’d questioned two bellhops. Neither
one of them recognized Jeff’s photograph—or the sketch of Natalie.
She’d tried the fiftysomething woman at the registration desk,
giving her the dates Jeff checked in and checked out. She showed
her Jeff’s photo and asked if she remembered whether or not he’d
checked in alone. Molly got a very haughty, “I’m sorry, ma’am,
we’re not allowed to give out that kind of information. The privacy
of our guests is very important to us.”
Molly wanted to tell her: Well, what—and who—my husband was doing in your hotel is very
important to me. But she didn’t think of that comeback until
after she’d nodded politely to the woman and ducked out the front
door.
The antique store was three blocks
away. As she stepped inside, a little bell on the door rang. It had
a slightly musty smell, like an old attic. There was a grand
staircase right in front of her—with dozens of clocks and ornately
framed paintings and old photographs on the wall. To her right was
a parlor, with wall shelves full of vases, lamps, and desk clocks.
An elaborate toy train set—complete with a bridge, two crossing
gates, and a town full of stores, houses, and foliage—was on a big
table in the middle of the room. To Molly’s left was a room with a
dozen different dollhouses. Miniature furniture, lamps,
knickknacks, and tiny dolls—including dolls of pets—lined the
shelves of the big room.
She didn’t see any other customers on
this floor, but she could hear some footsteps above
her.
Farther back from the stairs, at the
sales counter was a ruggedly handsome, balding man of about fifty.
He wore a tight-fitting yellow polo shirt that showed off his
buffed physique. He smiled at her. “Let me know if I can help you
find anything.”
“Actually,” she said, approaching the
counter, “I’m hoping you might answer a few questions about
something my husband bought here last month.” She took out the
MasterCard bill and Jeff’s photo. “It was a charge for $247.90 on
October seventh. This is his picture. I don’t know if you’d
remember—”
“Oh, yeah, I remember him,” the man
said, with a chuckle. “My coworker, Sheila, she was instantly
smitten. She was all over him as soon as he walked in the store.
Me, I helped the woman. . . .” He hesitated. “Um, I mean, the—the
next customer who came in after him, it was a woman.”
Molly showed him the sketch of Natalie.
“Did the woman look anything like this?”
Nervously drumming his fingers on the
countertop, he looked at the picture and gave an uneasy shrug.
“I—um, you know, I’m not sure.”
“It’s okay,” Molly said. “I know he was
here in La Conner with another woman.”
“Listen, your husband seemed like a
nice enough guy. I don’t want to get anybody in
trouble.”
“You can’t possibly get him into any
more trouble than he’s already in,” Molly said. “He died last
week.”
“Oh, God, I’m so sorry,” the man
murmured.
“Thanks,” Molly said. She showed him
the charcoal drawing again. “I’d really like to know about this
woman he was with—to give me some closure. This is just a rough
sketch. But does it look anything like the woman you waited on?
She’s got blond hair. . . .”
He frowned. “It could be her. But she
had her hair up and she was wearing sunglasses. If I remember
right, her hair was closer to brown. I’m sorry, I can’t say for
sure.”
“Her hair is almost brown. It’s a
darker shade of blond. Was she very thin?”
He shrugged. “I couldn’t tell, really.
She had a coat on the whole time.”
“Do you remember if he called her by
name—or anything they said to each other? Anything at
all?”
“Not really.” He scratched his bald
head. “He came in first, by himself. Sheila started helping him,
and about a minute later, the woman came in. She asked for my help
while Sheila and your husband went into another room. She told him,
‘I’m getting you a surprise for later down the line,’ and she made
sure he didn’t see what she picked up. I thought that was kind of
weird.”
“Why was it weird?” Molly
asked.
“Well, she said it was for him,” he
replied. “But all she bought was dollhouse furniture.”
The woman in Molly’s sketch went
through Rachel’s bedroom dresser and pocketed several pieces of
jewelry—including a diamond ring and pearl necklace that together
were probably worth at least two thousand bucks.
If someone had told her last year that
she’d be breaking into people’s homes and ripping them off, she
never would have believed it. But then a lot had changed in the
last year, and she had no idea how desperate she’d
become.
She checked the closet for shoes, and
wasn’t impressed. There was nothing in the bathroom medicine
cabinet worth taking, no prescriptions.
She headed downstairs, where she found
sixty dollars in cash, a Macy’s card, and a checkbook in a kitchen
drawer. She took the card, the cash, and three checks from the
middle of the book. She noticed a door off the kitchen and opened
it. The basement—it was worth a peek, at least. The wood staircase
had a nonslip, gridded rubber runner and led down to a big room
with a beige carpet. There was a treadmill plugged into the wall
with a boom box and several CDs scattered beside it. About a dozen
boxes were stacked against one wall. She opened one up: just books.
Another box was full of old LPs.
She gave up and tried a door to the
next room. It led to a small corridor with an empty clothes closet
on one side and a bathroom on the other. The bathroom had gaudy
black and silver striped wallpaper and a shower stall with a fogged
glass door. Straight ahead was the laundry room, which had an
alcove with a workbench. Some tools—a hammer, crowbar, pliers,
screwdriver, boxes of nails and screws—had been unpacked, but a box
sat on the table with WORK STUFF—TOOLS
& HARDWARE scribbled on it. There was a room off the work area
with a latch and a padlock on the door.
All she could think was that Rachel
must have something pretty valuable locked up in
there.
She reached toward the workbench for
the crowbar.
Her trip to the mini-mart seven blocks
away took longer than she’d expected. She’d gotten there to find a
BE BACK IN 5 MINUTES sign on the door.
She’d waited close to fifteen minutes before finally giving up.
She’d climbed out of the car, walked up to the store’s door, and
spat on the handle.
Irked and feeling a bit stupid for
spitting on the door handle, she’d driven to Safeway for the
emergency toilet paper—as well as a six-pack of ginger ale to
combat her morning sickness.
Actually, she was feeling a lot better
since she’d talked with Molly this morning. At the wheel of her
Honda Accord, she watched the road ahead and chuckled at the notion
of breaking and entering into the Nguyens’ house with Molly
tonight.
She’d promised Molly she’d keep a
lookout for Natalie and wouldn’t linger at the mini-mart. But now
it had been nearly an hour since she’d left for the store. She put
on her turn signal and slowed down as she approached Willow Tree
Court. She turned into the cul-de-sac and tapped the brake so she
could get a long look at the Nguyens’ house down the block. No car
was in the driveway—and from what she could tell there were no
lights on in the house.
She’d promised Molly that she would
make certain that if Natalie came back, she wouldn’t let her leave
again. And it looked like Natalie hadn’t come back—not yet, at
least.
“Good,” she whispered to herself. Then
she pulled into her driveway.
“The woman bought practically two
hundred and fifty dollars worth of dollhouse furniture?” Molly
asked. “And then she had my husband pay for it?”
The man behind the counter at the
antique store shrugged. “Well, your husband paid for her purchases,
but he bought something, too. I didn’t see what it was. Sheila
boxed it up for shipping. I was helping the woman with her
dollhouse stuff. But I took it into UPS the next day.”
“He had it sent someplace?” Molly
said.
“Yeah, I can look it up by the date. We
save all our receipts here for up to a year. You said it was
October . . .”
“October seventh,” Molly said. She
watched him duck into an office under the top of the stairs. He
poked around in there for about two minutes, and then emerged with
two handwritten receipts and a copy of a UPS waybill.
“Here we are,” he said, setting the
paperwork down on the counter in front of Molly.
She was hoping to see the name and
address of his mistress. But the shipment went to his office in the
Bank of America Tower. Molly glanced at one of the receipts, and
all it said was Jade Antique + 25.57 shipping & tax = $148.60.
She felt a brief surge of anger that Jeff had spent that much on
the bitch who probably ended up killing him. One of the first
things she’d look for when she searched the Nguyens’ house tonight
would be a jade vase or brooch.
“You mentioned you don’t know what he
bought exactly,” Molly said. “Do you think Sheila might remember?
Is she around?”
“She’s traveling through Europe right
now,” the man said, shaking his head. “And I really don’t know how
to get in touch with her. She’s one of the few people in the world
who doesn’t own a cell phone. I can tell you what the woman
purchased—if you’re interested.”
Molly glanced down at the other
receipt. It said: Dollhouse figures, and had
a list of codes for four items that totaled with tax to $99.30. She
started to shake her head, but then hesitated. “Sure, why not?” she
said. “If it’s not too much trouble—that would be great. By the
way, you’ve been very nice, thank you.”
“No problem.” He picked up the receipt
and came around the counter. “I—I’m really sorry about your
husband, Mrs. Dennehy. The dollhouse accessories are over here. . .
.”
She followed him into the parlor, where
the different dollhouses were on display. He checked the receipt.
“The first thing on here is a doll,” he said, reaching for an item
on a wall hook. He took down a see-through plastic container with
cardboard backing and a brown-haired man-doll inside.
“The dad,” Molly said.
“Actually, it says on here, ‘Teenage
Son,’ ” the man corrected her. He read the back of the container.
“They’re very specific about these things. Next we have something
in the dining room section. . . .” He glanced at the receipt again
as he moved to a glass case, where miniature furniture pieces were
displayed. He pointed to a tiny round table with four curved-back
chairs. The set reminded Molly a bit of her own breakfast table—or
rather, Angela’s.
“And she got a living-room piece as
well,” he said, showing her to another glass case. “There it
is—number four-hundredtwenty-nine . . .” He pointed to a miniature
grandfather clock.
Molly stared at the dollhouse clock. It
was just like the one in her family room that didn’t
work.
“And finally . . .” The store clerk
checked the receipt again and led her back to the doll display.
“She got another member of the dollhouse family.” He plucked a
blond doll from the hook, glanced at it for a moment, and then
showed it to Molly.
She stared at it, and slowly shook her
head.
“Isn’t that the damnedest thing?” she
heard the man say. “That doll looks just like you, Mrs.
Dennehy.”
And he was right.
“Hey, hey, hey, hey!” he heard someone
yelling over a chorus of cheers.
Threading his way through the crowded
market, Chris could tell he was getting close to the fish place.
For one thing, he could smell the fish—and he saw the crowd of
people ahead, most of them tourists, no doubt. “Coho Salmon!”
someone yelled. “Hey, hey, hey!” For a second, the crowd parted and
Chris caught a glimpse of one of the merchants. The guy—with thick
suspenders holding up yellow wading trousers—grabbed a big fish
from a bed of ice and hurled it through the air at one of the guys
behind the counter. The crowd whistled and clapped.
Chris noticed among them a dad with his
toddler son on his shoulders. The little boy wore a Mariners hat
and was clapping with delight.
Watching them, Chris felt an awful pang
in his gut, and tears clouded his eyes. His head down, he looped
around the onlookers by the fish market and continued past the
stores and the vendors. People bumped him and brushed past him, but
he didn’t look up—not until he found a Kleenex in his pocket and
blew his nose. He wiped his eyes with the cuff of his school
jacket, the same cuff someone had cut a piece from when they’d
broken into his locker. It was all frayed now.
He heard the crowd behind him, cheering
on the fishthrowers. Some sidewalk musician nearby played “Moon
River” on a harmonica. He started looking for the flower vendors.
Felix had said it was the first dried-flowers stand by the fish
place. Chris saw a stand with all sorts of fresh flowers in tin
buckets. A thin Asian girl with a boy’s short haircut was at the
register. Chris approached her. “Are you Roseann?”
She gazed at him curiously, and then
nodded. “Yes, yes, we have roses.”
“No, I was asking if your name is
Roseann,” he said loudly—to compete with another round of shouts
and applause from the fish market fans. “I’m looking for
Roseann!”
“I’m Roseann,” he heard someone
say.
Chris turned and saw a display table of
dried flower bouquets—in baskets and vases and wrapped in
cellophane. The prices were posted beneath each arrangement.
Sitting at the end of the table, a pretty Latino woman with big
eyes and long black hair was busy at work. She wore pale blue
rubber gloves while she strung together dried flowers into an
arrangement. “Who are you?” she asked, giving him a wary
look.
Chris could barely hear her over all
the people. He sheepishly approached her, and then glanced around
to make sure no one heard him. “Felix over at the Marriott said you
might be able to help me,” he explained. “He said you waited on my
father and some woman at the bar there on Friday.”
She frowned. “Yeah? Well, Felix has a
big mouth, and I don’t know your father from a hole in the wall. So
do me a favor and get lost.” She looked down at her work
again.
After what Felix had told him about her
being an illegal immigrant, Chris hadn’t expected her to speak
English so well. “Um, my father’s the guy they found dead in one of
the rooms on Saturday morning,” he said. “Felix told me you
remembered him. I promise, I won’t cause any trouble for you. Felix
already told me he’d kick the shit out of me if I went to the
police or anything.”
She studied him for a few moments, and
finally nodded. “I see it now,” she murmured. “You look a lot like
your father. He was a very handsome guy. He drank a Wild Turkey
with rocks on the side. I have a memory for these things. The
woman, she had a Tom Collins. Your father paid—in cash, and he was
a good tipper. What else do you want to know?”
He was at a loss for a second. “Well,
the woman he was with, what did she look like?”
Roseann let out a little laugh. “Like
trouble. I could see he was mad at her about something. They were
arguing. Your father kept talking in a low voice. And I heard her
say to him—like twice, ‘I just wanted to be close to you.’ Then she
started crying, but I could tell she was faking the
tears.”
“How could you tell?”
She shrugged. “With some women, you can
just see when they’re working a guy. And this one was a real
hustler.”
“So do you think she might have drugged
my father or did something to make him overdose?”
Roseann shrugged. “I only saw them in
the bar together. She left first, then your father paid the tab.
But I wouldn’t be surprised if she talked him into meeting her in
that room later.”
“Could you describe her—the way she
looked?”
“Light brown hair, cute face, good
figure,” Roseann said.
“Did my dad ever call her by name?”
Chris asked. “Maybe Natalie?”
Frowning, she shook her head. “No, I
don’t think I heard him call her anything. But you know, I just
thought of something else. She ordered a Tom Collins, but hardly
drank any of it. That’s the mark of a true hustler. She’ll get a
guy drunk, while she just pretends to drink. That way, she keeps a
clear head so she can work him later. Anyway, that’s my take on
that lady. But don’t quote me, okay? I can’t get involved with any
police. Felix wasn’t kidding. He’ll beat the shit out of you if you
go to the cops with any of this. I’ll make sure he does, too. I
don’t care how cute you are.” She sighed. “I hope you’re able to
track down that bitch. But you can’t expect any more help from me.
Understand?”
Chris just nodded.
Roseann put down the bouquet she was
working on, then got to her feet and plucked an $11.99 dried flower
bouquet from a vase. She wrapped some cellophane around it. “Take
this—para su padre, for your father’s
grave.”
Chris took the dried flowers. “Thank
you,” he whispered. “Thank you very much.”
Sitting down again, Roseann solemnly
went back to her work. “No worries,” she said.
Standing by her car, parked in front of
Windmill Antiques & Miniatures, Molly spoke into her cell
phone. “Yes, thanks, Peter, I’m feeling much better than I did
yesterday,” she said to Jeff’s assistant. Her hair fluttered in the
chilly, seaside breeze. “Anyway, the reason I’m calling is about a
month ago, Jeff had something delivered to the office from an
antique store in La Conner. I was wondering if you remember him
forwarding it to someone else. . . .”
“Let me check,” he said. “Just a sec,
Molly. Can you hold on?”
“Sure, thanks, Pete.” While she waited,
Molly glanced at her wristwatch: 11:55. She hadn’t heard from
Rachel yet. It made her nervous to think Rachel was the only person
home on the cul-de-sac.
“Molly?” Peter got back on the
line.
“Yes, I’m here,” she said
anxiously.
“There’s a UPS package in the closet in
his office. Windmill Antiques and Miniatures, is that the
one?”
“Yes,” she said. “Could you—could you
set it aside for me? I’d like to pick it up this
afternoon.”
“They’ve got me running around all over
the place today. So I’ll leave the package with the
receptionist—just in case you miss me. And by the way, we should
get together early next week so you can go through Jeff’s office.
Jeff has a lot of his personal things here.”
“Of course,” she said. “Thanks,
Pete.”
“Well, if I don’t catch you this
afternoon, Molly, I know I told you this before, but I—I really
liked working for Jeff.” His voice had a tremor in it. “I’m going
to miss him. . . .”
“Thanks, Pete,” she said again. “Don’t
make me cry, okay? And don’t you start crying,
either.”
She heard him blow his nose. “Too
late,” he murmured. “Take care, Molly.”
When she clicked off the line, she
reached into her purse for some Kleenex. She wiped her eyes and
blew her nose. The bag from the antique store slipped out of her
hand.
After having put that poor salesman
through the paces, she couldn’t walk away without buying something.
So she’d bought one of the same miniatures Jeff’s mistress had
purchased.
The doll that looked like her had
spilled out of the bag. Swiping it off the pavement, Molly stuffed
it back in the bag, opened her car door, and set the bag on the
passenger seat. It was strange the woman had bought dolls of her
and Chris. And clearly, she picked the miniature grandfather clock
and breakfast table set after the ones in the family room. That
meant this woman had been inside the house.
Molly shuddered and buttoned the top of
her pea jacket. Then she took out her cell phone and made another
call, this time to Rachel.
But it rang and rang—until the machine
clicked on. Molly impatiently listened to the greeting and waited
for the beep.
“Rachel, are you there?” she said.
“It’s me, Molly. Can you pick up? I thought for sure you’d be home.
Now, I’m kind of worried. Rachel? Are you there?”
She opened the front door and heard
Molly leaving a message on the answering machine. But there was
another sound that stopped her just past the threshold. A strange,
splintering noise came from down in the basement.
Molly was still talking, asking if she
was home.
She quietly set her groceries down in
the front hallway, and then crept toward the kitchen. She noticed
the back door was ajar—and a few drawers had been left open. She
went to the cabinet, and from behind a box of Frosted Flakes, she
took out a handgun.
At last, Molly shut up and clicked off
the line. The message machine let out a beep, signifying the
message had been recorded. The splintering noise continued
downstairs, and then she heard a snap, and something clattered. It
sounded like a metal piece hitting the floor.
She edged toward the open basement door
and saw the light on down there.
She set the gun on the counter and
pried off her shoes. She wasn’t sure what to expect. Picking up the
gun again, she started to tiptoe down the basement
steps.
For a minute, Natalie had thought she’d
heard the front door. But it must have been some background noise
from wherever Molly Dennehy was leaving her message. Natalie paused
for a few seconds, listened carefully, and then went back to
manipulating the padlock with the crowbar.
She knew she was pushing her luck.
Rachel could be back at any minute. It was risky to stay here.
She’d gotten enough with the jewelry and the blank checks. And yet,
she just had to see if there was something really valuable behind
this basement door.
People on crystal meth could be pretty
reckless at times.
She couldn’t help it. This was an
addiction, a disease. It wasn’t her fault. She’d started out trying
it to lose weight—and for a bit of a thrill. And now she’d gone
through all her money, lost her job, and gotten kicked out of her
apartment.
Todd hadn’t known her situation when
she’d gone with him on one of the few occasions he actually checked
the Nguyens’ house for them. They’d walked around the house, made
sure no one had tried to break in, watered the houseplants, and
cleaned up the yard a little. For months and months, he’d been
giving the key to one friend or another and having them check the
place for him. Natalie couldn’t believe none of the guys had ever
ripped off the Nguyens. She’d volunteered to check the house for
Todd every week on a semi-permanent basis. Then she’d had her own
copy of the house key made. The stupid slacker, Todd, he didn’t
even realize she’d moved in.
It had been a perfect setup. The house
had been full of so many things she hocked for drug money. Her
dealer stayed with her there for a while, and she even turned some
tricks there—all on this squeaky-clean family block.
But the funny thing was that two of her
neighbors’ husbands had gotten caught with drugs in hotel rooms,
where they’d had illicit sexual trysts.
Natalie had kept to herself—mostly to
discourage neighbors from dropping by. But yesterday, she’d let
Jill from next door talk her into attending the Dennehy funeral. It
had gone on and on, and after shaking Molly’s hand, she couldn’t
wait to get the hell out of there. She’d driven up to Everett to
party for the evening. Then she got the call from
Todd.
He was wise to her now. That bitch
Molly must have said something, because she’d left him a message at
just about the same time Mrs. Nguyen had phoned, asking if a woman
was living in her house.
So her plan for today had been to
return to the Nguyens, quickly pack up her stuff, and then
disappear. She was taking a big chance lingering here in Rachel’s.
But she almost had the lock pried off the door. It was so loose
that she could feel the screws wobbling. A crack in the wood had
formed under the latch. With a grimace, she gave it one more
forceful tug.
The latch mechanism suddenly flew off
the edge of the door. It hit the basement floor with a clatter.
Gasping, Natalie staggered back and laughed. The door creaked as
she opened it. Setting the crowbar on the worktable, she stepped
into the dark room and felt around by the door for a light switch.
She found it and flicked it on. The bright, fluorescent overhead
sputtered for a second, and then went on. It hummed
quietly.
Natalie stared into the windowless room
at what looked like a Ping-Pong table—covered with a huge white
sheet. There seemed to be several different-sized boxes stacked and
spaced about a foot from each other beneath the coverlet. Natalie
carefully pulled off the sheet and gaped at a replica of Willow
Tree Court, all made up of dollhouses and fake trees and foliage.
The Nguyens’ house and Jill’s place were a bit smaller and not
quite up to scale with the others. Walking around the table, she
could see those two houses were just hollow facades—like the
mock-ups of the unfinished houses on the cul-de-sac.
But this house, the Dennehys’ place,
and the Hahns’ were all detailed and had certain rooms completely
furnished. In the duplication of Rachel’s bedroom, a little blond
doll about the size of a finger lay on a pale yellow carpet. A
piece of lavender fabric was wrapped around it. A few globs of what
looked like red nail polish were on the doll’s head, and it spilled
over into the blond hair and onto the yellow carpet.
From earlier, when she’d peered through
the glass doors at the Dennehys’ house, she knew the model
accurately copied their family room—right down to the big-screen
TV, sofa, coffee table, and grandfather clock. Two dolls—a
brown-haired man and a blond woman—were leaning against a round
breakfast table for four. It was almost as if they’d been set there
temporarily—until Rachel found a better spot for them.
Natalie thought she heard something—a
stair step or a floorboard creaking. She stood perfectly still and
listened for a few moments. Nothing.
She moved over to yet another
dollhouse, a two-story Colonial, set on a smaller table beside a
bookcase against the wall. She didn’t recognize the house. But two
bedrooms on the second floor, the kitchen, and the pantry were
painstakingly furnished. There was a man doll in the open closet of
the bigger bedroom and a woman doll in the closet of the smaller
bedroom. Each one had been dotted with that same crimson color
polish. A third doll—it looked like it was supposed to be a
girl—was on the pantry floor. It too was marked with red nail
polish. Natalie couldn’t help thinking it looked like a replication
of a cul-de-sac-killing crime scene. “This is weird as shit,” she
murmured to herself.
On the bookcase, along with stacks of
dollhouse furniture in their cartons, there was another little
model. It looked like a mock-up some set designer might have
created in preparation for a play. It resembled a hotel room with a
queen bed, TV, table, and chairs—and another little doll on the
floor. This one was of a man, and he was naked.
Natalie picked it up and studied
it.
“Put that down,”
someone whispered.
Startled, she swiveled around and saw
Rachel standing in the doorway. She had a gun pointed at
her.
A hand over her heart, Natalie stared
at her. She started to say something, but when she opened her mouth
to talk, the words wouldn’t come out. She just shook her
head.
“I thought you were a prowler,” Rachel
said. She took a step back, and then set the gun down on the
worktable. “Are you deaf or something? I told you to put down the
doll.”
“What is it?” Natalie
asked.
“It’s for a special project. Put the
doll back where you found it. How many times do I have to tell
you?”
“Okay, okay, Jesus . . .” Natalie set
the doll back inside the little replica of a hotel
room.
Rachel was still standing on the other
side of the doorway. “Now, get away from my models. I don’t want
them ruined. . . .” She nodded toward the other corner of the room,
where there was a tall cabinet.
Frowning, Natalie did what she was
told. “I had no intention of ruining your stupid dollhouses,” she
grumbled. “Now, just let me out of here, and I’ll—”
“But they would have been ruined,”
Rachel interrupted. She reached back for something on the workbench
behind her. “Your blood would have gotten all over
them.”
“What?” Natalie murmured.
All at once, Rachel rushed toward her,
raising the crowbar in the air.
Screaming, Natalie backed into the
cabinet. The door opened and several small bottles of model paint
fell out. They hit her shoulders and then clattered onto the cement
floor. Rachel was practically on top of her. Natalie put her arm
out, but it was too late. She felt the crowbar slam against her
skull—just above her left eye.
She let out a frail cry and reeled back
against the cabinet. More paint bottles fell out and crashed to the
floor. She felt her legs giving out under her.
“This is just more work for me,” Rachel
grumbled. “Now I have to make a doll for you.”
Natalie stared at her—until blood oozed
into her eye.
She thought of that red nail
polish.
She caught a glimpse of Rachel raising
the crowbar in the air again. But then everything went out of
focus. Natalie tried to hold herself up by leaning against the
cabinet. Somehow, she still thought she could make it out of that
room if she just kept standing.
But she heard Rachel grunt—and then a
loud pop.
It was the sound of her skull
cracking.