At the Stroke of Madness (45 page)

M
aggie could hear her cell phone beep, warning her that the battery was low and reminding her that she had forgotten to charge it last night.

“Tully, I’m probably going to lose you pretty soon, so give me the bottom line. Were you able to find out anything by going through Sonny’s e-mails?”

“He talks about getting sick a lot as a kid and his mother giving him medicine that only made it worse. Dr. Patterson suggested—okay now, this could be a long shot, but I think I agree with her—that he may have been the victim of Munchausen’s syndrome by proxy. Are you familiar with that?”

“You think his mother purposely made him sick so that she could get attention?”

“Yes, exactly. Dr. Patterson is talking with the local hospital. She’s hoping her credentials might get someone to check hospital records for maybe five to ten years ago.”

“Could you check another name for me? Jacob Marley. See what you can find on him.”

“Jacob Marley?”

“Yes, he’s the funeral director. I think Joan Begley had pizza with him the night she was taken. It may have been exactly like he told me, a business dinner to wrap up funeral details, but when I visited him yesterday he seemed nervous and guilty about something. And he’s a Junior who hates to be called Junior.”

“If he’s the funeral director he would have had access to Steve Earlman’s embalmed body.”

“Yes, he seemed too prepared to talk about that. But he doesn’t fit the killer’s profile. And now you’re telling me I need to be looking for a hypochondriac who’s also a paranoid delusional maniac because his mother made him sick on purpose? That should be easy to spot.”

“Very funny, O’Dell. I’m trying to help you.”

“I know you are. Sorry. It’s just frustrating.” She slowed the car, taking on more winding curves. “We just found another body.”

“Oh, jeez. Do you know if it’s Begley?”

“No, it isn’t her. It may have been her rent-a-car. They’re still checking it out. It was a local reporter with bad eyes.”

“Let me guess, he took the eyes?”

“Yes. And he stuffed her in the trunk of a car. I worried that he might do this. He probably got paranoid that she was following him, but according to Watermeier she’s been at the rock quarry every day and hounding
him.
”

Her cell phone beeped again.

“I’m going to lose you, Tully.”

“I’ll call if I find anything on Marley. Oh, and I’ll have Dr. Patterson call you if she finds anything out from the hospital.”

“The thing is it could take too long. If Joan Begley is still alive I have a feeling she won’t be much longer. This last kill means he’s getting panicky. And all we seem to have right now are too many missing imperfections, a whole lot of coincidences and some white, waxy paper from a butcher shop.”

“Butcher-block paper?”

“Yeah, I guess that’s what it’s called. I’m guessing he has tons of it and uses it to wrap and temporarily store the body pieces. I keep thinking it’s got to mean something, but what? Any ideas?”

“I’m just wondering where you buy that stuff.”

“Well, not at the local Stop & Shop. We already checked.”

“Didn’t you say Earlman was a butcher?”

“That’s right.”

“Any sons?”

“No, I already thought of that. His shop closed when he died. Someone bought all the equipment but didn’t continue the business.” She almost drove through a red light, braking hard and drawing a honk from the driver behind her. Why hadn’t she thought about it before? Luc had said that someone bought all the equipment. “Why would you buy all the equipment if you weren’t going to have a butcher shop? Doesn’t that seem a bit odd?”

“I don’t know. You should see the crazy stuff people buy and sell on eBay all the time.”

“And how do you know what people buy and sell on eBay?” Another beep from her phone. “My battery really is running low, Tully. Before I go, two things—how’s Harvey? He’s not driving you crazy, is he?”

“Not at all. In fact, I think you may have to bribe Emma in order to get him back.”

“Don’t you dare let her get attached to my dog, Tully.”

“Might be too late.”

“Second, how’s Gwen doing?”

There was silence and she thought she had already lost him when he finally said, “I think she’s doing okay.”

“Will you do a favor for me and please check on her?”

“Sure, I can do that.”

“Thanks, Tully, and tell Emma she does not get my dog.”

“O’Dell, one other thing.” This time she could hear his tone change. “Cunningham asked me about you.”

Maggie felt her muscles tighten.

“He wanted to know if you mentioned anything to me about your vacation,” he continued, sounding serious, almost apologetic.

She knew Tully was a straight-shooter. He’d never lie, especially to Cunningham, and now, she had probably gotten both of them in trouble.

“What did you tell him?” she asked, gripping the steering wheel in preparation for his answer.

“I told him the truth, that you said something about daffodils.” Then he hung up before she had a chance to respond.

She smiled and pulled the car into a parking lot, trying to get her mind back on track and off a possible reprimand. Somewhere she had a city map, besides the one Tully had drawn for her. It was just a hunch, but then what else did she have to go on? She needed to find the county courthouse. She needed to find out who had bought all that butcher shop equipment, including what might have been rolls and rolls of butcher-block paper.

M
aggie could hear her cell phone beep, warning her that the battery was low and reminding her that she had forgotten to charge it last night.

“Tully, I’m probably going to lose you pretty soon, so give me the bottom line. Were you able to find out anything by going through Sonny’s e-mails?”

“He talks about getting sick a lot as a kid and his mother giving him medicine that only made it worse. Dr. Patterson suggested—okay now, this could be a long shot, but I think I agree with her—that he may have been the victim of Munchausen’s syndrome by proxy. Are you familiar with that?”

“You think his mother purposely made him sick so that she could get attention?”

“Yes, exactly. Dr. Patterson is talking with the local hospital. She’s hoping her credentials might get someone to check hospital records for maybe five to ten years ago.”

“Could you check another name for me? Jacob Marley. See what you can find on him.”

“Jacob Marley?”

“Yes, he’s the funeral director. I think Joan Begley had pizza with him the night she was taken. It may have been exactly like he told me, a business dinner to wrap up funeral details, but when I visited him yesterday he seemed nervous and guilty about something. And he’s a Junior who hates to be called Junior.”

“If he’s the funeral director he would have had access to Steve Earlman’s embalmed body.”

“Yes, he seemed too prepared to talk about that. But he doesn’t fit the killer’s profile. And now you’re telling me I need to be looking for a hypochondriac who’s also a paranoid delusional maniac because his mother made him sick on purpose? That should be easy to spot.”

“Very funny, O’Dell. I’m trying to help you.”

“I know you are. Sorry. It’s just frustrating.” She slowed the car, taking on more winding curves. “We just found another body.”

“Oh, jeez. Do you know if it’s Begley?”

“No, it isn’t her. It may have been her rent-a-car. They’re still checking it out. It was a local reporter with bad eyes.”

“Let me guess, he took the eyes?”

“Yes. And he stuffed her in the trunk of a car. I worried that he might do this. He probably got paranoid that she was following him, but according to Watermeier she’s been at the rock quarry every day and hounding
him.
”

Her cell phone beeped again.

“I’m going to lose you, Tully.”

“I’ll call if I find anything on Marley. Oh, and I’ll have Dr. Patterson call you if she finds anything out from the hospital.”

“The thing is it could take too long. If Joan Begley is still alive I have a feeling she won’t be much longer. This last kill means he’s getting panicky. And all we seem to have right now are too many missing imperfections, a whole lot of coincidences and some white, waxy paper from a butcher shop.”

“Butcher-block paper?”

“Yeah, I guess that’s what it’s called. I’m guessing he has tons of it and uses it to wrap and temporarily store the body pieces. I keep thinking it’s got to mean something, but what? Any ideas?”

“I’m just wondering where you buy that stuff.”

“Well, not at the local Stop & Shop. We already checked.”

“Didn’t you say Earlman was a butcher?”

“That’s right.”

“Any sons?”

“No, I already thought of that. His shop closed when he died. Someone bought all the equipment but didn’t continue the business.” She almost drove through a red light, braking hard and drawing a honk from the driver behind her. Why hadn’t she thought about it before? Luc had said that someone bought all the equipment. “Why would you buy all the equipment if you weren’t going to have a butcher shop? Doesn’t that seem a bit odd?”

“I don’t know. You should see the crazy stuff people buy and sell on eBay all the time.”

“And how do you know what people buy and sell on eBay?” Another beep from her phone. “My battery really is running low, Tully. Before I go, two things—how’s Harvey? He’s not driving you crazy, is he?”

“Not at all. In fact, I think you may have to bribe Emma in order to get him back.”

“Don’t you dare let her get attached to my dog, Tully.”

“Might be too late.”

“Second, how’s Gwen doing?”

There was silence and she thought she had already lost him when he finally said, “I think she’s doing okay.”

“Will you do a favor for me and please check on her?”

“Sure, I can do that.”

“Thanks, Tully, and tell Emma she does not get my dog.”

“O’Dell, one other thing.” This time she could hear his tone change. “Cunningham asked me about you.”

Maggie felt her muscles tighten.

“He wanted to know if you mentioned anything to me about your vacation,” he continued, sounding serious, almost apologetic.

She knew Tully was a straight-shooter. He’d never lie, especially to Cunningham, and now, she had probably gotten both of them in trouble.

“What did you tell him?” she asked, gripping the steering wheel in preparation for his answer.

“I told him the truth, that you said something about daffodils.” Then he hung up before she had a chance to respond.

She smiled and pulled the car into a parking lot, trying to get her mind back on track and off a possible reprimand. Somewhere she had a city map, besides the one Tully had drawn for her. It was just a hunch, but then what else did she have to go on? She needed to find the county courthouse. She needed to find out who had bought all that butcher shop equipment, including what might have been rolls and rolls of butcher-block paper.

H
enry started to head out to the rock quarry, had almost gotten there when he decided to go back to downtown Wallingford. He needed a strong cup of coffee, but mostly he just wanted to stop in at the bookstore and see his wife. After the media got hold of this latest development there was bound to be a frenzy, especially with the latest victim being one of their own. He was beginning to believe he and Rosie could kiss goodbye the idea of retiring in this community.

He took the back roads, winding around the edge of the city with the car window rolled down. He drove slowly, trying to suck in the fresh air, trying to relax enough so that the tight fist, that nagging ache in the middle of his chest, would let up. It’d serve him right for being so lax about taking—or rather not taking—his blood pressure medicine. Here he had escaped being with his buddies on 9/11 only to get a fucking heart attack while driving through the Connecticut countryside.

He drove by St. Francis Cemetery, curving around the hill, when he noticed a man hurry behind one of the tall headstones. At first he thought he had imagined it. Maybe he
was
having a heart attack. But that didn’t make you see things, did it?

Henry pulled into the cemetery’s entrance and stopped the car. From this angle he couldn’t see the headstone without getting out. He sat there, wondering again if he had imagined it. If someone was in the cemetery there wasn’t anything wrong with that. People were free to come in and often did to place wreaths and flowers on the graves. So there was no reason to hide.

He backed out and pulled onto the road. Rosie would laugh at him, not about forgetting his blood pressure medicine, but about seeing ghosts. He glanced up in the rearview mirror as he started around another curve. Just as the cemetery started to disappear out of view he saw the man again. This time Henry pulled the car off to the side of the road, out of view of the cemetery.

He left the car and backtracked down through the ditch, keeping himself out of sight while he took the long way around. The cemetery backed onto a forest, and Henry could see a pickup parked deep between the trees where he knew there wasn’t a road.

Henry climbed up a steep incline, hoping it would hide him until he got to the trees. The mud and rock kept crumbling beneath his boots and he thought for sure the guy would hear him. Finally a windbreak of spindly evergreens allowed him his first look.

The man had his back to Henry, but he could see the guy had a shovel and was digging. Okay, so he was a grave digger. But then why did he hide when a car came by? And did they use shovels anymore to dig graves? Hadn’t he seen earth-digging equipment out here before? One of those miniature things with the claw? Yeah, he was sure that’s how they did it. In fact, he thought Vargus and Hobbs had a contract with several of the funeral homes.

Henry moved closer to get a better look. That’s when he realized the guy wasn’t digging a new grave, he was digging one up. Just then the man turned enough that Henry recognized him. It was Wally Hobbs, and he was hurrying away to crouch down behind a tall headstone as another car drove by.