Kevin O'Brien Bundle (32 page)
Read Kevin O'Brien Bundle Online
Authors: Kevin O'Brien
Molly turned toward them.
Rachel nodded in her direction. “Mrs. Dennehy said this same woman has been harassing her, too.”
The cop frowned at her. “Have you reported this, Mrs. Dennehy?”
She shook her head. “We had a lot of crank callers and hang-ups after Angela was murdered. I just figured this one was taking longer to move on than the others.”
“Are the calls of an obscene nature?” the policeman asked.
“Well, she called me a bitch,” Rachel chimed in. “And usually people don’t call me that until they know me better.”
The cop looked a bit mystified, as if he wasn’t sure whether or not to laugh.
“I still have her on my answering machine,” Rachel continued. “Would you like to hear?”
The cop turned to Molly. “Could you come with us, Mrs. Dennehy?”
She followed them toward Rachel’s house. The cop mumbled something into a little walkie-talkie device on his shoulder. Molly glanced over at her house, wondering about Jeff and his odd behavior. He’d been so concerned when she’d told him about the attempted break-in, and within a minute or two, he’d just walked inside the house—leaving her behind.
She was reluctant to report the harassing phone calls. What if the police wanted to put a tap on the phone and listen in? Then they’d hear this woman asking where Jeff had been the night Angela was killed.
She knew Jeff couldn’t have had anything to do with Angela’s death. But the police didn’t know that.
“Have a listen,” Rachel announced, once they were in her kitchen. She pressed a button on the answering machine.
“You have no messages,”
the machine’s mechanical voice announced.
the machine’s mechanical voice announced.
“What? Oh, damn it!” Rachel said. “I must have pressed the wrong button and erased it when I was trying to shut it off. Of all the stupid . . .” She sighed. “Well, you can ask Mrs. Dennehy. It was this crazy-sounding woman with a scratchy voice—and a weird way of talking, almost like she was reading a nursery rhyme. She said I’d be sorry I ever moved onto this block.”
The cop turned to Molly. “What kind of things has this woman said in her messages to you, Mrs. Dennehy?”
“Well, she’s never actually left me a message,” Molly explained. “I’ve only spoken with her a few times—and mostly it’s just gibberish.” She tried to avoid eye contact with Rachel. “She hasn’t spouted anything obscene or threatening.”
“One minute, please,” the officer said. He retreated down the hallway—by Rachel’s front door. He muttered into his shoulder walkie-talkie again.
“Molly?” Rachel whispered. “What gives? Don’t you want to report this?”
“I just don’t feel like getting into that whole thing about my brother again,” she said under her breath. And it was partially true. In that note left in Chris’s locker and the letter sent to Rachel, the telephone woman was holding that over her head as well. “I’m sorry, but right now, I’d just as soon drop it.”
Rachel patted her arm. “Okay, Molly,” she sighed. “But something tells me I’m not getting the whole true story here.”
When she walked through the front door five minutes later, she glanced over toward Jeff’s study at the stack of old credit card bills on his desk. If he asked what she’d been doing in there, she would tell him,
“I’m trying to figure out why the hell there’s no record of where you were the night Angela was murdered.”
“I’m trying to figure out why the hell there’s no record of where you were the night Angela was murdered.”
She’d just told that nice policeman it wasn’t worth reporting a few strange phone calls. But she knew she couldn’t ignore them much longer.
She found Jeff mixing a drink in the kitchen, while Erin watched TV in the family room. Jeff offered her a highball. It looked like a bourbon and water—her I-really-need-a-drink drink of choice. “Something tells me you need this,” he said.
She shook her head. “Thanks, anyway.” She turned toward her stepdaughter. “Erin, could you go watch that down in the basement, please?”
With a sigh, Jeff set the drink down and reached for one he was already working on.
Oblivious to the tension in the air, Erin passed between them and retreated down to the basement. Molly found the remote and switched off the family-room TV. She took off her cardigan sweater and draped it over the back of her chair at the breakfast table. She could hear the television in the basement starting up.
She turned to Jeff. The kitchen’s island counter was between them. “Okay, so what was that all about?” she asked him quietly. “Why were you so rude to our neighbors?”
He shrugged. “Why should you care? You hate them. They’ve been awful to you.”
“I don’t hate Rachel. I happen to like her very much. She went to shake your hand, and you just ignored her.”
Jeff put down his drink and rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry, honey. I was distracted. I was worried about you and Erin and the house. If you want, I’ll send each one of them a written apology—starting with your friend . . .” He seemed to falter for her name.
“Rachel,” she said. “I’ve already apologized for you. But you need to know something, Jeff. That crazy woman caller who’s been harassing me—”
“Damn it, Molly, I’ve told you, if you’d just screen your calls—”
“Let me finish,” she insisted. “The woman left a message on Rachel’s answering machine today. I heard it. She threatened Rachel. The same woman called Angela and Kay shortly before they were killed. I’m beginning to think Kay’s death wasn’t an accident. She could have been murdered. Have you stopped to consider all the deaths and accidents and tragedies this one little block has experienced lately? You should have heard Lynette last night accusing me of stirring up some kind of hornet’s nest of bad luck for everyone here on Willow Tree Court. She even brought up Charlie in her little tirade.”
“You can’t take what she said seriously,” Jeff pointed out. “She was half out of her mind last night.”
“But the thing of it is I don’t really blame Lynette for feeling that way. I’ve felt it too, at times. After what Charlie did, I’ve always worried about something horrible like that happening again to someone else I love. I’ve tried to prepare myself for when the other shoe might drop. Maybe that’s why I became so obsessed over the cul-de-sac killings. I didn’t want to tell you, but I’ve had some nights here when you’re out of town that I’ve been absolutely terrified.”
“But you’ve always acted so brave,” he whispered. “Why didn’t you say anything?” Setting down his drink, Jeff looked like he was about to come around the counter to hug her.
“Would it have made a difference if I said something?” she asked. “You’d have gone on your trips anyway. Am I right?”
It stopped him in his tracks.
She put her hand up. “My point is—I can’t really blame Lynette for thinking bad luck follows me around. But I know it’s not me or my bad luck that’s making all these horrible things happen lately. I think it’s the work of this demented woman on the telephone—I think she may be responsible for everything from Erin’s smashed pumpkin to Courtney’s car wreck. I need to tell this to the police—before someone else is hurt or killed. But one thing is holding me back, Jeff. She has something on you. You weren’t in Washington, D.C., when Angela, Larry, and Taylor were killed. And yet you’re sticking to that story. Well, sooner or later, the police are going to figure out you’re lying. And Jeff, God help me, I don’t want to be the one who exposes your lie. But I will. I will, if it means I can stop this woman from hurting someone else.”
Frowning, he let out an exasperated sigh. “Honey, listen . . .”
He stopped talking at the sound of someone at the front door.
Molly heard the lock click. She peeked down the front hallway to see Chris opening the door. He wore his school jacket and had his backpack slung over one shoulder.
“Hey,” he mumbled. “Sorry I’m late. I took the bus to the hospital to see Courtney. But she was pretty out of it, so it wasn’t much of a visit. . . .”
Molly just nodded, then turned and walked into the kitchen again. At the breakfast table, she grabbed her cardigan from the back of her chair. “I’m going out,” she said. “There’s leftover ham in the refrigerator. Or you can order out. I don’t care. You guys are on your own for dinner.”
Chris looked at Jeff—and then at her. Unlike his kid sister, he seemed to sense the tension in the room. “What’s going on?”
“Ask your father,” Molly grumbled, throwing on her sweater. She grabbed her purse. “Good luck getting a straight answer from him. I’ve tried, and I can’t.”
She headed down the hall—and out the door.
C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-TWO
HAPTER
T
WENTY-TWO
“I heard you come in at eleven,” he said.
Molly squinted at Jeff standing at the top of the attic stairs. She lay on the chaise longue in her art studio, snuggled under the comfy throw from Restoration Hardware. She realized Jeff must have snuck up there in the middle of the night and covered her with it.
He was right. She’d come home at eleven o’clock. She’d driven to Capitol Hill and gotten Thai carryout from Jamjurri. Then she’d driven to a lookout point on Fifteenth Avenue, a small park with a panoramic view of Husky Stadium, Lake Washington, and Bellevue.
Molly had sat in the car, eating her ginger chicken and gazing at the Bellevue lights in the distance. The park was across from Lakeview Cemetery, where they’d buried Angela—a fitting spot for her to admit to herself that Angela had been right all along. She didn’t even want to think it, but the evidence—or lack thereof—was overwhelming. All those business trips Jeff had taken without any expense records meant he was hiding something—like an affair, or several affairs. Jeff had been with another woman the night Angela had been murdered.
The son of a bitch wasn’t much better than Jeremy Hahn. And now she was going to have his baby.
When she’d come home last night, she’d had no desire to see him—or even sleep on the same floor as him. She’d gotten a pillow from one of the twin beds in the guest room, and then taken it upstairs to her studio.
“I’ll see the kids off to school,” Jeff was saying. “You just sleep.”
“You need to make Erin’s lunch,” she muttered, turning away from him.
“I’ll handle it,” she heard him say. “Just do me a favor. If the phone rings today and the number’s blocked, don’t pick it up. And please don’t say anything to the police about those calls. Just hold off for today. You and I will straighten this out tonight, and then we’ll both talk to the police tomorrow. Okay?”
Molly didn’t say anything.
“Maybe we can get together with that cop who’s so fond of you, that Blazevich guy.”
“Yes,” she said, tonelessly. “We’ll have to be discreet. When it comes out where you were that night, it’ll be embarrassing for you. Am I right, Jeff?”
She heard him sigh. “We’ll work this out, Molly,” he said. “I promise.”
Then she listened to his footsteps retreating down the stairs.
Molly didn’t want to wait until tonight to “straighten this out.” She imagined trying to talk to Jeff about his infidelity while his children were in the house. They were better off having their discussion over lunch—preferably in a cafeteriastyle place, where they paid up front. So—if she wanted to storm out of there, she could. Or maybe they’d just talk in his office with the door closed and his assistant out to lunch.
That was where she was now, downtown on the twenty-ninth floor of the Bank of America Tower. With a trench coat on over her navy-blue blouse and black skirt, Molly stepped off the elevator and through the glass double doors to the suite of offices for Kendall Pharmaceuticals. She never much cared for the wannabe–Jackson Pollock artwork on the walls. But she liked Jeff’s assistant, Peter, whose desk sat outside Jeff’s office in a separate alcove. A husky, handsome, ebony-skinned man with a goatee, Peter always wore vibrant-colored shirts with dark, subdued ties. Today, the shirt was Orange Crush orange.
Usually, Molly enjoyed chatting with Peter, but this time she’d been hoping to catch Jeff with no one else around.
“Hi, Molly,” Peter said, looking up from his monitor. “I’m sorry, but if you’re looking for Jeff, you just missed him. He’s out to lunch, I don’t know where. He told me he’ll be back in an hour, but you never know.”
“Yeah, you never know with him,” she said, working up a smile. The frosted-glass door to his office was closed; and it looked dark in there. “Well, he wasn’t expecting me. I’ll just go in and leave him a note.”
“Go on in. Do you want some coffee or a soda?”
“No thanks, Peter.” She stepped inside Jeff’s office and closed the door. He had a spacious office with a bookcase on one wall, a sofa, and a large mahogany desk—on which sat a computer monitor and a framed photo of her, Chris, and Erin. One wall was a floor-to-ceiling window—with a view of the Olympics, Puget Sound, and the ferries on their way to and from the islands. Gray clouds hovered over the horizon, and not much light came into Jeff’s office. Molly switched on the overhead, then went to his desk and sat down.
She was wondering about those business trips that hadn’t shown up on Jeff’s Visa or American Express accounts. He must have had a secret account, and the bills were either coming here or at a post office box someplace.
Molly tried his desk drawers, but all of them were locked. She wondered if he’d set up the account online. But he’d logged off his computer, and she didn’t know the password. Molly tried her name, then
Chris
, then
Erin
, then
Chriserin
, and other combinations that included birthdays.
Chris
, then
Erin
, then
Chriserin
, and other combinations that included birthdays.
Through the door’s fogged glass, she could see Peter getting up from his desk. She quickly grabbed a pen and started scribbling on a notepad.
Peter knocked, and then stepped in. “I’m headed out to lunch, Molly,” he said. “I’d stick around and keep you company, but I’m meeting Mark and his mother at Ivar’s. I can’t keep her waiting. She already thinks I’m not good enough for her son. Anyway, take your time in here. Everything’s locked up, so just turn off the lights and close the door when you leave.”
Molly nodded. “Will do, thanks,” she said. “And good luck with Mark’s mom.”
“Thanks, I’ll need it,” he said. Then he set some mail on Jeff’s desk and headed for the door.
Molly heard the door close after him. She wasn’t looking in that direction. She was staring at the mail he’d left in front of her—and the MasterCard logo in the left-hand corner of one envelope.
At this point, she didn’t care if Jeff knew she’d looked at his mail. She was sick of secrets. With his letter opener, she cut open the envelope and pulled out the bill. The most recent purchase was listed on the day she’d found out about Angela’s death. He’d checked out of the Chateau Granville Hotel in Vancouver, British Columbia. The day before, there were charges from BC Liquor Store, Divine Vine Florist, and Blue Water Café—all in Vancouver.
Earlier in the month, when Jeff was supposed to be in Minneapolis, he’d taken a brief trip north about sixty miles to La Conner instead. There, he stayed at the La Conner Channel Lodge, and he’d had a $122 dinner at Palmer’s Restaurant, and spent $247 at Windmill Antiques & Miniatures. From all the prices, Molly could see Jeff was treating his girlfriend to the finest hotels and restaurants. He was also buying her flowers and antiques. Maybe he was in love with her.
Devastated, Molly unsteadily got to her feet. Stuffing the MasterCard bill back in the envelope, she stuck it in her purse. She turned off the overhead light and stepped out of his office. She was shaking and tried to hold back her tears as she walked through the corridor. Just outside the glass double doors, on her way to the elevators, she heard her cell phone ring.
Molly reached into her purse, and checked the caller ID:
CALLER UNKNOWN
.
CALLER UNKNOWN
.
She took a deep breath and pressed Talk. She didn’t say anything. She could hear the asthmatic breathing on the other end of the line—then that voice:
“Mrs. Dennehy, do you know where your husband was when his ex-wife was murdered?”
“Mrs. Dennehy, do you know where your husband was when his ex-wife was murdered?”
Molly swallowed hard. She couldn’t stop shaking. “He was in Vancouver, British Columbia,” she answered steadily. “And he was with you—you malignant bitch. Wasn’t he? How did you like the flowers?”
She heard a click on the other end.
Jeff heard a plane soaring overhead from the airport nearby. He walked into the Marriott’s bar, an all-glass and wood-beam circular dome. With the overcast skies above, the light pouring through to the bar was subdued. The place was about half full with the lunch crowd.
Jeff found her at a table with a view of the indoor pool and tropical garden area. She was dressed demurely in a white turtleneck and black slacks, and she looked nervous. She had her favorite drink, a Tom Collins, in front of her. She smiled up at him.
He plopped down in the chair across from her. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asked under his breath.
“I just wanted to be near you,” she said.
A pretty Latino waitress approached their table. “Can I get you something from the bar?”
“Nothing, thank you,” Jeff replied, turning his head away slightly.
“He’ll have Wild Turkey—double, with a glass of ice on the side,” the woman said.
He waited until the waitress left before he spoke again. “I’m not staying long,” he frowned. “And I’m not drinking with you. I told you when we first got together six months ago that it was nothing permanent. It shouldn’t have lasted even this long. I love Molly. I’m not going to let you destroy my marriage or my family.” He leaned in closer to her. “Are you out of your fucking mind, setting up house right on my block?”
“But she doesn’t know,” argued his Willow Tree Court neighbor. “And I promise, she’ll never know—not until you’re ready to tell her. Have I ever tried to push you in that direction? I don’t want to break up your marriage. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I’m in love with you, Jeff. Like I said, I just wanted to be near you.”
The waitress returned with his Wild Turkey and a glass of ice. She set a dish of pretzels between them. “Thank you,” Jeff muttered, his head down.
“No worries,” said the waitress, and then she headed to another table.
“I really don’t get ‘no worries’ in lieu of ‘you’re welcome, ’ ” the woman said, nibbling at a pretzel. “It just doesn’t seem to be the right response to ‘thank you.’ It’s like I wasn’t worried, I was just thanking you. Know what I mean?”
He stared across the table at her. He wondered how she could act so cute right now and make lighthearted conversation. She didn’t seem to comprehend the seriousness of what she’d done. “It’s over,” he said.
She quickly shook her head. “No, please. Listen, listen, have your drink, and—and—and we’ll talk. I didn’t mean to make you angry when I moved into that house. I just wanted to be close by. I’m staying out of your way, Jeff. I mean, Jesus, I’ve been there all this time, and you haven’t even seen me—until yesterday.”
He poured some of the Wild Turkey over the ice and gulped it down. “You look me in the eye and tell me that you don’t want to hurt anyone, and yet you’re telephoning Molly and asking if she knows where I was the night Angela was murdered.”
She shook her head. “Not me, Jeff. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why would I want to blow the whistle on myself? I like what I have with you. I wouldn’t do anything to wreck that.”
“You already have,” he said.
She grabbed his hand. “Listen, if you’re really that upset about the move, I’ll just pack up my stuff and be gone by the end of the week. Poof, problem solved, okay?”
He had another hit of his drink and leaned back in the chair. “I’m going to tell Molly about us tonight, and I’ll beg for her forgiveness. Then I’ll go to the police and explain to them that someone is harassing my wife. They’ll probably question you. If you’re telling me the truth, and it’s not you making those calls, then it’s probably one of your friends. Think over which of your friends you’ve told about us.”
“Jeff, I haven’t told a soul,” she whispered, tearing up.
“After today, I don’t want to see you again. You’ll have to move. I need you to stay away from me and my family.”
“You can’t mean that,” she pleaded, shaking her head. “Don’t be this way, Jeff. I made a dumb mistake. People in love can do dumb things sometimes. Can’t you please forgive me?”
He just glanced down at the tabletop.
She sat back and kept one hand around her glass. “So—you want to break up. Do you have to be so cruel about it? Is this how you want to wrap up what we’ve had together? Six months, that’s a pretty good run, Jeff.” Her voice began to crack, but she was smiling. “Does it have to end so—so badly? Can’t we hold each other one last time? C’mon, honey, you’d think I could have some closure, at least. What do you say we have one last time? Listen, if you go to the front desk and get us a room, I’ll drive to the liquor store and buy us a bottle of Wild Turkey. Remember that time in Portland? It’ll be just like that.” Her hand came up to his face. “C’mon, baby. What do you say?”
Closing his eyes, Jeff let out a long sigh of resignation.
She parked around the corner from the liquor store’s entrance, near the Dumpster, where there was less foot traffic. No one could see her at work in the car’s front seat. She’d ground up ten tablets of ecstasy, and used the rolled-up liquor-store receipt to funnel it into the Wild Turkey bottle.
She’d bought the pills from Wolf, the same sleazy character who had wired Courtney’s phone to blow up. She was a bit upset with him, since Courtney hadn’t died. But she figured it wasn’t his fault. Besides, she took a certain satisfaction in the fact that Courtney had been maimed and disfigured. No one would ever give Courtney Hahn a break or hold a door for her again just because the girl was pretty. Still, she was disappointed and had decided last night to abandon her notions of a miniature re-creation of Courtney’s smash-up. After all, Courtney wasn’t dead. Yet she couldn’t toss out that little Courtney doll, wrapped in the material from her pullover, with half of its face blackened and slightly melted.
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