No One Needs to Know (15 page)

Detective Eberhard had hauled Ryder into the police station to question him about the morgue shot he’d left inside Laurie’s car. But Ryder had claimed to know nothing about it. They’d had to let him go.

One reason Laurie needed this job was to make a new start. Did she really want to tell her potential employer about this trouble she was running away from? As long as she kept a low profile and made sure no one besides Eberhard knew where she was, she didn’t see a reason to tell Cheryl anything, at least not now.

Still, she felt a little guilty about it, because Cheryl seemed quite up-front in regards to the Grill Girl food truck explosion. While Laurie had set Joey in the high chair, Cheryl had told her that the blast had been caused by a faulty gas line. “At least, those are the official findings from the police and the insurance company. But I still don’t believe it. I’d just had an inspection two weeks before it happened. Anyway, I wouldn’t blame you if you have some concerns about that.”

Cheryl was leasing-to-own a new food truck, which would be ready in time for the catering job in two and a half weeks. “As I mentioned on the phone, the job is a seven-week stint, after which time the food truck will be serving the downtown lunch crowd until the next catering gig comes along. So the work will be steady.”

Laurie had wanted to ask her for more specifics about this catering job. But she’d wanted to use the restroom even more.

Now, as she washed her hands at the sink, she was kicking herself for not showing more interest in what might be her very first assignment with Cheryl. She looked a bit haggard in the mirror. Then again, appearing tired and slightly frayed came with the territory lately. At least her sleeveless, dark blue wraparound dress was free of wrinkles and baby puke.

“Don’t screw up,” Laurie said again. She grabbed her purse from the sink counter—along with the restroom key, which was attached to a plastic spatula.

Returning the key to the front counter, she caught a look at Cheryl and Joey. Her potential boss was making goofy faces at Joey while she maneuvered a spoonful of pudding in his mouth. He seemed delighted. Cheryl caught her looking. “Get yourself a coffee or something,” she called. “Take your time. We’re fine. In fact, I’m in love!”

When Laurie sat down at the table with her cappuccino, Joey didn’t even seem to notice her, which was a little unsettling. “I can take over from here,” she said.

“Oh, no, please, let me,” Cheryl begged. “You just sit back and enjoy your coffee.”

She shrugged awkwardly. “I’ve never seen him take to anyone quite as quickly as he’s taken to you.”

“Well, the feeling’s mutual,” Cheryl said, spooning up another dollop of pudding. She was smiling, but had tears in her eyes. “He’s an angel. I—I had a little boy of my own for a while, but I lost him.” Her smile waned.

“I’m sorry,” Laurie murmured. She decided it was best not to ask about it.

Cheryl took a deep breath. “So, Gil Garrett is your godfather,” she said, her eyes on Joey as she fed him. “You know, I’d love to land a catering gig for him and Shawna Farrell some day. It would be a real feather in my cap. They’re always entertaining A-list types at their big house in Medina. I’ll even take a gig at their seven-bedroom ‘cabin’ on Kitsap Peninsula. Have you ever been to either one?”

Laurie hesitated. “Oh, no . . . I . . .” She didn’t want to admit that outside of the one time when Gil had held her as a baby, she’d never really met him. “Well, it—it’s been a while since I’ve seen him.”

Cheryl turned away from Joey for a moment to squint at her. “So, is he a blood uncle or a family friend or . . .”

“Uncle Gil and my grandmother were childhood sweethearts back in Boulder, Colorado.”

Growing up without a dad, Laurie had focused instead on the famous producer who was her godfather. He became her father figure. The chances of ever meeting “Uncle Gil” weren’t much better than her chances of a father-daughter reunion. But at least Gil Garrett had been in the news once in a while. And she’d felt a genuine connection to the handsome, middle-aged moviemaker.

But now, talking to Cheryl, she felt like a big liar.

“Well, I hope you’ll put in a good word for me with your Uncle Gil,” she said.

“I’ll do my best,” Laurie replied, forcing a smile.

Cheryl went back to feeding Joey. “Listen, you should know. About ten days ago, I drove to Ellensburg and had myself a pretty fantastic dinner at the Superstar Diner. I called ahead of time to make sure you’d be cooking that night. I had that wonderful grilled sandwich with the marinated chicken and provolone on rosemary bread . . .”

Laurie was amazed she’d driven almost a hundred miles to sample her cooking. She put down her coffee cup and nodded. “The Rosemary Clooney Chicken Sandwich.”

“If that’s your recipe, I want it on our menu.” Cheryl turned and grinned at her. “That’s right, I said,
our.
I’d love to have you working with me, Laurie. I think it’s going to be a good fit.”

Laurie let out a stunned little laugh. “Well, so do I . . .”

Cheryl made a buzzing-airplane sound, and glided the spoonful of pudding into Joey’s mouth. He waved his arms with glee. Cheryl gently dabbed his face with a napkin. “So, two questions, Laurie,” she said. “How soon can you move here? And have you found a place to live yet?”

Laurie couldn’t believe her luck.

Cheryl already had an apartment recommendation for her—if she was interested. It was on Capitol Hill, walking distance from the bookstore, and two blocks away from a place called Lullaby League Daycare. Plus Trader Joe’s, Quality Food Center, and Group Health Hospital were all nearby.

Cheryl had walked to the bookstore. So Laurie offered to drive her home. “That would be terrific,” Cheryl said. “The apartment I told you about is just across the courtyard from me. You can get a gander at the outside. If you move in, we’ll be neighbors.”

When they pulled up in front of the place, Laurie switched off the ignition and stepped out of the car for a better look. She didn’t want to take Joey out of his car seat again, so she just stood beside her open door and checked out the apartment setting. The rambling 1930sera, Spanish style complex housed eight units that surrounded a charming little courtyard. The tall wrought iron gate in front provided a sense of security.

“It’s a one-bedroom,” Cheryl said, climbing out of the Camry’s passenger side. “They haven’t placed an ad for it yet. I can tell the apartment manager to hold off until you’ve taken a look inside. The bedroom is on the second floor, with an annex that would make a perfect little nursery. You’ve got a full bath on the second floor and a powder room on the first. Best of all the kitchen has been totally updated—including a gas stove. It’s practically move-in ready, partially furnished, too. And get this. If you need a sitter, there’s this darling couple here who used to babysit for their grandson five days a week—until their daughter moved to Boston last month. They probably wouldn’t charge you much to look after Joey. In fact, they might jump at the chance . . .”

Laurie gazed at the quaint apartment complex, and listened to Cheryl go on about the place. It all seemed too good to be true.

And maybe it was.

Laurie had a tiny nagging doubt about Cheryl Wheeler, and she wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because she hadn’t been completely honest with Cheryl. “I’m headed back to Ellensburg today,” Laurie said, still standing by the open driver’s door. “But I hope to make the big move here at the end of the week.”

“When you return, I’ll have the manager give you the official tour.”

“Well, this is incredibly nice of you, Cheryl. Thank you so much.”

“Oh, I’m doing it for myself, too. The sooner you get moved in, the sooner we can start working together. We have to figure out the menu for our first catering job.”

“My God, I’m such a goof.” Laurie rolled her eyes and let out an embarrassed, little laugh. “I’ve been so overwhelmed by all this, I didn’t even ask. Who’s the client?”

“I guess I can talk about it now that you’re on board. We, my dear, will be catering for Atlantis Film Group. They’re shooting a movie here, starring Paige Peyton.”

Dumbfounded, Laurie stared at her. She was trying to process it. Paige Peyton? Her boss at the Superstar Diner would flip. Laurie couldn’t pass a magazine rack without seeing Paige Peyton’s sultry-pouty face on the cover of at least two or three periodicals. She’d starred in one of those hard-hitting TV crime investigation dramas before recently moving on to the big screen.

Suddenly, it dawned on Laurie that this was indeed too good to be true. Here she was, hoping to maintain a low profile in her new city, and her first job would be catering a movie shoot with one of the highest-profile stars around. “Will there be a lot of press on the set, a lot of media coverage?” she asked.

Cheryl frowned at her from the other side of the Camry. “You seem worried.”

“Oh, I just don’t much like having my picture taken, that’s all.” She imagined Ryder seeing her there in the background during an
Entertainment Tonight
report on TV or on some movie-gawker website.

Cheryl laughed. “Well, I hate to tell you, but they’ll be snapping photos of Paige Peyton, not the two broads inside the food truck.” She shook her head. “Anyway, I wouldn’t worry about it. They’re trying to keep this shoot under wraps as much as possible, which means they don’t want the press and a lot of other people around. That’s why I couldn’t tell you about it until now. And that’s why I need to ask you to keep it hush-hush for the duration.”

Laurie shrugged. “All right, but why all the secrecy?”

Stepping back, Cheryl closed the passenger door and sighed. “The movie is based on a real murder case here in Seattle years back. They’re shooting at all the actual locations. They don’t want to attract a lot of attention while they’re filming. It could become a real three-ring circus if word got out. Anyway, whatever happens, it’s not going to affect you or me as long as we stay in the food truck and do our jobs.”

“What murder case?” Laurie asked.

“You’re probably too young to know about it,” she replied somberly. “It’s from 1970. In fact, that’s the title of the movie,
7/7/70.
”

“That’s a strange title . . .”

“They’re doing it with the numbers—and slash marks,” Cheryl explained. “It’s the date of the murders:
7/7/70.
”

Baffled, Laurie just shook her head.

“Look it up online,” Cheryl said. “Maybe you already know about it, maybe you don’t. Like I say, either way, it shouldn’t affect how we’ll serve up food to the cast and crew.”

She tapped on Joey’s window, and waved to him. “See you in a week, cutie-pie . . . I hope!” Then she backed away—toward the wrought iron front gate of the apartment complex. “It was wonderful meeting you, Laurie. Be careful driving home. I’ll talk to you this week.”

“Thank you, Cheryl!” she called, watching her unlock the front gate.

“Let me know if you change your mind about the job!” she replied, barely looking over her shoulder. The gate let out a squeak as she opened it.

Laurie wondered why she would say that now. Why would she change her mind? Did it have anything to do with this murder on 7/7/70?

Cheryl disappeared behind some tall shrubs bordering the apartment complex.

With a clank, the tall wrought iron gate swung shut behind her.

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

Saturday, June 14, 8:27
P.M.

Ellensburg

I
n the Google Search box, she typed:
July 7, 1970.

Laurie sat hunched over her laptop computer at the desk in her room at the Hampton Inn. From her “interview” dress, she’d changed into a black T-shirt and jeans. On the desk were the remnants of her dinner, red curry chicken and a Diet 7UP, carryout from Sugar Thai. The food was cold now, but she was still picking at it with a pair of chopsticks. Joey was asleep—at last—in the portable mini-crib she’d bought at Target in Yakima, back when they’d first checked in to the hotel. She’d even managed to attach his farm-animal mobile to the headboard. The radio in her room picked up a decent oldies station from Seattle. So Joey had nodded off to the Beach Boys.

Even with the clean, pleasant décor and terrific shower pressure, her stay in the hotel room had gotten old fast. She missed cooking in her kitchen, something she’d do when restless. Here, she just had TV, and out the window, a rather dreary view of the parking lot one story below. Her Camry was down there.

She wondered if Ryder McBride had seen the Camry. He knew her car. He’d even broken into it—God only knew how. What was to keep him from checking the various hotel lots in the area? Or maybe he’d followed her and Joey here from Nathan and Krista’s one night. Obviously, he’d tailed her from home the other day, when she’d gone to the Nicholson Pavilion. She couldn’t help wondering if he was watching her now—from the bleak, dark landscape beyond the hotel’s parking lot.

She couldn’t wait to move to Seattle. She had some concerns about the first catering assignment with Cheryl. But really, she was a lot less vulnerable inside a food truck on a crowded film location than practically alone at the Superstar Diner near closing time.

Still, during the two-hour drive home this afternoon, she’d had her reservations. She’d wondered about the actual murder case on which this
7/7/70
was based.

Dusty Springfield was singing “Son of a Preacher Man” on the radio. Laurie took a sip of her Diet 7UP, and she focused on the Google Search line on her laptop screen:
July 7, 1970
. She hit the return button, and the list of results popped up. The first two were horoscopes for anyone born on July 7 of any year, apparently. The third result looked promising:

History Geek—What happened on July 7, 1970?

www.historygeek.com/070770/events