No One Needs to Know (16 page)

History Geek provides a complete reference page of historical events, birthdays, deaths and other milestones for Tuesday,
July 7, 1970
. . .

Laurie clicked on the link. Her eyes immediately went to the only “News Event” listed:

Seattle, Wa: Actress Elaina Styles Among
3 Dead In Grisly Cult Slaying

“Oh, my God,” she murmured. “Of course . . .”

The murders may have occurred long before she was born, but Laurie still knew about them. Paige Peyton was perfect casting as the beautiful, red-haired film star. While in Seattle shooting an occult film, Elaina Styles and her singer-songwriter husband had rented a mansion. Laurie couldn’t remember the husband’s name, but he’d written and sung the hit single, “Elaina.” Every time Laurie’s mom had heard it on an oldies station, she’d shake her head, click her tongue, and say how sad it was—what had happened to them. “Oh, such a glamorous, beautiful couple,” she’d say. “And listen to his voice.” Laurie still recalled the tune, and part of the lyric:
I’m just insane for Elaina . . .

They had a child, not much older than Joey. They also had a live-in nanny, a girl barely twenty. She was the third victim.

Laurie remembered reading that the baby had died, but not in the rented house with his parents and his nanny. The police had found the body somewhere else several days later.

She back-paged to the Google Search, and typed in the box: “Elaina Styles murder.” Before she hit the return key, she wondered just how much Paige Peyton looked like the late-sixties star. Laurie clicked on the Image link, and a page full of photos came up. In the very first row were several glamour shots of the beautiful, slain actress—and then one of her dead.

Laurie grimaced at the horrific black-and-white shot, which confirmed the stories she’d heard about what they’d done to her.

She glimpsed the other small photos, too. Many of them were slightly faded color shots of the bloody crime scene. There were black-and-white individual morgue shots, too—close-ups of Elaina, her husband, and the young nanny on their respective slabs. The pictures reminded Laurie too much of the color photo of Tad that she’d found in her car. She wondered how these gruesome crime photographs had become available for the public. Then again, the murders had occurred nearly forty-five years ago. She shouldn’t have been surprised that some of these photos had leaked onto the Internet.

There were also pictures of What’s-his-name Hooper, the failed actor and cult leader of a group of hippies responsible for the murders. Laurie couldn’t remember his first name. With his mustache, long blond hair, and those crazy, intense eyes, the oddly handsome creep was sort of a minor-league Charles Manson. Maybe he’d even aspired to be like Charlie by leading his crew in killing a glamorous film star. No one would ever know. Hooper and his tribe of followers would all be dead in a mass suicide by the time the police got to them.

Laurie’s eyes kept coming back to the small black-and-white image of Elaina Styles as she’d been discovered on the living room floor of that mansion. It was true what people said. The killers had snapped her neck, and turned her head completely around. Her lovely face—mouth and eyes open, her long hair half-covering the neck—peered out at an impossible angle above her shoulders. A gaping knife wound appeared by her right shoulder blade. The photo cut her off at mid torso. She was naked.

Laurie remembered now. They’d found her skimpy, bloodied nightgown dangling from the mansion’s front gate. Perhaps the killers had left it as a calling card.

She didn’t click on the gruesome picture to see a larger image. She’d seen enough.

She didn’t want to read anything about the murders—or remind herself of the details. She couldn’t quite remember the circumstances of the baby’s death. But right now, with Joey sleeping in his crib just across from her, she didn’t want to know.

What it all boiled down to was that the subject matter of this movie would be pretty morbid. Laurie reminded herself of what Cheryl Wheeler had said:
It shouldn’t affect how we’ll serve up food to the cast and crew.

She wasn’t changing her mind about the Seattle job. There was nothing left for her in Ellensburg—except a lot of people who loathed her for cheating on her hero-husband. And there was someone else here who hated her so much he could end up killing her—or Joey. She had her own version of What’s-his-name Hooper and his tribe, and they were out for blood.

Laurie clicked on the mail icon and found Cheryl’s last e-mail. She pulled it up, and hit reply. She put in a new subject line, Great Meeting You Today
,
and started typing:

Dear Cheryl,

Thanks so much for meeting with me this afternoon, and for being so sweet to my son. I’ve never seen Joey warm up to anyone as quickly as he warmed up to you.

I’m really looking forward to working with you, Cheryl. I’d also like very much to take a look inside that unit in your apartment complex. If I may lift a line from Casablanca, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship . . .

Wednesday, June 18, 6:55
P.M

Ellensburg

Laurie had four entrées in the oven, five sandwiches on the grill, and in the deep fryer, French fries, onion rings, and four pieces of chicken. But her mind kept going somewhere else.

It was her last night of work at the Superstar Diner. She felt nostalgic, sad, and scared. Funny, she’d thought she’d be so elated to put in her last night here. Instead, she just wanted to cry.

She felt the same homesick pangs with every visit she made to the Bancroft Townhouse apartment lately. She kept collecting things she needed for the move. So the place became emptier and emptier, until all that remained were big pieces of furniture she couldn’t move herself. All evidence of Brian and Joey was gone, and without those personal accents, she saw how ugly the apartment really was.

Detective Eberhard didn’t want a crew of movers coming in and traipsing all over what was still technically a crime scene. Laurie was in no hurry to get the big pieces out of there anyway. Besides, a moving truck in front of the duplex would have been a dead giveaway to Ryder and his group that she was relocating.

Right now, Joey’s and her room at the Hampton Inn looked like a storage locker. Laurie had hired a couple of CWU students to come by the hotel Saturday morning and load up a small U-Haul with all the boxes, suitcases, and knickknacks she’d smuggled out of the apartment. Cheryl had recommended a storage facility close by where they could unload the stuff. Meanwhile Laurie and Joey would check into the Loyal Inn near the Space Needle for what she hoped would be a short stay.

Most of the staff at the Superstar Diner knew this was her last day—except, of course, for that bitch, Celia. No one was supposed to talk about it or make a fuss. Laurie didn’t want Ryder or any of his pack to catch on that she was leaving for good. It would be just like any other day at the diner for her and everyone else. After three life-changing years at the place, it was sad to leave there without even a modicum of fanfare.

She was on automatic pilot, plating one entrée after another while she wondered about the locales for the movie shoot. They certainly weren’t going to be filming inside the Seattle mansion where the murders had occurred on 7/7/70, were they? Most likely, they’d film exterior shots of the murder house—if it still existed. But she knew enough about moviemaking to assume they’d do all the interior scenes on a sound stage—in a replica of the living room where those three mutilated bodies had been discovered.

Laurie was removing the basket of chicken pieces from the fryer when Duncan rushed into the kitchen. “Hey, Laurie!” he said, out of breath. “Laurie, this woman’s going crazy in the parking lot, and she keeps screaming your name . . .”

She couldn’t see anything from the pass-through window. She quickly pulled two entrées from the oven. Everything on the grill looked okay for another minute or two. She followed Duncan out the saloon doors to the dining area. The restaurant was about two-thirds full, and a strange quiet had fallen over the place. A few people were murmuring or laughing uncomfortably. There wasn’t the usual clanking of silverware. Most of the customers had stopped eating to stare at the woman in the parking lot. Even people at the counter were completely turned around in their stools.

“Well, I hope you’re happy,” Celia muttered, brushing past her.

From the kitchen door, Laurie gazed out the front window. A young woman stood in the middle of their parking lot. “Laurie Trotter is a murderer!” she screamed. Her voice was cracking. “She’s a cheating whore and a murderer! How can you eat the food she’s cooked? How can you eat food she’s touched? What’s wrong with you people?”

Laurie glanced over at Paul, behind the counter. Her boss was a burly, middle-aged man with a full head of wavy white hair. He was working the register tonight, and was talking on the phone: “Yeah, can you send someone right away? She’s out there screaming at the top of her lungs . . .”

It took Laurie a few moments to recognize the crazy woman. She had long brown dreadlocks and several piercings on her face. She was the one who had come into the diner a couple of weeks ago to drop off that creepy, filthy-looking sailor doll for Joey—“from his dad and his uncle.” She was Ryder’s errand girl. Laurie remembered the tattoos all over her arms. But her arms were covered today—in an airy, flower-print, floor-length dress with long, draped sleeves. As she screamed, she flayed her arms around—like a choir director gone mad. “You’re eating dead animals served up to you by a murderess! Laurie Trotter is getting away with murder! She killed her lover! Do you hear me?”

A few people stood at the edge of the lot—keeping their distance from her, watching the bizarre tirade.

“Great food, Paul!” one of the regulars said in a loud voice. “But I’m not so sure about the floor show . . .”

A few people laughed.

Laurie remembered what she’d been thinking just a few minutes ago—that this would be just like any other day at the diner for her and everyone else.

It wasn’t until the woman bent down that Laurie noticed the camouflage-pattern knapsack at her feet. She reached into the bag.

For a moment, Laurie’s heart stopped. She thought the young woman was about to pull out an assault weapon. In seconds she could wipe out everyone sitting near the window.

But instead the woman took out a large canteen. “How many more people have to die before you all realize Laurie Trotter is guilty of murder?” she yelled, her voice cracking again. She unscrewed the top of the canteen, raised it over her head and dowsed herself with its contents.

A few people in the restaurant laughed as she soaked her hair and that flowery-print dress. The gown clung to her skinny frame. “You’re all responsible! You have to do something!”

“I’m going to put a stop to this,” Paul muttered, stomping toward the door.

The young woman reached into her bag again. She held something in her hand and waved it in the air above her head. It took Laurie a moment to realize the girl was waving a box of matches. Then it dawned on Laurie—the canteen hadn’t contained water.

“This is for you, Tad!” she cried.

The woman struck the match and held it to her chest. But the flame first caught onto the wide, gas-soaked sleeve of her dress. The fire shot up her arm toward her shoulder—and her thick dreadlocks. Her hair ignited like old straw. All at once, her head was engulfed in flames.

Customers in the restaurant started screaming. Paul had gotten as far as opening the door, and now, the young woman’s agonized shrieks were heard above everyone else.

It was as if she suddenly realized what she’d done. She began to swat at her arms and hair, and frantically ran in circles. But it only fanned the blaze. Her dress—from the floor-length hem to her neck—burst into flames. From above the waist, she was swallowed up in black smoke, fire and bits of flying, incandescent ash.

Laurie could barely see her anymore. The young woman was just a whirling incendiary mass in the middle of the parking lot. Laurie turned and rushed past the saloon doors. She grabbed a small fire extinguisher off its mounting bracket on the kitchen wall. She rushed back into the dining area and headed for the door. Paul stopped her, and took the extinguisher.

But by now, the woman had fallen to her knees—almost in the same way a piece of charred kindling snapped and broke in two. Past all the smoke, Laurie saw the soot-covered smoldering thing crumple to the pavement.

Paul hurried toward her with the extinguisher. With a loud whoosh, a white plume shot out of the tank, the billows swathing what was left of Ryder McBride’s errand girl.

The restaurant was utter pandemonium—with customers screaming and children crying. Someone knocked over a table to flee to the other side of the dining area, one of many people desperately trying to get away from the window. Some customers had even run out the side door.

Amid all of the chaos, Laurie could smell scorched meat. It wasn’t Ryder’s girlfriend. Paul had closed the door after him. Laurie realized what she smelled were several orders burning on the grill.

She heard a police siren, faint at first, then louder and louder—until she could see the red strobe through the hazy gray curtain between the restaurant’s front window and the parking lot.

She glanced over toward the counter, with only one customer left. The others had all moved to another part of the restaurant or run out the side door. She saw the place settings and the plates of half-eaten food left behind.

And at one setting, she saw a singular illicit cigarette left smoldering on a saucer—and beside it, an empty salt shaker with the cap off.

He’d been there the whole time, watching one of his followers go to her death for him.