No One Needs to Know (18 page)

Brenda waved her hand as if to dismiss it, and then picked up her grocery bag. “Anyway, don’t listen to me. God, you have to work with the woman. I should just zip it. I’m sure your luck with her will be a lot better than Maureen’s.”

“Well, I hope so,” Laurie murmured—considering what had happened to her predecessor.

“Are you breast-feeding?”

Laurie blinked at her. The question, so out of the blue, threw her for a loop. “Ah, I—I switched to a bottle about six weeks ago.”

“Good, because I make a mean Cosmopolitan,” Brenda said. “I’ll have you over for cocktails and a
Real Housewives
marathon sometime soon. Knock on the wall if you need anything . . .”

“Well, thanks,” Laurie said, watching her neighbor amble toward the next doorway down. “Nice meeting you,” she added. But she wasn’t sure if that was really true.

Laurie closed the door. Past the radio and Joey’s musical interludes, she could just detect the sound of a door closing in the next unit.

She turned toward the partially furnished living room. She focused on the framed Eiffel Tower print, which up until a few minutes ago, she’d liked.

Now it would be one of the first things Laurie would replace—if she decided to stay.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

Thursday, 8:15
P.M.

Seattle

“W
ell, it wouldn’t have been a very good sales strategy to tell you the apartment belonged to someone who had just been killed,” Cheryl said. “I wanted you to rent the place, for God’s sake, not talk you out of it. And it’s a wonderful unit. They just repainted four months ago, there’s all new carpeting upstairs. . .”

“I know,” Laurie said, trying to smile and keep her tone light. She didn’t want to come across as ungrateful. “You don’t have to sell me on the place, you already did. I just—I just wish you’d been more up-front with me about it, that’s all.”

She sat across from Cheryl at a small café table in her kitchen, which had a huge refrigerator and an array of the latest food-prep machines. While rocking Joey to sleep in her lap earlier, Laurie had watched Cheryl at work, effortlessly moving around the kitchen, cutting up a small chicken, blanching vegetables, and soaking rice paper. Cheryl had on a sleeveless polka dot blouse and khakis. Her feet were bare, which gave her a certain earthy, bohemian air.

All Laurie really knew about Cheryl was from a
Seattle Times
fluff piece on The Grill Girl and its owner. It mentioned that Cheryl grew up in several different foster homes in Washington State. By her early twenties, she was homeless, begging for money on the streets, and spending it on drugs. She got into a rehabilitation program, which included cooking classes with a local chef. After that, she worked her way up from eat-cheap diners to fancy restaurants, and eventually saved enough money to start her own food truck business.

The Grill Girl was around for a few years, the best-kept secret in Seattle. Then her truck was profiled on the Food Network, and it became enormously popular. According to the article, Cheryl never forgot her beginnings, and she cooked for a homeless shelter once a week.

There was nothing in the
Times
piece about Cheryl ever having been a mother. Yet Laurie remembered her mentioning that she had a little boy at one time, who had apparently died—or been taken away from her.

Maybe that was why she was so crazy for Joey.

He was asleep in his portable crib in Cheryl’s living room by dinnertime. Cheryl had prepared a Thai chicken wrap with spring vegetables—a possible selection for their catering menu next week. Laurie had eaten two wraps, and resisted a third.

As much as she admired Cheryl’s culinary skills, Laurie was still leery after what her new neighbors had told her earlier tonight.

“About those kids who disappeared,” Cheryl went on, leaning back in her café chair with a glass of Chardonnay in her hand. “The police were here, and talked to all of us. But no one in the complex saw or heard anything. I asked the cop if we should be concerned, and he said no. He said they were merely following every possible lead. I really didn’t think it was worth mentioning to you.”

Laurie felt uncomfortable putting her on the defensive like this. She just nodded.

“As for dear Maureen,” Cheryl continued. “She was my friend, and I don’t think of her as this
dead person.
And it’s not like she died
in the apartment.
But yes, you’re right. I apologize for not telling you the whole story. I just wanted that place for you and Joey.”

Shifting restlessly in her chair, Laurie looked down at her plate. She still hadn’t told Cheryl a single thing about what had happened in Ellensburg. Who the hell was she to criticize anyone for lack of
full disclosure
?

“It’s fine,” she said, at last. “It’s a terrific apartment. I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful.” She got to her feet and started to reach for Cheryl’s plate.

“No, no, leave it,” Cheryl said. “I have my own system for washing up. Sit. Tell me what else you’re wondering about. Ask away, and you’ll get the whole truth and nothing but.” She swilled down the rest of her wine.

It had been her third glass. Laurie figured she was a bit drunk at this point. She put Cheryl’s dirty plate back down, and sat in the café chair once again. “Well, all right,” she said with an awkward shrug. “You said you and Maureen were friends. But when I talked with Vincent and Brenda this afternoon, I got the impression. . .” Laurie hesitated, uncertain how to phrase her question.

“Oh, Lord, don’t listen to anything Brenda tells you,” Cheryl said, dismissing it with a wave of her hand. She started to sip from her wineglass again, and seemed to realize it was empty. “Hell, Brenda has elevated talking behind people’s backs to a whole new art form. She’s hated my guts ever since I moved in. I have no idea why. Maureen never liked her much. But what did Vincent say? I’m interested . . .”

“Just that . . .” Laurie hesitated. She didn’t want to offend her new boss any more than she already had. “Well, he indicated Maureen told him not to become too friendly with you.”

Cheryl didn’t seem hurt or surprised. She nodded. “Yes, I know. Maureen relayed that to me. So here’s the thing about Vincent. As independent as he is, he can also be a little clingy. Maureen didn’t want him glomming on to me. But I think it went to the opposite extreme, because now Vincent seems a bit afraid of me. He hasn’t really gotten the chance to know me, and vice versa . . .”

Laurie wondered if
anyone
really knew Cheryl.

“Vincent and Maureen were tight, like mother and son,” Cheryl went on. “I know he’s hurting right now. I’d like to reach out to him, but well, I’m not sure I’d be able to give him the time he’d demand from me—not now, with this big job coming up. How’s that for being brutally honest?”

Laurie didn’t say anything. She was thinking about earlier tonight. Now she wished she’d let Vincent come in to see Joey.

Cheryl got up, wandered to her huge Frigidaire, and pulled out the Chardonnay bottle. She weaved a bit as she walked. After topping off Laurie’s glass, she refilled her own. The bottle clanked on the table top as she set it between them. “Anyway,” she said, sitting down again. “Outside of cooking a casserole and dropping it off for him, I haven’t done much for the poor guy.” She sipped her wine. “What else do you want to know?”

Laurie had a ton of questions—about her background and the baby she lost. But she’d already come close to offending her new boss tonight, and decided not to push her luck any further. She shook her head. “No, nothing else. But thank you for clearing that up.”

“Oh, don’t thank me yet,” Cheryl said. “I need to ask you for a favor, a big one. I’d really like for you to bake one of your marvelous desserts and send it to your Uncle Gil for me. I’ve tried my damnedest to connect with him and Shawna, but so far, I haven’t gotten anywhere. I’m afraid I’ll come across as a pest if I try to contact them again. You’re Gil’s godchild. He’ll respond to you. Let him know you’ve partnered up with someone in a new catering company in Seattle, and that you’d love to cater a party for him and your Aunt Shawna.”

Laurie’s back stiffened up. She wanted to tell Cheryl that Shawna Farrell wasn’t her aunt. And she barely even knew Gil Garrett. She couldn’t help wondering if her frail
connection
to the one-time film producer was the only reason Cheryl had hired her.

“Just don’t mention me or the Grill Girl food truck,” Cheryl went on. “It’s time for some covert action with them. Keep my name out of it.” She reached across the table and took Laurie’s hand in hers. “Will you do that for me? I’ll pay you for the dessert ingredients—and your time, of course.”

Laurie figured she had this coming—for exaggerating about her relationship with Gil in her first note to Cheryl. She worked up a smile, and gently pulled her hand away. “Sure, no problem,” she said. She figured she’d send the damn dessert and the note. Cheryl couldn’t blame her if Gil didn’t respond.

She felt so uncomfortable. Of course, it was no help that her host was half hammered. She was trying to think of a polite way to collect Joey and call it a night. “Listen, I should—”

“Thank you,” Cheryl interrupted, raising her glass as if toasting her. She took a swig. “You don’t happen to have relatives with any pull at Evergreen Manor, do you?”

Laurie shrugged. “I don’t even know what that is . . .”

“It’s kind of a rest home. I’m trying to get a gig with them, too—you know, some special occasion or party or whatever. I want to do something for the old folks there.”

“Sorry, I—I can’t help you there.”

“Well, if you can get me Gil Garrett, that’s enough. I shouldn’t ask for anything more.” She took another sip of wine. “Oh, and of course, don’t mention to Gil you’re catering this movie. I don’t think that’ll score us any points with him.”

“Why not?” Laurie asked.

“He’s probably not too enthusiastic about a film focused on his former lover’s brutal murder.”

“You mean, Gil and Elaina . . .”

“You didn’t know?” Cheryl asked. “I thought being his godchild, you’d know. He’s the one who discovered Elaina Styles. He produced her first two movies. Before Shawna came along, your Uncle Gil and Elaina were a very hot item. Your godfather was quite the playboy. I couldn’t pick up a copy of
Rona Barrett’s Hollywood
without seeing a photo of Gil with some gorgeous starlet hanging on his arm.” She laughed. “Of course, all this happened way before you were born, so I don’t know why you’d know about it. I’ll bet you’ve never even heard of
Rona Barrett’s Hollywood,
have you?”

Laurie shrugged. “I’m afraid not.”

“It was a movie gossip magazine with lots of pictures.” Cheryl leaned forward. “Speaking of magazines and gossip, did you see the article in the new
Entertainment Weekly
?”

Laurie shook her head. At this point, she just wanted to go home.

“Oh, Lord, you need to see it . . .” She got to her feet and almost tipped over the chair. After ducking into the living room, she came back with a copy of
Entertainment Weekly
that had Julia Louis-Dreyfus on the cover. She searched through it, and then folded back the magazine to one particular page. “Just so there are no more surprises,” she said, standing over her.

She held the magazine page for Laurie to see, but her thumb partially obscured the headline. The first thing Laurie noticed was the photo of Paige Peyton with big, tawny red hair, thick, sixties-style eye makeup, and coral frost lipstick.

DEAD RINGER
,
said the caption.
Peyton as 7/7/70 murder victim, Elaina Styles.

Laurie took the magazine from her and stared at the headline:

‘CURSED’ PRODUCTION

Tragic Deaths and Eerie Occurrences Plague

Filming of Notorious 7/7/70 Murders

“Are they serious?” Laurie murmured.

“They seem to be,” Cheryl said. “Go ahead and take the magazine home to read. I’m done with it.” She patted Laurie on the shoulder. “At least now you can’t say I held anything back from you.”

Thursday, 9:55
P.M.

Even with all the windows open, it still smelled like wet paint on the second floor. At least, that was Laurie’s excuse. So she had Joey asleep in his portable crib in one corner of the dimly lit living room. She would crash on her dead predecessor’s sofa tonight. She had the Restoration Hardware throw and a set of sheets folded up in one corner of the couch—along with her pillow.

Though she hadn’t painted yesterday, this would be their second night in the apartment, and their second night sleeping down here. There was nothing wrong with the bed she’d inherited. She’d thoroughly checked the bare mattress for the telltale specks of dried blood that bedbugs left behind, and it was clean. As much as she liked the notion of having their sleeping quarters on the second floor, Laurie couldn’t help worrying that if someone broke in, she and Joey might be trapped up there. She imagined hearing footsteps on those stairs in the middle of the night, and having nowhere to run. For now, it just seemed safer downstairs, where she and Joey could always slip out the kitchen door or climb out a window. It was silly, she knew. Ryder McBride and his crew had no idea where she and Joey were.

She sat on the other side of the sofa from her folded bedding, beside a small “frilly-girly” lamp that Vincent must not have liked. She had her stocking feet up on the coffee table and her computer notebook on her lap. The Julia Louis-Dreyfus issue of
Entertainment Weekly
was at her side.

According to what she’d read online tonight, Elaina Styles and Gil Garrett had indeed been lovers. Elaina had dropped him because he couldn’t stop screwing around. But they’d remained friends. Among the many photos she’d seen on Google Images was a color shot of Gil, Elaina, Hugh Hefner, and Joe Namath at a party at the Playboy Mansion in 1968. Another shot was from two years later, showing Gil and his new wife, Shawna Farrell, looking somber on some church steps as they left the memorial service for Elaina Styles and her husband, Dirk Jordan.