No One Needs to Know (36 page)

“There they are,” Shirley said, bouncing Joey on her knee and nodding toward the parking lot. “That’s Adam and his father. The father isn’t much for socializing.” She stretched her withered neck and called out: “Yoo-hoo, Adam, there’s someone here who wants to meet you!”

Laurie collected Joey from her, and then stood up. Adam Holbrook wore khakis and a casual shirt with a skinny tie. His hair was messy, but somehow it looked right that way. He waved back at Shirley and smiled. Most everyone by the front entrance seemed to know him, and he knew them: “Hey, Ruth, how’s your hip feeling today?” and “Hi, Bob, I like your shirt.”

He was so disarming and cute it was hard for Laurie to think of him as a potential suspect in a brutal double-murder. Then again, she remembered Tad, and figured her first impressions of men couldn’t be trusted.

His father, a handsome older man, leaned on a three-prong cane as he hobbled alongside him. He nodded distractedly at the others.

“Hey, Shirley,” Adam said. He stole a glance at Laurie. “How’s the vertigo today?”

“Not so bad at all,” Shirley said. “Listen, Adam, this is Laurie, and the little one is Joey.”

“Excuse me,” Mr. Holbrook cut in. “Nice to see you, but I have something that can’t wait.” He shuffled toward the front doors. “Adam, come by the room later!” he called over his shoulder.

“Sure thing, Pop!” he replied. Then he smiled at Laurie and shook her hand. “Hi. Sorry about my dad. He’s not being rude. He just had two Cokes at lunch, and it was a long drive back here. So, are you Shirley’s daughter or her sister?”

“Oh, listen to him!” Shirley said, patting Adam’s shoulder. “We just met, silly. She came by to see you. I’ll leave you kids to talk alone . . .”

While Shirley stopped to caress Joey’s cheek and say good-bye to him, Laurie caught a glimpse of Adam. The smile had vanished from his face. He crossed his arms in front of him.

“By the way, how are you holding up today?” Shirley quietly asked him.

He nodded. “I’m doing okay, thanks.”

She patted him on the shoulder again, and then ambled inside. Adam seemed to have been waiting until she was gone before he frowned at Laurie. “So you came here to see me?” he asked, stepping a little farther down the walkway—out of earshot of the old folks.

Laurie followed him. “Yes, I thought—”

“Whose baby is that?” he asked, cutting her off.

Her eyes narrowed at him. “Well, he’s mine, of course. What kind of question is that? I’m not a reporter if that’s what you’re thinking. My name’s Laurie Trotter. I e-mailed you last night.”

“You and about a hundred other people,” he replied. “Suddenly a lot of folks want to buy my paintings, or they just need to talk to me. I’ve even had a few women—and men—who would like to date me. So, which category do you fit into?”

Laurie switched Joey around so he was straddling her other hip. “Listen, I don’t want to bother you or harass you—and I certainly don’t want to
date
you. If you just give me a minute, I’ll explain. You see, a friend of mine knew your brother—”

“Yeah, I’ve had a lot of people contacting me whose friends knew Dean or they claim to have known Dean themselves. And I was stupid enough to take them seriously at first.” He shook his head. “I’ve just come back from a funeral parlor where I made arrangements to bury my brother and my sister-in-law. This was followed by lunch with my father in which he became disoriented, and then broke down and cried for fifteen minutes. So you’ll pardon me if I don’t feel like talking to you.”

“Listen, I’m sorry,” Laurie said. Joey began to fuss, and she caressed the back of his head. “I know this is a terrible time for you . . .”

“Your baby’s tired,” he interrupted. “Why don’t you take him home, okay? Take him home to his dad.” He turned and started to walk away.

“His father’s dead,” Laurie snapped. “He was killed six months ago on a recon mission in Sangin. That’s in Afghanistan.”

Adam stopped and gazed back at her. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

Laurie took a deep breath. “No, I’m sorry. My—my husband’s death has nothing to do with why I’m here. I didn’t mean to use it as some kind of comeback line to put you in your place. I don’t usually do that. I’ve never done that.”

“Well, it worked,” he murmured, slipping his hands in his pants pockets, “because I feel like a first class heel. And now you’ve got me standing here, ready to listen to whatever you have to tell me.”

“Can we start over again?” Laurie asked, holding Joey with one arm while she extended her free hand to him. “I’m Laurie Trotter, and this is my son, Joey. And I’m really sorry for your loss . . .”

He shook her hand. “Hi, Laurie, hi, Joey,” he said.

“It’s nice to meet you, Adam.” Laurie could see that they still had the attention of the old-timers gathered outside the front door. She backed away and Adam followed her. “Here’s the thing,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m helping to cater the film that’s being shot here in town,
7/7/70.
It’s about the Styles-Jordan murders. Last Thursday afternoon, I was in Volunteer Park with Joey and I happened to see my boss—her name’s Cheryl Wheeler. Do you know her? Does that name sound familiar?”

Adam shrugged. “No, I’m sorry . . .”

“She owns and operates a food truck called Grill Girl. Last month, it blew up in the middle of downtown.”

He nodded. “Oh, God, yes, of course. I heard about that.”

“Well, now Cheryl’s catering for this movie,” Laurie continued, ignoring Joey, who grabbed at her hair. “I’m working for her. On Thursday I saw Cheryl in the park, having what seemed to be a heated discussion with a nice-looking man. On Monday, when it came on the news about your brother and sister-in-law, I recognized him. He was the one in the park, talking to my boss. I said as much to her, and she flatly denied it. But I know she’s lying. And I keep thinking it’s too much of a coincidence that we’re working on this movie about the Styles-Jordan murders—and your poor brother and sister-in-law were killed exactly the same way.”

His mouth twisted over to one side, Adam stared at her and shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t recall my brother ever mentioning a Cheryl Wheeler to me. And I had no idea this movie was even being shot here until the police asked me about it on Monday. Dean never said anything to me about it either.”

Joey kept tugging at her hair, and she finally took hold of his chubby, little arm and pulled it away. “Honey, please . . .”

“You sure it was my brother she was talking to?” he asked.

Laurie nodded. “Yes, positive. And three days later, he was dead.”

“Have you talked to the police?”

“No. Right now, it’s her word against mine. I don’t want to get Cheryl in trouble. She’s been really good to me and my little boy. But I know she’s lying when she says she didn’t meet with your brother. Only last week, she was asking if I knew someone here at Evergreen Manor. She said she wanted to cater an event here. But something tells me it’s just an excuse to get her foot in the door.”

“Why? What for? What would she want at this place?”

“Maybe she wants to talk with your father,” Laurie said, grasping at straws. “I don’t know. The security in this place seems pretty tight. Catering an event here would be one way of getting inside—especially if your brother wouldn’t allow her to see your dad. He didn’t seem too happy with her when I saw them on Thursday afternoon. Do you think your dad might know who Cheryl Wheeler is?”

Adam hesitated. “Well,” he finally said, “let’s go in and ask him.”

The dark blue SUV was parked in the lot in front of Evergreen Manor. The woman sitting at the wheel watched Laurie Trotter and Adam Holbrook in deep discussion. And now they were heading inside the rest home together.

The woman figured this was the result of the blunder with Cheryl Wheeler five weeks ago. Had Cheryl been killed in that food truck explosion, these two people wouldn’t be talking right now—and they wouldn’t have to die. The father would have to go, too. Her client would want it that way, a clean sweep.

One thing bothered the woman sitting alone in the SUV.

She told herself it wasn’t really necessary. But then these things happened—collateral damage. She had to prepare herself for the very real possibility.

She’d never killed a baby before.

“Are you sure you’ve never heard of Cheryl Wheeler before, Pop?” Adam asked.

Sitting in a Barcalounger with the cane standing beside it, his father shook his head. “Nope, I’m sorry, son. That name doesn’t sound familiar at all.”

Laurie sat at the end of Mr. Holbrook’s bed with Joey in her lap. He was getting more and more restless.

Adam had been pacing, but now he pulled a hard-backed chair close to his father and sat down across from him. “Pop, Laurie here is working with this Cheryl person on a movie. It’s about the Styles-Jordan murders. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“It happened in 1970,” Laurie said. “Elaina Styles and her husband, Dirk Jordan, were murdered here in Seattle . . .”

Mr. Holbrook looked at her, clear-eyed. He nodded soberly. “Yes, I remember that. It was a terrible thing, a real shame . . .”

“We were talking about this earlier, Pop,” Adam said, leaning forward in his chair. “Dean and Joyce were killed by someone who was copycatting those murders.”

Joey let out a bored cry.

Mr. Holbrook squirmed a little. He nodded at Adam. “Yes, of course, I remember. Someone was imitating Trent Hooper and his clan.”

“That’s right. You said they were getting even by killing Dean and Joyce,” Adam whispered. “What did you mean by that, Pop?”

Laurie stared at them. She didn’t know what he was talking about. Joey cried again, and she bounced him on her knee to quiet him. She wanted to hear what Mr. Holbrook had to say.

But the old man squirmed in his chair again, and he just shook his head.

“Is there some kind of connection between us and those killings back in 1970?” Adam pressed. “Pop, c’mon, please, think back. Don’t fade out on me now . . .”

Joey kept crying. Laurie tried to shush him.

Mr. Holbrook seemed to be getting more restless. He started to tremble. He reminded Laurie of poor Duncan with his head tremors. He finally turned toward her. There were tears in his eyes. “You’ve got to keep the baby quiet,” he whispered. “For God’s sake, they’ll hear it. Please, keep the baby quiet . . .”

“Oh, I’m really sorry,” Laurie whispered. “Maybe we should go—”

“No, it’s okay,” Adam sighed with resignation. “We’ve lost him. He’s somewhere else right now. He’s gone back in time someplace.”

Mr. Holbrook kept shaking his head at her over and over. “Please, they’ll hear the baby,” he whispered. A tear rolled down his cheek. “You need to keep him quiet . . .”

Laurie couldn’t help wondering if he’d gone back to 1970.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-
SEVEN

Wednesday, July 9, 4:40
P.M.

Seattle

H
olding Joey with one arm, Laurie reached into her mailbox by the front gate and pulled out three pieces of mail—all of them addressed to Maureen Forester: a flier from Trader Joe’s, a sale announcement from Macy’s, and something that looked like a bill from a place called E-Z Safe Storage.

She tucked all three pieces of mail under her arm and glanced over at Cheryl’s unit. She couldn’t tell if anyone was home or not. She carried Joey through the courtyard toward her apartment, careful about how she handled him. He’d loaded his diaper during the ride home from Evergreen Manor.

Once inside, she got him cleaned up, changed, and in his playpen. Never one to resist a bargain, she put the ads for Trader Joe’s and Macy’s aside for later. Then she scribbled on the front of the envelope for the bill:
NO LONGER AT THIS ADDRESS—DECEASED.
She would put it out by the mailboxes tomorrow. She didn’t want some storage facility to keep sending her bills for Maureen Forester.

She started for the kitchen, but suddenly stopped in her tracks.

Laurie turned and hurried back to her desk in the living room. She snatched up the envelope and tore it open.

“E-Z Safe Storage, how can I help you?”

“Hi,” Laurie said into the phone, a little breathless. She was sitting at her kitchen table with the bill in front of her. Across from her on the counter was a drawer she’d pulled out of its sleeve. She’d lined it with blue gingham shelf paper last week, and she’d discovered those numbers on the back of the drawer:
2-16-47.

“My name is Maureen Forester, and my account number is S-5-163,” she said, consulting the bill. “I have a couple of storage lockers, and I’m trying to remember if this one has a combination lock on it or if it has a key.”

“Depends on the type of lock you used,” said the woman on the other end. “If you’ve forgotten your combination or can’t find your key, we’ll break off the lock for a twenty-dollar cash fee, no checks or credit card. And of course, we require an ID for that.”

“I have the address of the storage facility here,” Laurie said. “That’s up north, isn’t it?”

“Right off Aurora, near Shoreline,” the woman said.

“And there’s something else. I’ve forgotten what my locker number is. Would you be able to look that up for me?”

“You just gave it to me. It’s your account number.”

Laurie glanced at the bill again. “S-5-163?”

“South Yard, Building Five, Locker 163.”

“Will someone be there to let me into the building?”

“There’s twenty-four-hour video surveillance, and a guard on duty until ten—if you need any assistance. The keypad combination for the entry into the building is there on your bill, the last four digits in that series of numbers at the bottom left corner.”

Laurie glanced at Maureen’s bill once again.

“I show you have a current balance due for this billing quarter of ninety-seven dollars and twenty-two cents,” the woman said. “Would you like to pay that with a credit card over the phone now—or would you rather pay by mail, Ms. Forester?”