Suspicion of Betrayal (43 page)

The last of rush-hour traffic filled the expressway going west, but Gail sped along in the other direction. The buildings glittered bright orange, the reflection of the lowering sun. Irene Connor lived in a waterfront residential area near downtown. Gail called from her car to explain her tardiness, and Irene said that dinner would be waiting when she got there. Karen was in the pool with the neighbor girl, but Irene was just on her way to send the girl home and tell Karen to get cleaned up for dinner.

"Mother, if you don't stop this, you may never get rid of us," Gail said.

Laughing, Irene said she was happy to spoil them.

Gail disconnected, held the cell phone for a moment, thinking, then called Dave at his apartment. The restaurant had closed, and he could usually be found at home. Gail said she had an odd question for him. "That waitress who worked for you—Vicki. You and she were involved for a while. When was the last time you slept with her? And who broke it off, you or Vicki?"

Dave asked what in hell she needed to know that for.

"Never mind why."

He said they'd last been together in May, and he'd told her it wasn't working out. Vicki had been too young for him, and anyway, the boss shouldn't sleep with the employees. "No, she didn't get mad. We have remained pretty good friends, in fact. She wants to go to St. John with me."

"That's a bad idea, Dave."

"Are you jealous?" He laughed.

"How old is she?"

"Twenty-three."

"Like I said, a bad idea." Gail slowed at the toll booth and tossed a quarter into the basket. The gate lifted, and she hit the gas. "Did you ever tell Vicki about my sister?" When she got only a silence in reply, she said, "I don't
care
if you did or not, I just want to know if she heard about Renee."

"I think I probably told her. Yes."

"One more question? And maybe I'll have more later, but right now I'm on my way home. What were her days off?"

"Are you going to tell me what this is about, or not?"

"Later."

He exhaled, then said, "She worked Thursday through Sunday."

"She's not there with you at the moment, is she?"

"No, Gail. She is not."

Despite his demand to know what she was after, Gail said again that she would talk to him later. She put the phone back into her purse. The city came closer, then swung to her right as her car sped up the flyover to the interstate.

Wednesday. Charlie Jenkins had killed himself on a Wednesday night. Karen's cat had been slaughtered on a Wednesday. And it had also been on a Wednesday that someone had delivered flowers to Gail's office.

The screen door on her mother's front porch was original with the house, vintage 1960, a white metal silhouette of a flamingo. It banged behind Gail as she unlocked the entry door and came inside. Immediately the aroma of pie crust and savory chicken enveloped her, and she realized how hungry she was. Her mother was on a mission to fatten her up.

A game show was playing on a television farther back in the house.
Wheel of Fortune,
she thought. Karen liked to watch it.

"Mom! Karen! I'm hooo-ome." The lamps in the living room were off, and the double set of glass doors let in only the faded light of dusk.

Gail was crossing the living room toward the kitchen when someone got up from the sofa, a woman with lank blond hair.

"Hi. I've been waiting for you."

"Lynn!" Gail caught her breath. "You scared me. I was just at your house."

"I came here. I got the address from your mom on the phone."

"Well, I'm sorry for the mixup. Where is everyone?"

"In the back. I guess they're getting dressed for dinner. Your mother said you'd be home soon and I could wait." Lynn wore her usual dark slacks and a pullover. The blue and green horizontal stripes made her shoulders look square and solid. Her eyes were on the envelope. "Are the pictures of my kids in there?"

When Gail gave her the envelope, Lynn quickly unbent the prongs holding it shut. She dropped the envelope on the sofa and shuffled through the snapshots. "There they are. I was missing these. Hey, kids."

"Miriam found them under some papers in the drawer." Gail said, "Lynn, do you remember the day I got flowers at the office? Those cheap roses? A woman brought them. Could you describe her?"

Lynn lifted her gaze from the snapshots. Gail had noticed that when Lynn was asked a question that she didn't understand, her face went slack. Pale lids drooped over gray eyes, and her mouth hung open slightly. "Miriam told me she heard a woman's voice, but she didn't see her. Do you remember what she looked like?"

"You threw them away," Lynn said. "I guess cheap roses aren't good enough for you."

Gail tilted her head and frowned. "Excuse me?"

"I thought they were nice. Tom gave me some just like them for our anniversary."

"Wait a minute.
You
brought them? But what about . . . the woman? Miriam heard her voice—" Gail began to understand. "It was you."

Lynn looked back at her.

"And you .. . wrote my sister's name on the card?"

"It was kind of appropriate."

"But why . . ." Gail's head felt off balance. She blinked. "Where's Karen? Where's my mother?" Gail looked toward the hall. "Karen! Mom?" There was no answer.

"You should go check on them."

Backing up, Gail said, "Stay here!" She ran down the hall, pumps sliding over the polished wood floor as she stopped to look in Karen's room—empty—and her own—nothing amiss.

Lynn was in the hall. The little crystal light in the ceiling shone on her face, then made shadows as she passed underneath it.

"I said, stay in the living room!" The sound of the game show was louder, coming from Irene's bedroom. A clacking wheel spun around, and a burst of applause followed. Gail ran for the bedroom and grabbed the door to slam it shut. It flew into her face, and she sprawled on the carpet. Her forehead and cheekbone throbbed.

A lamp on the nightstand illuminated the room. The television flashed in brilliant colors. Gail groggily rolled over and saw her mother and Karen. They lay at the end of the bed, tied up in white cord. Eyes pleaded over the cloth that muffled their screams.

Lynn went over to turn up the volume on the television. Music blared, then applause.
Is there a W?
From the dresser she picked up a knife with a blade as long as her forearm.
I'm going to solve the puzzle.

Scooting backward, Gail collided with the nightstand, and the lamp rocked. Before she could get up, Lynn grabbed her by the hair and raised her other arm. Gail felt the pain in the back of her head like a shard of ice being driven through bone.

She awoke to intense pain in her neck and shoulders. And darkness. She heard a happy female voice. A commercial for Revlon lip color. Gail forced her eyes open. Lynn sat on the end of the bed slack-mouthed and slumped, watching television. At her feet Irene and Karen still lay tied and gagged, breathing but not moving. Gail was pinned by both wrists to the curved wooden arms of her mother's antique upholstered chair. Her ankles were tied to the chair legs.

When Gail moaned in horror and pain, Lynn looked around.

"If you scream, I'll cut Karen."

Gail stifled a sob, and her voice shook. "Lynn. Why?"

Lynn stood up to set a plate of half-eaten pie on the dresser. She picked up photographs, and Gail recognized them as the ones left at the office. The television was showing a parade of Hollywood stars outside a movie premiere.

Standing in front of Gail's chair, Lynn held one photo at arm's length, changed it for another, then another. "This is why."

The lamp gave enough light for Gail clearly to see a picture of Lynn's younger son on a pony, then the other with a birthday cake. Then both with Lynn at a beach. Gail closed her eyes.

"Look." Lynn kicked her leg sharply. Gail cried out. Lynn said, "Look at them." Through watery vision Gail saw a barefoot toddler. "This is Jason." Another photo appeared. "This is Timmy." Lynn's nails were bitten so far down that the skin puffed over the fingernails.

A single word formed on Gail's lips. "Yancey." Comprehension burst into her brain, hot as sunlight. Winter Springs, Florida.
Family tragedy: Man shoots wife, kids, self.
Simon Yancey lost his job, got drunk. Three dead. Jason . . . Timothy . . .
The wife survived.

She took a breath. "Rita Yancey."

A smile appeared. "Rita Lynn Dobbert before I married Simon."

In the mailbox there had been a letter for R. L. Dobbert. "You made them up. The boys." Gail struggled to sit upright. "Your neighbor said you didn't have a husband. Or children. You made them up!"

"I kept them alive." Lynn shook Gail by the hair and forced her to look at the next snapshot. "Who is this?" Her fingers tightened. "Who is he?"

A big man with a smile, his hair thinning on top. Gail's voice was a breathless squeak. "Tom? Simon? I don't know!"

Lynn shoved her, and Gail's head hit the back of the chair. "Simon. He was nothing to you. You wanted to take our house and sell it. Money is all you care about, you greedy bitch."

Dear Ms. Gail Connor ... Does it make you happy to see a decent, hard-working American family with two kids put out on the street? My wife is on medication from the stress. ...

Gail had seen the boys' pictures taped to Lynn's cubicle. She had commented on the lack of recent photographs.
We haven't taken any pictures lately. The camera is broken.
A
lie.

"You took Karen's picture! You're the one! It was your voice. The paint!" Gail jerked her arms upward; her wrists were caught by the rope. In a blind rage, she flailed her body, bucking wildly, and the chair tipped and righted itself. Gail slid forward off the seat, landing on the floor on her knees. The rope cut into her ankles, and her arms were angled behind her.

"You killed her cat and mailed me the
head.
You're sick and twisted! Karen didn't do anything to you!"

"You did." Lynn crossed her arms and in one motion pulled her shirt off. Her blond hair hung in her face, and she stood silently in her bra, her chunky waist pinched by her dark blue slacks. She pointed to dimpled scars in the soft white skin, one near her right shoulder, the other under her left breast. "This is what you did." Lynn whispered, "I have been planning this for a long,
long
time. Coming back to this hellhole of a city. Tracking you down. Getting a job in your office, trying not to scream every time I saw you—"

"Lynn, I didn't shoot you. Or the boys. Simon did. Then he shot himself. He did it to you. I didn't. I swear to God I never hurt you or your boys." Gail strained at the cord around her wrists and felt the slender woodwork bend. If she could stand up ... If she could get into the right position ...

The striped top went back on over Lynn's head, and she poked her arms through. "Simon told me it wasn't my fault that I got sick and didn't send the payments. He said the mortgage company would let us catch up. You told them not to. He said the judge would help us, but
you
wouldn't let him." Lynn twitched her hips. "Go into court in your prissy-ass little suit, telling lies, acting so big. You're scum."

"What do you
want?"
By turning her wrists she could grasp the curves of wood. "I'll give you anything. Let them go. Lynn, please. I can get money for you. You could go away—"

"No. I'm the judge and you're the accused, so shut up. You don't deserve to know shit, but we have rules of procedure, don't we?" Lynn kicked Gail in the thigh then walked around her.

She circled back and kicked Gail's other leg. Gail clenched her teeth, not wanting Karen to hear her cry out. Lynn glared at her. "You fired me because I found out you stole money from your clients. That's why you fired me. Lying bitch." She kicked Gail one more time, then walked to the door and opened it.

Gail shoved outward on the arms of the chair, then pulled in until her muscles quivered, then pushed outward again, hearing the wood creak. The curtains were drawn. Irene's bedroom faced the water, and no one would hear a scream. She saw her mother's red curls and Karen's long brown hair. They were huddled together, and Irene seemed to be rocking Karen. A low humming noise came from her mother's throat. A lullaby.

"Mom! Karen! I'm here. We'll be all right!"

Lynn came back in with a red plastic, two-gallon container of gasoline and a charcoal lighter with a grip like a pistol.

"What are you going to do? What are you going to do to us?"

"Guess.”

"Oh, my God. Lynn, please."

Lynn leaned down to speak to her. Her breath was foul. "I could have killed you anytime, Miss Lawyer, but you're going to watch like I did. You have a front row seat in the courtroom. My boys were asleep when it happened, so they never knew. But I knew. I saw Simon shoot them, then he put the gun in his mouth and it took the back of his head off."

"That's how Charlie died. You shot him!"

"So you'd bring Karen back. The police thought Charlie did it. I heard them talking in your office. Then when you asked if my name was Charlie Jenkins, I thought, well, why not?"

"It was you on the phone. That voice—"

Lynn laughed. "Did you like the chocolates? Kitty candy?"

Gail slowly pushed outward on the arms of the chair, feeling them give.

"I called when Miriam was in the conference room. You're so stupid. You didn't even know it was me." Lynn unscrewed the yellow cap on the container and tossed it aside. Walking around the perimeter of the room, she poured gasoline under the curtains, over the dresser, the bureau. She paused at the television and turned it off, then kept going.

"I told Charlie you needed an outlet fixed in Karen's room, and I met him there, and when he bent down to look, I used an ice pick in the back of his neck. It didn't show after what the gun did. Then I put her panties around his thing. I drove his van away and left some stuff in his house, then I brought his keys back."

The can made a deep gulping noise, and the oily stench of gasoline filled the room. Lynn poured it on the bed, soaking the comforter. On the floor, Irene was wriggling forward, shoulders and hips, scraping her cheek against the carpet. The cloth around her mouth shifted.