You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone (30 page)

“Good,” he said, leaving his soiled shoes by the door.

“What did you end up seeing?”

“Um, the new Adam Sandler,” he said, figuring she wouldn't be interested in any more details. His Aunt Andrea wasn't an Adam Sandler fan.

“Really?” she said, folding her arms. “I had no idea he was in the Iranian film playing at the Uptown.”

“Well, they—they have two theaters there.”

“Yes. And the other theater's playing a revival of
The Seven Samurai
. I don't think Adam Sandler was in that one either. I checked on what was playing there, Spencer. If you're going to lie to me, you should at least come up with a better cover story.”

Spencer's back was against the door. She practically blocked his way into the rest of the town house.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Well,
sorry
isn't going to cut it here,” she said. “You lied, Spencer, and I can't have that. Don't you understand? When you lie to me about where you're going or where you've been, all I can do is assume the worst. I got a strange phone call tonight. I'm pretty sure it was Troy Slattery. Whoever it was, they indicated you were up to no good tonight. Now, where were you? I know you weren't at the movies. And I know you weren't hanging around with Tanya and the cast of
The Pajama Game
. You don't even like her very much.”

“I was following her,” he admitted. “She said she was meeting someone tonight, and I thought it might be that Troy guy. So I followed her all night. My shoes got muddy, because I was spying on her from a construction site next door to her house.”

Wide-eyed, Andrea stared at him. “Spencer, you could get arrested for doing that.”

He shrugged. “I know.”

“Well, okay, I'll bite,” his aunt said. “Who did she meet?”

“Nobody,” Spencer replied. “I guess the guy canceled on her. Anyway, I'm sorry I didn't tell you the truth. I figured you'd talk me out of it if you knew what I was doing.”

“You're damn right I would have. So what else haven't you told me?”

“Well, okay, so today at school, Ron Jarvis threatened me.” It actually felt good to tell her that.

“Ron Jarvis,” she repeated.

“He's this big football jock.”

“Isn't he one of the people who picked on Damon?”

Nodding, Spencer took off his jacket. “He picked on me, too—for a while. Anyway, he started getting texts and phone calls—just like Reed got right before he and his parents were killed. I guess somebody told him it was me.”

“Probably the same creep who called me tonight,” his aunt said.

“You think it's Troy?” Spencer asked. “Because I do. I have a theory—while he was dating Mrs. Shuler, he, Damon, and Tanya formed some sort of weird pact. Now he and Tanya are getting even for what happened to Damon.”

He draped his jacket over the stairway banister. “And it's not just the bullies they're killing. They're going after Luke, you, and me, too—everyone Damon mentioned in that speech, everyone who pissed him off. I wouldn't be surprised, once they're done with Ron, they go after Principal Dunmore.”

“You could be right,” Andrea said. “But Troy, Damon, and Tanya, that's an awfully strange trio. I'm not sure. Have Ron or his parents told the police about the calls and texts?”

Spencer nodded. “His parents reported it to the police. But I don't think they blamed me for it or we would have heard from the cops by now. Anyway, I'm pretty sure we've got it covered for the next twenty-four hours. This girl, Bonnie—she used to go out with Ron—she talked to him and got one of his teammates to make sure Ron doesn't go home tonight.”

“And the police know,” she said, apparently double-checking.

“Yeah,” he said. “Do you think maybe we should call them and let them know about my theory?”

His aunt rubbed her forehead. “I don't think they want to hear any theories from either one of us, to tell you the truth.” She sighed. “Did you get anything to eat tonight?”

“I had a slice of pizza at seven o'clock.”

She sighed. “Go wash up and I'll fix you a sandwich.” She stepped aside so he could pass.

She must have read his mind, because he had to pee. He started toward the powder room, but stopped and turned to her. He worked up a smile. “Thanks for not being too mad at me.”

“Well, I'm hardly one to point fingers at anyone for being secretive. Luke would attest to that, I'm sure. Along those lines, Spencer, I need to be honest with you. I've been busy ‘being secretive' myself the last couple of days.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I've been doing some investigating. I've uncovered a few things, but I still have a lot of questions. You might be able to help me with some of them.”

“How so?” he asked.

“For starters, do you know who Doreen Carter is?”

He shook his head. “Why? Am I supposed to know her?”

“Not necessarily,” she said. “What about Kirk Mowery or Richard Phelps?”

He shook his head again. “Who are they?”

“They're friends of a friend of yours,” his aunt said.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, frowning.

Andrea sighed again. “Go get cleaned up. I'll make you a grilled cheese. And I'll tell you all about it while you eat . . .”

 

 

 

He watched the light go out in the master bedroom on the second floor.

They'd left a lamp on in the living room just to throw off someone like him. It was the Mission-style lamp with the Tiffany shade. He'd noticed it while inside the house two nights ago around this time. They weren't throwing him off at all. He'd been here long enough to know nobody was in that living room—or on the entire first floor. The two of them had gone upstairs to their respective rooms about forty minutes ago. Though their bedroom lights were off, he was pretty sure neither of them was asleep yet.

He was parked across the street from the town house. He'd been there for almost an hour, and only twenty or so cars had passed him—none of them police cars. It was a far cry from three weeks ago, when this place had swarmed with cops and reporters. How quickly people forgot.

But he didn't forget. He held onto things. And, sometimes, they festered and he'd go a little crazy.

The two of them had foiled his break-in the night before last. But he would get inside that house again. It just wasn't happening tonight.

He grabbed the phone from the passenger seat and played the video again.

“So, Troy's not home,”
Adrian was saying. “
I'm not sure when he's going to be back . . .”

“Well, I was hoping to track him down,”
Andrea Boyle said. The image of her in the bedroom doorway was slightly blurred and rickety—thanks to Adrian's unsteady hand.
“I'm a friend of Evelyn Shuler's . . .”

His roommate—and sometime girlfriend—had surreptitiously recorded the beginning of Andrea's surprise visit to his basement abode. It was obvious that Luke Shuler's whore was trying to pin the hit-and-run on him. He wondered when she planned to go to the police with her suspicions.

Before that happened, he'd shut her up—for good.

He'd catch the two of them while they were home—when their guard was down.

And he'd go a little crazy.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

 

C
arl Brubaker was running late. It had been his girlfriend Lolita's birthday last night, and they'd been out celebrating until one in the morning. She'd had her merlot, and he'd stuck with seltzer water all night long. Two years sober, so far.

He was just getting started on this building and had another floor of office suites to clean in a building in Madison Valley. Then he had to meet Lolita by four-thirty so they could take her little boy trick-or-treating. Usually, the clients in this building on Nineteenth Avenue expected a deep clean every weekend. That included emptying all the trash cans, washing the floors, watering the plants, dusting, and vacuuming the carpets. This weekend they would get what Carl's late mother called “a lick and a promise.” He'd do some surface cleaning, make sure all the plants were watered—and then save the detail work for next weekend.

Unfortunately, there was already a wrench in his plan. Someone must have thrown away something perishable into one of the office trash cans. He'd noticed the smell while spot-vacuuming the hallway. Even past all the perfume scents drifting up from the store downstairs, he could still tell something had gone bad—probably a milkshake or part of a tuna sandwich. People didn't seem to realize that a lot of office trash cans were just for trash—not food garbage. The smell seemed to be coming from Diane Leppert's waiting room. That was odd, because she was usually very tidy.

He got out his keys and unlocked the waiting room door. As he stepped into the anteroom, the stench hit him hard. He could tell it was something beyond the next door. He unlocked and stepped inside Dr. Leppert's office.

“Oh, Christ,” he muttered, covering his mouth.

Someone must have rifled through the desk, because papers littered the floor. Lying facedown on the carpet, the therapist's body had swollen to twice her normal size. She looked like a beached whale. Her auburn hair on one side of her head was matted down with blood. A glass Saturn paperweight—splotched reddish brown—was on the floor beside her.

Carl knew this office well. The Saturn ornament was usually on the small table by the easy chair. Now in its place, he saw someone's paperback copy of
The Grapes of Wrath
.

 

“Hi, Doreen,” Andrea said into the landline cordless phone in Luke's study. She sat in front of his computer. Hugh Badger Lyman's file on her was on the desk. “My name's Andrea Shuler, and I'm an attorney working for H. B. Lyman, a detective agency. I'm trying to track down a Richard Phelps. It's a private matter. In fact, he's in line to inherit some money. I was told you might know how to reach him.”

“Not me,” the woman said. “I don't know a Richard Phelps.”

“Maybe you know one of Richard's friends, Garrett Beale or Kirk Mowery?”

“No, I don't. How did you get this number anyway?”

“I'm sorry I bothered you,” Andrea said. “Thanks for your time.”

She hung up, and scratched a line through the third “Doreen Carter” in Virginia—from her list of candidates. This one—from Fredericksburg—seemed to have some real “girlfriend” potential for Garrett, Kirk, or Richard. She was twenty-two, and had posted several slutty-looking selfies on Facebook.

Andrea had narrowed the list down to six women in Virginia. Now she had three Doreen Carters left. None of them looked too promising: a thirty-one-year-old single saleswoman at Ann Taylor at Tysons Corner Center; a Richmond-based, thirty-nine-year-old married dental hygienist with two children; and a twenty-eight-year-old married political consultant in Arlington. If none of them fit the bill, she would track down all the Doreen Carters in the Seattle area, and then Maryland.

It had taken her most of the morning to compose this first list of candidates, checking Google and Facebook, and then looking up the women's phone numbers.

Andrea had gotten up at six-fifteen. Her Fitbit showed two hours of heavy sleep, two hours of light. She envied Spencer for sleeping in. She'd heard him get up about fifteen minutes ago.

She wasn't sure who Doreen Carter was, but the name must have meant something to Evelyn's private detective. From what Dana had said, his boss might have scribbled down that name shortly before his death. And it was rather a bizarre death, too—an automobile-train smashup with no witnesses, and a combination of drugs and alcohol in the victim's bloodstream. How sure were the Seattle police that Hugh Badger Lyman's death was really an accident?

Andrea's entire morning hadn't been dedicated solely to tracking down Doreen Carter. She'd also tried the number H. B. Lyman had written down for Richard Phelps's older sister and guardian. But it was disconnected. Andrea had gotten the same result when she'd tried to call Kirk Mowery. She'd tried Kirk's mother and got an answering machine. She'd hung up without leaving a message.

She was dialing the saleswoman in Tysons Corner when she heard Spencer come down the stairs. Clicking off, Andrea put the cordless handset back in its cradle.

Spencer wandered into the study in jeans and a navy blue fisherman's sweater. He was carrying his jacket. His hair was uncombed and he looked a bit shaken.

“What's going on?” Andrea asked, leaning forward in Luke's swivel chair.

“Ron's dead,” he replied numbly.

“The one you were telling me about yesterday? The jock?”

Spencer nodded. “I just got a call from Bonnie. She was crying. The police came to her house this morning. Ron hung himself—or at least, it was made to look that way. They found him strung up from a tree in the woods near Discovery Park. Some joggers found him. We—we thought he had it covered for a while. One of Ron's friends was supposed to look after him. I guess he left the party in a hurry. Bonnie—she's really torn up. She's pretty sure the police think I had something to do with it. I wouldn't be surprised if they were on their way here.”

“Oh, my God,” Andrea whispered. She watched him put on his jacket. “Wait—where do you think you're going?”

“I'm meeting Tanya,” he said. “I just called her. She's the only one besides you who might be able to say where I was last night after eleven o'clock. That's when they think Ron was killed. I'm hoping Tanya might have seen me follow her home. She wouldn't say over the phone, but she agreed to meet me for brunch at the 5 Spot.”

“Brunch?” Andrea repeated. She got to her feet. “What kind of nonsense is that? Why didn't Tanya just give you a straight answer on the phone? Why is she jerking you around like this?”

Tears in his eyes, Spencer shrugged hopelessly. “I don't know, but I'm hoping this time I'll get through to her. Maybe she'll finally open up to me. She said she'd wait for me at the restaurant. I need to leave—now, before the police get here.”

“Well, I'm not letting you go there alone,” Andrea said. “I'll drive you.”

* * *

Located at the top of Queen Anne Hill, the 5 Spot was a fifties-style diner with wood paneling, red Naugahyde-covered booths and bar stools, and chrome edges everywhere. A partition separated the counter-bar from the main eating area. Every month they changed the menu to present foods from a different city or country. Above the partition dangled three piñatas—to celebrate their special menu from Mexico.

Even though she wasn't hungry and she'd already had three cups of coffee this morning, Andrea ordered a cheese omelet and a cup of coffee. She sat at the counter, where she could see Spencer and Tanya on the other side of the partition, seated in a booth near a six-foot replica of the Statue of Liberty on a pedestal. They were still ordering. Their waitress—like everyone else on the staff—was dressed for Halloween. She wore rabbit ears, a little Bugs Bunny nose-and-teeth mask, and a furry tail.

Andrea had brought along the contact list she'd collected for various Doreen Carters in Virginia. While she waited for her food, she called the saleswoman from Tysons Corner. She got an answering machine and left a message. Then she tried the married dental hygienist from Richmond.

The woman picked up: “Yeah, hello?”

“Is Doreen Carter there, please?”

“Yes, this is Doreen.”

“Hi, my name is Andrea Boyle, and I'm an attorney. I was told you might have some information regarding the whereabouts of a Richard Phelps. He's not in any kind of trouble. It's just the opposite. He's in line to inherit some money . . .”

There was a silence on the other end. Andrea wondered if she'd missed something due to all the chatter in the restaurant. “Ms. Carter? Doreen?”

“You're a lawyer?” she asked, sounding leery.

“Yes. I understand Richard was friends with a Doreen Carter. I'm hoping you might be the right Doreen Carter. As I said, Richard isn't in any trouble. It's a family matter. If you don't know Richard, perhaps you're acquainted with some friends of his, Garrett Beale or Kirk Mowery.”

“Garrett?” she whispered. Andrea barely heard her over the noise.

“Yes, Garrett Beale,” Andrea said. “Do you know him?”

The line went dead.

Andrea wasn't sure if the woman had hung up or if they'd been cut off.

The bartender, dressed like a cowboy, set a plate in front of her. “Cheddar omelet and whole wheat toast. Would you like some ketchup?”

“Ah, no, thank you,” she said, the phone still in her hand.

He refilled her coffee cup and set a bowlful of Smucker's jelly packets beside her plate. As Andrea thanked him again her phone rang the “Hello, Goodbye” tune. She thought it might be Doreen calling back, but the caller ID showed: HARBORVIEW HOSP.

She clicked on. “Luke?” she said.

“Is this Andrea Boyle?” a man asked.

“Yes. Who's calling?”

“This is Dr. Stafford Lombard at the ICU at Harborview. I'm calling about Luke Shuler—”

“Yes?” she said anxiously.

“He developed an infection this morning. We hoped to keep it in check, but with his condition, it's very difficult. He has a fever of a hundred and four. He'd like you to come to the hospital. He said he'd prefer you to come alone. Um, do you have any idea where he keeps his will?”

“His will?” Andrea repeated. She was in shock. Luke had been doing pretty well last night.

“Yes, he'd like you to bring it,” the man said. “Could you come right away? The sooner, the better . . .”

* * *

“I'm sorry to interrupt,” his aunt said, putting her hand on his shoulder. She seemed nervous. Some of the color had drained from her face. “They need me at the hospital. Will you be okay on your own?”

“Is Luke all right?” Spencer asked.

She nodded. “He just needs me to bring some records from the house. I'll call you later. Okay?” She squeezed his shoulder. “When you're done here, I want you to go right home. Will you promise me?”

“Sure,” he murmured. “Aunt Dee, are you okay?”

Across the table, Tanya was looking up at her, eyes narrowed.

“Yes. I'll call you later—at home,” his aunt said. From her purse, she took out two twenties and handed them to him. “Here, this should cover your breakfast. And there should be enough for a taxi home. I know it's less than a mile, but I want you to call a cab.”

“Okay, thanks,” Spencer said. As he took the money, he noticed her hand was shaking.

His aunt turned to Tanya. “If you really cared about my nephew or Mr. Shuler, you'd be honest with us. Spencer's been decent to you. He deserves better. He deserves your help.”

Tanya curled her lip. “What?”

His aunt turned and hurried out of the restaurant.

Tanya let out a stunned, little laugh. “What was that about? What's her problem?”

“She's worried about me,” Spencer said. “I didn't get home until after eleven-thirty last night. Ron was killed near Discovery Park some time after ten forty-five. For most of those forty-five minutes, I was following you.”

Tanya's mouth dropped open, and she blinked. “What are you talking about?”

Spencer thought she seemed to be overacting a bit. “I was worried about you,” he lied. “And so I was following you last night—from the Thai place to your house to Kerry Park and back to your house again.”

She laughed. “Oh my God, you were stalking me?”

“I was worried about you,” he lied again. “I thought you might have seen me—near the end, when you called me. I was just down the block from your house.”

She shook her head. “I had no idea.”

“Are you sure?” Spencer pressed. “Tanya, someone is trying to set me up for Ron's murder. And the police are already pretty sure it was murder and not a suicide. They suspect me. If you saw me, then I have an alibi for where I was at eleven o'clock last night.”

She took a sip of her water and said nothing.

“That's what my aunt meant when she said if you liked me, you'd be honest with me and help me out.”

She shrugged. “I wish I could. But I didn't see you at all last night. You must be a pretty good stalker, because I didn't have a clue you were following me.”

His eyes wrestled with hers. “You know something? I don't believe you.”

“Well, it's the truth,” she insisted. She shifted a little in the booth.

“Did you know Damon kept a journal?” he asked.

Tanya looked truly baffled. She shook her head.

Spencer could tell she wasn't acting this time. “I found it at Luke's house, and read parts of it—before it disappeared. I read about what Ron and Reed put him through—and what they put you through, too. It's horrible what they did. I have to admit, I'm not all that sorry they're gone. Four of the people Damon mentioned in that webcast are now dead, four people he hated. Maybe Damon planted the bomb that killed KC and Mr. MacAfee. But someone else had to kill Reed and Ron. And they did it for Damon. The police said that the murders of Reed and his parents looked like a two-person job. Now, I know you're not a killer. But in Damon's journal, he didn't mention any other friends—except you. Can you think of anyone else who might be doing this for him?”