In the Dark (3 page)

 

“I’m sure you don’t remember me, but we were in high school together. I graduated a year before you and Cindy did. My name is Tish Verdure.”

 

Her voice had a seductive, breathless rumble. Her clothes smelled of violet perfume covering cigarette smoke. She was perfectly made up, but under the foundation, age and nicotine had carved winding paths into the skin around her brown eyes and above her forehead. Even so, she was very pretty, with a tiny, tapered nose, a pale pink oval at her lips, and a pointed chin.

 

Stride remembered her name but nothing else, but it explained why she had looked familiar to him. “It’s been a long time,” he said in an apologetic tone.

 

“Don’t worry, I knew Cindy before the two of you ever met.”

 

“I don’t recall Cindy ever mentioning you,” he said.

 

“Well, back then, I was Laura’s best friend.”

 

At the sound of Laura’s name, Stride felt a rush of memories storm his mind. Himself and Cindy, naked in the water, making love. Ray Wallace checking his gun. The huge black man, Dada, escaping on a train car. Most of all, the whooshing sound of a baseball bat in Peter Stanhope’s hands. It might as well have been 1977 again.

 

Serena cleared her throat loudly. Stride burst from his trance.

 

“I’m sorry. Tish, this is my partner, Serena Dial, and this is my colleague on the police force, Maggie Bei.”

 

Maggie waved with half her sandwich without getting up. Serena stood, dwarfing the other woman, and Stride felt the air blow cold like dry ice between Serena and Tish. They didn’t know each other, but with a single glance, they didn’t like each other.

 

“Do you live in the area?” Stride asked.

 

Tish studied Lake Superior with wistful eyes. “Oh, no, I haven’t been back to Duluth in years. I don’t really have much of a home base. I’m a travel writer, so I’m on the go most of the time. When I stay put, I live in Atlanta.”

 

“What brings you back here?” he asked.

 

“Actually, I was looking for you,” Tish told him.

 

“For me?” Stride asked, surprised.

 

“Yes.”

 

Stride exchanged glances with Serena and Maggie. “Maybe you should sit down and tell me why.”

 

Tish took the empty chair at the table for four, facing the lake. She slid a leather purse off her shoulder and put it on the table in front of her. She pulled out an open pack of cigarettes. “Can you smoke outside at restaurants here?”

 

“I wish you wouldn’t,” Serena told her.

 

“I’m sorry,” Tish said. “I know I should quit, but smoking’s one way I handle my nerves. The other is drinking. Not very smart, I guess, but what can you do?”

 

“I’m a reformed smoker myself,” Stride said.

 

“Well, I don’t mean to be such a mystery,” Tish told them. She smiled at Maggie and Serena, but the two women wore stony masks. Tish ignored them and focused on Stride. “First of all, I want to tell you how sorry I am about Cindy’s death. I know the two of you were a real love match.”

 

“It was several years ago, but thank you,” Stride said.

 

“I would have come to the funeral myself, but I was in Prague on a story at the time.”

 

Stride felt suspicion poking like a spring seedling out of the ground. “That’s kind of you to say, Ms. Verdure, but you knew Cindy back in high school. I don’t think anyone would have expected you to go to her funeral twenty-five years later.”

 

“Oh, Cindy and I stayed in touch,” Tish said.

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

“Not very often, but we wrote to each other now and then.”

 

“Really.” He didn’t say it like a question. He said it for what it was—disbelief. He added, “Do you mind showing me some identification?”

 

“Not at all.” Tish dug in her purse for her wallet and extracted her driver’s license, which she handed across the table. The silence from the other three people didn’t appear to bother her. “I understand how odd this is, me showing up after all these years,” she continued. “Cindy and I wrote to each other at the hospital where she worked. It was only the occasional postcard or Christmas card, that kind of thing. For me, it was nice having a little connection to my life back here. I left Duluth after graduation and never came back, but that doesn’t mean I forgot about it. And of course, whenever I wrote to Cindy, it made me feel a little closer to Laura. Do you know what I mean?”

 

Stride studied the Georgia driver’s license carefully and confirmed that the name Tish Verdure and the photo matched the woman sitting across from him.

 

“Who’s Laura?” Serena asked.

 

Stride felt as if a scab were slowly being pulled away from a deep wound. “She was Cindy’s sister.”

 

Serena’s eyebrows arched, with a look that said unmistakably,
Why haven’t you told me about her?

 

“Laura was murdered,” Stride went on. “Someone beat her to death with a baseball bat. It was July 4, 1977.”

 

“Did they catch the guy who did it?” Serena asked.

 

“No, he got away. Because of me.”

 

He didn’t say it in a way that invited questions. Serena opened her mouth and closed it again. Maggie pushed the food around on her plate, not looking up.

 

“Maybe you should tell me why you’re here, Ms. Verdure,” Stride said. “And what you want from me.”

 

“Please, call me Tish.” She leaned forward with her elbows on the table. Her brown eyes were dark and serious. “In fact, I’m here because of Laura. It’s obvious that her death still weighs on you. Well, it does on me, too. She and I were very close in high school.”

 

“So?”

 

“So I’m writing a book about Laura’s murder.”

 

Stride’s weathered face wrinkled into a scowl. “A book?”

 

“Exactly. Not just about her death, but about the people around her. How their lives changed. It’s a nonfiction novel, sort of an
In Cold Blood
thing, you know? I mean, look at you. You’re the man in charge of the city’s major crimes unit. Your wife’s sister was killed when you were all of seventeen, and the case was never solved.”

 

“I think this conversation is over,” Stride declared.

 

“Please, wait.”

 

“I won’t be part of a book about Laura,” Stride told her. “I have no interest in dragging up that part of my life again.”

 

“Just hear me out.” Tish held up her hands. “It’s not just a story about Laura’s death. There’s more. I want the book to be a catalyst to reopen the investigation. I want to solve the case. I want to find out who murdered Laura.”

 

Stride folded his arms. “You?”

 

“That’s right. Look, I’ll do it on my own if I have to, but I want your help. What’s more, I think you
want
to help me. This is a chance to put this case behind you once and for all. Cindy told me what kind of person you are. How every death takes a piece out of your soul.”

 

He was angry now. “Ms. Verdure, don’t you think I would have reopened this case years ago if I thought there was more to be done? Laura’s murder was never unsolved. We know who did it. He got away. He disappeared.”

 

Tish shook her head. “I don’t believe that’s what happened. I don’t think you do, either. There was a lot more going on in Laura’s life that summer. It was easy for the police to pass it off on some anonymous vagrant, a
black
vagrant. Talk about your stereotypical bogeyman. No one wanted to deal with the fact that it was probably someone close to Laura who killed her.”

 

“Do you have a suspect in mind?” Stride asked.

 

“Well, you could start with Peter Stanhope.”

 

Serena’s head snapped around at the mention of Stanhope’s name. “Peter was involved?” she asked Stride.

 

“Yes, he was the prime suspect for a while,” Stride admitted.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?” Serena asked.

 

Stride was silent. Peter Stanhope was an attorney from one of Duluth’s most influential families, but more important, he was one of Serena’s clients as a private investigator.

 

“I’ve done my homework,” Tish continued. “Randall Stanhope had the police in his pocket back then, and it wouldn’t have been hard for him to shift the focus away from his son. Somebody needs to take a close look at Peter Stanhope.”

 

Serena pushed her chair back with an iron screech and stalked away from the table.

 

Maggie watched her go, then leaned forward, shaking her head. “Look, Trish.”

 

“It’s Tish.”

 

“Tish, fish, knish, whatever. Let me give you a reality check. You can’t go around making accusations about anyone, let alone a rich lawyer like Peter Stanhope, without evidence. You can’t expect the police to help you.”

 

“Unless you’ve got something new to add to the investigation, we can’t do anything,” Stride added. “Even if we wanted to.”

 

“I do have something new,” Tish said.

 

Stride’s face was dark and suspicious. “What is it?”

 

“I know Laura was being stalked.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WHO KILLED LAURA STARR?

 

 

By Tish Verdure

 

 

 

 

 

TWO

 

 

 

 

May 20, 1977

 

 

 

 

Laura showed me the letter today. I caught her reading it on her bed when I went into her room, and I saw what it was before she could hide it. I could tell she was upset. I wondered how long she had been staring at it before I came in.

 

The note was written on ruled white paper, the kind we use in school. The edge was jagged where it had been torn out of a binder. Someone had used red lipstick to scrawl the message.

 

 

 

WHERE DO YOU WANT IT, BITCH?

 

 

 

“What the hell is this?” I demanded. “Where did this come from?”

 

Laura snatched the note out of my hand. “Someone put it in my locker.”

 

“Do you know who?”

 

“I have no idea.”

 

I wanted to see it again, but Laura hid it away in the drawer of her nightstand before I could ask.

 

“You have to tell someone about this,” I said.

 

Laura ignored me. She hummed along to a Hall and Oates song on her record player. “Sara Smile.” Her fluffy blond hair jiggled as her shoulders swayed, and she rubbed her index finger nervously as if she were trying to wipe away a stain. She acted as if, by putting the note away, it didn’t exist anymore.

 

“Laura,” I chided her. “This is serious. If you won’t tell anyone about it, then I will.”

 

She wagged her finger at me. “Oh, no, you won’t, little sister. I don’t want to make a big deal about this. You know what boys are like. It’s just a joke. It would make it worse if I acted like I was scared.”

 

I didn’t think it was a joke.

 

I flopped down into Laura’s white beanbag. I knew there was no point in trying to change her mind, because she didn’t call me “little sister” except when she was being stubborn. Most of the time, Laura liked the fact that I was the one in charge of the house. I could boss her around when it came to chores, and she didn’t care. She was like a sailboat drifting on the lake, letting the wind decide where she would go and not really minding where she ended up. Me, I revved my motor and followed the shore.

 

I stared at her on the bed. She wore a V-necked white T-shirt and cutoffs with a thick black belt. She was much prettier than I was. She had the curves and the boobs and the big Farrah hair. Jonny told me last week that my face was much more interesting than Laura’s, because it wasn’t symmetrical and perfect like hers was. He thought that was a compliment. I told him he needed to do better.

 

My own hair is so dark it’s almost black, and I keep it straight as an arrow, with a perfect part down the middle. I have a sharply angled nose, like a little shark’s fin jutting off my face. My irises are so large and dark that they crowd out the whites of my eyes. I have two little peaches for breasts.

 

Hey, I knew who the guys went for. It was Laura, not me. Maybe that’s why Laura was much less comfortable with guys than me.
She kept her distance. She rarely went out on dates. During the winter, she went to the movies with Peter Stanhope a few times, but she broke it off when he wanted to get into her jeans. As far as I knew, Laura was still a virgin. Not that she would tell me that kind of thing.

 

“You haven’t been around much lately,” I said. For more than a week, Laura had been disappearing after school. Coming in late or staying out all night. Acting quiet and brittle. Twice I heard her crying in her room.

 

“So?”

 

“So are you okay?”

 

Laura shrugged. I didn’t really expect her to tell me anything. We didn’t confide our secrets in each other. Even so, I wasn’t going to let it go. She could pretend all she wanted, but I knew something was wrong. You had to look for little things with Laura. When our mother died, the only hint about what was going on inside her head was when I found a ceramic statue of Jesus, in pieces, underneath her window.

 

I looked for a clue. Something different. It didn’t take me long to realize that she had flipped a photograph facedown on her nightstand. When I saw that she was still tugging at her finger, I noticed something else, too. No silver ring on her index finger, just a pale white band of skin. Laura saw where my eyes had gone, and she sat on her hands to cover them up. I knew there was no point in asking her about it, so I went another way.

 

“Who have you been hanging out with?” I asked.

 

Another shrug. “I’ve been over at Finn’s a lot.”

 

“You and your lost causes,” I told her.

 

That was the wrong thing to say. Her eyes flashed at me with annoyance. Even so, I was right. Laura had a weakness for people who were damaged. She always believed she could find a way to lift them up. It was one of her best qualities, but Laura was too naive, too trusting. I must have gotten the cynical genes, because I don’t think people ever really change.