No One Needs to Know (29 page)

Laurie stepped outside, but then turned to Tammy in the doorway. “You know when we were talking earlier? You mentioned Maureen had found out something about Cheryl that made them almost like family. Did you ever find out what it was?”

Tammy shook her head. “No, I didn’t.”

“Do you know if she ever talked to Cheryl about it?”

“I have no idea.” With a sad look on her careworn face, Tammy gave a helpless shrug. “I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Cheryl. You see, just a couple days after Maureen and I had that conversation, she died in the explosion, the poor thing.”

“Oh, I see,” Laurie murmured, rocking Joey in her arms. She gave her a pale smile. “Well, thanks, Tammy.”

“See you tomorrow,” her neighbor said. “Take care.”

With her face pressed against the top of Joey’s head, Laurie retreated toward home. She heard the door close behind her—and then the lock clicking.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-
TWO

Monday, 5:35
P.M.

“O
h, Adam, no . . . my God, no . . .”

The woman on the other end of the line was Adam’s cousin, Judy, and she was crying. She lived in Milwaukee with her husband and three kids. Along with his dad, they were Adam’s only living blood relatives. Her mother and Adam’s mom had been sisters. Adam hadn’t talked with Judy in at least two years, and now he was on the phone telling her that his brother and sister-in-law had been murdered.

“I’m—I’m so sorry, Adam,” she wept. “Can you—can you please hold on for a minute? I can’t . . .”

There was a thump. She’d obviously put the phone down, but he still heard her muffled sobs. There was nothing he could say or do to console her. There was no silver lining to any of this. Dean and Joyce had died horribly. He remembered Joyce’s terror-filled scream directly above him. He’d seen what they’d done to her.

Earlier tonight, he’d gone back to the house to pick up some of his things. The cop on duty had also let him copy down some phone numbers from Joyce’s address book. Though nice enough, the cop had also been pretty tactless, mentioning offhand that early reports indicated Joyce had been stabbed thirteen times, and Dean, twenty-eight times.

Apparently, that had been the exact same number of stab wounds inflicted on Elaina Styles and Dirk Jordan.

Adam had found a temporary place to stay courtesy of his Capitol Hill friends, Dave and Stafford. They’d recently adopted a baby girl, Thea. In fact, Joyce had just been at their house yesterday to talk with them about the adoption process. Adam had studied art with Dave, who had a combination art studio/guest apartment above their garage—complete with a bathroom, kitchen area, and a sofa bed. They were happy to let Adam stay there—especially since they were headed out of town in a day, and needed someone to look after the house, collect the mail, and water the plants while they were away.

It was just what Adam needed, a place to be alone where the TV news people couldn’t find him. Right now, he sat on the sofa with two suitcases in front of him, and a view out the window of treetops. He was running on about two hours of sleep and no food. He figured he’d eat something after he made these calls.

He’d already broken the news to Dean and Joyce’s friends, the ones whose numbers were in Joyce’s address book. A few of them had already heard about the murders, but for others, it was a shock—and there were tears, even hysterics in a couple of cases. Adam also had made calls to several old family friends, some who hadn’t even known about his dad’s dementia. So it had been a double dose of bad news.

He had one more family friend to call after Judy, and he dreaded it. His uncle Marty and aunt Doris were Dean’s godparents. His dad and Marty went way back. Marty drove up from Tacoma once a week to visit his father at Evergreen Manor. Adam was putting the call off for last.

He heard another little thump on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry, cuz,” said Judy, her voice a bit scratchy from crying. “It’s such a blow about your dad’s condition, too. I had no idea . . .”

“Neither did we until just a few months ago,” Adam said.

“Does Uncle Dino—does your dad understand what happened to Dean and Joyce?”

“Yes, he was comforting me, which is typical. I just left him about a half hour ago. He’s doing all right—considering. They’re keeping a close eye on him tonight.” With the phone to his ear, Adam squirmed on the sofa, and hunched forward. “Listen, I feel funny bringing this up, Jude. But my dad said the damnedest thing. I asked him why anyone would do that to Dean and Joyce. Why this copycat killing? I wasn’t really expecting an answer or anything. But Pop said, ‘I think they were getting even.’”

There was silence on the other end.

“I couldn’t help wondering what he meant,” Adam went on. “I mean,
getting even
for what? Had my dad done something? Anyway, it got me thinking. Dean was always saying that I really didn’t know our dad. He gave me the impression that my dad had done something really awful at one time . . .”

“Your sweet father? My uncle Dino? Are you serious?”

“I know, it’s crazy,” Adam said. He hated having to ask her about such things. Dean had held it over his head for so long. Now his brother was taking that old family secret to his grave. Adam doubted he’d ever get anything out of his dad. Even if his father could remember past the dementia, if this secret was as shameful as Dean had let on, then their father wasn’t about to tell him.

“I thought my mom might have said something to your mom,” he explained. “You know, a secret between the sisters . . .”

“We have some fairly juicy scandals on our side of the family, but I never heard a bad word about your father, Adam.”

“I just keep thinking about what he said, ‘They were getting even.’”

“Well, maybe it was the dementia talking,” his cousin offered.

“Maybe,” Adam granted. But his father had seemed lucid when he’d said it.

Adam had asked a couple of his dad’s buddies about it when he’d phoned them. But like his cousin, they didn’t seem to know what the hell he was talking about. Adam figured he probably shouldn’t have brought it up—not even to close family friends. Maybe it was better off staying buried. Yet if this family secret had something to do why Dean and Joyce were murdered, he needed to know what it was.

“Have you made the funeral arrangements yet?” Judy asked.

“No, not yet,” he said. “They have to do the autopsies first. The funeral probably won’t be until next week.”

“Well, I don’t think Bill and the kids can make it, but I’d like to be there for you . . .”

“That’s sweet, but I don’t want you going to a lot of expense—”

He heard a beep on the line. Adam quickly straightened up on the couch. “Judy, can you hold on?” he asked. “I have another call . . .” He glanced at the caller ID on his device: CONNELLY, MARTIN 360-555-1708. His uncle Marty must have received the news from someone else. Adam got back on the line. “Judy, I’m sorry, I need to take this. I’ll send you an e-mail when I figure out the funeral arrangements, but please, don’t feel under any obligation, okay?”

“We’ll talk in a couple of days, cuz. You take care.” From the cracks in her voice, he could tell she was starting to cry again. “Give my love and condolences to your dad.”

“I will,” he said. “Thanks, Judy.”

He got to his feet, and clicked onto the other call before it went to voice mail. “Uncle Marty?”

“How are you holding up, kid?” he asked.

“I’m hanging in there,” Adam replied, but he started to tear up. Marty always had a kind of likable gruff manner. It threw Adam for a loop to hear him sounding so uncharacteristically tender. He wiped his tears away, and paced back and forth in front of the window. “I was just about to call you and Aunt Doris. I had a list of people to phone with the news, and kept shoving you guys farther down to the bottom. I knew you’d take it the hardest. I’m sorry. How did you find out?”

“From one of the guys higher up on your list,” Marty replied. “Your aunt Doris is in the can right now, having herself a good cry. She’ll call you back in a few minutes. But right now, I need to speak to you alone before you call anyone else . . .”

Uncle Marty’s gruff manner was back. In fact, the old man sounded as if he were annoyed with him.

“Okay,” Adam said tentatively. He stopped pacing.

“I know you’ve had a big shock and a rough-as-hell day, but you need to be a little more careful about what you’re saying to people.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“This talk about a dark secret in your dad’s past, and someone ‘getting even’ with those copycat killings, it’s kind of reckless, kid. You’re better off keeping a lid on that. Your dad isn’t in any shape to defend himself against any accusation or explain things. So, just let it go. Leave it alone.”

“Leave
what
alone?” Adam asked. “Uncle Marty, I don’t know what it is Pop was supposed to have done. That’s why I’m asking around. Dean often alluded to something, but he wouldn’t tell me. If it has anything to do with what happened to Dean and Joyce, don’t you think I have a right to know?”

“Like I said, just leave it alone,” he replied. “You can’t keep asking people about this. You ask the wrong person, and you’ll end up like your brother.”

“Then there’s a connection,” Adam said. “This wasn’t just some random killing. Uncle Marty, the police don’t have any suspects right now—except maybe me. Obviously, you know something—”

“I don’t know a goddamn thing,” Marty growled. “I’m just saying family secrets should stay inside the family. Quit asking stupid questions. People are grieving. Now, I don’t want to hear another word about this.”

“Listen, I can’t pretend like—”

“What the hell did I just tell you?” Marty cut him off. “Doris will call you in a few minutes, and I don’t want you bothering her with any of this bullshit. Got that?”

“So there’s this—
thing
hanging out there, and it may have something to do with why Dean and Joyce were killed. But I’m supposed to forget about it. Is that right?”

“Exactly. I’ll drive up to see your dad tomorrow morning. And I don’t want you bothering him about this either. Believe me, it’s all for your own good. Otherwise, how are you holding up, kid?”

Adam let out a dazed, pathetic laugh. “I’m lousy.”

“Same here,” he said. “Hell of a thing. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. You can expect your Aunt Doris to call in a few minutes. Expect some waterworks, too. She’s taking it pretty bad.”

“Okay,” Adam said. “Thanks, Uncle Marty.”

“I mean it about keeping your mouth shut,” he said. “If you don’t, you better start watching your back, kid.”

Adam heard a click on the other end of the line, and then it went dead.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-
THREE

Monday, 5:42
P.M.

“D
o you have a couple of minutes?” Laurie asked.

With Joey in her arms, she stood at Brenda’s door. She’d been getting ready to make cupcakes for tomorrow. But when she’d heard Brenda come home from work, she’d scooped up Joey and hurried outside to the next door down.

Brenda seemed a little reluctant to let her in. She stood in the doorway with one hand on the knob. Her dark blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail again, and she wore a maroon top with khaki slacks. “You aren’t going to ask me to look after your child, are you?” she said. “Because I’m not good with kids. They don’t like me.”

“Oh, no,” Laurie said. “I’ve been thinking about something you said to me the other day about Maureen and Cheryl . . .”

“Well, if we’re going to talk about the neighbors, you better step inside.” Brenda opened the door wider. The apartment layout was similar to Laurie’s, and the furnishings looked like Pottery Barn’s finest. But Brenda was a slob. A pillow from the bedroom was propped on one end of the sofa, and nearby, within reaching distance, were two TV tables full of glasses and old dirty plates. The big screen TV was on mute. A litter box sat in the middle of the living room—and it needed cleaning. The apartment smelled. “That’s Mr. Darcy,” Brenda said, pointing to an orange tabby parked in an easy chair, which had a T-shirt slung over one arm. “Mr. Darcy, this is Laura . . .”

“Laurie,” she gently corrected her, “and Joey.”

Brenda reached into her purse—on a side table stacked with old junk mail. She pulled out a pack of Winstons. “So, after a week of working with Miss Thing across the way, I guess you must have some issues.” She lit a cigarette. “If you’re one of those antismoking Nazis, feel free to open the door.”

“That’s all right,” Laurie said. Brenda hadn’t asked her to sit down, and Laurie figured she wouldn’t stay long. She’d get Joey in the fresh air again within a couple of minutes. “Actually, Cheryl and I are getting along all right. But I keep remembering what you said about Maureen not really trusting her . . .”

“No farther than she could throw her,” Brenda said, sitting on the sofa arm. She took a long puff on her cigarette. “I suppose you want an example. Well, maybe things changed over the months, but when your boss first joined our happy little La Hacienda family, Maureen pulled me aside. She told me on the Q.T. that if Cheryl came around here asking questions about her and her background, I should let her know.”

“Did she think Cheryl was trying to spy on her or something?”

Brenda shrugged. “Beats me. Anyway, Cheryl never grilled me about Maureen, so it was a nonissue. In fact, Cheryl has said a total of maybe twenty words to me since she moved in four months ago. Talk about stuck-up. . .”

“Is she close to any of the neighbors?”

Brenda let out a stream of smoke. “Now that Maureen’s toes-up, I guess she’s closest to the Cassellas—or maybe the Teds, that’s the gay couple next door to her, Ted Something and Ted Something Else. They’re hardly ever here. They live on Whidbey Island.”