No One Needs to Know (43 page)

Duncan backed away. He shoved the switchblade in his pants pocket. Glancing around near his fallen Blue Bomber, he found his cell phone. He dialed 911.

While he waited for the emergency operator, Duncan could feel his head shaking. But it really didn’t matter. He was still alive. He was still standing.

That miserable scumbag was curled up on the pavement, groaning.

And he’d put him there.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
-
ONE

Friday, July 11, 1:36
P.M.

Seattle

I
n the living room of the Gayler Court house, a chair and a tall plant had been tipped over, and three short coils of rope lay half-unwound on the carpeted floor.

Today they were shooting a scene in which Dirk Jordan was attacked—just as he’d been in that very room forty-four years ago. His own melodic composition and voice had woken him in the middle of the night. He’d come downstairs to investigate the music blaring on the stereo, and found his killers waiting for him there. A ficus plant and a cushioned chair had toppled over during the struggle. A Union Jack throw pillow was on the floor beside the fallen plant. The killers had already laid out the rope to tie up their victims.

Laurie remembered some of the same details in the crime scene photos she’d seen online.

She and Cheryl passed by the living room as they brought in the trays of lemon bars. Technicians were lighting the set while stand-ins—dressed in hippie garb— were escorted into the living room by an assistant director.

Laurie noticed that Cheryl barely glanced toward the living room—or at any of the grubby-looking stand-ins. It was as if she’d made up her mind ahead of time to avoid looking that way. Cheryl’s tray shook in her hands. She seemed relieved when she finally set it on the kitchen counter.

She’d been tense all morning, and even burned a couple of sandwiches. She’d said she was nervous about the meeting with Gil Garrett tomorrow. It was set for 2:30. Laurie had gotten the confirmation from Gil’s secretary—along with directions to the house in Medina.

All Cheryl talked about was the menu for their “food audition.” She never even mentioned the fact that this was Laurie’s last official day. Maybe she didn’t think Laurie had been serious about quitting. Or maybe it really didn’t matter to Cheryl now that she had her appointment with Gil.

Laurie had made the lemon bars last night, after saying good night to Adam and putting Joey to bed. Before turning in, she went over Maureen’s files again. Thanks to what Adam had told her, many of the pieces were starting to come together. But Maureen Forester was still a big missing section of the puzzle. Laurie couldn’t figure out where Maureen fit into all of this.

Rummaging through Maureen’s files, she glanced at a “missing” flier for Baby Patrick Jordan. The photo they used of the beautiful dark-haired boy looked airbrushed. Laurie figured some Hollywood photographer must have taken the picture. She started to read the description on the flier, but couldn’t get past the first line when they mentioned the baby’s yellow Snoopy pajamas. It just hit too close to home for her.

There were news clippings about false alarms in the search for Baby Patrick. A nanny, who happened to be African-American, was detained by police in Lake Oswego, Oregon, after someone spotted her in a neighborhood park with a white baby boy in her charge. A clairvoyant, claiming to know the whereabouts of Baby Patrick, led investigators to a section of woods in Seattle’s Discovery Park. She claimed the baby was buried there. But all they unearthed were the remains of someone’s dead cat. Some of the clippings were announcements from churches and synagogues all over the country about special prayer services for the missing child.

Maureen had saved articles from years later, too. One was from 1997, about a twenty-eight-year-old Dallas man who claimed he was Elaina and Dirk’s supposedly dead son. There were several articles calling for the victims’ graves to be exhumed so DNA testing could verify the identity of the child found in the shallow grave near the Biggs Farm.

The many photos and articles about Trent Hooper confirmed once again for Laurie that the makeup people had done a hell of a good job on that actor, T. E. Noll. Laurie remembered how traumatized Cheryl had been after seeing him outside the food truck.

She found articles about Gloria Northrop, the twenty-year-old nanny and often-forgotten victim of the murders on 7/7/70. For a while, her boyfriend, Earl Johnson, had been a suspect. Maureen had saved articles about him, too. From their photos, both Earl and Gloria looked slightly familiar: Gloria with her long dark hair parted down the middle, and Earl with his goofy grin and the dark bangs in his eyes. Laurie figured she must have seen similar photos of them online—during one of her many recent Google searches.

She was tired and blurry-eyed by the time she’d crawled into bed. Despite all the disturbing things she’d read that night, Laurie had fallen asleep just moments after her head had hit the pillow.

That didn’t mean she wasn’t tired today.

“I’m running on fumes!”
her mother used to say when she was exhausted. And that was how Laurie felt now. She saw to it that the arrangement of lemon bars on the counter looked appetizing. Then she checked the urns to make sure there was enough coffee and hot water for the rest of the day. Laurie was taking a look at the supply of bottled water when her cell phone rang.

Only a few people had the number, so it always took her by surprise when someone called. She figured it was the Cassellas—or possibly Don Eberhard in Ellensburg. Laurie glanced at the caller ID: Ellensburg Police Dept. 509-555-1122.

Laurie clicked on. “Hello, Detective Eberhard?”

“Um, no, this is Mike Walter,” the man said on the other end. “Is this Laurie Trotter?”

“Yes . . .” Something was wrong, she could tell.

“Laurie, I worked alongside Don Eberhard. You and I have met before.”

“Yes, of course,” she said. “Is Don okay?”

“Well, that’s the thing. I’m afraid I have some bad news. Don went missing on Monday night. We found his car this morning—on the road to Mount Stuart, in the woods off Highway 97. His body was in a gully nearby. He’d been shot.”

“Oh, God, no,” she whispered. She braced herself against the counter.

“I’m sorry,” the cop said. “He was very fond of you, Laurie.”

Tears welled in her eyes. She felt responsible. She remembered he had a wife and a teenager daughter. “Do they—do they know who killed him?” she asked in a shaky voice.

She heard a heavy sigh on the other end. “Last night, after closing up the diner, your busboy friend Duncan McCarthy had a run-in with Lester Heinemann. He’s one of Ryder McBride’s crew . . .”

“Oh, no, poor Duncan,” she murmured.

“ ‘Poor Duncan’ practically put the guy in the hospital. Turned out Heinemann was driving a stolen car, so we were able to haul him into the station and book him immediately. We found out this wasn’t his first encounter with Duncan. Two weeks ago, he, McBride, and a girl named Amber Shapiro took Duncan for a little ride and tried to get information out of him concerning your whereabouts. I guess they threatened him and scared the holy hell out of the kid, because Duncan kept mum about it until last night. Anyway, we got a confession out of Heinemann. He said that he, Ryder, and another girl picked up Don on Monday and Ryder killed him that night . . .”

“Oh, God, it’s all my fault,” Laurie said, her voice cracking.

“Nonsense,” the cop replied. “It was Ryder McBride who shot him. And Don knew the risks of this job. It’s a hazard of our profession. Now, listen, Ryder and two of his girls have taken off. We believe they’re on their way to Spokane. Don led them to believe you were there. We’ve notified the Spokane police and the Washington State Patrol. Ryder and his groupies won’t get far. I think your best bet is to stay put in Seattle. We’ve given your case number to the Seattle P.D. Now, I have some numbers for you to call—here and in Seattle—in case anything comes up. Do you have a pen and paper handy?”

One of the sound men came in for a lemon bar, and Laurie borrowed a pen from him. She wrote down the phone numbers on a napkin. She also got the address of Don Eberhard’s widow, so that she could send her a note.

“What happened?” Cheryl asked—as soon as Laurie clicked off with the Ellensburg policeman. “Are you okay?”

Grabbing another napkin, Laurie wiped her tears. “Someone who was very nice to me got killed,” she replied with a tremor in her voice.

She was thinking it was nice of the cop to tell her that she wasn’t to blame. But the truth was Don Eberhard would still be alive if it weren’t for her. She retreated toward the little hallway, by the bathroom. She didn’t want the film crew to see her crying.

Cheryl followed her. “Laurie, I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

She shook her head. She started to dial the Cassellas. She needed to check that Joey was safe. Then she would call Krista and Nathan—to make certain they were okay, too. She glanced at Cheryl. “Listen, do you need me for anything else?” she asked in a raspy voice. “I’d like to go home.”

“No, we’re fine here,” Cheryl said. “Take off, go.”

Laurie heard Tammy answer on the other end: “Hi, Laurie!”

“Hi,” she said. “I’m just checking in. How’s Joey? Is everything all right there?”

“Joey’s fine,” Tammy replied. “We went to the park this morning and had a great time. Are you okay? You sound funny.”

“I’m all right,” she said, rubbing her forehead. “Listen, I’ll be by to pick him up in about a half hour or so.”

“We’ll be here,” Tammy said. “Take your time. He just went down for his nap.”

“Thanks, Tammy,” she said.

When Laurie clicked off, she glanced at Cheryl, who was still hovering. She looked so worried and upset. It might as well have been a friend of hers who had been killed.

“What is it?” Laurie asked.

Cheryl bit her lip. “Will you still be able to go with me to Gil’s tomorrow?” she asked.

That was what troubled her.

Laurie frowned. “Yes, Cheryl,” she said.

Then she brushed past her and headed for the front door.

Friday, 4:04
P.M.

Ellensburg

“Duncan!” The night hostess, Stephanie, called from the other side of the pass-through window. “The phone’s for you! Take it there in the kitchen, will you?”

He’d been loading a stack of dirty plates and silverware into the dishwasher. “Okay, thanks, Stephanie!” he called, pulling off his rubber gloves. Ever since he punched that man last night, Duncan had been worried Ryder McBride and his gang would come after him. The cops tried to assure him that he wasn’t in any danger, but Duncan couldn’t be so sure. No one ever phoned him here at the restaurant. He imagined it was Ryder or one of Ryder’s friends calling to threaten him.

His head started to shake a bit as he walked across the kitchen to the phone on the wall. He wiped his hand on his apron and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

For a moment, there was nothing.

Then he heard her voice. “Duncan? Duncan, it’s Laurie.”

“Hi, Laurie,” he said, breaking into a smile. “God, I’ve really missed you . . .”

“I’ve missed you, too,” she said. “Listen, I just wanted to thank you—and apologize. I spoke with the police, and I hear I caused you some trouble. I’m really sorry. I hope those creeps didn’t hurt you . . .”

“You didn’t cause me any trouble,” Duncan said. “They did, but I’m fine. I didn’t get hurt or anything. Did the police tell you I beat up one of Ryder McBride’s buddies last night?”

“Yes, I hear you really flattened him,” Laurie said. “Thank you, Duncan. You’re my hero . . .”

With the phone to his ear, Duncan leaned against the kitchen wall. His head was shaking a little. But he had a triumphant smile on his face.

Friday, 5:09
P.M.

Seattle

His dad must have been pretty lucid, because he got up from his Barcalounger when Laurie came into the room. She was carrying Joey, her purse, and a Bartell Drugs bag.

Leaning on his cane, his father shook Laurie’s hand. He said he remembered her from the day before yesterday. He offered Joey a Mini Chips Ahoy! Laurie tried to catch the crumbs as the baby gobbled it up.

“So, are you two going steady or something?” his dad asked.

Adam chuckled nervously. “No, Pop, at least, not yet.” He led him back to his chair. “Remember, Laurie was asking you some questions the other day? We’re hoping to pick up where we left off . . .”

This was Adam’s idea. And Laurie had agreed to give it another try. She’d told him that if she seemed like a bit of a wreck when he saw her, it was because she’d had some bad news about a friend today. She didn’t elaborate.

“I brought you guys some lemon bars,” she said, handing him the plastic bag from Bartell Drugs. She sat down on the edge of the bed with Joey.

“Thanks, we’ll eat them later,” Adam said. “Laurie’s a wonderful cook, Pop.” He set aside the Tupperware container of bars, and found Laurie had also tucked the photocopies from the grisly scene at Biggs Farm inside the bag.

“Mr. Holbrook, I was asking you the other day—”

“Oh, call me Dino,” he said with a smile, shifting a bit in his lounger.

“Dino, the other day I was asking you a lot of questions,” Laurie said. She kept a hand on Joey’s back as he crawled around the foot of the bed. “But I didn’t get around to asking about a couple of people you might know or remember. Does the name Cheryl Wheeler sound familiar?”

Adam’s father smiled and shook his head.

“What about Charlene Mundy . . . Charlene Anne Mundy?”

His lips moved as he silently said the name to himself. Then he shook his head again. “Nope, sorry.”