No One Needs to Know (55 page)

It was Joey’s stuffed toy, Sparky. It was coming from downstairs.

She bolted down the stairs, almost tripping. Warily, she moved into the kitchen, where she spotted Ryder’s calling card on the dinette table: the emptied-out salt shaker and a white little mound on the table’s surface.

Laurie noticed the back door was slightly ajar. She couldn’t tell whether Ryder had come in or fled that way. All she could think about was getting Joey back—even if it meant having to kill someone. Laurie turned around to reach for the knife rack.

Ryder was there, practically on top of her. He must have been hiding in the powder room by the back door.

Before Laurie could scream, he slapped a hand over her mouth. He pinned her against the counter. “I saw you on the news Saturday night,” he whispered, rubbing his pelvis against her. “You’re always getting yourself into trouble one way or another, aren’t you, Laurie?”

She managed to pull her head back—for just a second. “Where’s my baby?” she cried.

Grabbing a dishtowel, he stuffed it into her mouth, silencing her. “One of my girls has him,” he said, grinning. “I’m going to raise Tad’s little rug rat as my own,” he whispered in her ear. His lips grazed her earlobe. “Somebody needs to be a parent to that little orphan.”

Recoiling, Laurie tried to scream out past the gag in her mouth.

“Tad was so crazy about you,” Ryder said. “And you shit on him. All he wanted to do was love you, but you killed him. Tad told me that he only fucked you three times. Well, I’m going to do you tonight—right now.” He ran his tongue along the side of her face, and squeezed her breast. “I heard on the news you’ve been serving up grub to the people on that
7/7/70
movie. It gave me an idea while I’ve been watching you these last couple of nights. I was just up in your bedroom. You’ve got a pretty blue nightgown in your closet. You’re going to wear it for me. And when I’m through with you, I’ll hang the bloody thing from the front gate in your courtyard . . .”

Ryder started to drag her toward the stairs off the kitchen. But with all her might, Laurie shoved him and broke free. She yanked the dishtowel out of her mouth, and grabbed the first thing she could from the counter. It was just a stainless steel beater attachment to her Mixmaster. She’d used it to make the cupcakes. One end, where it attached to the blender head, was sharp and jagged.

Ryder snickered as she waved the pointed end at him.

All she could think about was Joey.

Enraged, she took a swipe at him. But he dodged her. Then he hauled back and punched her in the face.

Laurie went crashing back into the counter and fell to the floor. She dropped the stainless steel beater. For a moment, she couldn’t see anything.

Then the beater came into view—on the floor right beside her. She could hear him chuckling as he started to pull her to her feet. Laurie swiped the beater off the floor and plunged the sharp end into his right eye.

Ryder howled in pain. With a hand over his face, he staggered back and began to thrash around. He was wailing and cursing.

His cries almost drowned out the sound of the police siren.

“Where’s my baby?” Laurie screamed. “What have you done with him?” She grabbed a saucepan from the drying rack, and slammed it against the side of his head. It made a hollow thud, and Laurie felt the handle vibrate at the point of contact.

Stunned, Ryder staggered back into the counter and fell to the floor. Blood streamed from his eye, and he was moaning in pain.

She heard the sirens—much closer now.

She watched Ryder crawl around on the floor. She hurled the saucepan at him. It hit his shoulder, and then rolled along the floor with a clatter.

Laurie thought of that nice cop, sitting in the unmarked car with his throat slashed. She thought of Don Eberhard—and his widow. She thought about Tad, and how he’d been manipulated into stalking her. Laurie even remembered that poor girl who had set herself on fire for Ryder—while he’d watched from inside the restaurant.

But most of all, she was thinking of Joey.

“Where is he, you son of a bitch?” she yelled. She swiped up the empty salt shaker and flung it at him. It sailed past him.

She rushed over to the knife rack and pulled out the butcher knife.

All at once, someone grabbed her arm.

Laurie spun around and found herself face-to-face with a policeman. She gaped at him.

“The Ellensburg Police want this sorry bastard alive,” he said.

She heard a rumble of footsteps coming through the front door. Behind the cop, she could see a policewoman in the kitchen doorway.

“We caught a couple of his girls in back here,” the cop said. “They had the baby with them. But he’s okay now . . .”

After Laurie heard that, everything was just a blur.

She just caught fragments of what was happening around her: the policewoman grabbing a dishtowel and putting it over Ryder’s eye as two other cops pulled him to his feet; Ryder, still moaning in agony; the policeman with his arm around her, leading her into the living room; the papers from Maureen’s files getting trampled on by the policemen coming through her front door; and finally a second policewoman stepped in, carrying Joey. He wriggled and screamed.

Laurie gathered him in his arms, and everything was so clear again.

She spotted Vincent in the doorway. He looked worried.

She smiled at him. “Thank you, Vincent,” she said. “And Joey thanks you, too.”

With her hands up in front of her in half-surrender, Cheryl stood in the kitchen between the black-haired woman and Shawna. She knew this was the professional killer Shawna had hired to cover her tracks.

“I’m expecting company any minute,” Shawna told the woman. Clutching the Pomeranian to her bosom, she pulled her chair away from the breakfast table and stood up. “You better get her out of here. And I don’t want her body found here on the island . . .”

“Your boyfriend isn’t coming for a while,” the woman replied. “His car died on the ferry, a little problem with the distributor. You’ll probably be getting a phone call from him very soon. Why don’t you fix yourself a drink, Shawna? You’re going to need it. Make it a tall one.”

The woman then turned to Cheryl. “Go.”

Cheryl gaped at her. She wasn’t sure she’d heard her right.

“Go,” she said again. “I don’t have any business with you anymore.”

“The hell you don’t,” Shawna snapped. “She needs to be killed. You work for me—”

“No, I’m working for your husband now,” the woman said. “I just have one job for him. The orders are to come here and take care of you. I’m supposed to make it look like an accident.”

“What?” Shawna whispered, horrified.

“Like I said, make yourself a drink, Shawna. And don’t look so sad. I’ll make sure your dog finds a nice home.”

“My husband said . . .” Shawna echoed numbly.

The woman turned to Cheryl once more. “Take your things and go. There’s a man waiting for you by the gate. His name’s Michel. He’ll take you to a car, then drive you to the ferry, and all the way back to your hotel, where he’ll escort you to your room. Michel will make sure you won’t try to contact the police—until the proper time. You need to ignore any pangs of conscience you may have about what’s going to happen here tonight. Don’t forget, just a minute ago, this bitch was giving me instructions about where to dump your body.”

Dumbfounded, Cheryl stared at her.

The woman turned to Shawna. “Sit down. You’re not going anywhere.”

Hugging her dog, Shawna meekly sank down in the chair. She kept shaking her head and murmuring to herself: “No . . . Gil wouldn’t . . . he couldn’t . . .”

The woman turned toward Cheryl once more. “I’ll wipe down the counters and put the screen back on the window,” she said. “No one will ever know you were here—unless you tell them. And I’m afraid you won’t live very long if you do. Once you’re back in your room at the Best Western, call the police. Apologize for Saturday, and give yourself up. Stick with the story Gil gave the press. You’re getting a real break. It’s the way Gil wanted it.”

“Who are you?” Cheryl finally whispered.

The woman shook her head. “Me, I’m nobody,” she said. “I’ve done a lot of horrible things for a lot of horrible people—this woman included. This job tonight, for a change, I won’t have to talk myself into liking it.” She frowned. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about your friend in the food truck. It was nothing personal. It’s never personal with me. Now, get out of here. By the time you turn yourself in, I’ll be finishing my work here. That gives you a perfect alibi. Leave the gun. I’ll get rid of it.” The woman nodded toward the door. “Go.”

In a daze, Cheryl grabbed her bag and threw the recorder into it. Then she headed out of the kitchen.

“You can’t do this to me,” she heard Shawna say. “You—you’re going to get yours, I swear . . .”

“I know I will—one day,” the woman replied. “We all have to pay for our sins. Tonight’s your night, Shawna . . .”

Cheryl opened the front door and saw in the distance a thin, shadowy figure waiting by the gate—her escort.

She glanced over her shoulder at Shawna. She was still seated in the chair, clutching her dog. Both Shawna and the animal were trembling. She looked utterly terrified. “How much is Gil paying you?” she cried. “I’ll double it. Please, you can’t. You were working for me! You just can’t . . .”

Cheryl closed the door—and shut out the sound of Shawna’s shrill voice.

As she walked up the driveway of the Garretts’ beautiful beach home, Cheryl remembered fleeing the Gayler Court house that night forty-four years ago.

She felt sorry for Shawna right now.

Still, she couldn’t help thinking that Elaina had handled her death scene so much better.

E
PILOGUE

Monday, July 14, 9:22
P.M.

The Bainbridge Island ferry

S
itting in the passenger seat of the black BMW, Cheryl looked out beyond a row of parked cars at Puget Sound. The water was dark and choppy. They were on the parking deck of the ferry to Seattle, and Cheryl was amazed she’d made it this far.

She’d been certain her driver would unceremoniously kill her and dump her body before they ever reached the ferry terminal. He was a young, handsome Frenchman with soulful eyes, a five-o’clock shadow, and a high, tousled, black pompadour. He was also a professional killer—or at least, he worked with one.

“What’s going to happen to Shawna?” she asked, breaking nearly twenty minutes of silence between them.

“You should not concern yourself,” he muttered in his thick accent, resting his hand on the wheel. “You will see soon enough on tomorrow’s news.”

“And if I tried to ‘concern myself,’ what then?” Cheryl pressed.

“I have my instructions,” he replied, staring straight ahead.

Cheryl knew she wouldn’t breathe easy until she was back at the Best Western, and alone in her room. She had to hand it to Gil. He’d seen to everything. He’d even provided her with this ‘escort’ to keep her in line. In many ways it helped ease her conscience for doing nothing while Shawna was murdered. He’d made it so she had no choice. The last thing he’d told her was that he would handle it.

An hour later, Michel walked her down the hotel corridor to her room. He insisted on coming inside. He stood just inside the door while she made the call to the police. “My name’s Cheryl Wheeler,” she told the 911 operator. She sat down on the bed. “I believe the police want to question me about something I did on Saturday. I’m the one who abducted Gil Garrett and held him hostage for a couple of hours . . .”

While she gave them her room number at the Best Western, she noticed Michel making a call on his cell phone. But he didn’t say anything. It seemed like he just let it ring once or twice, and then he clicked off. She realized it must have been a signal to his partner on Bainbridge Island that his work here was complete.

He didn’t say anything to Cheryl either. He just quietly slipped out the door.

Cheryl had a feeling the woman on Bainbridge Island had completed her work, too.

The 911 operator wanted to know if she was alone—or if she was armed. Cheryl told her she was alone, and that she’d gotten rid of the gun she’d used on Gil. “It wasn’t loaded anyway,” she lied. “I threw it off the University Bridge—into the lake.”

She’d already read Gil’s and Laurie’s fictional accounts of Saturday afternoon’s abduction. She’d seen them on TV, too. Cheryl knew what she was supposed to tell the police and the psychiatrists.

It was Gil Garrett’s show, probably his last production.

All she had to do was say her lines.

Wednesday, July 16

The photo the
Huffington Post
used online for the number one trending news story of the day showed a young Shawna Farrell on Oscar night. With her big blond hair, impossibly long eyelashes, and her blue-green paisley-patterned gown with the plunging neckline, she was the epitome of glamour—circa 1970. She was laughing and clutching her Academy Award. The headline read:

OSCAR-WINNER SHAWNA FARRELL DEAD

Freak Accident in Beach Home Claims Life

Of 70-Year-Old Actress and Fashion Entrepreneur

The article reported that Ms. Farrell had slipped and fallen in the shower while spending the night alone at her beach house on Bainbridge Island in Washington State. She had hit her head and bled to death. Her film producer husband, Gil Garrett, was in Los Angeles at the time. But when his calls to the beach house late Monday and Tuesday went unanswered, he sent the housekeeper from their Medina, Washington, home to investigate, and she discovered the body. Ms. Farrell had been dead approximately eighteen hours. Her blood showed a high alcohol level.

That morning, the
Seattle Times
reported a story on page two that didn’t make much of an impact outside the Pacific Northwest. It was about the arrest Monday night of Richard “Ryder” McBride, and two women companions in connection with the murder of an Ellensburg police detective, Donald Eberhard. A number of other serious charges were pending—including assault, child abduction, and breaking and entering. For three hours, doctors at Harborview Medical Center struggled to save his right eye, but they failed. Ryder was held overnight at Harborview, where he was recovering from other injuries sustained just moments before his arrest.