The Last to Know (19 page)

He holds open the door from the bedroom to the hall for her. She steps across the threshold. He pulls the door closed behind her with a quiet click.

“Are you going to be okay while I’m gone?” he asks her.

What will he say if she tells him that she won’t?

“Yeah,” she replies, walking toward the stairs.

He follows.

“Don’t open the door for anyone while I’m gone,” he tells her as they descend to the first floor. “Keep Hunter home from school.”

She nods. They already agreed to do that.

“I told Ben to call over here when he’s ready to see the kids.”

She nods again. He’s said this before, too.

At the foot of the stairs, he opens the hall closet and removes his trench coat. “The police are going to want to talk to you at some point, Tash.”

She looks at him in surprise. “To
me
?”

“You were over there yesterday—”

“They don’t think I had something to do with it, do they?” Her heart is pounding.

“I doubt it. But they’ll be talking to anyone who might know something.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“Are you sure?” Joel looks carefully at her, seeming to probe her face. “Can you think of anything that might help? Anything at all?”

“I . . . I don’t know, Joel,” she says slowly, looking into his brown eyes.

A thin wail erupts overhead.

“There’s Max,” she says. “I’ll get him before he wakes everyone else.”

“I’ll be home as soon as I possibly can, Tasha,” Joel calls after her, picking up his briefcase and heading for the door.

“Okay,” she says, wishing she believed him.

J
eremiah hears a door slam downstairs. Going to the window of his room, he sees his uncle in the driveway below with Lily and Daisy. Uncle Fletch is no longer wearing the sweatpants and T-shirt he had on earlier. Now he’s in black corduroys and a plaid button-down shirt under his black leather jacket. The girls, whom Jeremiah hasn’t yet seen today, are dressed in jeans and sweaters, carrying bookbags. They climb into the silver Mercedes. Uncle Fletch starts the engine and backs out quickly.

Obviously, he’s driving them to Townsend Heights Elementary. He didn’t even suggest that Jeremiah get ready for school after the detective left, and Jeremiah didn’t ask him about it. They both assumed he wouldn’t be going. Not after what happened. Not considering the fact that he’s the last person who saw Rachel Leiberman alive, and the police said they want to talk to him again.

Thank God Uncle Fletch finally interrupted Detective Summers. Jeremiah didn’t think he could take much more at that point. The detective kept grilling him about his actions the night before, wanting to know every single move he had made while he was at the Leibermans’ house.

When Uncle Fletch cut in and said he was going to call a lawyer, Jeremiah was actually on the verge of breaking down, perilously close to admitting everything.

Well, that didn’t happen, thanks to Uncle Fletch.

He turns away from the window. His gaze falls on his desk. It’s littered with piles of papers and books. On top of the pile is a newspaper clipping from a mid-August edition of the
Townsend Gazette
. He’s read it dozens of times, but he does so again now, after looking at the photo of his stepmother.

It was taken when Melissa was younger—maybe even before she had the twins. She’s smiling and tanned in the photo, her blond hair loose and falling past her shoulders. When Jeremiah met her it was shorter than that. And she hadn’t smiled much—at least, not at him. Not unless his father was around.

NORTH STREET HOUSE FIRE LEAVES ONE DEAD

By Paula Bailey

A deadly inferno on Friday night left a Townsend Heights family homeless—and three children without a mother. Melissa Gallagher, 40, of 27 North Street in the village, died in the blaze, which started in the kitchen in the early evening hours. The cause is still under investigation.

The woman’s teenage son, Jeremiah, and young daughters, Lily and Daisy, were not home at the time. Her husband, Aidan Gallagher, has been overseas on military duty since mid-June. He could not be reached for comment.

According to his brother, Fletcher Gallagher—also a Townsend Heights resident, and a former Cleveland Indians pitcher who is now a sportscaster for the New York Mets—the family had owned the North Street home for several years. “My wife and I are just devastated by this loss,” Fletcher Gallagher said on Saturday. “We will be keeping the children until their father returns home. My brother has already been widowed once before. This has just overwhelmed him.”

Townsend Heights Fire Chief Ray Wisnewski stated that the fast-moving fire engulfed the wood-frame house. The victim was found in the kitchen, so badly burned that the body could not be positively identified at the scene. “We are engaged in an ongoing investigation,” Chief Wisnewski told the
Gazette
.

Melissa Gallagher was born in Fairfield County, Connecticut, graduated with a teaching degree from Vassar, and taught at several private elementary schools in Westchester County more than a decade ago. Funeral services will be held on Monday morning at Holy Father Church in Townsend Heights, followed by private burial in Fairfield County.

A creaking, groaning noise suddenly disturbs the silent household.

Jeremiah recognizes it: water in the pipes. He hears the sound every time somebody takes a shower.

He tosses the newspaper clipping back on the desk, walks over to the door of his room, and opens it cautiously. Aunt Sharon is the only one home. Sure enough, it sounds like she’s in the shower of the master bedroom.

Jeremiah goes back into his room and hurriedly pulls on jeans and a fleece pullover Uncle Fletch bought him. He starts to put on sneakers, then changes his mind and finds his thick-soled boots. His warm parka, too.

Moments later he slips out into the hall and down the stairs, knowing that this is his chance. His aunt lingers in the shower sometimes, but it won’t take his uncle very long to drop the girls at school. Five minutes, tops, if he comes straight home.

In the front hall on the first floor, Jeremiah peers out the window facing the wide, tree-lined street. There are cars parked everywhere, and even from here he can see the crowd gathered at the far end, where the Leibermans’ house is. He half-expects to see an officer stationed in front of the Gallagher house, keeping an eye on things, but there isn’t one. Jeremiah pauses to consider this, rethinking his plan.

Maybe they don’t suspect him of killing Rachel Leiberman after all.

But that Detective Summers sure acted like he did.

Jeremiah can’t take any chances.

What if Detective Summers comes back? What if he searches the house and the shed? What if he arrests Jeremiah?

He has to act now.

But what are you going to do? You don’t have enough time to get rid of everything
, a voice in his head reminds him as he heads to the kitchen.

He surveys the manicured yard, making sure it’s empty.

Then, brimming with uncertainty, he ventures outside and crosses the grass, knowing only that he has to do everything he can to protect himself—before it’s too late.

P
aula hesitates only a moment before ringing the Bankses’ doorbell. It’s still early, not even eight o’clock yet.

But she has a job to do, she reminds herself as she presses the button. Besides, how likely is it that anyone on this block is asleep? The commotion in front of the Leibermans’ house is even greater than the hubbub of the past few days on Harding Place.

“Who is it?” a female voice calls through the door.

“It’s Paula Bailey.”

A pause.

“Who?”

“Paula Bailey. I live here in town. I need to talk to you, Mrs. Banks.”

“About what?” comes the suspicious reply.

“Can I please come in?” Paula asks. “Look, I’m a mom. Just like you are. I know how you must feel, but you can trust me. Really.”

To her shock, the door opens. Just a crack, but still . . .

A tired-looking female face framed by lank dark hair peers out at Paula. She recognizes Tasha Banks and sees by her expression that the woman finds her familiar, too. Well, it’s a small town. They’ve probably passed each other on the street dozens of times.

“I’d like to talk to you just for a minute,” Paula says. “Please?”

“You’re a reporter, aren’t you?”

“For the
Townsend Gazette
,” Paula tells her in a tone meant to convince Tasha Banks that she’s different from the other news hounds clogging the once-quiet cul-de-sac. She’s not bloodthirsty like they are. She’s a concerned citizen of this town.

Tasha just looks at her.

“Listen, I know I’m not the first reporter to show up at your door this morning,” Paula says.

“No, you’re not.”

“Have you spoken to anyone else?” Paula asks cautiously.

“No. And I shouldn’t speak to you, either. . . .”

“But you will?” Paula prods, just as she hears a child’s cry coming from somewhere over Tasha’s shoulder.

“That’s my son. I’ve got to go see—”

“It’s okay. I’ll wait.” Paula catches the door as it starts to swing closed. She steps into the house and pulls the door closed behind her. It’s a bold move, but she doesn’t have a choice. This is her job.

Tasha glances back at her, clearly dismayed. Then, stepping over several toys on the floor, she hurries into the kitchen at the back of the house. She’s back moments later, a sobbing baby on her hip.

“Hey, what happened to you, little guy?” Paula asks, reaching out to gently pat the baby’s head. She looks at Tasha. “Did he get hurt?”

“No. He was just upset that I left the room. He’s been fussy all morning. I think he’s coming down with something. He wants me to hold him constantly.”

“I remember when my son went through that. He’s probably teething,” Paula offers in a mother-to-mother tone. “At least, that’s what it always was with Mitch. Whenever he was cutting a tooth, he wanted me to carry him around for hours on end.”

“That’s probably it,” Tasha agrees. She seems to have relaxed a little. “My other kids never did this when they were cutting teeth, though. Hunter, my oldest son, was always pretty independent and laid-back. He never really fussed or acted clingy. And my daughter, Victoria . . . well, she fussed constantly, so it was hard to tell when she was out of sorts. She hasn’t changed much. Although she behaves a lot better for my husband.”

“That’s good.”

“It would be if he were around,” Tasha mutters.

“So he’s away a lot?” Paula asks, surprised by her candor.

Tasha shrugs. “He might as well be. He works in the city. You know—the commute, the long hours, and sometimes he travels on business.”

“That’s hard. Then you’re alone with the kids,” Paula says.

“Yeah, and it’s not even that I’d mind so much if it were only on weekdays, but now it’s starting to cut into our weekends. Like this Sunday, he has to fly out of here in the afternoon so that he can be in Chicago for an early meeting on Monday—but look, I don’t know why I’m unloading on you.”

“Because it stinks. Look, I know what it’s like to be on your own as a mom.”
Do I ever
, Paula thinks wryly. “After a while, you could really use another pair of hands, right?”

“Exactly.”

Paula grins and is rewarded when Tasha flashes her a brief smile. It dims quickly, though, and Tasha looks down at the still-whimpering baby in her arms.

Paula can practically read her mind. She’s thinking about Rachel Leiberman. Paula’s done her homework. The two were close friends. “You must be so upset today, Tasha,” she says. “I’m so sorry about Rachel.”

“I can’t believe it,” Tasha says, turning tear-filled eyes toward Paula. “It’s like a nightmare. And the worst part is . . . her daughter’s upstairs, playing with mine. And her son is sleeping. They have no idea what’s going on.”

“Nobody’s told them?”

“No. And I don’t think I should. They wanted to know why they were here when they woke up, and I told them their parents had some things they had to take care of. They’re so little. They didn’t even question it.” Tasha’s voice breaks.

Paula reaches into her pocket and pulls out a neatly folded tissue. She hands it to Tasha.

“Thank you,” Tasha says, sniffling. She wipes her red-rimmed eyes.

“Look, I know this is a terrible time, and the last thing I want to do is make things harder for you. But if I could just ask you a few questions about your friend—”

“What kind of questions?”

“I’m an investigative reporter.”

Okay, that isn’t technically the truth—at least, not according to her boss, Tim. But he has no idea what Paula is capable of doing, if only given the chance. And now, tired of waiting for the chance to be handed to her, she’s simply taking the initiative to go for it. To prove herself.

She tells Tasha, “I’m hoping to uncover a lead that will help me to figure out who murdered your friend.”

“Isn’t that the cops’ job?”

“Definitely. But I’m going to do anything I can to help. If there’s a murderer on the loose in Townsend Heights, I want him caught before he strikes again.”

“So do I,” Tasha says in a small voice. “I’m scared to— What do you mean ‘
if
there’s a murderer on the loose’?”

Paula shrugs. “It isn’t clear why your friend was killed.”

“You don’t think it was random? That it could have happened to anyone?”

“Do you?”

“I have no idea,” Tasha says slowly.

The baby fusses.

Absently, Tasha bends and retrieves a small plastic car from the floor by her feet, handing it to him. Then she says, “I keep thinking about Jane Kendall, wondering whether this has anything to do with that.”

“Well, what do you think? Did you know Jane, too?”

“Only slightly.”

“Is there anything you can think of that Jane and Rachel might have had in common? Anything at all?”

“Just Gymboree,” Tasha says. “That’s it. We all go to the class once a week with our kids. Other than that, Rachel and Jane travel in completely different circles.”