The Last to Know (32 page)

Eloise stops short.

As she stares at the Armstrong grave, she hears a shrill, high-pitched scream that goes on and on . . .

Until she realizes it’s coming from her own throat.

Spinning around in terror, Eloise Knowles moves faster than she ever has in all her eighty-five years, blindly fleeing the grotesque sight.

“W
hat do you know about Toyfactory.com, Fletch?” Detective Summers asks him, coming back into the family room after leaving to take a private call on his cell phone.

“I’ve never heard of it,” Fletch tells him, sitting up straighter on the couch and glancing at Aidan, who shrugs.

“It’s one of those on-line catalogue companies,” the detective tells him. “They do phone orders, too. They sell toys. You know, dolls, games, puzzles.”

“My kids are too old for that stuff,” Fletch tells him.

“We thought so,” the detective says. “Which is why it seems odd that you placed an order with them a few weeks ago over the telephone.”

“A few weeks ago? Me?” Fletch clears his throat glancing at Aidan, and then back at Summers. “I don’t think so, Detective.”

“You ordered a couple of wooden jigsaw puzzles. The kind that are made for small kids. Preschool age kids. Know what I mean?”

“I know the kind of puzzles you mean, but I didn’t order any. What—”

“Three puzzles were charged to your credit card number. They were delivered by UPS to the address of your cabin upstate, outside of Liberty.”

“I haven’t been up there in ages,” Fletch protests. “They can’t say I signed for any packages at the cabin—”

“I didn’t say that you signed for them. Apparentlyy UPS doesn’t bother with signatures up there—if no one answers, they leave packages on porches.”

“Maybe so, but I never ordered any puzzles and I don’t understand why—”

“Why are you asking him about this?” Aidan cuts in. “What do puzzles have to do with anything?”

“One was found in your sister-in-law’s car, Mr. Gallagher,” the cop tells Aidan. “I won’t get specific about it. However, I will add that a similar puzzle was found on Rachel Leiberman’s kitchen table. Let’s just say that in retrospect, it sheds a certain light on the nature of her death. But it seemed insignificant until one of the officers dusting the Lexus for prints came across the puzzle and thought it seemed out of place. Especially when another officer recalled a similar puzzle at the Leiberman house.”

Fletch swallows hard. “Then what you’re saying is that you think Jeremiah—”

“Jeremiah . . . or you yourself, Mr. Gallagher,” Detective Summers tells him flatly.

Chapter 14

M
itch is zipping his canvas overnight bag when his father knocks on his bedroom door.

“I see you’re all packed,” he says.

Mitch nods, uncomfortable. He hasn’t seen him since their silent drive home from the restaurant, having retreated immediately to his room, closing the door behind him. He almost expected his father, or even Shawna, to knock before this, but they left him alone.

Which is what he thought he wanted. But he found himself wishing his father would check on him, if only so that he could apologize for the way he behaved. Now that he’s had some time to think about it, he figures they were only trying to make him happy. Maybe they thought he would like to live here with them.

It’s not as if he hasn’t considered what that would be like.

But he can’t just abandon his mother. Can’t they see that?

“Listen, Mitch, the weather is awful. I just checked the forecast and we’re supposed to get the brunt of the storm in the next few hours, maybe all night.”

Mitch shrugs. He knows it’s lousy outside. He’s spent the last few hours staring at the swaying trees and driving rain beyond his window.

“I’m not going to be able to drive you back to Townsend Heights tonight.”

Startled, he looks up at his father. “I’m sorry, Mitch, it’s just too risky. The roads might flood. That happens sometimes out here.”

“So I have to stay another night?”

His father nods. He looks kind of awkward, like he’s expecting Mitch to throw a tantrum or something.

Determined to show him that he’s not just some kid with a rotten temper, Mitch says only, “Did you call my mom to tell her?”

“I tried. I left her a message. She wasn’t home.”

“She has a cell phone.”

“It isn’t turned on.”

“It’s always turned on.”

“Well, then maybe the battery’s dead,” his father tells him. “Don’t worry, Mitch. Your mom will understand about the weather. Trust me, she wouldn’t want me taking chances with you on the road. She’d want you to stay here tonight, safe and sound.”

Mitch nods, resigned, yet thinking,
What about my mom? Who’s going to keep her safe and sound?

S
eated in their living room, the shades drawn in a futile attempt to block out the commotion surrounding the house next door, Karen and Tom are glued to the television. Taylor is snuggled on her father’s lap, contentedly sucking on a pacifier, oblivious to the drama unfolding on the screen before them.

Seeking distraction, they were watching a football game—Buffalo at Cincinnati—when the network broke in with a special bulletin.

Now, her heart pounding, Karen listens in disbelief to the news that the body of Jane Kendall’s sister, Margaret Armstrong, has been discovered in a cemetery on the outskirts of Townsend Heights.

“The victim died of a stab wound through the heart, one that was almost certainly self-inflicted,” the rain-soaked reporter at the scene announces. “In her hands, along with the large kitchen knife that caused the fatal wound, Margaret Armstrong clutched a photo of her brother-in-law, Owen Kendall, the husband of Jane Kendall, whose body was discovered in the Hudson River just yesterday. According to police, Mr. Kendall reported that his wife’s sister had indicated last night that she was interested in a romantic relationship with him and showed little emotion when she was informed of her sister’s death. It is unclear how she managed to leave the house last night without being seen by the members of the press that have surrounded it for several days. Now back to you, Peter.”

Karen looks at Tom. “So Jane’s sister killed her because she was in love with her husband? Is that what they’re saying?”

“It seems so,” he says quietly, bouncing Taylor a little, his eyes solemn behind his glasses.

Now the anchorman is echoing Karen’s question, saying that while police have not confirmed that Margaret Armstrong was responsible for her sister’s death, they strongly suspect that she was.

“Until now, the death of Jane Kendall has been linked, if not officially, to a murder that rocked the small village of Townsend Heights just days ago, and perhaps to the disappearance of a third person. Police have yet to name a suspect in the slaying of Rachel Leiberman, the wife of a popular local pediatrician and the mother of their two small children.”

Karen looks at Tom. “It’s going to come out sooner or later,” she tells him. “When they say it’s Jeremiah, are they going to announce that I was the one who saw him prowling around the yard?”

“I don’t know,” Tom says grimly. “Probably not. Hopefully not.”

“I’m sorry, Tom. I should have listened to you. I shouldn’t have told them.”

“Yes, you should have,” he says, catching her by surprise. “Look, Karen, if the kid is guilty, he’ll be put in jail, where he belongs.”

She nods. What if he’s not guilty? She’s wondered that, on and off, ever since she went to the police station this afternoon, where the detective was clearly intrigued by her information.

Still . . . what if she has caused them to suspect an innocent boy?

Then his innocence will come out when they investigate him, she assures herself. And she almost believes it.

The newscaster is saying, “Meanwhile, police have announced no leads in the case of Leiberman’s neighbor Sharon Gallagher, also a stay-at-home mother and the wife of a well-known former Cleveland Indians pitcher, New York Mets sportscaster Fletch Gallagher. Today, the people of Townsend Heights find themselves wondering if perhaps the fates of these three women—women who seemed to have everything—may be unrelated after all. This has been a special bulletin. We’ll bring you further coverage from Townsend Heights on our regular news broadcast.”

Moments later, the game is back on.

Feeling restless, Karen gets up to try Tasha again. Her phone has been beeping out a busy signal all afternoon. Karen is tempted to take a walk down the street to see her friend, but she can’t. Not with the throng of reporters lying in wait in front of the house next door.

There’s nothing to do but pace. And worry.

And wait for something else to happen.

T
asha opens the door to find Paula Bailey on her doorstep, clutching a flat white box. She’s wearing a bright yellow rain slicker and carrying an umbrella that seems to be doing little to keep her or the box dry.

“So you do open the door for reporters bearing pizza?” Paula jokes, grinning when she sees Tasha.

“I saw you coming up the walk,” Tasha admits.

What she doesn’t say is that she’s been sitting in the window, staring at the street, for the past half hour at least. After four rounds of Fishin’ Around, she occupied the kids in the family room with a video so she could come in here to think. About Joel. And look out the window. And ignore the members of the press who occasionally walk up and ring the doorbell. For some reason, there have been at least a dozen of them this afternoon. Probably because Jane Kendall’s body has been found. Still, you’d think they would focus their efforts on the Kendalls’ Harding Place neighbors instead of here. Yet Orchard Place is as crowded with the press as it had been the morning after Rachel’s death—perhaps more so.

“I tried calling, but your line’s been busy,” Paula tells her. “So I took a chance.”

“Come in,” Tasha says, holding the door open.

Okay, showing up with a pizza is a bold move, and she isn’t necessarily in the mood to talk to a reporter. But she did tell Paula Bailey that maybe they could get together Sunday or Monday.

Besides, she’s lonely. And frightened. And she needs to take her mind off wondering about Joel. Right now, anything’s better than being alone in the house with the kids.

She takes Paula’s coat and hangs it on the knob of the hall closet, saying apologetically, “There are never enough hangers.”

“I know how it is,” Paula says with an easy laugh. “Besides, my slicker’s too soaked for a closet. I’ve been out in this weather all day.”

“Poor you.”

“Yeah, poor me. Did your husband get off all right?”

Tasha nods, impressed that Paula remembered. But then that’s her job, remembering details. She’s a reporter.

“So . . . I brought pizza. Half cheese, half pepperoni. I wasn’t sure how your kids like it.”

“Oh . . . they like it with cheese.”

She’s promised to take them out for dinner, though. And they just had pizza yesterday, when Joel’s parents were here. Then again, the kids love it so much they probably won’t care about having it again. And the weather is so bad, this is better than going out.

“Well, I like pepperoni,” Paula says.

“Me, too,” Tasha tells her, adding, as though she’s just remembered, “And I haven’t eaten all day, actually. So I’ll probably make a pig of myself.”

She leads Paula into the family room first, where the kids are so engrossed in
Mulan
that they barely glance up when she introduces them to Paula. Except Max, who instantly stretches his arms up when he sees Tasha.

She picks him up and carries him to the kitchen, where Paula sets the pizza box on the counter.

“Do you mind waiting to eat till the video ends?” Tasha asks. “They won’t budge until then.”

“That’s fine. I wanted to talk to you anyway.”

Figures. Well, Tasha knows Paula isn’t here just because she’s looking for a new friend. She already admitted she’s investigating Rachel’s death. “Would you like some tea?”

“Sure.”

“Herbal or regular?” Balancing Max on her hip, Tasha turns on the stove burner and reaches for the red tea kettle.

“Regular. I need the caffeine—I can tell it’s going to be a long night now that Sharon Gallagher’s missing, too.”

Startled, Tasha drops the tea kettle. It clatters onto the stove.

Max begins to cry. “It’s okay, Maxie, shh, it’s okay,” she says. “He doesn’t like loud noises,” she tells Paula as she tries to calm him.

Her heart is racing. Sharon Gallagher has disappeared? Fletch’s wife?

She’s afraid. Terribly afraid. Suddenly she wants Joel home so badly it’s all she can do not to cry.

As soon as Paula leaves, she decides, she’ll call him at his hotel and beg him to come home.

I
t’s time.

Jeremiah can’t put it off any longer. He’s been barricaded in the shed for hours, all night and all day. At first he was in shock, huddled on the floor, rocking back and forth as he hugged his knees against his chest. But then, as the initial daze wore off and reality set in, he mostly just struggled to come up with some other alternative. Anything else.

Now night is falling again, bringing with it renewed force in the wind that howls around the shed, and in the rain that beats on its leaky, thin roof.

And Jeremiah knows what he has to do.

Unless he acts, they’ll find him here. Maybe not tonight, but soon. And when that happens, he’ll have no hope.

Not once they’ve seen the pumpkin.

His sisters’ giant prize pumpkin, the one they were going to enter in the harvest festival.

The one that has been carved open, jack-o-lantern style, with the corpse of his Aunt Sharon stuffed inside.

P
aula watches Tasha: carefully, about to deliver news that will either startle her or bring a knowing look to her eyes. Anxious to see her reaction, Paula forces herself to sip her steaming tea first.

Then she clears her throat and leans closer to Tasha, across the table, not wanting the kids to overhear. Not that they’re likely to. They’re as caught up in their video as Mitch always is when he’s watching television.
They don’t call it the electronic babysitter for nothing
, she thinks wryly.

“Just between the two of us, Tasha,” Paula says, “I think I’ve zeroed in on the person Rachel was with the night she was murdered.”

“Who was it?”

“You really don’t know?”

Tasha shakes her head.

“It was her lover.” Paula hesitates, trying to read Tasha’s expression. She can’t. Tasha is suddenly looking down, stirring sugar into her tea and keeping Max’s busy hands from knocking over her steaming cup.

“Did you know she was having an affair, Tasha?”

“I had heard, but not until after she . . . died. And I didn’t know whether I believed it. Who was it?”

Paula takes a deep breath. “It doesn’t mean that this person is necessarily responsible for her death, Tasha. You understand that don’t you?”

“But it means that he could be?”

Paula nods. “I think he might be. And if you have any knowledge at all about Rachel’s relationship with him—”

“I told you, I didn’t even know she was having an affair.”

“But when you knew who it was, you might think of something. Some detail that could help the investigation.”

“So who was he?” Tasha asks impatiently, finally looking up.

Paula sees trepidation mingling with curiosity in her troubled eyes. No, she really doesn’t know. But she suspects.

I
t’s only two blocks from the shed behind the ruins of the house on North Street to the Townsend Heights police station, next door to the town hall.

Somehow, with his hood up and his head bent, Jeremiah walks those blocks undetected. It only takes a few minutes, but he braces himself the entire way for somebody to stop him. To arrest him.

Nobody does.

If anybody happens to glance at him through the window of a passing car, or from one of the houses or businesses along the route, they apparently don’t recognize him.

At last—or perhaps too soon—he’s mounting the wide stone steps of the police station.

Forcing himself to open the glass doors, to march directly up to the startled-looking cop seated behind the desk.

“My n-name is J-Jeremiah G-Gallagher,” he tells him, the stutter worse than it’s ever been before. “I kn-now you m-must be l-looking f-for m-me. I’m h-here to t-turn m-myself in.”

A
s soon as they’re finished eating the pizza, Paula leaves, conscious that Tasha wants to be alone. She barely spoke as the five of them sat around the kitchen table, and she ate only one of the two pieces Paula had put on her plate, despite her earlier proclamation about making a pig of herself. The kids polished off theirs, even little Max, who nibbled at the cheese and then sucked on a crust.