CHAPTER TEN
The teddy bear on the rumpled bed was
splattered with blood.
Molly didn’t want too much blood—just
enough for people to notice when they saw the book on the store
shelves. She stood at her easel in her studio on the third floor,
painting the cover to the latest Sally Shortridge mystery,
The Teddy Bear Killer. After saying good
night to Kay, she’d changed into an old pair of jeans and a
paint-stained sweatshirt. Linda Ronstadt’s Greatest
Hits spun on her old CD player.
Past Linda’s rendition of “You’re No
Good,” Molly thought she heard a noise downstairs.
Putting down her paintbrush, she moved
over to the CD and pressed the PAUSE button. Molly listened for a
moment, but didn’t hear anything. She told herself it was probably
just the house settling.
One of the great things about having a
studio on the third floor was that she became oblivious to
everything happening two levels down. The kids could have the TV
on, and she couldn’t hear it. She was shut off from the rest of the
house.
That was also a bad thing
sometimes—especially when no one else was home. Since the
cul-de-sac killings had started, Molly wasn’t completely
comfortable up in her studio during these nights
alone.
She almost wished she hadn’t sent Kay
home. Having another person in the house would have made her feel
better—even if that person was drunk and a bit too
inquisitive.
Molly glanced at her wristwatch. It was
just past ten o’clock. She’d been up here less than an hour, and
this was the third time she’d put her CD player on pause because of
a noise downstairs. She hadn’t made much progress with The Teddy Bear Killer cover. It would just have to wait
until morning—when she’d be a little less nervous up
here.
Putting away her paint and brushes, she
switched off Linda Ronstadt and went downstairs to Jeff’s and her
bedroom. She pulled her paint-splattered jersey over her head and
changed into a long-sleeved tee. Molly glanced out the window at
Kay’s house next door. She’d figured Kay would have passed out by
now. But several lights were still on inside the house—including
one in Kay’s bedroom. There was a glass door and a little balcony
off the master bedroom, and through the sheer curtain, Molly
noticed a shadow moving around.
Somehow, it made her feel better. In
case she got too scared, someone was awake just next door. She
wasn’t so alone after all.
Molly decided to check her e-mail on
the computer in Jeff’s study. She switched on the radio, and
“American Pie” came on while she accessed the Internet. It looked
like two junk e-mails, something from her agent, and a message with
the subject head “A Blast from the Past” from
Dcutland@windycityart.com.
“Oh, wow,” she murmured, staring at the
computer monitor. She opened the e-mail.
Dear Molly,
It’s been too long, at least 2 years. The last address I have for you is in Alexandria, VA. Are you still there? If not, you should contact the gallery & update us. We still have 3 of your paintings for sale in our online catalog. Once in a while, I see your work on some book cover, and it’s always fantastic. But you’re way too good for them!
Anyway, there’s a reason for this e-mail (besides the fact that I often think of you). Yesterday this guy came by the gallery, asking about your paintings, but pretty soon he started grilling me on your background & your family. I don’t know who he was, but I told him if he wasn’t interested in buying your art, he could get lost. Anyway, I just thought you should know that someone has been snooping around, asking questions about you. I’m not sure if he knows about Charlie or what, but I have a feeling that’s what he was getting at with all his questions.
I hope I was right to contact you about this. I don’t want to cause you any unnecessary worry or heartache.
Feel free to give me a call. I’d love to catch up & find out how you’re doing.
Take Care,
Doug
At the bottom of the e-mail, he’d
included Windy City Art Gallery’s phone number, as well as his cell
phone number—the same old one. Molly could see he’d sent the e-mail
at 4:52 that afternoon, Chicago time. She glanced at her watch
again. It was after midnight in Chicago, but it was also a
Saturday, and Doug liked to stay up late. At least, he’d been a
night owl back when they’d dated.
She didn’t think she could wait until
morning to call him. She had to know more about this man who was
snooping into her past.
Getting to her feet, Molly headed into
the kitchen, where her purse hung on the back of a chair at the
breakfast table. She dug out her cell phone. It just didn’t seem
right calling an old boyfriend on the house line—and in Jeff’s
study, no less.
She sat down at the table and punched
in Doug’s number. She didn’t have to look at it again. She still
remembered. She wondered if he still lived in that third-floor
apartment on North Kenmore. Doug had curly, light brown hair and
Clark Kent glasses that made him look slightly bookish—and very
sexy. He was an assistant manager at the gallery that had
commissioned six of her pieces years back. They’d dated for almost
a month—until he met Charlie. Then things got fouled
up.
Charlie had a way of fouling things
up.
Molly was counting the ringtones. Doug
answered on the third one. “Molly?”
“Hi, Doug,” she replied. “I hope I
didn’t wake you.”
“Of course not,” he said. “It’s great
to hear your voice again, Molly. I guess you got my e-mail. I hope
it didn’t freak you out or anything.”
“Well, it did—kind of,” she admitted.
“You said this man came into the gallery and asked all sorts of
questions about me?”
“Yeah. He was about fifty years old
with black hair that looked like a bad dye job, and he talked out
of one side of his mouth all the time. Does that sound like anybody
you know?”
“No, it doesn’t,” Molly
murmured.
“He didn’t seem like an art
aficionado,” Doug continued. “He didn’t give me his name. He wanted
to see your paintings, and asked if I knew you, stuff like that. I
showed him the three pieces of yours we still have for sale. But I
could tell he wasn’t really interested in the paintings. He started
asking about your family—if you’d been married, and didn’t you have
a brother who died? That’s when I told him to take a
hike.”
The phone to her ear, Molly was
frowning. “How did he figure you knew me?”
“My guess is he went on the Internet,
looked up Molly Wright, and found your paintings on our website. He
didn’t seem like a stalker. There was something kind of snaky about
him, but it was more professionally snaky,
if you know what I mean. I think he may have been a private
detective or something along those lines. Anyway, I didn’t tell him
anything about your family—or your brother. Like I say, when his
questions started to veer in that direction, I figured something
was fishy, and I gave him the heave-ho. I hope I did the right
thing to tell you about this—I wasn’t sure.”
“No, I’m glad you did, thanks,” Molly
said. She rubbed her forehead. If this guy asking questions about
her was indeed a private detective, it didn’t take much guesswork
to figure out who had hired him. This had Angela written all over it. Jeff’s ex and her buddies
were always trying to stick their noses into her background and
personal life. Hell, Kay was just grilling her about Chicago
earlier tonight.
“So—are you still living in
Alexandria?” Doug asked.
She suddenly realized that they hadn’t
said anything for a few moments. “Oh, no, I—I’m married now. I
moved to Seattle.”
“So who’s the lucky guy? Another
artist?”
“No, Jeff’s an executive for Kendall
Pharmaceuticals.”
“Pharmaceuticals? Well, then I guess
you guys must be doing okay.”
“We’re doing all right,” Molly
said.
“Are you?” he asked, a sudden serious
change in his tone. “I think about you a lot, Molly, and everything
you’ve been through. I’ve always wished I was more—there for you when things got so horrible. Anyway, I
hope you are okay. You deserve to be happy.”
“Thanks, Doug,” she murmured, staring
down at the kitchen table.
They talked for another ten minutes.
Doug had been seeing a concert cellist named Kate for the last
year. She was the one. And if Molly had any
new paintings, he wanted her to send him some slides. And should
that guy come into the gallery again asking questions, Doug would
find out who the hell he was—and who had sent him.
Molly already had a pretty good idea
who might have hired the man. She just told Doug to keep in
touch.
After she clicked off the phone, she
remained seated at the breakfast table. So what if
Angela and her gal pals find out about Charlie?
They were bound to learn about him
eventually. Jeff already knew. Molly had planned to tell Chris
about her brother sometime soon. Still, it was just so damn creepy
that Angela had gone to the trouble of hiring someone to go to
Chicago and pry into her family past.
Molly imagined some snaky,
fiftysomething guy talking out of the side of his mouth as he asked
her old family doctor about Charlie’s condition.
Her brother had been bipolar, which
seemed like a blanket label for all kinds of emotional problems.
Seventeen months younger than her, he was a very handsome, charming
little boy with black hair, beautiful blue eyes, and long lashes.
Maybe that had been why everybody cut him so much slack. He’d do
something wicked, then start crying and apologizing, and people
just caved. He was a bit of a manipulator that way.
But by fifth grade, Charlie started
getting into trouble at their grade school, and it just wasn’t so
forgivable anymore. That was when her parents had him diagnosed.
They talked about putting him into a special school. He begged
Molly to intercede so they wouldn’t send him away. Early on, she’d
felt responsible for him. She was always trying to neutralize
things when her crazy, erratic kid brother acted up. Sometimes,
he’d go nuts and hit her—or he’d mess up her room, or destroy some
drawing she was working on. And then, he’d be so
sorry.
Molly always forgave him—eventually. He
started collecting elephant figurines—like her. By the time he was
thirteen, he had a hundred elephants to Molly’s thirty. Whenever he
did something really awful, he’d give her one of his elephants, and
tell her it was his favorite—a total lie, of course. She knew
Charlie’s favorite: a detailed, six-inch gray marble elephant with
its trunk up. But she also knew giving up any of his prized elephants practically killed him. So
she always sucked it up, thanked him, and assured him that all was
forgiven.
By the time Charlie hit puberty, he
became more and more unpredictable. The guys he’d befriended were
trouble-making morons. Molly couldn’t have any girlfriends over,
because he was always hitting on them—or hitting them, anything to
get their attention.
One Friday night while their parents
were out at a party, Molly heated up a Lou Malnati’s pizza for the
two of them. She was sixteen at the time and had gotten away with
renting The Big Easy from the video store.
Charlie was so excited, because of the video’s R rating. He
anticipated ninety minutes of nonstop sex and violence ahead. He
was hyper to the point at which he started to go out of control.
Molly kept telling him to calm down. They were waiting for the
pizza in the oven when he picked up the pizza cutter and started
shaking it at her.
“Cut it out!” she yelled, backing
against the kitchen counter.
“Cut out what, your heart?” Laughing,
he moved closer to her, waving the cutter in front of her face.
“I’m the Pizza Killer, and I’m gonna slice you up!”
But Molly wasn’t laughing. She threw
the oven mitt at him. “Stop it! I’m serious, Charlie! I mean it,
back off. You’re getting too close with that thing. . .
.”
He wasn’t listening. He brandished the
pizza cutter, slashing an X in the air—just inches away from her
nose.
“Damn it, Charlie!” she screamed,
putting up her hand. “I said, back off!”
Suddenly, she felt the cutter slice
into her arm—inches below her elbow. For a few seconds, Molly
thought he’d merely grazed her. She saw a pink line along her pale
skin—a long scratch.
Charlie was still laughing. He raised
the pizza cutter as if ready to strike again.
Then the two-inch line below her elbow
turned red. Blood seeped out and started dripping down her
arm.
“Oh, shit!” Charlie said, dropping the
pizza cutter.
Grabbing a dish towel, Molly hurried
over to the sink and stuck her arm under the cold water. She
frantically wrapped the dish towel around the wound. “Damn it,
Charlie, what did I tell you?” she cried. “Why do you have to be
this way? Oh, God, I think I’m going to need stitches. . .
.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him.
He sat at the breakfast table, sobbing.
Molly kept her arm up over her head,
and with a second dish towel, she had Charlie make a tourniquet and
wrap it tight above her elbow. She had to coach him through the
whole process. Taking her mom’s Chevy Celebrity, Molly drove to
Highland Park Hospital. She’d gotten her driver’s license only two
months before. While she steered with one hand, she kept her right
arm raised. Charlie sat in the passenger seat, silent. By the time
they reached the hospital’s emergency room, her makeshift bandage
was drenched with blood.
Three hours and fifteen stitches later,
Molly was back home, sitting at the breakfast table with a bag of
Birds Eye frozen peas on her bandaged arm. And she was lying to her
parents about what had happened. A burnt, dried-up Lou Malnati’s
pizza sat on the rack inside her mother’s oven. Charlie had
retreated to his room, claiming he didn’t feel well.
Molly wasn’t sure if her mom and dad
really believed that she’d accidentally cut herself while fooling
around with the pizza-slicer.
She tried to convince herself that
Charlie’s condition had nothing to do with what had happened. Two
years ago, her friend Cathy Brennan had had her nose broken when
her brother had accidentally hit her with the rim of a tennis
racket. Screwy mishaps like that happened in families all the time.
But Cathy’s brother had owned up to it, and he’d been three years
younger than Charlie at the time. Cathy didn’t have to cover up for
him.
Molly knew Charlie would never take
responsibility for cutting her. She was just as certain that her
parents would agree to put him on some kind of medication soon, and
maybe even send him to a boarding school for kids with special
needs. Her dad had been talking about that for a while. Molly
almost wished for it. She hated herself for thinking that
way.
She remembered going up to her bedroom
that night, holding the bag of frozen peas against her sore arm. On
her pillow, Charlie had left his prized gray marble elephant, the
one with its trunk up. Molly plopped down on the bed. Clutching the
elephant figurine, she allowed herself to cry for the first time
that evening.
That had been almost twenty years
ago.
She still had the scar. Sitting at the
kitchen table, Molly rolled up her sleeve and studied the long,
pink line below her elbow. The wound looked just like it had that
night—for those fleeting seconds before the bleeding
started.
Molly glanced at her sad reflection in
the darkened window.
Suddenly, something darted across the
backyard. Molly only glimpsed the shadow of a person—or a
thing—streaking by. It seemed to come from Kay’s
house.
“Oh, Jesus,” she gasped. She stood up
so quickly, her chair almost tipped over. She hurried to the light
switch in the family room and turned on the outside
spotlight—illuminating the small backyard and the first few rows of
trees to the forest beyond it. A hand over her heart, she peeked
out the sliding glass doors. Nothing.
She ran to the other window and looked
next door at Kay’s place. There were still some lights on within
the house—including one up in the bedroom. Not all the lights were on, thank God.
Molly couldn’t get over the feeling
that someone was just outside the house, looking in at her. Earlier
tonight, she’d told Kay they were now Neighborhood Watch buddies.
Even though it was late, she figured Kay couldn’t be sleeping with
all those lights on.
Molly grabbed her cell phone and dialed
Kay’s number. It rang twice, and then she heard a click. “Kay?” she
said anxiously.
“Hi, you’ve reached the
Garveys!” announced a recording of Kay’s voice. “But you’re out of luck, because we can’t come to the phone
right now. Leave a message after the beep, and we’ll get back to
you. Better luck next time!” A few bars from “Maybe Next
Time” from Cabaret played over the recording
until the beep finally sounded.
“Kay?” Molly said into the phone. “Kay,
this is Molly next door. Can you pick up? I know it’s late,
but—well, could you please pick up? I see your lights are still on.
. . .” She wondered if maybe Kay was in the bathroom. “Listen, call
me back once you get this message, okay? I’m kind of concerned
about something. Thanks.”
Clicking off the phone, Molly went to
the window again and peered out at Kay’s house.
She couldn’t detect any movement over
there. She retreated into Jeff’s study and looked out his
window—down toward the start of the cul-de-sac. The NO OUTLET sign was still standing.
But she still felt on edge. Wringing
her hands, Molly checked to make sure the front, garage, and
sliding glass doors were all double-locked.
She really missed Henry right now. If
he was still down at the end of the block, she would have called
him, and he’d have been over within two minutes. They’d be cracking
jokes right now and having a glass of wine.
She decided if Kay called back, she’d
invite her over to spend the night. Kay could ask as many questions
about her family as she wanted. Molly didn’t care at this point.
She just didn’t want to be alone. She kept looking at the phone,
hoping it would ring.
Finally, she returned to Jeff’s study
and picked up the cordless on his desk. “Sorry, Jeff,” she
murmured, dialing his cell number. He was supposed to be in Denver,
and it was past midnight there. She would probably wake him. It
rang four times before he answered, sounding groggy. “Hey, honey,
what’s up?” he whispered. “You okay?”
“I’m so sorry I woke you,” she said
with a nervous sigh. “I’m just a little paranoid tonight. I thought
I saw something outside the kitchen window just a few minutes ago.
It was probably nothing, but I tried calling Kay, and there’s no
answer. I know she’s home. Her lights are on. She might be passed
out or something. She was over here earlier tonight, and belted
back a lot of wine, but still . . .”
Molly realized she was babbling. She
peered out the window at Kay’s house again.
“Well, Kay does like her cabernet,”
Jeff said. “You’re right, she’s probably passed out. I mean, the
woman has a problem. You sure you didn’t just see a raccoon or
something?”
Molly moved into the family room.
Through the sliding glass doors, she stared out at the spotlit,
empty backyard. “Whoever or whatever it was—it’s gone now.” She
sighed. “I’m sorry, honey. I feel awful for waking you
up.”
“Well, if you really think you saw
someone outside, don’t hesitate to call the police. I mean it,
babe. Don’t take any chances.”
“No, I’m sure it was nothing,” Molly
said. She didn’t want to call 911 about a little scare she’d had.
She could get a reputation for sounding false alarms. The cops
probably had enough residents on cul-de-sacs doing that to them
lately.
“I guess I’m just feeling on edge,” she
admitted. “I got a strange e-mail from an old almost-boyfriend
tonight. He works at an art gallery in Chicago. He said someone was
in there, asking all sorts of personal questions about me, my
family—and Charlie. He said the guy seemed like some kind of sleazy
private detective. I’m sorry, but I can’t help thinking of Angela.
I mean, she’s always trying to pry into my past. I wouldn’t be
surprised if she hired this—this creep to go
to my old hometown and ask questions about me.”
Jeff sighed. “Listen, sweetie, I’ll
talk to Angela, and get to the bottom of this. If she’s resorted to
this kind of crap—well, I’ll put a stop to it. That’s ridiculous.
I’m so sorry. No wonder you’re feeling jumpy. Anyway, Molly, I’m
going to take care of it. Okay?”
“Okay,” she said. “Thank you, honey.”
The cordless phone to her ear, she was still looking out at the
backyard.
“I’ll be home in just about twelve
hours,” Jeff said, soothingly. “Why don’t you pour a glass of wine
and look for something good on TV, take your mind off
things?”
“Well, I’m about a third of the way
through Exodus. I think I’ll go back to it
and watch until I get sleepy. I’m feeling better already. I think I
just needed to hear your voice. . . .”
After she said good-bye to Jeff, Molly
hung up the phone. Just about twelve hours until he was
home.
Molly told herself she could be all
right by herself till then.
Sitting in a cushioned chair by the
window, Jeff clicked off his cell phone. The room in the Jantzen
Beach Red Lion was dim, and from the window he had a view of the
Columbia River and the Portland Bridge. He was in his
undershorts.
He strolled into the bathroom, took a
pee, and washed his hands. Stepping out of his shorts, he slipped
back under the covers.
“Was that your wife?” the woman lying
beside him in bed asked.
Jeff nodded, and then nuzzled up next
to her, kissing her shoulder. “Yeah, she just had a slight case of
the jitters. . . .”
Their legs were still tangled together
under the sheets, and he kissed her shoulder. “I love the way you
welcome me home when no one else is around,” Jeff
whispered.
Smiling, Molly lazily ran her fingers
through his dark hair. The curtains in their bedroom were closed,
but she could hear rain tapping against the windows. She felt so
satiated—and safe.
Last night, she’d had another glass of
wine and watched the rest of Exodus, which
went on until nearly three in the morning. Then under a cozy throw
from Restoration Hardware, she’d read four chapters of the latest
Susan Wiggs. It was starting to get light out when she finally fell
asleep on the sofa.
Kay had never called back. But Molly
wasn’t too worried about it. The NO OUTLET
sign had still been standing at the end of the block when she’d
checked shortly after waking up at ten o’clock. And then Jeff had
come home a little after one, and suddenly nothing else had
mattered.
“I’ll wait until tomorrow to call
Angela,” he said, caressing her arm. “I just want you to know I
haven’t forgotten. I’ll phone from the office, and find out if she
has anything to do with this guy in Chicago. I’d do it today, but I
don’t want the kids around, getting wind of this. They shouldn’t
know their mother can be pretty awful sometimes. Anyway, rest
assured, I’ll get to the bottom of it.”
Molly leaned over and kissed him on the
forehead—and then on his lips. “And they say chivalry is dead,” she
whispered.
He gave her a wry smile. “You know,
another thing I haven’t forgotten about is this old boyfriend
e-mailing you. . . .”
Molly started to laugh. But then she
heard a car coming up the cul-de-sac, and it sounded like it
stopped right in front of their house.
“Oh, God, is she bringing the kids back
now?” Molly muttered, jumping out of bed.
“She’s at least two hours early.” Swiping her discarded jersey top
from the floor, Molly held it in front of her as she ran naked to
the window. She pushed back the curtain, and peered
outside.
An SUV had stopped next door in front
of Kay Garvey’s driveway. Madison climbed out of the car, and
hurried toward the front door. She was wearing hot-pink Converse
All Star high-tops today. She shielded her head from the
rain.
With a sigh of relief, Molly turned
away from the window and tossed aside the jersey. “False alarm,”
she said. She jumped back under the covers and nestled next to
Jeff’s warm, naked body. She heard Kay’s front door slam, and the
SUV driving away.
Jeff kissed the side of her neck, and
she shuddered gratefully. “So—why was your old boyfriend e-mailing
you?” he asked. “Should I be worried?”
“He just wanted to tell me about that
guy coming around the gallery,” Molly said.
“So what’s this old boyfriend’s name?”
Jeff asked, gliding a hand down her stomach. “And how long were you
two an item?”
Molly giggled. “You’re jealous, I like
that. His name is Doug, and we dated for only a month. But we were
pretty crazy about each other for a while.” She nudged Jeff. “As
much as I relish torturing you, I have to be honest. He’s now
seeing a concert cellist named Kate, and it’s serious. So you have nothing to worry about,
sweetie.”
“That’s a relief.” He kissed her cheek.
“I was thinking I might have to hire my own private detective to
keep tabs on you.”
Molly worked up a smile. It was a
little too soon to joke about private detectives. But she decided
not to say anything. She just stroked his hair.
Next door, she heard muffled screams.
It sounded like Madison was laughing—way too loud—about something.
Molly resented the noise. It intruded on this rare quiet moment
with her husband.
Jeff sat up halfway, reclining on one
elbow. He shot a look over his shoulder toward their window. “Well,
that’s annoying as hell. Jesus, listen to her. . . .”
Molly realized it wasn’t laughter
coming from next door. Those were screams. A chill raced through
her.
Tossing back the covers, she climbed
out of bed and grabbed her jersey off the floor. She quickly put it
on, then went to the window and pulled back the curtain. She peeked
out the rain-beaded window.
The door off Kay Garvey’s bedroom flung
open, and Madison staggered out to the balcony. Her screams were
much louder now. “Oh my God!” she shrieked. “Someone help me! She’s
dead! My mom’s dead! Dear God . . .”
Stunned, Molly stared out the window at
her. Automatically, she glanced toward the start of the block—at
the NO OUTLET sign still standing there.
She looked over at Madison again, screaming and crying hysterically
on her mother’s balcony, the rain drenching her.
“No,” Molly whispered, clutching her
stomach. “No, it can’t be. . . .”
The dollhouse sat on a worktable in the
private little room. It was a perfect replica of Kay Garvey’s
house, right down to the small balcony off the master bedroom where
Kay was murdered. Constructing the miniature house was the result
of two weeks of intense work.
The man who killed Kay Garvey wasn’t
much of a photographer. Still, out of the hundred photos he’d
taken, he’d managed to snap twenty good shots after breaking in two
weeks ago when Kay and Madison weren’t home. Between the photos and
the intruder’s description, the dollhouse-builder had a pretty
accurate idea of the layout. No time was wasted working on the
first-floor rooms. That section of the dollhouse was closed off,
boarded up.
The murder was planned for upstairs,
and that was where all the detail work was done in the miniature
house. Kay’s bedroom, along with its furnishings, was almost an
exact match—down to the yellow carpet and the peach-colored
curtains and bedspread.
And in that little bedroom was a hard
rubber, flesh-colored doll about the size of an index finger. It
was a woman—with hair quite close to Kay’s pale straw color. The
blond doll was lying on the floor of that miniature bedroom—beside
a nightstand.
Wrapped around the small figurine was a
tiny piece of lavender silk, cut from Kay’s blouse.
She was just the first.