Killing Spree (15 page)

He glanced at the sliding glass doors around the pool area—still darkened, the drapes still closed. Smiling, he turned to gaze at the dead body floating in the water. He wiped his wet hand on the side of his pants, and then rolled down his sleeve.

He kept glancing back at his handiwork as he headed toward Room 220. There would be no time to linger while he went through the guy’s room for personal items. He had a plane to catch. He needed to be in Seattle by morning.

“I’m looking for a book called
Burning Old Bridesmaids’ Dresses and Other Survival Stories.
The author is Jennifer Gilderhoff. It’s brand-new, might not even be released yet.”

Brian, the bearded, nerdy-cute, young clerk behind the counter at Broadway Books, consulted his computer, and then checked a microfiche file. “Hmm, looks like that’ll be available next week, Gillian. We have five on order. Want me to reserve you a copy?”

She leaned on the counter. “Those five books haven’t come in yet, have they? I know you sometimes get them before the pub date. I just want to take a look at it.”

“You know, that title sounds really familiar,” Brian said. “Let me go back and peek at the inventory list.”

“Thanks, Brian.”

While he retreated to the back room, Gillian checked for her book in their Mystery section. Broadway Books was her neighborhood bookstore and had always been very supportive. They threw Gillian a book-signing party every time she had a new thriller published, and stocked all her books. They still had several autographed copies of
Black Ribbons
and the others. The books weren’t exactly flying off the shelf. It was discouraging to see—and typical of her day so far.

She’d started the morning bawling her eyes out after watching Ethan trudge off to his bus stop. She wondered if they were teasing him at school. Was he on his way to endure the same type of cruelty she’d witnessed in front of the house the other afternoon? She felt as if she were watching him go off to his doom.

Eventually, she dried her eyes and called the bowling alley. She got an answering machine, and left a message canceling her reservations for Ethan’s birthday party next Saturday afternoon. If Craig wasn’t helping her with the guest list—or even attending the party—no one would be coming. She had to figure out something else to do for Ethan’s birthday.

It was after eleven in New York when she called her agent’s office. Eve was still at a sales conference in Atlantic City. Gillian asked Eve’s assistant, Becky, if she had sent the
Daily News
article about the “Zorro” stabbing. Becky didn’t know what she was talking about. Gillian couldn’t think of anyone else at the agency who might have sent her the article. She wondered if somebody had gone into the agency and stolen some of their envelopes. Whoever had sent her that clipping about Jennifer had gone to a lot of trouble to stay anonymous.

She also phoned the college to see if they had more current contact information for Todd Sorenson, Chase Scott, and Shauna Hendricks. The woman she spoke with in the administration office seemed annoyed with her. “I happen to be very busy,” she said curtly. “I don’t exactly have a lot of time to look this up for you right now. Just—just—give me your e-mail address. I’ll send you the information when I can get around to it, okay?”

“Thank you, it’s—”

“No, don’t delete that,” the woman was saying to someone else in the office. “I’m going to buy that…no, the pink one. It’s on sale…. No, it’s only available online.” She cleared her throat. “Okay, what’s your e-mail address?”

Through her teeth, Gillian gave the woman her e-mail address and hung up.

She’d decided not to hold her breath waiting for the e-mail response. So Gillian had thrown on her coat and taken a walk on this gray morning to her local bookstore.

“Hey, Gillian, I have something for you,” Brian said, emerging from the back room. He was holding a copy of
Burning Old Bridesmaids’ Dresses
. “I remembered—the author sent us an advance reader’s copy. It was in the to-be-recycled stack. You’re welcome to keep it.”

“Oh, thank you, Brian.” She took the book and opened it to the Acknowledgments page. No new author could resist including an Acknowledgments page. Going without it would be like winning an Oscar and not thanking anyone. Gillian started scanning down the list of people Jennifer thanked, which included two other creative writing teachers, her agent, a bunch of people connected with the publisher, her parents and family, her cat, and finally: “Thanks also to my friend, April Tomlinson, for sharing with me her crazy stories and her wild sense of humor.”

“Brian, could I hit you up for the phone book?” Gillian asked.

Five minutes later, she was standing outside the bookstore and dialing the number for
Tomlinson, April J.
A woman picked up after the third ring. Gillian could hear a radio in the background. “Hello. Is April there, please?” Gillian asked.

“No, she isn’t. Can I take a message?”

“Do you know where I can get ahold of her? I was hoping to talk with her this morning.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

“Um, I was in this writing class two years ago with this friend of hers named Jennifer,” Gillian said. “I understand she might be able to tell me something about Jennifer’s condition.”

“Oh. Well, you might try April at her job. She works at the Seattle Aquarium.”

Gillian took the bus downtown, and then walked another mile to Seattle’s waterfront area. She crossed under the Highway 99 viaduct, and waited for a streetcar to pass. On the other side of Alaskan Way, she saw the Seattle Aquarium, a huge warehouse structure on the edge of Puget Sound’s Elliott Bay. The area was crowded with tourists—as well as people trying to catch the ferry at the pier terminal next door.

It was dark inside the Aquarium, but the walls were bathed in rippled blue-green shadows from all the illuminated fish tanks. Gillian asked the ticket-taker—a thin Asian man in a navy blue
SEATTLE AQUARIUM
shirt—if he knew where she could find April Tomlinson.

“She’s working in the souvenir shop,” he said. “It’s just to your right. Enjoy your visit.”

Passing a display on the wall that mapped out the different attractions at the Aquarium, Gillian noticed the souvenir stand, a long counter linking two totem poles. Books, snow globes, T-shirts, and hats filled the shelves, but there weren’t any customers. The two women working the cash registers looked bored. One was a short, round black woman with a diamond stud in her nostril. The other was pale and waiflike. She looked about thirty—and anorexic. She wore black-cherry lipstick, and her hair was arranged in a short, stiff pageboy that was more a maroon color than red. Gillian wondered if this was the woman with the “
crazy stories
” and “
wild sense of humor
.”

She approached the counter. “Excuse me. April?”

The thin woman squinted at her. “Are you the one my roommate just called me about? Jennifer’s friend?”

Gillian nodded. “Yes, hi—”

April turned to her coworker, who was suddenly busy with a customer. “Hey Sonya, I’m going to take a Marlboro break, okay?” Not waiting for an answer, she grabbed a rain slicker and purse from under the counter. “I didn’t get your name,” she said to Gillian.

“I’m Gillian McBride. Jennifer was one of my students in a writing class two years ago.”

April had started out from behind the counter, but now she hesitated. “You were her teacher?”

Gillian nodded. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just—I pictured someone older, that’s all. Listen, I’m sorry, but I won’t have a lot of time to talk with you. I really shouldn’t leave my coworker alone here.”

“No, it’s okay, go,” the other woman piped up as she worked the register. She shooed away her friend with a wave of her hand. “Go on. You told me ten minutes ago you were dying for a cig. Go.”

April gave Gillian a pinched smile, and threw her jacket over her shoulders. “I need to watch my back here,” she said, starting toward the front doors. “My boss is a real stickler about us taking too many breaks.” She stepped outside and paused just outside the doorway. “So—you wanted to find out how Jennifer was? Then I guess you heard about it—the stabbing, I mean.”

Gillian nodded. “Last I heard she was in a coma.”

“She still is,” April muttered, looking down at the sidewalk.

“Aren’t you going to have your cigarette?” Gillian asked.

“No. Like I said, I don’t have time.” April glanced over her shoulder at the Aquarium doorway. “Anyway, I talked to Jennifer’s mother this morning. No change. They’re thinking about taking her off the machines.” Her voice cracked a little. “I wish I were there.”

“And the police still have no idea who stabbed her?”

April shook her head. “No idea,” she echoed.

“Do you know if she was seeing anyone in New York?”

“The cops already asked me that. She was meeting her editor. That’s it. She didn’t know anyone else in New York.”

“Do you think a boyfriend or someone might have followed her out there?”

“Jennifer has had a lot of boyfriends. But as far as I know, for the last few weeks, she hasn’t been seeing anybody in particular.” April’s eyes narrowed at her. “You sound just like the police. Why are you asking me these questions?”

“I’m just in shock. I’m trying to figure out what happened. You’ve been friends with Jennifer for a long time, haven’t you?”

A sad look passed across April’s face. “Eight years now. I’m practically her best friend.”

Gillian pulled the advance reader’s copy of
Burning Old Bridesmaids’ Dresses
out of her purse and showed it to April. “I figured as much. I saw what she said about you here in the acknowledgments.” Gillian sighed. “You sure you don’t want a cigarette? I could use one.”

Gillian hadn’t smoked since college, but she wanted this woman to bond with her and open up to her a little—even if it meant having to get nauseous on a cigarette.

“No, thanks,” April said with a smile. “I’m trying to cut back.”

“I hate to keep asking you these stupid questions. But do you know if Jennifer kept in touch with anyone from that class I taught?”

April shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. No.” She glanced back over her shoulder again. “Listen, I need to get back to work—”

“Does the name Todd Sorenson ring a bell? Or Chase Scott? Did Jennifer ever say anything to you—”

“No. I’m not good with names anyway.” She shrugged. “I’m sorry, but I better scoot or I’ll get in trouble with my boss. It was nice to meet you, Gillian. Jennifer thought you were a very good teacher.”

Gillian reached into her purse and fished out a card promoting her new book,
Black Ribbons
. “My phone number and e-mail address are on there,” she said, handing the card to April. “Could you please let me know if you hear anything about Jennifer?”

Nodding, April tucked the card inside her pocket. “I sure will. Bye.” She ducked into the entrance.

Gillian stood by the Aquarium doors for a moment. Jennifer’s best friend hadn’t been much help at all. Gillian could tell she was holding something back.

A streetcar passed behind her. Gillian turned, crossed Alaskan Way, and got in line for the streetcar bound for Pioneer Square. She could catch a bus home from there. She was the last passenger to board the streetcar. The bell rang, and they started moving. Gillian plopped down on a seat. Frowning, she gazed out the window at the Seattle Aquarium as they passed it.

On the pier beside the Aquarium, she saw a woman standing by herself, huddled in a rain slicker. She seemed to be watching the seagulls swoop down toward the water. Even in the distance, April Tomlinson looked a little sad.

She leaned against the pier railing and lit up a cigarette.

Biting his lip, Ethan watched chubby Alex Sloane waddle toward his new teammates.

“Shit,” he heard someone mutter from Craig’s team. “All that’s left are a pair of fags.”

Standing beside Ethan in his too-tight gym sweats was Mark Phair. He was slender and almost “pretty” with his perfect, British-schoolboy-cut, bleached blond hair.

Ethan pretended he didn’t hear the “fag” comment. Like an epidemic, Tate Barringer’s taunting had spread. And now, he was lumped in the same category as Mark—The Fairy—Phair. Mark was in-your-face
out
, and he totally embraced all the gay stereotypes. He got teased and picked on, but always seemed to shrug it off. Sometimes he’d shoot back a real humdinger of a sarcastic comment to his tormentor. Still, people gave him shit every day. Ethan felt sorry for him, but kept thinking,
He only has himself to blame
. Maybe if Mark Phair didn’t act so gay all the time, people would leave him alone.

Ethan didn’t think he acted gay. So why were people picking on him? How could people tell? Was it really so obvious?

It wasn’t such a big deal for upperclassmen to be gay. A bunch of juniors and seniors were gay and “out,” and no one seemed to care. There were always exceptions, and little antigay incidents, but mostly from outsiders. It was extremely uncool for upperclassmen to be homophobic.

But for the freshmen and most sophomores, all bets were off. It wasn’t smart to be different. There were a few theater types who were “suspect.” They banded together for protection. They took dance class, which excused them from gym, the lucky sons of bitches. Ethan thought they were kind of stuck up. He didn’t want to be like them. He didn’t want to be like Mark Phair either.