Nowhere to Hide (10 page)

“Did you know her in elementary school?”

He stared at her. “Uh . . . I knew of her. She went to Twin Oaks. I met her . . . but . . .” He found his heart was starting to pound. “Jesus,” he muttered.

“Do you know any of her other friends?”

“She came with some coworkers to Westerly Vale on a wine tasting. I know them by name. And we went to The Barn Door a couple of nights, but I don’t know much about them.”

“What are their names?”

“Why didn’t you guys do all this back when she was killed?”

“County had jurisdiction first. Laurelton PD has the case now,” she said.

“Is that an aspersion on the sheriff’s department?”

“I’m just trying to gather information,” she said evenly.

“Didn’t Dempsey tell you about her friends?”

She slowly wagged her head from side to side, and, as if finally realizing he needed to stop being such a wall, Jake gave a snort of disgust but he did take one of the occasional chairs, the one that swiveled. He put a toe out and rocked back and forth in agitation.

“She hung out with two girlfriends, Carolyn and Drea. Carolyn had a boyfriend who we met up with, Phil. Phil . . . last name was a cigarette name. Marl . . . no . . . Merit. Phil Merit. Sheila knew him because she knew Carolyn, I think. She was friends with the girls.”

“And you don’t recall their last names?”

He almost smiled. “If you’re trying to jog my memory, forget it. If it doesn’t have to do with numbers, I’m a lost cause.”

September tried to steel herself not to react. He sounded just like her father. And it was overwhelming talking to him like this, but in a way she was glad for the interrogation. She didn’t know what the hell she’d say to him if called upon to make small talk.

“You never went on a date with Mrs. Dempsey?” she asked.

“No.” He paused, and then remarked, “The ‘missus’ part got in the way.”

September tried to think up more questions to ask him, but she only circled and recircled the same ones. In the end, she merely thanked him. He got to his feet, and as she was trying not to look up and meet his gaze, he said, “I’m waiting for you to order me not to leave town, or something.”

“Don’t leave town . . . or something.”

She said it before she could stop herself. Stupid. She was looking for his approval? Still wanted him to like her?

A smile spread across his lips. “You’re still in there, aren’t you? The September Rafferty from high school.”

Instantly she thought of their night together, and the flare in his eyes said he remembered, too. She’d been too bold that spring night. Too eager. Wanted too much. She’d called him a couple of times but he’d been unavailable and she’d been embarrassed and let it go. She’d wanted Jake Westerly like she’d never wanted anything before, and, if she were completely honest with herself—something she
hated
being, but sometimes it was a necessity—she could admit one taste hadn’t been enough to quench her thirst.

He could never know.

“I’m sure we’ve both changed a lot,” she said repressively, and was startled when he chuckled and shook his head.

“I’d like to talk to you and share a drink,
or something
, and find out everything about you that I missed the night we were together.”

The way he said
together
made her feel uncomfortable. “If you can think of anything else about Sheila Dempsey . . .” she began.

“I should have never gone back to Loni. That time, or any time since. It took till last January until it was completely over, but it is over now. And no, I didn’t pick up with Sheila afterward, or anyone else for that matter. What about you?”

September made herself meet his searching eyes. There was humor in their gray depths. Teasing. She felt herself prickle up and had to remember that this wasn’t high school, or even grade school.

“Are you married?” he asked.

“No.”

“Engaged or involved?”

“I’m . . . single.”

“You keep up with Bambi?”

She snapped out of the trance-like feeling surrounding her and said shortly, “Barbara’s the one who’s married and she’s got two kids, a boy and a girl.”

“She live around here?” he asked.

“We keep in touch on Facebook,” September said.
Before I deactivated it.

“I’ll take that as a no. I think I have a Facebook account,” Jake said reflectively. “Might have to try using it more.” He got to his feet and peered at her speculatively. “Anything else, Officer?”

“One thing . . .”

“Yeah?”

September gazed at him seriously and said, “Didn’t you have Mrs. Walsh in the second grade?”

He gave her a long look, thinking that over. “Mrs. McBride.”

“Ah. Do you remember an art project we did at the beginning of the school year? The whole class did it. It was of cut-out crayon-colored leaves pasted onto construction paper. The leaves were falling into a pile of more leaves on the ground.”

“And the leaves on the ground were just crayoned in, not pasted. Sure. My mother saved everything, and that ‘piece of art’ was one of her favorites. I kinda peaked out in second grade, so she hung onto that one for years.” He squinted at her. “Okay. You got me. Why . . . ?”

September’s gaze searched his eyes, but he seemed completely lost. “Someone recently sent me my leaf picture with a message scrawled on it.”

He frowned. “What do you mean, ‘my leaf picture’?”

“It was my art project. From second grade. Someone sent it to me.”

“
Your
art project.”

He was as pedantic as Auggie, for God’s sake. “Yes. It was a warning.”

If he was faking his confusion, he was doing an excellent job. “But how? Who would . . . how could they get it?”

“I don’t know.”

“What did it say? The message.”

They were walking toward the parking lot now and September drew a breath. She wasn’t sure what she wanted from him. Proof that he wasn’t involved in either Sheila’s death or the warning to her, she supposed, though she couldn’t believe there was any connection, really.

That why you hid this from your partner?
a voice inside her head asked.

“You said you saw me on my interview with Pauline Kirby?”

“Yes, I did. I thought you looked young.”

“Huh.” That seemed to be the general consensus.

“You were holding your own though. . . .” He stopped suddenly and said, “Was that the message? That phrase that Pauline quoted? Do Unto Others as she did . . . or something?”

“‘Do Unto Others As She Did To Me.’”

“Holy Christ, Nine.” He stopped short, stunned. “You were sent that same message on your
second grade artwork?
”

“Yes.”

“Wait . . . wait . . . it was carved in her skin. Not Sheila’s. Decatur’s.”

“That’s right.”

“But Sheila’s body wasn’t carved into. That was never reported.”

“We think there’s a connection. There were markings—” September admitted.

“
Sheila?
”

He seemed so shattered she had to fight the urge to offer comfort.
Don’t get personal.
“Sheila and Glenda Tripp both had markings cut into their torsos with a knife, but they weren’t formed letters. Wait, no.” She held up her hand when he would have interrupted again. “We believe the killer was aiming toward his message. Maybe he hadn’t worked it out exactly when he killed Sheila. Didn’t know what he wanted to say, or just didn’t have time. Then he killed Emmy Decatur and left the message. And this same message looks like it was started on Glenda Tripp, but he may have been scared off by something and couldn’t finish. Unlike the other two, Tripp was found in her apartment. He didn’t take her to a field, so he may have been interrupted and wasn’t able to complete his mission.”

“You were trying to keep this under wraps,” he realized, “but Pauline Kirby already outed you.”

“If it’s a serial killer—and though we’re leaning that way—we’re moving cautiously, gathering proof. Then we’ll go public but yeah, the hikers who discovered Decatur’s body told her and she put it on the news. We’re not releasing that Dempsey and Tripp were carved on as well to the general public until we have more evidence.”

He gazed down at her searchingly. September did her best to appear unaffected. “This killer . . . he sent you the message because he knows you’re on the case?”

“Auggie suggested maybe it’s not the killer. Maybe it’s someone closer to me who’s got their own agenda.”

“Somebody screwing with you?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, it might explain how he has your artwork, but then . . . why? It makes more sense that it’s a real threat. I would take it seriously.”

She was gratified by the concerned look on his face, “I am. And Auggie is, too. I just think at some level he thinks it might be someone in the family, and he can’t wrap his head around that, yet.”

“Is that what you think?” Jake asked.

“I’m concentrating on connections between the three victims. See what the common denominator is.”

“And you’re looking at me because I knew Sheila . . . and because I went to second grade with you and just happened to do the same art project.” His gray eyes turned a bit glacial. “Maybe I shouldn’t have remembered it.” When she opened her mouth to respond, he cut in, “No, I get it. You’re making connections, and I’m weirdly connected. So, is this interview over? Have I answered enough of your questions?”

She nodded. “Let me give you my card, in case you think of anything else.”

As she fished it out and handed it to him, he said tautly, “I didn’t save your second grade artwork, Nine. And certainly not to terrorize you with it. Better stick with Auggie’s theory and check with your own family.”

With that parting remark, he climbed into the Tahoe, started up the engine, and tore away.

She watched the taillights of his car until he turned onto the main highway and they winked out.

Suma, the maid, was just leaving the Rafferty house when September pulled up and parked.

“They’re not here,” Suma said with a faint Asian accent. She had black hair threaded with gray and dark eyes and was from a mixture of Far Eastern nationalities. She’d come with Rosamund and wasn’t the warmest person on the planet. Or, maybe she just didn’t like September.

“I talked to my father and told him I was going to look for some of my things,” September told her. She looked worried, so September pressed, “Call him. Or Rosamund. Whoever, if you need to confirm.”

Suma reluctantly unlocked the front door again and said, “The door will lock automatically behind you. Please make sure it’s pulled tight when you go.” She headed across the parking area to her older-model Toyota.

“Sure,” September said to no one in particular as she entered the house. The front door possessed a mortise lock and it shut behind her with a satisfying click. September didn’t have a key and didn’t want one, most of the time.

It was six o’clock and the shadows were growing long. Surprisingly, now that she was in the house, she felt beaten down and weary and really didn’t much want to start her search. Entering the living room, she saw Rosamund’s picture again, the pregnancy very evident. At July’s birthday party, Rosamund hadn’t really been showing, though she’d only popped in for a minute or two, claiming another engagement. At the time September had scarcely noticed her; she’d been too absorbed in navigating small talk with the rest of the Raffertys, none of whom she really wanted to see except July. Auggie, of course, had been a no show, but then he’d been working undercover at the time, and September had used that excuse to explain why he was absent when they all knew it was because he didn’t want to see his father and he didn’t really give a shit in the first place.

Exhaling heavily, she walked down the hall, opened the door to the stairs to the attic and trudged up the steep flight. At the top, she looked around. The attic was large, with a number of rooms created by dips in the roofline over several wings of the house.

There was a lot of junk in piles, everything from forgotten furniture to boxes and boxes of financial papers and old tax returns, to out-of-date electronics that should have been thrown away years before. September rooted around in the boxes of papers, unstacking them, restacking them, sneezing from the swirling dust she created, sweating from the heat that had built up. She went through twenty boxes before she gave up, swiping her inner elbow against the perspiration forming on her forehead and running down her temples.

Finally she sank down into an old toile-covered chair with worn arms and tufts of stuffing sticking through the seams. There were more boxes than she’d counted on, and it looked like it might be a fruitless task anyway. She thought about going down to the basement, but couldn’t get up the energy. Besides, she hadn’t even made a dent in any of the attic stuff.

What was she looking for? More artwork? What would that prove anyway? She knew the killer had the one piece. If she found more in the attic did that mean hers had been discovered by someone in her family? Maybe . . . but so far she hadn’t found any of hers or her siblings’ childhood memorabilia. Had it been moved somewhere?