Nowhere to Hide (18 page)

“Go ahead,” September invited him. She wasn’t sure what he was planning to ask and kind of wanted to see what it would be.

Jake proceeded to tell the enthralled Mrs. Peterkin that he and September—the law—were looking for anything pertaining to his and September’s second grade year. Were there files available?

“We can’t have you look at personnel files without a court order,” she said slowly, shooting September a glance filled with trepidation as if she expected her to demand to see them.

“How about class pictures? The composites of each of the three home rooms?” September suggested.

“Okay . . . I think they’re on computer from back then,” she said, turning back to her desk. She waved Jake and September around the counter, saying, “Mr. LeMonde’s out for the afternoon, so it’s just me and Linda B. She’ll be back soon. She’s just down the hall.”

September and Jake followed her over to her desk where she touched the screen and woke the computer up. She searched through several menus before she found the archived photos and when Jake told her the year she zeroed in on pictures from their second grade year. When she clicked on the class picture, September asked her to wait a moment.

Looking at their bright faces, some missing front teeth, September had a playground memory of one of the boys wetting his pants and the other children clapping their hands to their mouths and running away, giggling. She looked closely through the photos of Mrs. Walsh’s class but that boy wasn’t there. Maybe he was in another class, or a different grade. Then she saw her own face with its messy hair and goofy look, the collar of her blouse kind of tugged to one side. She’d been a tomboy and it showed.

Jake commented, “That’s exactly how I remember you,” which didn’t help.

They switched to Mrs. McBride’s room and there was Jake, smiling at the camera, one front tooth in, one halfway down. Even so, his good looks were already evident, and Mrs. Peterkin even told him what a cutie he was. Her brother Auggie was there, too, his closemouthed smile impish and maybe holding a secret. Both of them looked a helluva lot better than September.

Then they moved to Ms. Osborne’s homeroom composite, but nothing stood out. September remembered most of the students, at least vaguely, but they all just looked like typical second graders and probably were.

Mrs. Peterkin clicked to another page, saying, “We try to add pictures from the rooms during each school year, but this was before we really started the program.” She clicked some more and then a photo popped up. “Oh, wait. I think this is your year.”

There were a series of pictures of the teachers in the classrooms, kind of fuzzy as they’d been taken with film and scanned. But one of them showed several pieces of the leaf artwork like September’s.

“Can you zoom in on that?” Jake asked, focused on the same picture.

“This one?” Mrs. Peterkin asked, pointing to a photo of the classroom with snowflakes bordering the bulletin board behind Mrs. Walsh’s desk.

“This one,” Jake said, and touched his finger to the screen above the falling leaves.

“I should be able to,” she said and did so.

September inhaled sharply, unable to stop herself. The picture pinned to the bulletin board was
her
falling leaves artwork! Auggie had been right. His artwork was the one at home on the kitchen wall. Her memory of hers being displayed was from her homeroom.

“That’s mine,” she said, staring at it.

Jake’s gaze followed hers. “So, maybe you never made it home with it,” he said slowly.

“Pardon?” Mrs. Peterkin said.

“Thank you, Mrs. Peterkin,” September said, straightening. “If you wouldn’t mind calling Ms. Osborne, that would be a great help. Here’s my cell number.” She handed the woman her card, which she took reluctantly, clearly preferring to deal with Jake.

Back at their cars, Jake asked, “What do you think about that?”

“I don’t know. That was my artwork. Right there.” She shook her head.

“Somebody got it from somewhere,” he said. “Let’s go to your father’s house and find the rest of your school stuff.”

“Oh, sure. That’s what we’re going to do.”

“We can go after work. C’mon, you want to,” he said, full of that surety and arrogance she remembered from high school. “What time do you get off?”

“Never. I’m always working.”

“I was going to suggest dinner. You probably still eat, right?”

“You bought me, and my partner, lunch. She said thank you, by the way. I think we’re good.”

“You’re really putting up the fences, aren’t you?” Jake remarked, unperturbed.

“Hell, yes, and you’re just trying to run them down.”

“Well?” he asked, when September subsided into silence.

“You’re pouring on the charm and it’s pissing me off because . . . it seems like I’m responding.”

“Just kills you, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

When she had to fight herself to keep from rolling her eyes he saw it. “I think you’re afraid of me,” he said.

“Not afraid . . . concerned, maybe.”

“You don’t seriously think I’m anything more than a bystander in these murders, do you?” he asked, watching her closely.

“I believe if you were the doer, you would have given yourself away by now.”

“So, I’m a bystander?”

She nodded. “But you seem to want to be involved in solving the case, which is . . . unacceptable.”

“I don’t like thinking you’re on someone’s radar. And that’s what this feels like.”

September stared him down. “I’m just doing my job.”

“You didn’t ask for a copy of the class picture,” he remarked.

“There wasn’t anything there,” she said, “and I’d like to find my own, eventually.”

“Need any help looking?”

“You’re overeager, Westerly. I don’t know what you’re angling for.”

“It’s Jake,” he said firmly. “I knew you pre-cop. Let’s not do that.”

“Are you still friends with T.J?”

It just popped out. She could still remember how T.J., after learning of her night with Jake, had made the “ok” sign with one hand and poked his other index finger through the hole, suggestively moved it back and forth while a wide grin spread across his face. It had hurt and September had made a habit of shoving Jake from her thoughts ever since.

“T.J.’s an ass. I really haven’t seen T.J. since high school,” he said.

September kept her face from showing her feelings with an effort. “I don’t think spending time with you is going to work for me.”

“Yeah?”

“What are you getting out of this?”

“It bothers me that my name’s come up in this investigation, and that the killer sent you a message, and that you have some suspicions about me, whether you’re admitting to them or not. I don’t like feeling this way. And I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

September moved a few steps away and pulled out her cell phone, buying some time. “I need to text my partner.”

“Have dinner with me tonight.”

“You’re . . . pushing.”

“What do I have to do to get you to say yes?” His gray eyes gazed at her in a way that put a knot in her stomach. “I’ll buy. Anyplace you want.”

September could feel herself weakening. If she was smart, she would put up a barrier to his persuasiveness, but she wanted to be with him. Was that simple loneliness talking, or worse, some leftover unfulfilled need harkening back to high school? “I am kind of hankering for a seventy-two-ounce steak,” she said, almost surprised by the words as they left her mouth.

“The Barn Door.” He grinned like a schoolboy. “If we share it, that’s thirty-six ounces apiece.”

“Good God. That’s over two pounds apiece,” she said. No wonder Wes Pelligree was ralphing it up in the alley behind the bar.

“I’ll pick you up at six-thirty,” he said. “What’s your address?”

With much trepidation and mental self-flagellation, September told him.

Chapter 10

It was late afternoon and Stuart Salisbury and his friend Matt were trudging away from Twin Oaks Elementary under a blistering September sun, hot and wilted.

“Fuckin’ school just started and it feels like forever,” Matt muttered.

“Fuckin’ school just started and it feels like fuckin’ forever,” Stuart responded.

That drew a chuckle from Matt and a burst of energy from both boys and despite the heat they ran to the front of the school, waiting at the pickup circle for Matt’s mom to pick them up. Stuart’s mom worked full-time, but Matt’s didn’t. She just worked out at the gym like all the time, and drank wine with friends and didn’t pay much attention to the boys, so Stuart and Matt were kinda left to themselves. She didn’t really start the wine drinking till later in the day, so she was okay to pick them up, but she was kinda anxious, too, so everybody was happy when they were back at Matt’s—Stuart had assured her that his mom was okay with him walking home from Matt’s house and Matt said he’d go with him so she agreed that it would be okay. All they had to do was cross a couple of fields to get to his house and generally Matt came along ’cause his mom didn’t really much care anyway.

They were both eleven, in Mrs. Bardelay’s class, which was lame. They didn’t like school and they really didn’t like Mrs. Bardelay. She was old. Forty or so, for sure. And she smelled like cherry cough drops ’cause she sucked on them, like all the time. Said she was fighting a cold or allergies even though it was so blasted hot. Stuart thought maybe she was an addict, or something, and said as much to Matt who shrugged ’cause he didn’t care.

Now they walked along the edge of a roadside ditch, on the field side rather than the asphalt side. Matt wanted to play video games at Stuart’s which was what Stuart wanted to, but his older sister was probably around somewhere and she would tell his mom for sure.

They were halfway to the house when they saw the circling birds.

“Hawks,” Matt said.

“Buzzards,” Stuart responded knowingly. He knew about birds of prey. The kind that went after dead things.

“Something’s dead out there?” Matt asked.

“Mebbe.”

Stuart plucked a piece of grass and stuck it between his teeth, chewing on it. He’d seen a guy in a western on TV do something like that and even though the taste was bitter, he kinda thought he probably looked cool. He squinted his eyes, too, then shaded them with his hand as he looked up at the bird.

“It’s over by the creek,” he said.

“Uh-huh. If your sister’s got soccer practice, she won’t be there. We can play.”

“Nah, she goes later. C’mon, let’s go see what it is.”

But Matt only wanted to play video games and wasn’t interested in a delay. “I don’t wanna go all that way. It’s too hot.”

“I’m goin’.”

Stuart climbed agilely over the fence. There was a strand of barbed wire across the top, but he avoided it carefully. He thought there might be some cattle around, but maybe not. As long as the bull was penned up he was okay.

Swearing, Matt followed after him. “Shit! I ripped my pants!” he yelled, but he kept on coming.

Stuart wondered if it was a coyote kill. Damn, but those bastards were getting bold. That’s what his dad said. Could they take down a cow? Maybe a calf . . . His heart gallumphed as he thought about that. A pack of ’em could kill about anything.

Matt caught up to him, breathing hard. “What is it?” he asked.

They were nearing the creek, which smelled like rotting weeds and something worse.

“Gawd,” Stuart said, holding a hand over his nose and mouth.

“Do ya think it’s—” Matt cut off on an intake of breath that turned into a harsh, choking sound.

Ahead of them, lying on her back, naked from the chest down, was a dead woman’s body. Blood was smeared on her skin and it stank to high heaven. Matt stopped short and Stuart could feel the hair standing on end all over his body. He took a step nearer but his legs felt encased in cement.

“Uh . . . uh . . . uh . . .” Matt stared ahead in shock.

Stuart said in a strangled voice, “Those are words . . . what’s it say? What’s it say?”

“We gotta get outta here, Stu,” Matt whimpered.

But Stuart forced himself one step closer.

“Do Unto Others As She Did To Me,” he read in a cracking voice. He turned slowly and looked at Matt. “Carved in. That’s . . . blood.”

The boys stared at each other unseeingly, and Matt felt faint, like everything was shrinking in and he could scarcely see. With all the strength he had left, he pivoted until he could see the fence and the road, far, far away. He took one step. Then two. Then he was running with everything he had, racing back across the field with Stuart hot on his heels.

September spent the afternoon placing calls and checking backgrounds and giving Gretchen, who wanted to know all the details of September’s lunch with Jake, the bare minimum. She related that she was following up with the teachers at Sunset Elementary, and that she’d seen the whole grade’s composite pictures, and her own leaf artwork displayed on a bulletin board in a picture from Mrs. Walsh’s homeroom. “Auggie told me that it was his artwork our mom displayed, not mine, and I think he was right. I don’t think I ever got home with mine,” she admitted.

Gretchen absorbed all that, but when September wouldn’t say much about her actual “date,” she returned to her own work. September then looked up information on all Phillip Merits in the area—two—and hit the correct one on the first try when he said from his voice mail to leave either him or Carolyn a message. She did, and he called her back from the offices of James and Sessions, where he worked as an estate lawyer. It turned out Drea Bartelli, who’d lost her job, had moved back home to Colorado shortly after their excursions to Westerly Vale Vineyards and The Barn Door. Carolyn and Phil hadn’t returned to the bar since hearing of Sheila’s death. “It just felt . . . bad, y’know?” he admitted, sounding uneasy. “I don’t like thinking about it.” He gave September Drea’s number and he said he would tell Carolyn she’d called. He didn’t appear to know much more about Sheila, however, as she was really the women’s friend.

Putting that aside for the moment, she had a little better luck with Sheila Dempsey’s onetime boyfriend, Benny Schmidt, who still lived around the area and was a physical education teacher at a Portland high school. When she couldn’t find a phone number for him, she called the school and asked him to phone Detective September Rafferty with the Laurelton Police Department, which he did when he was finished with classes, his voice rife with worry and trepidation.