Shocking True Story (27 page)

By the last conversation, the investigation had sputtered once more. It was time to rehash what we knew.

Raines, I learned, was good at rehashing.

“We know that whoever tried to set you up is someone who knows you well. He's aware of your schedule,” he said. “He's read your books. I talked to the boys at the university and they are going to profile the perp. It is possible he is a fan. He's strong, too. Think about it? Any weirdos write to you? Hang out at your book signings?”

I laughed into the phone and waved to Valerie as she came into the room carrying a bouquet of yellow roses.

“I'm beginning to think it's only weirdos who go to my signings, period,” I said. “And, Martin, let's face it...if it was a fan, you won't have to go through too many names to talk to them all. I don't exactly have a huge following.”

“Yeah, I guess,” he said.

“And why do you keep saying it was a man? The woman was poisoned first and poisonings are almost the exclusive domain of female killers. The killer could have cut Mrs. Parker up when she was half-dead.”

We talked a bit longer, and I made an excuse to hang up. I promised to call him back

later.

Valerie cleared a spot on the mantel by shoving aside a clay figure that Hayley had made in first grade. It was an animal of some sort; she told us it was an elephant, but if indeed that was true, it was the first elephant without a trunk. Val fanned out the dozen long-stems while I wrapped up the conversation with Raines.

“Secret admirer?” I asked, finally hanging up the phone.

“Actually,” she said, handing me a small white envelope, “they're for
you
.”

“Me?” I was amazed. I had never received flowers before. I expected that the only time I ever would was when they were sent to my own funeral. Of course, I wouldn't know about them, for certain, but I was sure someone would send something. I ripped open the little flap and read the message written by some clerk at the florist.

Sorry for the misunderstanding! My best to you, Valerie, and those pretty Ryan girls.

It was signed with Monica Maleng's name.

“God, Val, they're from Monica!”

Valerie laughed out loud. A good hearty laugh, like one I hadn't heard come from her in weeks. It brought an instant smile to my face.

“Green Light must need your rights, after all, honey. No public domain for your story!” she said.

“I'll let her stew for a day or two, and then I'll check in.”

“Good idea. Say we were out of town and found the wilted roses on our doorstep. We're sure they were absolutely lovely. Monica, it's the thought that counts, you know.”

I gave Valerie a hug and we held each other for a long time. She seemed so happy. Mid-September's cooler weather brought an end to the need for an air conditioning unit in the Honda and it obviously agreed with her. As I held her close it was abundantly clear that she still deserved those highlights for her hair.

Friday, September 13

AFTER DROPPING THE GIRLS OFF at school, I drove down to the library in West Bremerton on Sylvan Way (which might have been sylvan at one time, but was now a dreary stretch of former fast food franchise restaurants that had been converted into restaurants that looked like a Taco Bell but weren't). I had called ahead to make sure Kate O'Brien would be working. Kate worked in the reference section and had been a friend since the day I walked in to the research the product tampering killings for
Over the Counter Murder
. I wanted to know everything I could about Weasel-Die and cyanide and Google could only do so much. Wikipedia was even worse. In the quiet of the library, Kate, a woman with a lean figure and gorgeous dark eyes that screamed “sexy librarian,” piled up one reference after another. By the end of my work there, I felt I easily could have called the company and hired out my services to write Weasel-Die's annual report. And for my knowledge of cyanide? I could have killed anyone and gotten away with it.

“What can we find out about Kubuta International Paper?” I asked when she looked up from her work.

Kate gave me her “I won't be Googled out of a job” grin. She knew that when I arrived for help, it was usually more interesting than the run-of-the-mill requests she endured on a daily basis. Even if it sounded like a run-of-the-mill request.

“Plenty. What exactly are you after?” she asked.

“Product lines mostly. Availability of products in this country, that sort of stuff.”

“It will be more available. I can tell you that.”

“How so?”

Kate tapped out some characters on her paid-database-rich library computer terminal and started reading.

“Kubuta bought the old Western Paper Company plant on the bay six months ago. The EPA has been fiddling around with their land use application. Because it was an existing plant, there seems no doubt they will get approval.”

Noticing the blank look on my face, she stopped.

“There's been nothing much about it in the papers, so don't feel so in the dark. Kubuta's filing indicated they had no plans for the site in several years. They are just increasing their presence in the U.S.”

I asked if she could find anything about their product line, especially papers with a silk content.

“That's an interesting request,” she said, once more playing the keys on her terminal's keyboard. “Let's see.
Artist Today
has a fairly comprehensive review on silk impregnated papers, in its 50th anniversary issue. Kubuta is mentioned.” Another ten seconds or so passed as she scanned the dark surface of her computer screen. “We have it. I'll go to the stacks in the back and find the issue.”

I devoured the article in less than five minutes. Several products were featured in a photo layout and I considered it a major folly for an art director to show the papers and rave about their textures when the photo was on the surface of a 60-lb. enamel web stock. Kubuta's label, featured on the layout, was a bright orange sun against a midnight blue rectangle.

Kubuta's eight percent silk paper was called Shantung Rag. It was, in fact, used by graphic artists that preferred a traditional inking process over spewing something computer-generated from their laser printers. A reader response card offered free samples of each of the papers shown in the magazine.

On the second half of the card, the company solicited the occupation of the reader for its database. It listed the following as options: professional fine artist; graphic arts manager; paper supplier; graphic artist; designer; retailer; educator.

Monday, September 16

JETT CARTER STOPPED BY after another marathon visit with her mother and sister at the Riverstone prison. It was obvious that the encounter had not gone particularly well. She was pale as chalk and the short hair on the nape of her neck stuck in patches against her skin. Even the skin on her toes through her open sandals seem to give off a ghostly glow. Our hearts went out to her. Jett had been dragged down into a mire that seemed to be swallowing her up. She was reaching out from the quicksand for Connie and Janet and they—or at least their circumstances—were pulling her under.

“Not so good at Riverstone?” I asked, sensing the answer. I led her into the house, to the kitchen, where Valerie and I had been spending a few quiet moments before dinner. Taylor and Hayley were in their respective rooms finishing up their homework.

Jett said nothing and sat at the table. Valerie poured her a cup of licorice tea, which we now purchased solely for her visits. Licorice was her favorite and no one in the family could stand the stuff. Everyone in the Ryan household hoped that the friendship with Jett Carter lasted beyond the publication of
Love You to Death
. There was no way that we'd be able to consume the mega box of Elegant Herbals we bought at Costco.

Jett looked as though she was going to cry. She told us that she didn't think she could bear coming to Riverstone much more. It hurt too much.

“I'm not worried about Janet, she's a fighter,” she began. “But Mom... I keep thinking that my mother is going to die in prison. She's weak and she can't sleep and her heart is bad....”

Her voice trailed off and the tears came.

“She hasn't put up a single picture I sent her because she says she doesn't want any reminders of what she's missing. She stopped wearing makeup. She cries almost the whole time when I talk to her. And I cried all the way driving straight here. I'm surprised I didn't crash.”

Something about what she said twigged a nerve in the back of my brain, but whatever it was, was lost as I watched Valerie put her hand on Jett's shoulder. The young woman tilted her head to embrace my wife's gesture.

“You know,” she continued, “I understand that she did something wrong, at least
probably
did, but I don't think she would have really paid someone to kill anybody. My mom isn't that way. If she wanted someone dead, she'd have shot him herself. My mom isn't as bad as they say.”

“Maybe she just got caught up in something,” Val said.

“I guess so. I guess that's what I think now.”

“And Janet?” I asked.

“Jan is a different story. Jan has always considered herself first. She always got her way.”

I leaned a bit closer. “So now you are believing she did set up Danny and plot to kill Paul and Deke?”

Jett wiped her red eyes on her arm. “She never was a saint. She tried once in a while to do nice things for me as a kid, but she was always more concerned about herself and what she wanted.”

“Most big sisters are,” Val offered.

“Yeah, but I bet yours never dumped you the minute you got into trouble. I was only eleven. The second I was in that foster home, my sister never called.
Never wrote
. When she had her baby, I didn't even know about it. Lindy's my niece and I didn't even get a baby picture.”

Taylor and Hayley lingered by the kitchen entry. I knew that they were as mesmerized by Jett's life as they could be. She was not Wanda-Lou. She was not any of the other goofballs that had passed through their lives because of my work. She was more like them than the others.

“Hayley, you ask her,” Taylor said, pushing her sister into the room.

Hayley stepped forward and waited in silence for everyone to turn her way.

“Jett, my mom and dad want to know if you want to go Trick or Treating with us this year.”

A smile immediately eclipsed the sadness of her face. “Sounds like fun. Do I have to dress up?”

The girls laughed and looked at each other.

“You don't have to go to the doors,” Taylor interjected. “You just have to drive us around from neighborhood to neighborhood.”

“I see,” she said. “Sounds okay to me, but on one condition. I get every Baby Ruth you guys collect.”

“Fair enough,” Hayley said.

Val and I knew that Hayley hated anything with nuts in it. Taylor, however, was none too happy about the arrangement.

“How 'bout every box of Good 'n Plenty?” she suggested.

Jett looked serious. “Nope. Baby Ruths. Nothing else. You should be glad I don't want the Hershey bars and Butterfingers, too.”

Taylor put her hand out. “Deal.”

“Planning early,” I said, “just like their mother. Valerie shops for Christmas in August.”

“July,” Val corrected.

Jett ate dinner with us and kidded the girls that she was going to make sure they went to Renny Ann Quinn's house first.

“Maybe she's giving out something with raisins in it.”

“You're gross!” Hayley said, as milk threatened to come out her nose.

Jett laughed. We all did. We needed a little laughter around the house.

After Jett left, Valerie corned me at my Mac. I thought she was going to tell me to come to bed. At least I hoped that she was. Instead, I got a compliment. Sort of.

“
Love You to Death
is really good,” she said.

Her words were fine, of course, but there was something in the delivery that seemed flat, like an e-mail, devoid of true emotion.

“But what?”

“Since you ask, you need more about Jett. She's a better rooting interest than Raines, really. She's troubled. She has a sense of humor. She's young. What do her friends say about her? Her mom? Her sister?”

I took my hands off my keyboard and cradled my chin against my knuckles.

“She doesn't have any friends. I never talk about her to her sister or her mother, unless they bring her up, which they seldom do. I told her I wouldn't say much because she's afraid they'll think she's cashing in.”

“You need more about her, Kevin. When it comes to making this book stand out in the true crime market, she's the one to do it. She's the one.”

Val had good instincts, and I knew she was right. I had to learn more about all of these women. Deeper, below the surface. Connie, Jett, Janet. The mother/daughter connection was appealing to true crime readers, most of whom were women.

But even as I considered the Carter ladies and sifted through my
Love You to Death
notes and timelines, I couldn't help but think of another woman, another mother. June Parker and her grisly murder never faded from my thoughts. Just who killed her?
And why?
Finally, because it's all about publicity, anyway, was my stalker involved?

Monday, September 23

It had been awhile since I'd felt compelled to Google anything on the internet. Googling had started to make me feel bad about myself, my life, even my potential stalker situation. I felt shame for feeling celebratory about having a stalker when I read several magazine articles (almost always titled with snips of the Police classic creep-along classic song, “Every Breath You Take”). Sure, there was some kind of ego boost in having a stalker, but some of the objects of idolatry ended up in the worst possible way.

Like dead. Famous. But still dead.

I shook the toner cartridge again—hoping Val wouldn't get all over me for not having a dark enough font that would indicate I hadn't heeded her advice about being professional—and printed out the latest chapter of
Love You to Death
.