As she dried and brushed her hair, she realized that she believed Sam Deegan’s premise that the threat to Lily was all about money. “Jean,” he had said, “think about this. Is there one single person who has a reason to want to hurt you? Have you ever gotten a job someone else wanted? Have you ever ‘skunked’ anyone, as the kids would say?”
“Never” had been her honest reply.
Sam had somehow managed to convince her that whoever was contacting her would soon demand money. But if it is about money, I believe that someone from around here learned I was pregnant, Jean thought, and that person was able to find out who adopted my baby. And maybe because there was a lot of talk about the reunion and publicity noting that I was one of the honorees, that person decided it was the right time to contact me.
As she looked in the bathroom mirror, she realized that she was startlingly pale. She ordinarily wore little makeup in the daytime, but now she touched her cheeks with blush and deliberately selected a lip color a little deeper than usual.
The realization that she was probably going to be staying in Cornwall for at least a few days meant that she had brought several changes of clothing. She decided today to wear a favorite cranberry turtleneck sweater over dark gray slacks.
Her determination to take action to find Lily had removed some of her terrible sense of helplessness. She clipped on earrings and gave a final brush to her hair. She put the brush down on the dresser, realizing it was the same size and shape as the one she had received in the mail with the strands of Lily’s hair.
At that moment the name of the nurse who had been in Dr. Connors’ office passed through her mind: Peggy Kimball.
Jean yanked open the drawer of the night table and pulled out the phone book. A quick look disclosed several Kimballs, but she decided that the one she would try first was the listing “Kimball, Stephen and Margaret.” It wasn’t too early to call. A woman’s voice was on the answering machine: “Hi. Steve and Peggy aren’t here now. At the tone please leave a message with your phone number, and we’ll get back to you.”
Can you remember a voice after twenty years, or am I just hoping I remember that voice? Jean asked herself as she carefully chose her words. “Peggy, I’m Jean Sheridan. If you were a nurse in Dr. Connors’ office twenty years ago, it’s terribly important that I speak with you. Will you please call me at this number as soon as possible.”
While the phone book was open, she turned to the “C” listings. Dr. Edward Connors would have been at least seventy-five by now if he had lived. The odds were his wife was somewhere around that age as well. Sam Deegan was going to ask the pastor of St. Thomas about her, but maybe she was still listed. The doctor had lived on Winding Way; there was a Mrs. Dorothy Connors listed on Winding Way. Feeling hopeful, Jean dialed the number. The silvery voice of an older woman answered. When she hung up the phone a few minutes later, Jean had an appointment to visit Mrs. Dorothy Connors at eleven-thirty that morning.
42
On Monday morning at ten-thirty, Sam Deegan was in the office of Rich Stevens, the district attorney of Orange County, filling him in on the missing Laura Wilcox and the threat to Lily.
“I served the order for the telephone records of the Glen-Ridge House at one this morning,” he said. “Both the clerk and that kid from Stonecroft are positive that it was Laura Wilcox who made the call, but they also agree that she sounded distressed. The hotel records showed that it was a 917 number on the ID, so we know she called from a cell phone. The judge was very unhappy at having his sleep interrupted last night.
“I served the subpoena for the subscriber’s name and address, but I had to wait until 9:00 A.M. when the telephone business office was open.”
“What did you find out from the records?” Stevens asked.
“The kind of information that makes me sure Wilcox is in trouble. The phone was one of those that are bought with one hundred minutes of available calling time and then discarded.”
“The kind used by drug dealers and terrorists,” Stevens snapped.
“Or, in this case, maybe a kidnapper. The cell site is Beacon in Dutchess County, and you know how wide an area that covers. I’ve already talked to our tech guys, and they tell me there are two more power stations in Woodbury and New Windsor. If a new call comes in, we can triangulate it and pinpoint the location it’s being made from. We could also do that if the power was left on, but unfortunately it’s been turned off.”
“I never turn off the power on my cell phone,” Stevens commented.
“Neither do I. Most people don’t. That’s another reason to believe that Laura Wilcox was forced to make that phone call. She has her own phone registered to her name. Why wouldn’t she use that, and why isn’t it on now?”
He then laid out his suggested course of action. “I want to get rap sheets on all the graduates who attended the reunion,” he said, “both men and women. A lot of them haven’t been back here in twenty years. Maybe we’ll come up with something from someone’s past, find someone who has a history of violence or has been institutionalized. I want the relatives of the five dead women from the lunch table to be contacted to see if there was anything suspicious about their deaths. We’re also trying to contact Laura’s parents. They’re on a cruise.”
“Five from one lunch table and a sixth one missing,” Stevens said incredulously. “If there isn’t something suspicious, it’s because it wasn’t noticed. If I were you, I’d start with the last one. It’s so recent that if the cops in L.A. know about the other women, they may take a hard look at labeling Alison Kendall’s death a drowning accident. We’ll send for all of the police reports in all of those cases.”
“The office at Stonecroft is sending over a list of the graduates who attended the reunion, as well as a list of the other people who were at the dinner,” Sam said. “They have addresses and phone numbers of all the graduates and at least some of the townspeople who attended. Of course, some people bought a table and didn’t provide names of guests, so it will take extra time to find out who they are.” Exhausted, Sam could not conceal a yawn.
It was an acknowledgment of the sense of urgency he had communicated to the district attorney that Rich Stevens did not suggest his veteran investigator catch some sleep. Instead he said, “Get some of the other guys started on doing the follow-up, Sam. Where are you going now?”
Sam’s smile was rueful. “I have an appointment with a priest,” he said, “and I’m hoping he’ll be the one to do the confessing.”
43
The discovery of the body of Helen Whelan became a major story for the media. The disappearance of the popular teacher forty-eight hours earlier had already been given heavy coverage, but now the confirmation of her murder was a prime interest story because it had also triggered alarm throughout the small towns of the Hudson Valley.
The fact that her dog had been savagely attacked and his leash was still wrapped around the victim’s wrist when her body was found gave added spice to the possibility that a random or serial killer was on the loose in this area that was normally drenched in history and tradition.
The Owl had dozed intermittently throughout Sunday night. After his first visit to Laura at ten-thirty, he’d managed to catch a few hours of rest. Then his dawn visit had given him the satisfaction of reducing her to trembling pleas for mercy—mercy she had denied him in their school years together, he had reminded her. After that second visit he had showered for a long time, hoping that the hot water would help relieve the terrible throbbing in his arm. The wound from the dog bite was festering. He had stopped at the old drugstore in town, where he used to shop as a kid, but then he’d walked out immediately. He had been about to pick up peroxide and antibiotic salves and bandages. Then it had occurred to him that the cops weren’t necessarily stupid. They might have put a notice out to local pharmacies to watch for someone buying those kinds of medical supplies.
Instead he went to one of the big chains and bought shaving supplies, toothpaste, vitamins, cr
ackers and pretzels and sodas, and then, in a moment of inspiration, he’d added cosmetics, cold cream, moisturizing lotion, and deodorant. Only then had he thrown into the mix the supplies he needed, the peroxide, bandages, salves.
He hoped he wasn’t getting a fever. His body felt warm, and he knew his face was flushed. With all the useless camouflage items he had tossed into the basket at the drugstore, he had managed to forget to include aspirin. But that he could safely buy anywhere. Most of the time, most of the world has a headache, he thought, smiling to himself at the mental image conjured up by that reasoning.
He turned up the volume on the television. They were showing pictures of the crime scene. He observed intently how muddy it seemed. He hadn’t remembered the area as being that swampy. That meant the tires of his rental car were probably embedded with dirt from that area. It would be wise to leave the car in the garage of the house where so far he was allowing Laura to continue to live. He’d rent another mid-priced, mid-sized, unobtrusive black sedan. That way, if for any reason anyone started to nose around and check the cars of the reunion group, his would be passed over.
As The Owl was selecting a jacket from the closet, a breaking story came across the screen: “Young reporter from Stonecroft Academy in Cornwall-on-Hudson reveals the disappearance of actress Laura Wilcox may be linked to a fiend he calls ‘The Lunch Table Serial Killer.’ ”
44
“Monsignor, I cannot emphasize sufficiently the urgency of our request,” Sam Deegan told Monsignor Robert Dillon, pastor of the Church of St. Thomas of Canterbury. They were in the rectory office. The monsignor, a thin man with prematurely white hair and rimless glasses that illuminated intelligent gray eyes, was behind his desk. The faxes Jean had received were spread out in front of him. In a chair directly across from the desk, Sam was putting Lily’s hairbrush back in a plastic bag.
“As you can see, the latest communication suggests that Dr. Jean Sheridan’s daughter is in grave danger. We intend to try to trace her original birth certificate, but we are not even sure if it was registered here or in Chicago where the baby was born,” Sam continued.
Even as he spoke, he felt the hopelessness of trying to make a quick breakthrough. Monsignor Dillon couldn’t be more than in his early forties. Clearly he had not been around twenty years ago when Lily might have been baptized in this church, and, of course, her adoptive parents would have registered her under their surname and her new first name.
“I do understand the urgency, and I’m sure you understand that I must be cautious,” Monsignor Dillon said slowly. “But, Sam, the biggest problem is that people don’t necessarily baptize babies within a few weeks or even months anymore. It used to be that an infant was baptized within six weeks of its birth. Now we see them toddling in to receive the sacrament. We don’t approve of that trend, but it does exist and did exist even twenty years ago. This is a fairly large and busy parish, and not only our own parishioners but frequently the grandchildren of parishioners are baptized here.”
“I understand, but perhaps if you could start with the three months after Lily’s birth, we could at least try to track those baby girls. Most people aren’t secretive about adoptions, are they?”
“No, as a rule, they’re proud of the fact they’re adoptive parents.”
“Then unless the adoptive parents themselves are behind these faxes to Dr. Sheridan, I think they would want to know of a possible threat to their daughter.”
“Yes, they would. I’ll have my secretary compile the list, but you do understand that before I give it to you, I will have to contact all the people listed personally and explain only that a girl adopted at that time may be in danger.”
“Monsignor, that could take time, and that’s just what we may not have,” Sam protested.
“Father Arella can work with me. I’ll have my secretary make the calls, and while I’m speaking with one party, she’ll alert the next to stand by to hear from me. It shouldn’t take that long.”
“And what about the ones you don’t reach? Monsignor, this nineteen-year-old girl may be in grave danger.”
Monsignor Dillon picked up the fax, his expression deepening with concern as he studied it. “Sam, as you say, this last communication is frightening, but you can understand why we have to be careful. To protect us from possible legal problems, get a subpoena. That way we can release the names to you immediately. But I would suggest that you allow me to talk to as many of these families as possible.”
“Thank you, sir. I won’t take any more of your time right now.”
They both stood up. “It occurred to me that your correspondent is something of a Shakespearean scholar,” Monsignor Dillon observed. “Not too many people would have used a fairly obscure quote like this one about the lilies.”
“That occurred to me as well, Monsignor.” Sam paused. “I should have thought to ask this immediately: Are any of the priests who were assigned here at the time Jean’s baby might have been baptized still with the diocese?”
“Father Doyle was the assistant pastor, and he died years ago. Monsignor Sullivan was the pastor at that time. He moved to Florida with his sister and brother-in-law. I can give you the latest address we have for him.”
“I’d like to have that.”
“It’s right here in my file drawer. I’ll give it to you now.” He opened the drawer, pulled out a folder, glanced in it, and wrote a name, address, and phone number on a slip of paper. He handed it to Sam, saying, “Dr. Connors’ widow is a parishioner. If you wish, I can call and ask her to see you. She might remember something about that adoption.”
“Thanks, but that won’t be necessary. I spoke to Jean Sheridan just before coming here. She found Mrs. Connors’ address in the phone book and is probably on her way to see her right now.”
As they walked to the door, Monsignor Dillon said, “Sam, I just remembered something. Alice Sommers is our parishioner also. Are you the investigator who has continued to work on her daughter’s case?”
“Yes, I am.”
“She has told me about you. I hope you know how much comfort it has given her to know that you haven’t stopped trying to find Karen’s murderer.”
“I’m glad that it’s helped her. Alice Sommers is a very brave woman.”
They stood at the door. “I was shocked to hear on the radio this morning that the body of the woman who was walking her dog has been found,” Monsignor Dillon commented. “Is your office involved with that case?”
“Yes, we are.”
“I understand that, like Karen Sommers, it appears to be a random killing and that she was also stabbed to death. I know it seems implausible, but do you think there is any chance that there is a connection between those murders?”
“Monsignor, Karen Sommers died twenty years ago,” Sam said carefully. He did not want to share the fact that the same possibility had been preying on his mind, particularly since the stab wounds had been in exactly the same area of the chest.
The Monsignor shook his head. “I guess I’d better leave the detecting to you. It was just a thought that occurred to me, and because you’re so close to the Sommers case, I felt I should mention it.” He opened the front door and shook Sam’s hand. “God bless you, Sam. I’ll pray for Lily, and I’ll get back to you with the names as fast as we can put them together.”
“Thank you, sir. Do pray for Lily, and while you’re at it, remember Laura Wilcox.”
“The actress?”
“Yes. We’re afraid she’s in trouble, too. No one has seen her since Saturday night.”
Monsignor Dillon stared at Sam’s retreating back. Laura Wilcox was at the Stonecroft reunion, he thought incredulously. Has something happened to her as well? Dear God, what’s going on here?
With a fervent silent prayer for the safety of both Lily and Laura, he returned to his office and dialed his secretary. “Janet, please drop everything else you’re doing and get out the baptismal records of nineteen years ago, from March through June. As soon as
Father Arella returns, tell him I have a job for him and to cancel any other plans he may have made for the day.”
“Of course, Monsignor.” Janet hung up the phone and looked longingly at the grilled cheese and bacon sandwich and container of coffee that had just been delivered to her desk. As she pushed back her chair and begrudgingly got to her feet, she mumbled to herself, “My God, from the tone of his voice you’d think it was a matter of life and death.”
45
Dorothy Connors was a frail septuagenarian who Jean could see at first glance suffered from rheumatoid arthritis. She moved slowly, and the joints of her fingers were swollen. Her face showed lines of pain, and she wore her white hair very short, probably, Jean thought, because raising her arms was a distinct effort.
Her home was one of the desirable high-up properties that overlooked the Hudson. She invited Jean to the sunroom off the living room where, as she explained, she spent most of her waking time.
Her vivid brown eyes brightened when she talked about her husband. “Edward was the most wonderful man and husband and doctor who ever walked the face of the earth,” she said. “It was that dreadful fire that killed him, the loss of his office and all his records. It brought on his heart attack.”
“Mrs. Connors, I explained to you on the phone that I’ve been getting threats about my daughter. She would be nineteen and a half now. I am frantic to find her adoptive parents and warn them about the possible danger to her. I was a girl from this town. Please help me. Did Dr. Connors talk to you about me? I could see where he would. My mother and father were the town joke, with their public quarrels, and they only stayed together long enough to shove me into college. That was why your husband understood I could never go to them for help. He arranged the cover-up story, establishing my reason for going to Chicago. He even came out and delivered the baby himself in the emergency section of the nursing home.”
Nighttime Is My Time Page 13
