Such a Perfect Wife

by Kate White

  “When I stopped you on the road, you didn’t seem to know that Shannon Blaine had gone missing.”

  “I didn’t. It was only when I mentioned what you said to Doug that he filled me in.”

  “That sounds weird. She was his sister-in-law. And he was supposed to be helping search for her.”

  “Look, I understand now that the guy’s an asshole. I wish I hadn’t used up a week of vacation days on him. Do you know he actually came by the motel a couple of times when I think he was supposed to be passing out flyers? I saw boxes of them in his back seat.”

  “Did he ever explain why he didn’t tell you about Shannon right away?”

  “Oh, sure, he had his excuses. He claimed that when I arrived Monday afternoon, no one knew she was gone yet. After that he supposedly didn’t want to burden me with the news because it might, quote, ‘spoil the mood.’”

  I started searching my memory. J.J. had told me that Doug had bagged the Lake Placid workshops and it was obviously so he could be with Lisa rather than her; Kelly had stated for the record that Doug was out of town Sunday night. But now Lisa was saying that she and Doug hadn’t met up until Monday afternoon.

  “You still there?” Lisa asked.

  “Yeah. Just to clarify: The first time you saw Doug was Monday afternoon?”

  “Right.”

  “So where was Doug the night before you arrived?”

  “Where? I have no idea and I don’t really care, either. I came here to have sex with him, not be his hall monitor.”

  It might not matter to her but it mattered to me—not Sunday night, specifically, but Monday morning, the last time Shannon was seen alive. What, I wondered, had he told the cops about his whereabouts?

  I signed off and further pondered the information she’d let drop. Was it possible Doug had murdered Shannon—and that he’d done the same to the two campers ten years earlier? A few details about him certainly jibed with what I’d concluded about the killer: he was from the area, he could have easily seen me shortstopping Tom Nolan after the press conference that day, and he could have put his hands on my cell number in a cinch. Plus, he was a parishioner at St. Tim’s.

  Had he gone to Shannon’s house that morning and overpowered her? He would have been at a disadvantage on her home turf, however—and there probably would have been signs of a struggle when she realized what he was doing. Perhaps, instead, he’d waited until she was jogging and pulled his car up alongside her, frantically announcing that, let’s say, her mother had been rushed to the hospital. He might have offered to drive her back to the house so she could pick up her own car.

  If he had murdered Shannon, and the campers as well, it meant he was a psychopathic serial killer, one posing as a Ken doll–like chiropractor with a wife and kid.

  I decided that tomorrow I would give the spineless Doug a call. Maybe I’d even try a game of hardball with him, hinting that I’d keep his infidelity under wraps in exchange for a full explanation of his whereabouts the morning Shannon vanished.

  I tossed the wet towel back in the bathroom, slipped into a T-shirt, and peeled back the covers. It was a relief to be at the Courtyard, to know that there were other guests on the floor, and a desk clerk downstairs.

  After turning off the light, I burrowed under the covers. A brisk autumn wind was blowing tonight, surprising after such a mellow day, and it rattled the window, as if someone was tapping his fingers against the glass. I needed sleep, and I needed it badly. Despite how disturbed I felt over Alice’s death, Beau’s incommunicado state, and the endless questions churning in my head, I was banking on sheer exhaustion to send me quickly into a state of oblivion.

  I’d barely closed my eyes when my phone rang on the nightstand. Please, I thought, let this finally be Beau.

  I was already saying hello by the time my mind processed the words on the screen. It read, “Caller unknown.” My heart lurched.

  “Good evening.” It was him. Using the adapter again so that his words quivered.

  “Hello,” I managed, hearing my voice catch in my throat.

  “You’ve been busy. Bravo.”

  “Have you been reading my posts?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

  Silence. I needed to engage him, bait him even.

  “Why did you kill Alice Hatfield? Did she figure out who you were?”

  “Now, now. Let’s not get into that.”

  “You told me about Sunset Bay. I’d love to hear more.”

  “I really only called to say good night.”

  “But—”

  “Enjoy your new digs at the Courtyard. . . . And don’t forget to say your prayers tonight.”

  Chapter 21

  THE CALLER DISCONNECTED, AND I EXHALED A CHOPPY breath into the darkness.

  After struggling to find the switch for the lamp, I leaped out of bed, grabbed a pen, and quickly transcribed the brief exchange. Then I phoned Killian. To my dismay the call went to voice mail, but he rang back two minutes later. I read him my notes, pointing out that I’d changed hotels and the killer was aware of that fact.

  “Christ, what’s his game?” Killian asked. “Why’s he toying with you this way?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “And he gave nothing more away? No hints this time?”

  “No, though I think the prayer comment is significant. Another indication of a religious fixation.”

  As far as Killian was concerned, I didn’t know anything about the stigmata marks, only the weird references to Shannon’s Catholicism the killer had made, and though I briefly considered telling him that I’d been clued in, I decided that protecting Alice’s confidence was still important.

  “I’ll have the call checked out right away, but I’m sure it was from a burner phone, like the last one,” Killian said. “Would you consider changing hotels again?”

  I sighed, conflicted.

  “I hate that he knows my whereabouts, but I doubt it would do any good to switch. If he has me under surveillance, he’ll know as soon as I relocate again.”

  “Then you need to be more cautious than ever, Bailey. The guy may be unraveling. I’m going to send a car over there now and have the hotel watched tonight.”

  “Thanks, that makes me feel better.”

  It did, alongside the fact the caller hadn’t given any indication that he thought I knew his identity, that I’d been tipped off by Alice.

  “And please, don’t post anything about this on the Crime Beat website yet,” Killian said. “I want to keep it under wraps while we try to learn more.”

  “I’m sorry, I appreciate what you’re up against, but I can’t have my hands tied as a reporter.”

  “Just give me tomorrow to investigate, okay?”

  I agreed. Though I hated being muzzled, I needed Killian on my side.

  After signing off, I rang the front desk and asked the clerk if anyone had made inquiries tonight—by phone or in person—about whether I was a guest at the hotel. He told me no, not that he was aware of, and even if someone had, the information would not have been divulged. Somehow, however, the killer had traced me here. As the clerk ran through a brief spiel about guest privacy being a priority, I parted the curtains and peered down to the street three stories below. It looked like a ghost town out there.

  I crawled back into bed, knowing that falling asleep would be near impossible now. For the next few hours I twisted in the sheets, endlessly replaying the call in my head. Each time I came close to drifting off, I was startled awake by a noise—the window rattling, the drip of water from the showerhead, the churn of the ice machine down the corridor. Around five I finally managed to surrender to sleep.

  I woke with a jolt the next morning. My heart was still pounding, as if I hadn’t been able to let go of the call even in slumber. This experience scared me far more than the first contact with the killer, because I now knew what the guy was capable of, what wretched evils he could inflict on another human being. I tried to remind myself that he n
eeded me, though, that I was still his messenger.

  And yet, as Killian had pointed out last night, the caller had provided no new information this time. It felt as if my role had shifted slightly, like a car drifting over the centerline of a highway.

  As wigged out as the call had left me—compounded by the fact that I still hadn’t heard from Beau—I still intended to do everything possible to find this guy, first and foremost for Alice’s sake. That meant, for starters, having a nice little chat with Doug Claiborne as soon as he arrived at the office. It also meant reactivating my attempt to follow in Alice’s digital footsteps—to uncover the clue that had cost her her life.

  I threw off the covers and trudged to the bathroom. As my feet hit the floor, I noticed that my head was pounding, too, as if there were a little kid in there banging a pot with a spoon. In the midst of trying to dissuade J.J. from shooting Doug, meeting unexpectedly with Ben, and being forced to play sounding board to Matt Wong’s career fantasies, I’d managed to consume nothing but red wine last night.

  After starting the coffeemaker on the counter, I ordered eggs to go from the restaurant on the ground floor since the hotel didn’t offer room service. Next, I tracked down a number online for Claiborne’s chiropractic business, the Back Wellness Center in Queensbury, which opened at nine.

  I also checked my email, and saw that a message from Dodson Crowe had come in past eleven last night.

  “Fantastic job,” he wrote. “I couldn’t be happier.”

  Well, at least things were working out on that front. The next line, however, caused a flutter in my chest.

  “We’re getting excellent traffic on the video, so we should do another. I want you to shoot one today.”

  I should have expected as much, but I didn’t love the idea. With the killer’s eyes on me, it seemed stupid to engage in an activity that would make me feel even more exposed.

  Dodson went on to write that Keith would meet me in the lobby today at two forty-five unless I indicated otherwise. He also said that he wanted to touch base with me and that he’d give me a call later this morning.

  I was careful when I left the room to pick up my food, making sure no one was skulking around on the floor. I also hung the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the doorknob, having decided to handle my own housekeeping and not provide anyone access to my room.

  After grabbing my breakfast and heading back upstairs, I drafted notes for the video. And at nine on the nose, I phoned the Back Wellness Center, asking to speak to Dr. Claiborne.

  “I’m afraid he’s not available to take a call right now,” the receptionist told me in the kind of fake cheery tone suggesting that she secretly relished blocking access to him. “Are you a patient?”

  “No, not a patient. Could you ask him to call Bailey Weggins, please?”

  “Dr. Claiborne has a very busy day ahead. May I be of assistance somehow?”

  “No, I’m a friend. It’s a personal matter.”

  “If this is regarding his sister-in-law, Dr. Claiborne is asking people to communicate by email or leave a message on the funeral home website. I can give—”

  “No, it’s not about that. I’m calling in regard to another matter entirely.”

  “All right then.” She didn’t sound pleased, but I knew she’d sensed something was up—and she would be smart enough to inform her boss. I bet this was hardly the first call she’d fielded from a mystery female with an edge in her voice.

  For the next few hours, I trolled the Internet again, continuing the missing-woman search I’d set aside a day ago and widening my hunt even more—to New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Ohio, as well as Canada. Nothing showed any promise.

  Weary, I leaned back in my chair and massaged my scalp. I knew Alice’s discovery was from an Internet search—she’d said so—but I was beginning to wonder if it might not have been from the one she described to me. It was entirely possible that she’d moved on to a new area of research.

  Finally, around one o’clock, Claiborne made contact.

  “I’m glad you got in touch, Ms. Weggins,” he said, oozing unctuous charm. “I owe you a big thank-you for yesterday, but unfortunately I had no way to reach you.”

  “Really?” I said. “Kelly has my number.”

  “I wasn’t aware of that.”

  “And so does Lisa. Surely you knew that.”

  “Lisa—Lisa and I aren’t in contact any longer.”

  Was this stuff about my cell number all bullshit? If he was the killer, he wouldn’t want me to know he had it.

  “Well, you have it now and we need to chat. Where were you a week ago Sunday?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “A week ago Sunday. Your wife said you’d gone out of town, but you weren’t with Lisa and you weren’t with J.J., either.”

  “I—I was in Lake Placid. Staying at the Crowne Plaza. I had an early breakfast meeting the next morning. Originally I’d planned to attend a three-day program up there, and though I ended up canceling, I kept some of the appointments I’d made.”

  “Why did you need to spend the night at the hotel when it’s barely over an hour away from your home?”

  “Well, I had a dinner scheduled up there for Sunday night as well. It didn’t make sense to go up and back and then up again. I—I honestly don’t see why my personal life is any business of yours.”

  “You don’t? Your girlfriend calls me screaming for help and when I show up, your other girlfriend waves a gun in my face. So your personal life became my business whether I wanted it to or not. Now back to your schedule. Who did you have breakfast with that Monday morning?”

  “Breakfast? Why—? I don’t believe this. You can’t possibly think I had anything to do with Shannon’s death.”

  “Just tell me who you had breakfast with.”

  “Another chiropractor I’ve been thinking of opening a branch with.”

  “Is that right?”

  “You think I’m lying?”

  “Well, you’re not exactly a paragon of honesty.”

  “Ask the sheriff if you have to. He inquired as to my whereabouts for that time period and I not only told him where I was, but I also turned over my receipts. I’m sure he’s verified the information.”

  Something told me that this time, at least, Claiborne was telling the truth. Because if this hadn’t all checked out, Killian would have been all over him.

  “Good. I’ll follow up with him.”

  “You’re not going to say anything to Kelly about this, are you? Things have been shaky with us and I don’t want to make it worse. Not with everything she’s going through.”

  “I’ll tell you what. Take my call the next time I need info from you, and it’ll stay between the two of us.”

  I hung up before he had time to respond.

  The phone was still in my hand when Dodson rang.

  “You’re all set for the video, right?” he said.

  “Yes, thanks, all set. I—”

  “And then what do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “About where we are with the story. Maybe it’s time to close up shop in that location and handle any additional reporting from the city.”

  “Close up shop?” He’d caught me totally by surprise. “Dodson, this doesn’t seem like the right moment to do that. What I was about to tell you is that the killer called me again last night.”

  I recapped the exchange, stressing that it had to be kept quiet for now.

  “That’s really disturbing. I hate the fact that he’s got eyes on you.”

  “The sheriff has a car watching my hotel.”

  “If you were back in the city, we wouldn’t have to worry about your safety. And after all, the guy has your number. He can still make contact.”

  “But there’s still a lot cooking here.”

  “Do you have reason to believe the cops are close to an arrest?”

  “No, but they’re clearly still waiting for forensic test results. Alice Hatfield’s autopsy is
happening today, and something may turn up from that. . . . Is it a money issue?”

  “It’s partly a money issue, because my budget is tight. We’re a new operation, as you know. But the bigger factor is the case itself. It’s in limbo, wouldn’t you say? They may never even catch this guy.”

  Despite the fact that I’d been semi-expecting this conversation, and that Dodson’s suggestion made sense on one level, I found myself incredibly irritated. I had to warn myself not to sound bitchy.

  “But they might catch him,” I said. “And he may be prepared to kill again.”

  “Right on both counts. And if they arrest this guy, or another woman ends up dead, we’ll send you right back up there. In the meantime, you can still interview people by phone and post updates every day, which we’ll pay you for. There just doesn’t seem to be a need for you to be in Lake George at the moment.”

  I could certainly stay in touch with the locals by phone. I had a pipeline to Killian, which I’d be able to take advantage of from Manhattan. But if I was going to find Alice’s killer, I needed to be here. Unfortunately, that argument wouldn’t carry much weight with Dodson. In his eyes I was a reporter, not a member of the sheriff’s department.

  “Can we see what the rest of the day brings and decide later?” I asked, bargaining for more time, as Killian had done with me last night.

  “Okay, sure, why not? Let’s speak around seven, after I have your post for the day.”

  I tossed the phone on the bed. As frustrated as I felt, I had to admit that the case did seem to have stalled—at least on my end. Every lead I was currently following was vague, and in some instances dubious, amounting to nothing but a list of maybes. Maybe Page had begun dabbling in the drug trade, exposing Amy and herself to a serial killer; maybe Shannon had made contact with a few dealers, hoping to find the person responsible for her cousin’s death, and had inadvertently put herself in contact with that same killer; maybe a new driver at Baker Beverage had become obsessed with Shannon and later abducted her; maybe the killer was someone from the parish, even the local deacon himself, who’d targeted Shannon because she was Catholic, blond, and beautiful; maybe the creepy motel owner did it.