by Shari Lapena
Glenda doesn’t answer the door. Olivia rings the bell again. Finally she hears the sound of footsteps. The door opens, but it’s not Glenda there, it’s Adam. He looks distraught. And maybe not completely sober. She can smell liquor on his sixteen-year-old breath. It makes her heart sink. She steps inside, into darkness. “Where’s your mother?”
He nods with his head toward the living room. She steps farther into the house, not stopping to take off her jacket. She sees Glenda sitting in the darkened living room. Olivia automatically reaches for the light switch. The light floods the room and Glenda blinks, as if she’s become unused to light. She might have been sitting here for hours.
“Glenda, are you all right?” Olivia asks anxiously. She’s never seen Glenda look like this. Her face is haggard. Usually she’s pretty resilient, even in times of crisis; she’s the one who holds the family together. Olivia glances at Adam, who is staring at his mother. He seems to be swaying slightly on his feet. Olivia feels the weight of it all pressing on her chest. How has everything come to this? She steps forward until she’s closer. “Glenda,” she says. “I’m here.” Her voice breaks. Glenda is her closest friend. How can this be happening to her, to her family? To all of them? “I’m so sorry.”
Glenda finally looks up at her and says, “It’s not your fault.”
Adam stands watching, swaying. “Why don’t you go back upstairs, Adam,” his mother says. Adam flees, obviously relieved.
“It’s going to be okay,” Olivia says, and sits down on the sofa next to her. She doesn’t believe it, but she doesn’t know what else to say. She remembers Glenda sitting beside her in the police station that day, when their positions were reversed. She wants to comfort her. “They’ve been questioning everybody, you know that. They’ll talk to Keith and then they’ll let him go, just like Larry, like Paul. He didn’t kill Amanda. You know that.” But she’s thinking, It’s someone we know. And truthfully, she thinks it might be Keith.
For a moment Glenda doesn’t answer. Then she says, “He’s been there a long time.”
“They kept Paul for a long time, and then they let him go.”
Glenda whispers, “I’m so worried about Adam.”
Olivia nods. She’s almost afraid to ask, but she must. She must know. “Did you find out who Keith was seeing?”
“That’s it, isn’t it?” Glenda says. “We all want to know if Keith was seeing her.”
Olivia waits for the answer. When Glenda falls silent, Olivia says, her voice a whisper, “Was he?”
Glenda lowers her voice to a whisper, too. “Keith told me, before the police came. He admitted he was seeing her. He said he deleted everything from the computer, but they’ll be able to recover it, won’t they? And then the police will know. They must know already; he must have admitted it. It’s been hours.”
Olivia feels the blood pounding in her ears, terrified of what she might hear next.
Glenda leans toward Olivia and says, “Keith says he didn’t kill her. But I don’t know if I believe him.”
Olivia looks back at her, remembering her own doubts about her own husband, her heart breaking for Glenda.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Webb paces his office while Moen sits tiredly in the chair opposite his desk and watches him. It’s late. But they’ve got two people being held in the cells—Robert Pierce, who’s been detained since the day before and who must soon be charged or released, and Keith Newell. “Newell slipped up when he said the door to the cabin was locked,” Webb says. “Before, he said the door was unlocked and the key was left on the counter.” Webb stops pacing and looks at Moen. “That’s what he wants us to believe. Why would he lie about that?”
“Maybe he was just confused, like he says,” Moen says.
But Webb knows they both believe that Keith Newell slipped up—it was obvious. Why else the backpedaling, and the sudden, silent plea to his lawyer to stop the proceedings? “You don’t believe that either,” Webb says with a snort.
“No, I don’t,” Moen admits. “I think he made a mistake in there a little while ago, and he knows it.”
“He says he arrived before she did on that Friday,” Webb says. “So he probably retrieved the key from under the oilcan in the shed before she got there. She probably didn’t know about the hiding place. He never said she did.”
Moen is nodding. “And he left the key with her, because she was staying, and then he came back, and if it was locked—”
“And he had to get the key—he would get it from the usual hiding place.” Webb looks down at his notes. “He said, I tried to open the door but it was locked. I got the—and then he stopped.” Webb continues. “If the key was hidden somewhere else, he wouldn’t have known where to find it.”
“He’s protecting someone,” Moen says.
“Whoever killed Amanda Pierce must have known that the spare key was kept under the can in the shed, and put it back there. Keith came back the next day, found the door locked, and automatically went to the shed for the key. But afterward he must have realized that the only other people who knew about that hiding place were the Sharpes. Robert Pierce didn’t know about the hiding place.”
“Unless Pierce saw Newell pick up the key.”
Webb considers. “If Pierce was there, hiding, watching, he might have seen him go into the shed, but he certainly wouldn’t have been able to see him get the key from under the oilcan. It’s way inside the shed, against the wall. He might figure out the key was kept in the shed, but not where.”
“Newell is trying to protect Paul Sharpe.”
Webb nods. “What if Sharpe somehow knew that they would be using the cabin that weekend? What if he came up to the cabin after Newell left, knowing that Amanda would be there? He kills her, cleans everything up, dumps her body and car in the lake—and gets home in the middle of the night.” Webb exhales loudly. “Newell goes up the next day, finds the place deserted and locked, the key under the can.”
Moen says, “Sharpe must have been rattled, not thinking clearly. He forgets Newell will come back the next day and find the key in the usual hiding place—a dead giveaway that he’d been there.”
Webb nods again. “Then Newell would be rattled himself. He wouldn’t have known what happened, but he must have realized that Sharpe had at least been there. When we questioned him, he knew that if he said the door was unlocked and the key was left on the counter, it meant anybody might have killed her—from her husband to a complete stranger.”
“Right.”
“Pierce wouldn’t have known where to put the key,” Webb says. “We’re going to have to release him.”
“I wonder how long Keith Newell has known,” Moen muses, “that his best friend is a murderer?”
* * *
—
Friday morning they head in to interview Keith Newell again. “I want one more shot at him, then we’ll talk to Paul Sharpe again,” Webb tells Moen.
Keith Newell has spent the night in a cell, and looks it.
“Let’s get started,” Webb says, flashing a glance at Newell’s attorney. Then he looks at Newell. “I’m inclined to believe you,” he says. The other man looks at him mistrustfully. “I don’t think you killed Amanda Pierce, after all.” Newell glances at his lawyer. “But I think you’re covering up for the person who did.”
“What? No. I’m not covering up for anybody. I don’t know who killed her.” He’s agitated, but trying not to show it.
“I think you do.”
Newell shakes his head vigorously, looks at his lawyer for support, and then turns back to Webb. “I don’t know anything about it. I told you. I never thought any harm had come to her until you found her.”
“And what did you think then, Newell?” Webb leans in close and fixes him with his eyes.
“I—I don’t know.”
“You must have had an uncomfortable time since
her body was found. You knew someone had killed her—who did you think it was?” Newell doesn’t respond, but his eyes look haunted. “When you got to the cabin that Saturday, the door was locked.”
“No, it wasn’t. It was unlocked, and the key was on the kitchen counter,” Newell says stubbornly. But he won’t look at him; he’s staring at the table.
“Do you have a point to make?” the attorney asks. “Because we’ve been over this, and he’s told you quite clearly that the door was unlocked.”
Webb gives the attorney a hard look. “He also slipped up and told us that it was locked and that he had to get the key. And we think he got the key from the usual hiding place. Amanda Pierce was brutally murdered in that cabin. And whoever cleaned up put the key back in the usual hiding place. Who else knew about that hiding place, Newell?” He sees that the man’s face has gone ashen.
“I—I don’t know.”
“You don’t know. Well, let’s see. Paul Sharpe is the one who told you about it, so he certainly knew, didn’t he?”
Keith Newell looks at his lawyer, and turns back to Webb.
“Who else?” Webb demands.
* * *
—
Olivia recoils when she goes to answer the door and finds Detectives Webb and Moen standing on her doorstep looking grim. What can they want now? When is this going to end? Do they want them to help put the final nail in Keith Newell’s coffin? She wants to be done with this; she wants it all to be over.
“Good morning,” Webb says, all business. “Is your husband at home?”
“Yes,” she says, automatically opening the door. She turns her head when she hears Paul coming up behind her.
“What do you want?” Paul says guardedly.
“We have a few more questions,” Webb says.
“I’ve already answered all your questions,” Paul protests. But he looks worried, Olivia can tell. He doesn’t want to talk to them about Keith either.
“We’d like you to come down to the station,” Webb says.
“What for? Can’t you ask me here?”
“No. We want to interview you again on tape.”
“What if I refuse?”
“Then I’m afraid we’d have to arrest you,” Webb says, without batting an eye.
Olivia is suddenly frightened. Why are they back for her husband? What has changed?
Raleigh appears on the stairs. “What’s going on?”
Olivia looks at her son in dismay, unable to find the words to tell him.
“We’d like you to come, too, Mrs. Sharpe,” Webb says. “We have some questions for you as well.”
* * *
—
They’ve left Paul Sharpe in an interview room, waiting for his attorney. In the meantime, Webb has also asked Glenda Newell to come in for an interview. They will talk to the two wives while they’re waiting for Paul Sharpe’s attorney. They start with Mrs. Sharpe.
She sits nervously in the interview room. Webb gets directly to the point. “Mrs. Sharpe, this won’t take long,” he says. “I understand you kept a spare key for your cabin hidden in the shed underneath an oilcan.”
“Yes,” she says.
“Who knew about the hidden key?”
She clears her throat. “Well, we did, of course. My husband and I.”
“Anybody else?”
“My son knew.” He waits. She says quietly, “And Keith Newell knew about it. My husband told him last summer that we started putting it there after we drove all the way to the cabin once and forgot the key.”
“Anyone else?”
She shakes her head miserably. “No. I don’t think so.”
“You see, here’s the problem,” Webb says. He waits until she’s looking in his eyes. “We don’t think Keith Newell killed her. But whoever did, cleaned up the scene and then returned the key to that hiding place.”
She stares at him in horror as the penny drops.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Glenda watches the detectives, unsure of how to behave, what to do. The interview room is bare except for a table and chairs. It’s intimidating. This is where her husband has been spending so much time. All those hours when she couldn’t imagine what was happening at the station—she’s beginning to be able to imagine it now. He’s still here, somewhere, in a different interview room, probably just like this one. What has he told the detectives? What do they think? Are they going to tell her? Or are they just going to ask endless questions and try to get her to implicate him?
“Mrs. Newell,” Webb begins.
She looks back at him with dislike. She’s angry at him; she’s angry and afraid. She will ask for a lawyer if she thinks it becomes necessary; for now, she thinks she can handle this.
“Did you know that your husband was having an affair with Amanda Pierce?”
“No.”
“He’s admitted it,” the detective says bluntly.
She looks back at him and says, “I didn’t know.”
“You’re familiar with the Sharpes’ cabin, aren’t you?” Webb asks.
“Yes. The Sharpes are good friends of ours.” She pauses. “We were out there in June of this year, and again in July.”
“Do you know where the spare key is kept?” the detective asks.
She goes completely still. “Pardon?”
Webb looks at her more intently, and it makes her nervous.
“Do you know where the spare key for the cabin was kept?” he repeats.
“Spare key? I don’t know about any spare key,” she says.
Webb fixes his eyes on her. “Your husband told us that you knew where the spare key was kept.”
She can feel the perspiration start beneath her arms. It’s hot in here. Too many bodies close together. She shifts in her seat. “He’s mistaken. I’m not sure why he’d tell you that.”
“It’s an important point,” Webb says.
She doesn’t say anything. She suddenly feels light-headed. It is an important point. She knows that. They obviously know it, too. What has Keith told them? She realizes now—too late—that she should have told Keith the truth. But she didn’t, and now they are in separate rooms being interviewed by the detectives. They should have got their stories straight. They could have protected each other. But that’s the thing—she never told Keith the truth because she couldn’t be sure he would protect her.
Webb says, “Your husband claims that when he left the cabin at around eight o’clock that night, Amanda was alive, but when he arrived the next morning around ten thirty, her car was gone, and the cabin door was locked. He admits he retrieved the key from the usual hiding place, under the oilcan in the shed.” He leans in close to her. “Whoever killed Amanda Friday night cleaned everything up and returned the key to the hiding place. An easy mistake to make,” Webb says, “in the stress of the moment.”
Glenda can’t think of anything to say. It was such a stupid mistake.
“Mrs. Newell?” the detective prods.
But she ignores him, her thoughts falling over one another, remembering flashes from that awful night. Scrubbing the kitchen floor, wiping down the walls, using the cleansers she’d brought from home. Driving Amanda’s car down to the bend in the road in the dark and deliberately sinking it. Checking everything over, making sure it was spotless and tidy. She was so exhausted by then that she’d locked up and, without thinking, put the key back in its usual hiding place.
It wasn’t until Keith came home the next afternoon, looking so distressed, that she realized her mistake. Realized that he would look for the key and know that someone who knew where the key was kept had been there.
Her best hope then was that the car with the grisly body in the trunk would never be found; that everyone—especially Keith—would think that Amanda had simply taken off. Keith would assume that either Paul—or more likely, Glenda�
��had been there and had confronted Amanda, and that she’d decided to disappear and leave them all behind for good.
He’d never said a word to her about it; perhaps he was too afraid of what might have really happened. Beneath the confident exterior, he always was a coward. But then they’d found the car. The body. And they’ve been living with this between them ever since. Her knowledge, his fear.
If only they had never found the car, Glenda thinks hollowly. If only Becky hadn’t seen Paul in the car with Amanda that night, they wouldn’t have had any reason to look at Paul, to search the cabin, to find the blood. There should have been no way for this to lead back to the cabin—to Paul, or Keith, or her.
“Mrs. Newell?” Webb says again.
“Yes?” She must focus. What is he saying? She can’t admit to anything. It must still be possible to turn this around. She’d tried so hard all this time to protect the ones she loves. Adam needs her. He doesn’t need his father the way he needs her. Maybe she can still pin this on Keith somehow. It would serve him right, the cheating bastard. She thought of everything, except the key. “I don’t know about any spare key,” she says firmly. “I don’t know why my husband would tell you that,” she repeats.
* * *
—
Sir.”
“Yes, what is it?” Webb asks briskly. He’s got his hands full at the moment.
“There’s been a report of a homicide.”
Webb looks up in surprise. “Where?”
“On Finch Street. Number Thirty-two. Neighbor found her. Called 911. Victim is”—he refers to his notes—“a woman named Carmine Torres. Uniforms are on the scene, sir.”
“We’d better get over there. Send Moen to me, would you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Webb grabs his jacket and meets Moen on his way out.
“What have we got?” Moen asks.
“We’ll know when we get there,” Webb says.
They park on the street in front of an attractive gray house with blue shutters and a red door. There’s yellow police tape across the front step, and a uniformed officer from Patrol Division standing guard.
