He promised he would.
The department had released the victim's body to her family for burial. The autopsy was completed, all pertinent information recorded. She died of strangulation.
Fifteen
It seemed the whole town of St. Simeon turned out at Eternity Gardens for Lorraine Winters' funeral. She was their rising star, filled with promise, her life cut down before she could make good on that promise. To her family of course, their loss was beyond measure.
The victim's two younger sisters stood on either side of their mother, supporting her so that her legs wouldn't crumble beneath her. The sound of her pain was hard for Tom to hear. Her husband stood behind her, a slender man with glasses, strain evident on his lined, ashen face, a hand on his wife's shoulder. Detective O'Neal saw through the girls and their mother, how Lorraine Winters would have looked in life. And wanted more than anything to keep his promise to them, and to Deborah Miller, Winters' friend since childhood. To all of them. To catch this monster before he killed again.
There'd been a light, cold rain overnight and the smell of wet grass and earth mingled with the sweet flower fragrance. The skies were gray, low. But it wasn't supposed to rain again, at least not for the next few days.
He scanned the faces in the crowd, trying to hone in on the one mourner who wasn't a mourner at all, but a spectator, one who had come to revel in the fallout of his handiwork. He wouldn't be the first killer to show up at the gravesite of his victim. It apparently gave them an extra rush to see the devastation they'd caused. A sick power trip. But no one caught Tom's attention.
And then his eye fell upon Deborah Miller, standing with a young man who had his arm around her. She was weeping softly. They stood just behind Mrs. Winters who was silent now, pale and gray as her husband, as her daughters, each in their turn, went forward and placed a rose upon the casket.
He looked away, could see his partner up on the hill near a giant oak, discreetly photographing the solemn gathering from every angle. They would go through the photos later, on their own. Then they would show them to the family, hoping one would stand out from the rest. Good luck. He knew damn well it wasn't going to be that easy. This wasn't a movie, to be wrapped up neatly and tied with a bow at the end of two hours. But he could always hope. A break wasn't impossible.
When next he glanced in Glen's direction, the camera was hanging idly about his neck, as he took notes, like the director of a play. Fitting in a perverse way. Anything significant? Glen was sharp. Had he spotted something out of place? Someone? Was the perp here? Enjoying the proceedings? Tom focused in more tightly on the male mourners. Men alone. Not that that would prove anything.
Maybe that guy in the brown leather jacket? Yeah, something familiar about him. Tom felt a rush go through him. Tall. Dark blond hair, longish.
The minister finished his prayer and closed the book, kissed it… a ritual. Maybe more. A light gust of wind blew a thatch of gray hair across his scalp and he finger-combed it down, nodded to two men in dark suits standing at the gravesite.
Seconds later, a shovel of dirt hit the coffin with an ominous rattle, causing something to break inside Mrs. Winters', her anguished sobs carried to him, lay heavy on his own chest. He heard himself sigh. At last, the funeral was over and people were wandering back to their cars in small groups, or by fours and twos.
Keeping the guy in the brown leather jacket in his sights, he followed him to a dark maroon sedan, memorized the license plate number. He reminded him a little of William Hurt, in the early years. Intense type. And then, as the guy eased his car out behind the train of cars, he remembered where he'd seen him. He was one of the tenants they'd interviewed at the rooming house on Peel, where only weeks ago Lorraine Winters had lived.
Sixteen
Harold had taken to bringing Caroline day old cakes and what she didn't eat, she secretly shared with the squirrels in the park, her favorite place to sit and read. Goldman's bookstore was a good place too. Mr. Goldman, with his neat gray beard and kindly smile, encouraged his customers to sit and read by providing chintz-covered chairs, three of them, at the far end of the store.
"Welcome, welcome," he greeted her that first day she entered his establishment. "Lots of books here, take your time. You look like a young lady with a real appreciation for books. Amazing, isn't it? The words of generations of writers long gone preserved for our enlightenment and enjoyment. When we read their books, they are alive again, through us. If you need help, you tell me."
Mr. Goldman liked to talk about his books and about those who wrote them, and Caroline liked listening to him. The sight and smell of so many books, both old and new, was almost overwhelming, and Caroline felt like the proverbial kid in the candy store.
She ran her fingers down the spines of many of the books and breathed in their new book smells. She liked the old books too, trapping the years between their yellowing, musty pages, many of which were dog-eared. Goldman's bookstore reminded her of St. Simeon Library which she frequented as a girl. She would sit at the big, round table near the window with the sun streaming in, and read, often books her father would not have approved of had he known. She would use the excuse of having to research a paper for school, and it had served her well. Her pleasure in the books, though, was always stained with guilt. But despite that, the library was her haven, a place where she could live vicariously through characters in a book, and travel to far-off lands on a magic carpet of words.
After some deliberation, she chose a hardcover copy of Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird, and at Mr. Goldman's urging, sat in a chair at the back and read the first few chapters. Then, clutching the book to her, she took it home to finish it, to feel that it was really hers. She had read To Kill a Mockingbird in school, she remembered, and the class had had to write a report. She had loved the book. Now she had her very own copy.
Seventeen
Nurse Addison was right; it was lovely to sit in the park and read. But it was getting colder now, especially in the early mornings. The walk to work sent her through the restaurant door shivering, fingers tingling with cold. Which was why on this Friday night after work, she'd decided to spend some of her savings on a winter coat, hat and gloves. And with only a little prodding from the landlady. "You look half-frozen, Caroline," she'd said. "You need to get yourself some warmer clothes—something other than that blue jacket."
There actually was a coat in the window that had caught Caroline's fancy. A double-breasted navy pea coat.
Natalie's Boutique was only a short distance from Frank's, and as she opened the door the little bell above her head made its sweet sound, silvery and tinkling.
The saleslady, Natalie Breen, with her carefully made-up face and pale smooth hair swept up high on her head, recognized her at once. Caroline had learned she was the owner. Today she was wearing a bronze, tailored suit and silky ruffled blouse underneath. She beamed a smile at Caroline, making her feel welcome, as the little bell had.
Caroline ended up purchasing the navy peacoat she had admired in, along with white knitted scarf and gloves and a knit tam with navy trim and tassel. She also bought low-heeled, comfortable shoes. Though the shop wasn't large, Mrs. Breen carried a little of everything in stock.
As she left wearing her purchases, her own jacket and shoes shoved in a bag, the little bell above her head made its sweet sound. A happy sound that belied the dark twist of fate her patronage of the little shop would set in motion.
***
Caroline knocked on the landlady's door. It was rent day and she had the cheque in her hand.
Mrs. Bannister opened the door, gave her a surprised look and stepped back. "My, my, you look just like that Mary Tyler Moore on the television. You oughta go out on the sidewalk there and throw your new hat in the air. On the other hand, I don't see you as a girl who would do that," she chuckled, as if the very idea were preposterous. "Might do you some good if you did, dear. You're much too serious. Anyway, you look lovely. And a hell of a lot warmer."
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"Yes, I am warm. Thank you."
Mrs. Bannister laughed and Caroline only sensed why; it had something to do with how she expressed herself. Seeing what must have been confusion on Caroline's face, Greta Bannister quickly apologized for laughing. "It's just that dead pan look you sometimes get, Caroline. You're such an innocent. Come have tea, even if you don't need warming up. I could use someone to talk to. Harold's working late."
One of the cats had had kittens, little gray balls of fluff with blue eyes and pink noses, and Greta took her into the den to show them off. Picking up the tiniest one, she handed it Caroline. It felt like a tiny cloud cupped in her hands, and she held it to her cheek. Greta told her she could have one if she liked. "Just as soon as they're-weaned from their momma."
Caroline, stroking the kitten, was momentarily ecstatic at the offer. The joy dissolved almost at once. "No, no thank you." She handed it back, practically pushing it at Greta.
The landlady shrugged and gently placed the kitten back in the box with the other three. "Well, there's no rush. Maybe you'll change your mind."
They had tea while she wrote her out a receipt, and soon Caroline went up to her room.
***
Caroline stood before the mirror above the dresser in her room and stared at herself, in her new outfit, backing up to see as much of herself as she could.
She looked nothing like Mary Tyler Moore, the perky actress whose show she rarely missed if she could help it. Even at the hospital, no one ever jumped up to change channels when Mary was on, like they did during other shows.
But she liked looking at herself in her new coat, and the hat and gloves. The storekeeper had said the outfit was made for her. Though she didn't mention Mary Tyler Moore.
She stood a moment longer, then impulsively snatched the hat from her head and threw it into the air. She tried to catch it but it fell on the floor because she'd been trying to watch herself in the mirror when she did it. Though she was alone, she felt her cheeks grow warm with embarrassment. Then she giggled.
Bending to pick up her hat, her eye was drawn to the old trunk, sitting on the floor against the wall, mostly ignored, like the proverbial elephant in the room. More vividly seen in some far corner of her memory, in a far different setting.
It had been in her parents' bedroom, next to the bed for as long as she could remember. The trunk was in her mother's family for a very long time, passed down through generations, brought over from England by her great grandparents in the early 1800s. Strange that she recalled that story when she had forgotten so much else.
Her mother kept a salmon pink runner draped over the trunk, a vase of silk daisies on top. No dust collected on them for her mother was a very good housekeeper. Whether she liked it or not, the trunk was now hers. She might as well see what was in it.
She hung her coat in the closet, sat down on the sofa and gazed at the relic for a few minutes. Then, sighing heavily, she reached into her bag for the key. Don't think. Just do it.
She fit the key into the old rusting lock and turned it. There was a click and the lock fell open, and her heart gave an odd skip. She removed the lock. Almost in the same instant, upstairs, he began playing the piano. She looked up, both startled and pleased. She had not heard him up there for days now. His mother must be better, she thought.
The policemen were back again yesterday, knocking on doors, talking to tenants. She heard them pass by her door, go upstairs. She had nothing more to tell them. Did he? Had he known the actress when she lived across the hall? He would, wouldn't he? Mr. Mason had.
It was a classical piece he was playing, like a lullaby. Soft. Beautiful. Fingers up and down the keys, a gentle waterfall. Building. Almost as if he knew about the trunk and was providing music for the occasion.
What foolish thoughts she had. Fanciful. Her life was of no importance to anyone but herself.
But she was glad he was back. She liked listening to him play the piano.
She took a breath and lifted the trunk lid and had a sense of raising the lid of a coffin. In a way, she supposed she was. The perfume of ancient rose petals and musk rose up to her, filling her senses, bringing a flood of memories with it. She was like Pandora, opening the box and letting loose all that was chaos and misery into the world.
Except only she would be affected by what was in this trunk. Only her world would be touched.
Eighteen
Detective O'Neal was at home in his den, drinking coffee and going through the murder file for the first victim, Rosalind Gibbs, making comparisons with the Lorraine Winters' case, trying to find something besides their physical likenesses, that would connect them. There was nothing. One an aspiring actress, the other a nurse. A caregiver and a performer. Couldn't be more different, at least in career choices.
Rosalind Gibbs was only two blocks from her home when she was grabbed. She had a live-in boyfriend, who'd been questioned a number of times and released. Name of Brian Redding, clean-cut kid, worked at Neilson's brewery. Tom thought another visit might be in order. After scanning the notes, he saw nothing that would constitute an ironclad alibi for the night of his girlfriend's murder. Redding said he was at a hockey game on the night in question, but they hadn't double-checked his story. If he recalled, the guy had a ticket stub, but you could get that off the sidewalk. Sometimes the smallest thing can be the key to unraveling a case.
Like with the David Berkowitz case, so-called Son of Sam, the psycho who stalked kids in parked cars and blew them away with his .44 Bulldog; it was a traffic ticket that did him in, and unquestionably saved more innocent kids from being slaughtered. Christ, it could have been his own two. The thought sent an icy bath through him. Life was a crapshoot.
He glanced up as Jake, his black lab let out a whine, his body jerking. He was curled up in front of the fireplace, dreaming again. After their run on the beach, he wiped out. They both did. Jake was shot in a domestic case a couple of years ago, a drunk fool with a gun, and he brought Jake straight here from the vet's. They were best friends. A friend he could talk to or not talk to, depending on how he felt. As for Jake, he was generally content if they were in the same room together. As good as new physically, Jake had a round scar on his left thigh where the bullet had penetrated. A bare spot where fur would never grow, like scar tissue over a wounded heart.
A sudden gust of wind rattled the big window that overlooked the ocean. He could hear the Atlantic crashing against the rocks below. He bought this place after the divorce, a five room bungalow he'd spent two summers winterizing, and was as content here as he was likely to get. But he did like the privacy, walking on the beach with his dog. Still, he missed being part of his kids' lives, both teenagers now. Missed being part of a family.
He closed the files, slipped them into his briefcase. He grabbed his coat, rattled the car keys, bringing Jake immediately to his feet.
"A drive?"
Jake answered with a single, joyful bark, tail thumping the floor.
As they drove in the direction of town, Tom ran other possible 'persons of interest' through his mind. There were a couple that warranted keeping an eye on. The piano player, for example, in the Peel Street building. Jeffrey Denton. When Tom questioned him about being at the funeral, he said, 'She was my downstairs neighbor for two years. I was paying my respects.' He also insisted he was visiting his mother on the night she was killed. Maybe. Another 'not exactly solid' alibi.
There was another note of interest: Several days after the murder, a cab driver came forward, reported seeing a runner in the park in the early morning, just a short time before Lorraine Winters' body was discovered. Just a guy in a hooded jacket. Average height, weight. Hadn't thought anything of it at the time.
The department put out a call for the man to come forward on the off chance that he saw something while on his run. Something he might have considered insignificant at the time, or that hadn't even registered with him.
But no one answered the call. True, he might just have been an
ordinary jogger the cabby drove past that morning, who simply chose not to get involved. But Tom O'Neal had a feeling it just might have been her killer.
As he drove, he went back to thinking about his old life while his furry passenger enjoyed the sights they passed on the way to Brian Redding's place.
He was still thinking about his kids, and how he missed them. Oh, they talked on the phone from time to time, but they were usually on their way to somewhere, and when they weren't, it wasn't the same.
Not that he blamed his ex. It wasn't Mary's fault. She'd always complained he was married to the job, and she had a point. He knew she was unhappy but he kept promising himself, and her, that it was just a few years till he retired, and he'd have more time for vacations and so on after that. But she couldn't wait. Or didn't believe me, and maybe she was right not to.
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