She’d recently submitted her résumé to the Leavenworth schools. She didn’t anticipate an overwhelming demand for substitute teachers here. But maybe it would get her out of the house once in a while, which would be welcome—especially during this off-season at the winery.
As she washed the breakfast dishes, Laura listened to the news reports on TV. She occasionally peeked over toward the family room to look at the screen.
“I know Scott and his family of angels are all in heaven right now,” said the woman in front of a cluster of microphones. Like Laura, the woman was in her early forties. She had straight, flaxen, shoulder-length hair that she wore in pigtails. It was a slightly bizarre “little girl” look she might have pulled off if not for her careworn face and a heavy application of mascara. She wore a white blouse with a sailor collar.
“Sherry Singleton and I were close friends,” she went on, her voice quavering. “Sherry was the sweetest, gentlest person—and a loving mother. I’m going to miss her laugh, and I’ll miss swapping recipes with her . . .”
Laura got tired of craning her neck to look at the television. With her hands still wet, she finally stepped back from the sink and watched as the woman on TV dissolved into tears. Her name was Marilee Cronin. Standing beside her was her husband, Lawrence, a quiet, slender, fifty-something man with glasses and slicked-back copper-colored hair. He wore a shiny blue suit. He put an arm around his wife to comfort her. The two of them had been all over the news since Saturday. Along with the late Scott Singleton, they were the head ministers of the Church of the True Divine Light.
Marilee seemed to pull herself together for a minute. “The people who are bent on destroying our church are the ones ultimately responsible for this,” she declared. “They’re as guilty as the deranged lunatic who committed these heinous murders. The haters may have killed Scott and his family, but they’ll never destroy what Scott stood for, lived for, and died for . . .”
“Oh, brother,” Laura muttered, returning to her dishes.
Marilee had been making a lot of speeches on news shows in the last two days, most of them preachy, politically charged eulogies that made Scott Singleton out to be a martyr. Their church had recently been criticized by certain ex-members who claimed brainwashing and extortion-like tactics were employed to maintain the church membership. Ex-members of the True Divine Light were harassed. Some people who disagreed with Scott Singleton’s politics felt the church’s tax exemptions with the IRS should be revoked.
Laura had never liked Scott Singleton or what he’d stood for. But she certainly didn’t think he and his family deserved to die.
She’d first heard about the murders on the car radio while driving back from the Wenatchee airport Saturday afternoon. She’d just dropped off Sean for the first leg of his trip to Europe. The details on the radio had been a bit sketchy at the time. Singleton, his wife, and their five children had been slain in their Lopez Island summer home late Friday night. The children’s ages ranged from eleven to twenty-two.
Despite what Marilee said, there was no initial indication that the brutal murders were politically or religiously motivated. It appeared to be the random, violent act of a madman, who was still out there someplace.
The news had been unnerving for Laura and the kids. Although Lopez Island was more than four hours away—and that included a ferry ride—somehow it didn’t seem to matter. The murders might as well have occurred just down the block. Of course, it didn’t help that Sean had just left for two weeks, and none of the employees would be around for a while. Laura figured their home by the vineyard was probably even more isolated than the Singletons’ Lopez Island house. Liam had slept with his baseball bat at his bedside the last two nights. Sophie admitted she’d barely slept at all. As for Laura, she’d been very tempted to move the gun from the closet to her nightstand drawer. But she was more afraid of the gun than she was of a possible intruder, so the weapon stayed in the closet.
Little by little, details began to emerge about the murders. Apparently, Joseph Mulroney, the caretaker at the Singletons’ compound, became a principal suspect. He’d been cooperating with the San Juan County Police—right up until last night, when he’d disappeared.
Laura had heard about it on the radio when she’d woken up this morning. And they were talking about it now on TV. Laura turned off the water at the sink, dried her hands, and moved toward the family room.
“Twenty-nine-year-old Jason Eichhorn, a reporter with The Seattle Times, is at Island Hospital in Anacortes this morning—in satisfactory condition,” the reporter said into his handheld microphone. The thirtyish, red-haired guy-next-door-type wore a blue rain slicker and stood in front of the Anacortes ferry terminal. An incoming vessel loomed in the background. “Though he has a broken arm and a sprained ankle, along with nineteen stitches in his head, Eichhorn says he feels lucky to be alive after a harrowing two-hour ordeal at the hands of two dangerous fugitives . . .”
Onto the screen came a grainy photo of a bruised, haggard-looking young man in a hospital bed. It looked like some reporter friend of his might have snuck in and taken the shot on the sly with a cheap phone. Eichhorn’s arm was in a sling, and a bandage covered the top of his head like a turban. He gave a thumbs-up sign with his good hand. He seemed to put on a brave smile for the camera, but it wasn’t very convincing. “I figured for sure I was dead,” he said in a shaky voice-over, which was so muffled they put subtitles along the bottom of the still photo.
Laura realized the TV station was rerunning the same report they’d run an hour ago. Apparently, there were no updates on the whereabouts of Joseph Mulroney and his friend. The station showed the men’s mug shots again. She found Mulroney oddly cute with a vulnerable, boyish quality. His shaggy-haired, thirtysomething accomplice, Victor Moles, looked arrogant and stupid. There was something about his half-closed eyes that made him seem cold and cruel—and very dangerous.
They explained on television that according to the Seattle Times reporter-hostage, Moles had recently changed his appearance. So someone had come up with a composite photo of Moles with a buzz cut and another with the buzz cut and glasses. The slightly altered—almost cartoonish—versions of Moles were so disturbing to look at that Laura felt the hairs stand up on the back of her neck.
She glanced over at the window above the kitchen sink, almost expecting to see that creepy, waxy-looking version of Moles lurking outside her house—those cruel, half-closed eyes staring in at her.
On TV, the news reporter explained how the police had been trying to track down Victor Moles since he’d escaped from the same state-run mental hospital where Mulroney had been confined. Mulroney had been released in March. But his cohort got out five months later by slitting a guard’s throat with a piece of broken glass. The guard survived, but an extensive manhunt was ongoing. Authorities had questioned Mulroney about his friend in early August, but Mulroney had claimed to know nothing. Until last night, the police had been following a lead that Moles had fled to Northern California.
“The two suspects drove away in a red 2014 Hyundai Sonata,” explained the reporter. “The Washington State license plate number is WJO820 . . .” The number was displayed across the bottom of the screen.
“An employee at a Denny’s in Everett believes the two suspects stopped by the twenty-four-hour restaurant late last night,” the reporter continued in voice-over as a shot of the restaurant was shown. “Manager Roseann Stella said a man fitting Moles’s description entered the establishment at around midnight and ordered two hamburgers to go. She said another man was waiting for him inside a red car, parked in the lot.”
Laura nervously wrung the dishtowel in her hands. Everett put the escaped killers about two hours away from the winery. But then they might not have headed east. They could have continued south toward Seattle or Portland.
With a sigh, Laura grabbed the remote from the kitchen counter-bar and switched channels. It was another newscast—and more about the Singleton murders. They h
ad a diagram of the Lopez Island house, showing each room. A silhouetted image marked each spot where a body had been found.
“And this I don’t need to see,” Laura murmured, quickly changing the channel again. She settled on Turner Classic Movies. They were showing Raintree County. In Civil War garb, Montgomery Clift was wooing Eva Marie Saint. Laura had seen the movie before. It was one of those big, lengthy spectacles—perfect to distract her most of the morning while she cleaned up and tried to keep her mind off the Singleton murders.
After a few minutes mesmerized in front of the TV, Laura tore herself away. She moved the bar stools and started sweeping up under the counter-bar. James always left on the floor a considerable sampling of whatever cereal he’d eaten for breakfast. This morning it was Cap’n Crunch—along with a penny, an animal cracker, and several macaroni noodles from yesterday’s lunch. Laura was bent over, maneuvering the mess into a dustpan, when the doorbell rang.
Startled, she quickly straightened up. The broom slipped out of her hand and hit the parquet floor. She didn’t move for a few seconds. Relax, she thought. It’s probably just Patti, on her way back from dropping off the boys.
The bell rang again—and then again.
She headed into the front hallway. “Alright already,” she muttered.
Then the person started banging on the door.
Laura stopped in her tracks. She knew Patti wouldn’t do that, unless it was an emergency.
She warily checked the peephole. With the slight distortion from the curved glass, she could see it was a man—with dark hair and wearing an army fatigue jacket. He took a step back on the porch, and Laura recognized him as the vineyard’s only ex-employee, Dane Lorenz. He was a short, wiry man with wavy dark brown hair and a goatee. He’d made a good first impression, but after only a month at the job, it was clear everyone loathed him. He was also surly and lazy, and had a drinking problem. Sean had given Dane several warnings before finally firing him two weeks ago.
Laura had no idea what he was doing here now. But she felt a confrontation coming.
He stepped up to the door and pounded on it again. “Hello?” he yelled. He looked like he had no intention of going away.
Laura thought about setting the chain lock and opening the door a crack to find out what he wanted. But she realized that would just tick him off. Besides, those chain locks were never much protection. One good kick could probably break it.
Biting her lip, she reluctantly opened the door.
Dane put a hand up on the doorway frame and gave her a cocky grin. “Well, well, it’s the lady of the house . . .”
Laura held onto the doorknob and nodded at him. “Hi, Dane, what can I do for you?”
“Is he in?”
“Yes, but he’s on a conference call right now,” she lied. “It could be a couple of hours. What is it you wanted? Maybe I can help.”
“I didn’t get my last paycheck in the mail yet,” he said, glaring at her.
“Hmm, they all went out last week. Maybe there was a delay because of the holiday. I’ll be sure to—”
“And he should know that I’m filing for unemployment,” he interrupted.
“I’ll be sure to tell him, Dane,” she said, nodding again. “Sean will get back to you later today—or tomorrow at the latest. And next time, you don’t have to drive out and make a special trip. You can just email or phone . . .” She took a step back so she could close the door. “Now, if there’s nothing else—”
“Hey, don’t be so quick to brush me off,” he said.
Laura glanced down and saw he had his foot in the doorway.
When Sean had fired the son of a bitch, it had occurred to her that they probably hadn’t seen the last of Dane. He seemed like one of those insidious disgruntled ex-employees, one who wasn’t past returning to his old workplace with an assault weapon to shoot everyone. She couldn’t help wondering if he was hiding something inside his baggy army fatigue jacket right now.
Laura worked up a polite smile. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to rush you out of here, but—”
“Rush me out?” he laughed. “You haven’t even invited me in.”
“As I started to say . . .” Laura let the polite smile fade. “You caught me at a bad time, Dane. I really need to go. Is there anything else?”
“I left my other jacket in the employee break room. I want to pick it up.”
Laura nodded. “Well, now isn’t a good time. We’ll be sure to send it to you.” She started to close the door again.
His hand went up against it. He gave her a sly smile. “He’s not really home, is he?”
“What?” she asked—though she’d heard him.
“You’re all alone here . . .”
Though her stomach was in knots, she glared at him—her best teacher’s glare. “No, my husband is really home, Dane. He’s busy—and so am I. Once again, I’ll be sure to tell him you were here. Now, would you please go?”
He defiantly stared back at her and said nothing for a moment. Finally he shook his head. “I’m coming back,” he grumbled. Then he turned and stepped off the front porch.
Laura remained in the doorway. She watched him spit on the ground on his way to his old pickup truck. He jumped inside and slammed the door. After starting up the truck, he gunned the engine, peeled around, and then sped down the driveway.
Laura was shaking as she shut the door. She locked it and fixed the chain in place.
She hurried back into the kitchen, snatched her phone off the counter, and speed-dialed Sean. Of course he was in Europe and couldn’t do much. But at least he could call Dane, pretend to be home, and tell him to back off.
While the phone rang on the other end, Laura grabbed the TV remote and muted the movie.
Sean didn’t pick up. Laura got the generic message that the customer she was trying to reach was unavailable right now. His phone must have been turned off—or maybe he was out of a calling zone.
Laura waited for the beep: “Hi, hon, can you call me when you get a chance?” she asked. She could hear the edginess in her own voice. “It—it’s no emergency or anything, but give me a call, okay? Love you.” She clicked off.
On her phone, Laura brought up her recent emails and checked the trip itinerary Sean had sent her. It showed he was staying at the Econo Lodge in Paris tonight. She didn’t even know they had Econo Lodges in Europe. He had a phone number for the place. Laura did the math. Paris was nine hours ahead, so it was around 6:15 in the evening there. He could be at the hotel. Maybe he was recharging his phone.
She dialed the number for the hotel. The operator answered: “Grand Hôtel du Palais Royal. Puis-je vous aider?”
Laura understood just enough French to know Grand Hôtel du Palais Royal was a far cry from the Econo Lodge. There must have been some sort of mix-up. “Uh, avez-vous . . .” Her French was pretty pathetic. She gave up and hoped the woman understood English. “Could you connect me with Sean Gretchell’s room, please?”
“Sean Gretchell,” the woman repeated. It sounded nice in her French accent. A few seconds passed. “Mr. and Mrs. Gretchell will be checking in the day after tomorrow. Would you like to leave them a message for when they arrive on Wednesday?”
“Mr. and Mrs.?” Laura repeated, baffled. “Mrs. Gretchell isn’t on this trip with him. I should know because I . . .”
But then she fell silent.
“Pardon?” the operator said.
“Are you sure the reservation is for Mr. and Mrs. Gretchell?” Laura asked.
“Oui,” the woman answered. “Would you like to leave them a message?”
“Ah, no, thank you—merci,” she murmured. Then she clicked off.
Laura didn’t want to believe it. She went online and googled Grand Hôtel du Palais Royal. It was no bargain-basement inn. There was nothing “Econo” about it. Located in the heart of Paris, it looked fancy, romantic, and pricey as hell. She googled Econo Lodge Paris, and got nothing. It didn’t even exist. Sean had made it up.
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br /> She remembered how she’d asked Sean if she could come with him on this trip, and he’d pooh-poohed the idea because the excursion was all business. “Cheap hotels and a tight schedule” was how he’d described the trip.
It didn’t make any sense. It was just so unlike Sean to be carrying on with another woman. He was completely devoted to her and the kids. He was a very handsome guy: blue eyes, chiseled features, and athletic. He’d always had women—and men—interested in him, and yet Sean seemed totally oblivious to it. He’d never given Laura cause to worry.
In fact, after “the Incident,” her facial scars didn’t change the way Sean looked at her and made love to her. He made her feel as if she were still beautiful and desirable. If it hadn’t been for him, she never would have survived that whole ordeal. Sean was the reason the scars didn’t bother her so much anymore. As far as she knew, he’d never had eyes for anyone else.
Laura figured there had to be some sort of explanation to account for this other Mrs. Gretchell, who, starting Wednesday, would be spending three nights with Sean in an expensive hotel in the middle of Paris. Hell, she was probably already with him in some other French wine city.
Laura grabbed the remote again and turned the volume back up on Raintree County. There was a Civil War battle going on.
Sitting down on the sofa, Laura pulled up Sean’s trip itinerary on her phone once more. He definitely had the date and the hotel name wrong for the Paris leg of his trip. How much of the itinerary was a lie? Was this woman touring all over Europe with him?
Past the noise from the television, she thought she heard someone on the front porch. Had Dane come back?
She put down the phone and got to her feet. Hurrying to the front hallway, she could hear someone rattling the doorknob, trying to get in.
They Won't Be Hurt Page 5
