After nearly an hour of channel surfing, Vic had finally settled on some World War II submarine movie starring Cary Grant. They’d been watching the movie for about ten minutes when he shot up from the chair again. He muted the movie and tossed the remote on the seat cushion. Then he reached for his gun and started toward the front of the house. “Joe, close the curtains in here,” he said. “I don’t want to hear a peep from anybody.”
It was no false alarm this time. Sophie heard a car coming up the driveway.
“Everybody, be quiet!” Joe whispered. He pulled the drapes shut across the sliding glass door. The family room turned dark.
Sophie followed Vic toward the front of the house. “It might be the delivery guy,” she whispered. “He could be early. For God’s sake, don’t—”
“Shut up!” Vic hissed. With his gun drawn, he waited on one side of the door.
Sophie stopped in the hall, just past the kitchen doorway. Out the living room window, she saw an SUV pull to a stop in front of the house. She heard a door open and shut, and then watched their neighbor, Patti Bellini, step around from the driver’s side. She wore a ski jacket, and her curly red hair was blowing in the wind. She stopped and opened the SUV’s back door. “Honey, what is it?” she asked, her voice slightly muffled.
Sophie felt someone come up behind her, and she realized it was Joe. She turned to him. “That’s our neighbor and her little boy . . .”
Vic kept glancing back at them—and then at the living room wall. It took Sophie a moment to figure out he was looking at a mirror above the couch. He could see everything Mrs. Bellini was doing. “I’m going to fucking kill her,” he whispered.
“She’s got her kid in the car, Vic,” Joe said under his breath. “Just wait. She might go away . . .”
Sophie could hear Mrs. Bellini again. “No, I’ll just be a minute, honey,” she said to her son. Then she closed the car door and approached the house. Sophie couldn’t see her anymore, but then she heard the knocking.
“Laura!” their neighbor called. “Laura, it’s me! I got your text! Can we declare a truce?” She knocked again and rang the doorbell.
Sophie heard her footsteps on the front porch. Then she saw Mrs. Bellini at the window, peeking into the living room. “Laura? I can drive James today, and I promise I won’t feed him a thing! He can starve first! Laura? Too soon to joke about it?”
Sophie didn’t move. She heard Joe behind her, whimpering.
Mrs. Bellini knocked on the door again, and then Sophie saw the doorknob turning.
Vic was shaking his head. He had the gun ready.
The door opened. “Laura?” Mrs. Bellini called. “You couldn’t have left yet . . .”
Sophie rushed to the door and blocked the way. “Hi, Mrs. Bellini,” she said, out of breath.
Their neighbor took a step back on the porch. “I’m sorry, Sophie. I hope I didn’t scare you . . .”
Sophie tried not to look at Vic, standing right beside her. She stepped onto the porch, and half-closed the door behind her. “That’s okay,” she said, shivering from the sudden cold. “Ah, if you’re looking for my mom, she isn’t here.”
Mrs. Bellini stared at her. “What happened?”
Sophie hesitated. She didn’t have a good lie handy. Any minute now, she expected Vic to yank the door open and start shooting.
“Honey, why aren’t you in school?”
“Food poisoning,” Sophie heard herself say. “We—we had fish for dinner last night, and Mom thinks something must have been wrong with it, because all of us were sick most of the night. Mom went to the drugstore to pick up something the doctor recommended.”
“Oh, you poor kids,” Mrs. Bellini said. “Is there anything I can do?”
“No, but thank you,” Sophie said.
“Ginger ale sometimes helps—and Saltines. How are you fixed for those?”
Sophie nodded a few times. “We’re fixed fine, thanks, Mrs. Bellini.”
“Well, tell your mom I came by to say I’m sorry. We had a little bit of a squabble yesterday. It’s not worth going into. And have her call me if you guys need anything.” She backed away. “You get inside the house now—before you catch a cold on top of everything else.”
“My mom will call you later tonight, okay?” Sophie said. Then she ducked back inside, closed the door and slumped against it.
Vic was still waiting there with his gun ready.
Sophie listened to the retreating footsteps. The SUV’s door opened and shut. A moment later, she heard the vehicle heading down the driveway. Their neighbor had no idea how close she’d come to getting killed. Sophie’s heart was still racing.
She glanced at Vic and shuddered.
He actually looked disappointed.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Tuesday – 11:43 A.M.
Lopez Island, Washington
The Last Sunset Café was one of those places that seemed to be hiding from the world. A rambler-style structure from the fifties just outside the center of town, it had a big parking lot that was about a third-full with about a dozen other cars besides Laura’s. There was a recycling and donation station in the far corner of the lot.
At first, Laura wasn’t sure she had the right place, but then she spotted the LAST SUNSET CAFÉ neon sign in the front window, alongside a lighted sign for Rainier Beer.
Between home and here, in the last four-plus hours, she’d counted a total of seven police cars. Two of those squad cars had been parked in the ferry terminal at Anacortes. Laura had figured the police were there hoping to catch Joe and Vic returning to the scene of the crime. Parked in the ferry lane, she’d been so tempted to climb out of her car, walk over to the cops, and tell them everything. Instead, she’d pulled out the pay-as-you-go phone and called her cell number.
Laura wondered if Vic would renege on their deal and not let her talk to her children. Well, then she’d have to go to the cops. She merely needed one little push in that direction. All she had to do was get out of her car and wave at them.
Vic answered after three rings. “What?”
She could hear the TV blaring in the background. “I’m in Anacortes,” she explained, “in line for the ferry to Lopez Island.”
“Well, why the hell are you calling now? You haven’t even gotten to Lopez yet.”
“It’s been three hours,” Laura said. “That was the agreement. I was to call in every two or three hours.”
“Well, call us again after you’ve talked to the waitress—”
“Wait! I want to talk with Sophie. That was part of the agreement, too.”
She heard him grunt. There was some muffled conversation, and then Sophie got on the line: “Mom?”
“Honey, how are you?”
“We’re all fine. We’re tired, but fine.
“Mrs. Bellini stopped by. She wanted to take James to preschool. But I managed to send her away. The delivery guy hasn’t come yet. Now we’re just sitting here watching TV, first some Cary Grant submarine movie, which was okay. And now it’s Singing in the Rain, which is great, but he keeps switching channels, driving everybody crazy. I swear, he must have ADD or something. . .”
“Gimme!” Laura heard Vic bellow in the background. All Laura could think was that Sophie was pushing her luck with him.
“The deal was you could check in with her,” Vic had growled into the phone. “I didn’t say she could tell you her whole goddamn life story. Call back after you’ve talked to the waitress.”
Then he’d hung up.
That had been over an hour ago. During the ferry ride to Lopez and the drive to the restaurant, Laura kept reminding herself the kids were okay. Tired meant they were okay.
She climbed out of the car, buttoned up her pea jacket, and headed into the Last Sunset Café. The place was a bit dilapidated—with mounted fish on the knotty-pine paneled walls. All the fake plants were covered with a layer of grease and dust. The seats in the booths and the stools at the counter were covered in a lime-green vinyl
—with dark green tape covering the tears. The specials were scribbled on an eraser-board by the counter-bar. The meatloaf sandwich and fries for $5.99 got top billing. Laura noticed a small framed sign by the cashier’s station:
Our credit manager is HELEN WAITE.
If you want credit, go to Helen Waite!
The place was half full with about thirty customers. Laura didn’t see a jukebox, but “Cherish” by The Association played over some speakers and competed with the clanking of silverware and the subdued chatter.
“Sit anywhere you like!” a waitress with a tray of dirty dishes called to her. She wore an archaic-looking brown and beige uniform.
“I’d like to sit in Martha’s section,” Laura asked.
“Pick a table and I’ll send her over!” the waitress replied. Then she ducked into the kitchen.
Laura sat down at a two-top by the window—with a view of the parking lot. It was a wood-top table with about ten layers of dark, shiny varnish.
Someone slapped a paper menu on it—along with some tinny-looking flatware, a napkin, and a glass of water.
Laura glanced up at the skinny, forty-something waitress. She had a weak chin and a pink streak in her limp blondish hair, which was pulled back in a ponytail. Laura noticed a tattoo of Winnie-the-Pooh on the woman’s arm as she handed her a menu. The name tag on her uniform read MARTHA.
“For lunch, I recommend the chicken pot pie,” she said. “We’re also still serving breakfast. And if you’re going that route, I recommend the pecan waffle.” She nodded at a lanky fifty-something man at a neighboring table. He wore a black V-neck that showed a tuft of black chest hair. The hair on his head was gray-black and thinning, and he had a Kirk Douglas cleft in his chin. “This gentleman just ordered it, and he’s very happy.”
The man must have overheard, because he nodded and smiled at them.
“Are you Martha?” Laura asked.
The waitress glanced at her own name tag and then looked at Laura as if she were an idiot. “Actually, no, I stole her identity—and have now assumed her glamorous lifestyle.”
Laura noticed the man at the other table chuckled.
“I’m just pulling your leg, hon,” Martha said. “Why do you ask?”
Laura hesitated. The cleft-chinned man still seemed to be listening. “I—I heard from a friend that you were the best waitress here.”
“Well, thanks,” she smiled. “So what can I get you to drink?”
“Diet Coke, please.”
“Be right back with that,” she said, heading toward the kitchen.
Laura opened her purse and took out Joe’s sketches of Zared. She laid them over the place mat. Then she glanced at the menu.
When Martha returned with her Diet Coke and a straw, she set the glass down over to one side. She didn’t seem to pay any attention to the sketches.
“I guess it’s kind of callous to ask,” Laura said, “but are you doing a lot more business since the Singleton murders? I mean, I’m sure the island must be full of reporters. . .”
“Are you kidding me?” Martha said. “Like locusts, they’ve taken over. There’s a whole flock of his ministers and followers here, too, not to mention detectives. You should have been in here during the breakfast rush. It was insane.”
“My friend told me that you might know a few things about the Singletons that the police and the press don’t know,” Laura said.
The waitress smiled, but narrowed her eyes at her. “Who told you that?”
Laura noticed Mr. Pecan Waffle was looking at them again.
“This friend of mine,” she repeated quietly. “He indicated you had some unique insight into the case.” She pointed to Joe’s sketches. “He also thought you might recognize the man in these drawings . . .”
Martha glanced at the sketches for less than two seconds. She shook her head. “Never seen him before. I don’t know what your friend is talking about. The Singletons didn’t come in here too often, and when they did, they didn’t share much with me—especially all that money they had. Not to speak ill of the dead, but they were lousy tippers. Have you decided on what you’re having?”
Laura glanced at the menu again. “Ah, just a bowl of the chicken noodle soup, please.”
Martha grabbed her menu. “You got it.”
As the waitress retreated to the kitchen, Laura noticed Mr. Pecan Waffle smiling at her again. She turned away and stared down at Joe’s drawings. She’d had a feeling this trip was going to be a big bust.
With a sigh, she started to collect the sketches.
“Did you draw those?”
Laura looked up. It was Mr. Pecan Waffle. He’d gotten up from his table and was standing next to her.
“No, a friend of mine drew them,” she replied.
He stared at the drawings. “I don’t mean to pry, but from a distance, I thought I recognized one of these guys. Do you mind?”
“Actually, they’re all supposed to be the same guy,” Laura explained. “My friend’s an amateur artist.”
“Who’s it supposed to be?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. It’s probably just a wild-goose chase.”
The man picked up one of the drawings and squinted at it. “I’m here visiting family,” he said. “Thought I’d get a little peace and quiet. Talk about bad timing. What—are you a reporter?”
She nodded. “Freelance. So—does he look familiar to you?”
He handed the drawing back to her. “I’m afraid not, now that I’ve gotten a good look at these. Sorry I can’t be any help. But good luck.” He wandered back to his table—and his waffle.
Laura started to collect the sketches again. But then she saw Martha coming her way with the bowl of soup and some crackers. Laura left the most detailed sketch on the table. Martha set the bowl and crackers down next to it. “There you go. Let me know if you want more crackers.”
Laura pointed to the sketch. “I’m sorry, but are you sure this man doesn’t look familiar to you? He might have been a customer . . .”
Martha frowned. “I already told you that I didn’t recognize him. Showing that to me again isn’t going to change things. Just the soup today?”
Laura wanted to ask if she knew Joseph Mulroney, but Mr. Pecan Waffle seemed to be eavesdropping. “Yes, just the soup,” she said. “Thanks.”
Martha scribbled out a check, tore it off her pad, and set it on the table. “Enjoy!”
Laura watched her walk away. She figured she could catch her again before heading out, and then she would ask about Joe. She took a sip of the soup and scalded her tongue.
The place filled up while Laura waited for her soup to cool off. Mr. Pecan Waffle had stopped staring at her, and become interested in something on his smartphone. Laura ate her soup. When she spotted Martha at the cash register, she quickly left three dollars on the table, grabbed her coat and purse, and then hurried to the register with her check.
“How was the soup?” the waitress asked as she took the check—along with the twenty Laura handed her.
“Great,” Laura said. “Listen, my friend said that Joseph Mulroney used to come in here to eat sometimes. I was wondering if you ever waited on him or—”
“I’m sorry,” Martha said, plopping some bills and change into Laura’s hand. She glanced around. “As you can see, lots of people come in here every day. And I’m really not that good with faces. Now, we’re getting kind of busy here. Have a nice day.”
She turned away and ducked into the kitchen.
Defeated, Laura stepped outside, buttoned up her jacket, and wandered back toward the car. She’d desperately wanted Joe’s story to have some basis in fact. She hated to think it was possible he’d murdered anyone. She had no choice now but to go to the police—and risk endangering her children. She imagined Vic using one of them as a hostage. Knowing Vic, he’d probably kill the other two children just to let the police know he meant business.
Laura started trembling. Tears stung her eyes.
&
nbsp; When she got to her car, she reached into her purse for the pay-as-you-go phone. She wondered if Vic could have rigged the phone so he’d somehow know if she dialed 9-1-1 on it. Laura didn’t have much technical knowhow, but the possibility didn’t seem so farfetched to her.
“Hey!” someone yelled.
Laura looked up to see Martha with a sweater over her shoulders. She hurried toward her, waving a check. “Hey, that wasn’t a twenty you gave me!” she shouted. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”
Baffled, Laura wiped her eyes and stared at her. She’d given the woman a twenty and received the correct change.
Martha met up with her at the car. “Get out your purse. People are watching,” she whispered. “C’mon . . .”
Laura still didn’t understand. She raised her purse slightly. It was already open.
“Listen, I couldn’t talk earlier, because the place is crawling with cops, reporters, and Divine Light disciples,” Martha said. “They’re probably watching us now. You don’t know who’s who. I heard you tell that guy you’re a reporter. If you want a scoop on the Singletons, how much would it be worth to you?”
Laura blinked. “How much do you want?”
“Well, I have some stories,” Martha said. “And the first one is a bargain at five hundred dollars. But I want you to keep my name out of it.” She handed the meal check to Laura. An address was scribbled on the back. “That’s my place. I’ll be there after three-thirty . . .”
Laura shook her head. “I can’t wait around that long. Besides, how do I know you’re on the level?”
Martha glanced back at the restaurant for a second and turned to her. “You go up to Western Washington University in Bellingham and track down a sophomore named Doran Wiley. You ask him about the Singletons and Eric Vetter. After talking to him, you’ll know I’m on the level. By the way, that little tip will cost you forty dollars. Consider it a down payment against the five hundred.”
Laura hesitated. “Wait. What about the man in the sketches?”
“It’s like I told you. I don’t recognize him.”
They Won't Be Hurt Page 17
