They wanted to know the things everyone wanted to know: Peter, the babysitter’s boyfriend and the Woodstock Killer, as was uncovered the night Timothy took the young man’s life while he tried to kill his son, had an ironclad alibi for several of the Woodstock Killings. How sure was he, after all this time, that the right man died?
When a lull in the conversation caught her by surprise, Maeve found herself opening her mouth to perhaps ask the question she’d been hoarding. But she lost her courage at the last moment and retreated back into her chair, worried that it would come out wrong.
Someone started to speak, but Millie, resurrected from a bored-trance, volunteered, “My sister has a question, right?”
And Maeve was forced to swallow and say, “It was…nothing. I just…no, I don’t have a question.”
When Millie nudged her knee, Maeve ducked her head. What was she supposed to do? Drool all over herself and ask what happened to his cute no-longer-teenage son? Maeve thought Derek was this broken, amazing, beautiful soul when she was a child. The bulk of the case didn’t hit the news until she was eleven; a prime age for crushes for boys on television.
The part that solidified her interest in the crime was Timothy’s trial for the murder of Peter Newell. The babysitter, Ginny’s, boyfriend.
Timothy told the story the same way in court as he had that night: he found the young Mr. Newell huddled over his son and he attacked him. Ginny the babysitter and his daughter were dead. Ginny by strangling, the Woodstock Killer MO, and his young daughter by a gunshot wound. It was the first time the murders ever escalated to take the lives of the children in the home. It wasn’t the type of first that earned anyone solace.
As the story went: Timothy arrived home, caught a murderer in the act, and took out a blight upon society with gardening shears.
And Maeve realized that Derek was a huge part of the story and it wasn’t unreasonable to want to know what happened to the surviving child, who witnessed his father murder his attacker. But while Maeve hemmed and hawed, the woman down the line, Kristy, asked instead. She was a cheerful blonde with a slightly Southern lilt that Maeve thought sounded a bit forced.
“I’m Kristy,” she announced. “So, Mr. Shelton. If you’re at liberty to discuss,” she said, enunciating every word, as if either he or she were a bit slow, “we’re all very curious about your son.”
Relief rushed over Maeve and her eyes went to Timothy immediately. It was evident that his demeanor slipped a bit as the attention shifted away from him, but even as his smile faltered, he said, “Aw, yes. I’d hoped he would agree to attend tonight, but—”
“So, he’s local again?” Gloria asked and the question seemed to throw Timothy off his game.
“Yeah…” he said slowly. “He’s laying low, he says. Not really up for talking about these things anymore.”
And he paused—leaving all the questions she had about Derek in the balance.
“We’ll respect that desire,” Gloria said with a nod to the ladies that was clear—no more talk of Derek, and several of the girls drew back with visible disappointment. In a way, Maeve felt comforted that she wasn’t the only one who’d harbored a crush on the kid from the murder trial. Or, at least, entertained a fascination with him as he went through puberty and then disappeared, right as he’d outgrown his awkward phase.
Except, Maeve felt oddly protective and jealous, too. She knew it was pure narcissism; it was as if she’d discovered Derek on the television first or pined about him most when she realized she was just one of a bevy of admirers.
“It’s time, unfortunately, to end our meeting tonight,” Gloria announced, and the group collectively groaned. “But maybe you could come back?” she asked Timothy.
He agreed and stood. Everyone else stood, too, and began to settle up tabs, shake hands and wait in line to talk to Timothy Shelton before he booked it back out into the night and possibly out of their lives forever.
“Let’s go,” Millie said. “I’m paid up.”
“I wanted to say hello,” Maeve whispered.
“But we’ve been here for, like, three hours already. I legit thought it would be this goofy and casual thing and then there was like a guest speaker…” Millie frowned. “Not as advertised.”
“I was riveted.”
“You want me to go warm up the car?”
“Yes, if you’re gonna complain,” Maeve hissed, and moved forward as the people in the talk-to-Timothy line shrank.
“You go ahead and talk to the murderer,” Millie said, and she leaned in to kiss her sister’s cheek. As she pulled away, Maeve could smell the sweet rum and pineapple pouring out of her sister’s mouth. “I’ll wait in the car.”
“Backseat,” Maeve commanded and Millie nodded in lazy agreement. Her turn approached and she couldn’t help but eavesdrop as the other women in front of her took their time talking to Timothy, telling him about all their deep appreciation for his words of inspiration. He was a hero in their book; it was so awful he had to endure the pain of a trial after his daughter was ripped from his life.
Apparently, Maeve wasn’t the only one in the group to have already read his memoir.
Maeve held up the end of the line, and she knew Mr. Shelton looked pleased that the relentless barrage of attention was coming to an end. When it was her time to meet him, he shook her hand and leaned against the table behind him, hands in his lap, one leg crossed over the other. He assessed her and Maeve couldn’t believe her luck—there was the man she’d followed her entire life and he’d just touched her hand.
“I didn’t know you’d be here tonight,” Maeve admitted. “I’ve followed your case…”
Timothy laughed. “Well, it’s always nice to meet people who really understand the enormity of what we’ve been through,” he said, drawing the levity back down. “Are you a member of the club?”
“Joined tonight, I guess,” she said and motioned around to the now-empty bar. Only Gloria remained, waiting patiently for Maeve to finish her fangirling. “You really were one of the first tragedies to occur in the digital age,” she said feeling old. “The Internet was ruthless and you were a victim, and yet—”
But before Maeve could finish her rehearsed spiel about how he was an early inspiration for how to handle idiots online, Timothy Shelton’s face turned from attentive and kind to pained and surprised. His skin went ashen and he slumped back, his feet buckling under him. He would’ve tumbled to the floor had Maeve not reached out to grab his upper body, dropping her purse and the books in the process. She steadied him for a second before he began to gasp for air and slide down to the floor. He was clutching his chest, his mouth contorted into a silent scream.
Maeve spun, alarmed, and motioned for Gloria to call for help as she attempted to lower him down on to the floor of The Alibi, his consciousness slipping away.
“Mr. Shelton,” she said, and bent down, aware of how close she was to his body, not knowing what to do. “Where does it hurt? Can you speak?”
But the veins in the man’s neck bulged and his eyes went lazy and rolled back into his head.
“I think it’s a heart attack!” Gloria called to the servers on the scene before she bent down to sit next to Maeve, both of them at a loss. “They’re calling 9-1-1, just give him room. Give him room.”
The three strangers made a strange tableau: Timothy on the ground, the women around him. A few other patrons, thinking they were helping, stood and watched and mumbled instructions. Maeve put her ear to his chest and said, “He’s not breathing.” And without even thinking, she began chest compressions. One. Two. Three. Four. Breathe. Breathe. In her panic to save his life, his celebrity was the furthest thing from her mind as she pushed her small fists just below his sternum and gave him her own breath. She had to take a first aid class as part of her degree program and she never thought she’d have to use it.
Several people called 9-1-1 in the background.
Maeve continued to push and provide rescue breaths until the red lig
hts flashed through windows of the bar; the front entrance of The Alibi was a bustle of urgent energy. Four paramedics, three lumbering men and a petite woman with a long braid marched toward them, weaving past customers and employees, the entirety of their presence filling the whole place. Everyone looked at Timothy and no one else seemed to move or breathe until they settled around him and took over.
With experts on the scene, Maeve retreated to the background. And it was then she saw Timothy’s phone on the table. She grabbed it and held it in her hands, wondering if she should make the call. The phone wasn’t password protected, which seemed like an oversight, but it benefitted her.
This was an emergency.
She needed no other justification.
Maeve went straight to his last-calls list.
The last call: Derek.
Without thinking, she pushed the button and the phone began to call Derek Shelton.
It rang once. Twice.
And then, to her surprise, he answered.
Derek Shelton answered.
“Hello?” the man asked and Maeve froze—on the other end of the phone was a boy she’d thought about for nearly every day of her early adolescence and teen years. While her friends were falling in love with singers of bands and teen actors in movies or on television, she was hoarding trial sketches and obsessing about someday becoming the girlfriend of the boy who survived the Woodstock Killer’s reign of terror.
Yesterday she slipped on wine and woke up covered in goldfish cracker crumbs while episodes of “Snapped” played on a marathon in the background, and now she was on the phone with her one-time crush and subject of more mortifying diary entries than she could count.
“Hello. Hi, um…I’m sorry,” Maeve mumbled, then the sound of the paramedics working on Timothy and trying to rouse him back to consciousness thrust her back into reality, “I’m calling about your dad.”
“Wait, um…” she heard him fumbling with his phone, no doubt checking the caller ID. “Hey, is my dad there?” Derek asked and his voice had changed completely. The deep and brusque manner in which he’d answered slipped into strained nervousness. “Who are you?”
“My name is Maeve, and I’m here at The Alibi where your dad was speaking…he appears to have had a heart attack. The paramedics are with him now.” She lost all confidence and looked back at Gloria, surprised to see red and blue lights flooding the front of the bar, bouncing and reflecting off the glass, calling attention to the scene.
“Is he responsive?” Derek asked and Maeve didn’t really answer because he kept asking questions. “You’re where? Is that a bar?” It was clear that he was on the move. She heard him rustling around, the phone catching static and his voice moved far away and then closer. “I’m on my way. The paramedics are there? Put me on with them, please.”
And Maeve didn’t say another word. She handed the phone to the nearest first responder—one of the men, short, brown hair, and a dark beard, neatly trimmed—and picked up her purse and sat, still and confused.
After a second, she knew she was in the way and so she gathered up her belongings, the books feeling heavier in her hands now as they worked on Timothy’s body, people talking to him, everyone kneeling and staring.
“Goodbye,” Maeve tried to say to Gloria, but it was swallowed by the action around them.
Feeling like a deflated balloon, slightly shocked and still running on adrenaline, Maeve trotted back to the car and found Millie asleep in the backseat, sprawled out and using her jacket as a pillow.
Maeve crawled behind the wheel and didn’t turn the car on as she put her head against the coolness of the steering wheel and soaked in the evening. She wasn’t sure if she would ever be allowed to attend another Love is Murder Social Club again.
She’d met Timothy Shelton, father of the Woodstock Murders, and then promptly killed him.
But, even amid the shock, one thought kept floating forward and pushing its way into her brain: for one brief second, she was connected to Derek.
For one second.
It sounded so ridiculous, but her young crush was a nostalgic piece of her past and her heart pounded with the thrill of it—the tragedy was secondary—and she felt a little guilty for being excited by just saying hello and for being the one to break the news.
She’d talked to Derek on the phone.
It was too surreal for Maeve to comprehend. When her brain cleared and she felt more stable, she turned on the car and shouted to the back seat, “I’m taking you home, Mills. Sit up and buckle up, drunky. You really know how to pick an evening.”
Chapter Five
Derek didn’t want to be there by his father’s side at the hospital, but he had no choice and he felt professionally obligated to ask all the questions he knew his father wouldn’t know to ask. The ER was as sterile and depressing as ever; especially being on the other side of the experience. He’d rather be up and helping, answering call buttons, and easing someone’s fears rather than attending to his dad, who belittled his knowledge and joked about his inadequacies for most of his adult life. There were always patients who treated him poorly, but those people were in pain, and pain, he’d learned, often looked like anger.
His dad’s barbs cut deep because this was where Derek was the master—no one did ER nursing better than he did. Well, that was hubris—he was great, but he’d learned from the masters who went before him. Mostly women, mostly moms, he admitted, who could vacillate between kindness and stern fortitude for the tasks at hand with masterful skill.
He was one of the best because he’d watched those nurses closely—his raw technical skill was amazing, but he refined his bedside manner in the years since he started. The nurses who came to treat his dad did so with ease and attention, providing comfort and care.
He didn’t tell them he was a nurse himself.
When his dad regained consciousness, Derek was there. They spoke very little as Timothy rested. But, after a bit, Timothy turned and seemed perplexed. His eyes, full of new worries and medications, seemed blurry.
“Why are you here?” Timothy asked, and Derek shifted.
“Someone called me from your phone. A girl.”
“Someone called you?” Timothy repeated. A splotch of color was back in his cheeks, but his face seemed slimmer, drawn in and tired.
“Yeah. The person who performed CPR.”
“Someone from the restaurant? I don’t remember. I don’t know. I don’t remember anyone having my phone. I barely remember anything I said at that club, anyway.”
“Yeah, that happens,” Derek said and slid into nurse mode. “You might notice your memory coming back a bit over time. It’s all part of the process.”
Somewhere, a few curtains down, someone wailed in pain and Derek resisted the urge to stand up and go help.
“A heart attack, huh?” Timothy sighed and he leaned his head back. For the first time, Derek thought his dad looked frail and ill, a shadow of the great and commanding performer he used to be.
“We’ll know more soon. Maybe it’s the universe telling you to stop going to murder clubs.”
“It wasn’t a murder club. I don’t know…” Timothy wobbled his head back and forth as though he was trying to recall everything that happened. When he spoke next, his voice was tender and Derek sat up, interested. “These weren’t groupies. They really…well…they really had details no one else had.” Timothy closed his eyes. “They could solve it,” he mumbled.
“Solve what?” Derek asked absentmindedly.
“Anything,” Timothy said. “Anything.”
A silence settled over the room and the father and son sat together, not speaking, not knowing what to say.
“I had to get my shift covered to be here,” Derek said to no one in particular; it was his attempt at small talk. “When I got the call, I left my patients…”
“Well, I’ll give you some money, then,” his dad replied, misunderstanding the whole interaction. “And that girl’s number. Or a signed book, Derek,
I don’t know. What do you even want from me?”
“Nothing,” Derek answered, more tired than annoyed now. “It’s upsetting to be in a health crisis. I’m here for you, dad. I dropped everything and I’m here…and still, you’re asking what I want.” He was hurt, but he didn’t want his dad to see that he still got under his skin. It wasn’t false-bravado that made him shut his mouth—it was maturity. Timothy was who he was and no-one had been able to change him. Derek wasn’t going to try.
“I’m sorry,” Timothy finally replied. “Did you say someone called you? Who?”
“A woman from the social club. Maeve.” He said her name and waited for any recognition, but there was none.
“I only know the one woman, Gloria. It’s her club. Those social club women knew what’s up, I tell ya. They asked about you, of course. Times are changing, Derek. Let me tell you that. Gloria owns the club though. Gloria Hernandez. Good woman. Good woman.” Timothy closed his eyes and sighed heavily.
Derek made a mental note of the name and didn’t mention the social club again to his dad.
Then he waited.
It was easy to track down Gloria Hernandez and her Love is Murder Social Club. And getting the mystery caller’s number was easier still. He decided he’d wait a few days to call—get his dad back home from the hospital, ease back into normal life, and then thank the woman who saved him.
Maeve Montgomery. The woman sounded like an early 80s villain’s paramour. He wondered if Gloria would give the girl a head’s up that he would be calling—after all, she’d so eagerly handed over the number, not questioning that Derek was who he said he was, or just some creep stalking girls who went to murder clubs. Which, he thought, might make the good topic of their next meeting.
“You wanna know her favorite murder?” Gloria asked casually. Derek could hear her flipping a notebook card back and forth in the background.
“Not necessary,” Derek answered. He wanted to thank the girl and nothing else—he wanted her to know, as a nurse, that he appreciated her bravery in stepping up to help a stranger. Her actions no doubt saved his life.
Forgotten Obsessions (The Love is Murder Social Club Book 1) Page 4
