According to his brother, Fletcher Gallagher—also a Townsend Heights resident, and a former Cleveland Indians pitcher who is now a sportscaster for the New York Mets—the family had owned the North Street home for several years. “My wife and I are just devastated by this loss,” Fletcher Gallagher said on Saturday. “We will be keeping the children until their father returns home. My brother has already been widowed once before. This has just overwhelmed him.”
Townsend Heights Fire Chief Ray Wisnewski stated that the fast-moving fire engulfed the wood-frame house. The victim was found in the kitchen, so badly burned that the body could not be positively identified at the scene. “We are engaged in an ongoing investigation,” Chief Wisnewski told the Gazette.
Melissa Gallagher was born in Fairfield County, Connecticut, graduated with a teaching degree from Vassar, and taught at several private elementary schools in Westchester County more than a decade ago. Funeral services will be held on Monday morning at Holy Father Church in Townsend Heights, followed by private burial in Fairfield County.
A creaking, groaning noise suddenly disturbs the silent household.
Jeremiah recognizes it: water in the pipes. He hears the sound every time somebody takes a shower.
He tosses the newspaper clipping back on the desk, walks over to the door of his room, and opens it cautiously. Aunt Sharon is the only one home. Sure enough, it sounds like she’s in the shower of the master bedroom.
Jeremiah goes back into his room and hurriedly pulls on jeans and a fleece pullover Uncle Fletch bought him. He starts to put on sneakers, then changes his mind and finds his thick-soled boots. His warm parka, too.
Moments later he slips out into the hall and down the stairs, knowing that this is his chance. His aunt lingers in the shower sometimes, but it won’t take his uncle very long to drop the girls at school. Five minutes, tops, if he comes straight home.
In the front hall on the first floor, Jeremiah peers out the window facing the wide, tree-lined street. There are cars parked everywhere, and even from here he can see the crowd gathered at the far end, where the Leibermans’ house is. He half-expects to see an officer stationed in front of the Gallagher house, keeping an eye on things, but there isn’t one. Jeremiah pauses to consider this, rethinking his plan.
Maybe they don’t suspect him of killing Rachel Leiberman after all.
But that Detective Summers sure acted like he did.
Jeremiah can’t take any chances.
What if Detective Summers comes back? What if he searches the house and the shed? What if he arrests Jeremiah?
He has to act now.
But what are you going to do? You don’t have enough time to get rid of everything, a voice in his head reminds him as he heads to the kitchen.
He surveys the manicured yard, making sure it’s empty.
Then, brimming with uncertainty, he ventures outside and crosses the grass, knowing only that he has to do everything he can to protect himself—before it’s too late.
Paula hesitates only a moment before ringing the Bankses’ doorbell. It’s still early, not even eight o’clock yet.
But she has a job to do, she reminds herself as she presses the button. Besides, how likely is it that anyone on this block is asleep? The commotion in front of the Leibermans’ house is even greater than the hubbub of the past few days on Harding Place.
“Who is it?” a female voice calls through the door.
“It’s Paula Bailey.”
A pause.
“Who?”
“Paula Bailey. I live here in town. I need to talk to you, Mrs. Banks.”
“About what?” comes the suspicious reply.
“Can I please come in?” Paula asks. “Look, I’m a mom. Just like you are. I know how you must feel, but you can trust me. Really.”
To her shock, the door opens. Just a crack, but still . . .
A tired-looking female face framed by lank dark hair peers out at Paula. She recognizes Tasha Banks and sees by her expression that the woman finds her familiar, too. Well, it’s a small town. They’ve probably passed each other on the street dozens of times.
“I’d like to talk to you just for a minute,” Paula says. “Please?”
“You’re a reporter, aren’t you?”
“For the Townsend Gazette,” Paula tells her in a tone meant to convince Tasha Banks that she’s different from the other news hounds clogging the once-quiet cul-de-sac. She’s not bloodthirsty like they are. She’s a concerned citizen of this town.
Tasha just looks at her.
“Listen, I know I’m not the first reporter to show up at your door this morning,” Paula says.
“No, you’re not.”
“Have you spoken to anyone else?” Paula asks cautiously.
“No. And I shouldn’t speak to you, either. . . .”
“But you will?” Paula prods, just as she hears a child’s cry coming from somewhere over Tasha’s shoulder.
“That’s my son. I’ve got to go see—”
“It’s okay. I’ll wait.” Paula catches the door as it starts to swing closed. She steps into the house and pulls the door closed behind her. It’s a bold move, but she doesn’t have a choice. This is her job.
Tasha glances back at her, clearly dismayed. Then, stepping over several toys on the floor, she hurries into the kitchen at the back of the house. She’s back moments later, a sobbing baby on her hip.
“Hey, what happened to you, little guy?” Paula asks, reaching out to gently pat the baby’s head. She looks at Tasha. “Did he get hurt?”
“No. He was just upset that I left the room. He’s been fussy all morning. I think he’s coming down with something. He wants me to hold him constantly.”
“I remember when my son went through that. He’s probably teething,” Paula offers in a mother-to-mother tone. “At least, that’s what it always was with Mitch. Whenever he was cutting a tooth, he wanted me to carry him around for hours on end.”
“That’s probably it,” Tasha agrees. She seems to have relaxed a little. “My other kids never did this when they were cutting teeth, though. Hunter, my oldest son, was always pretty independent and laid-back. He never really fussed or acted clingy. And my daughter, Victoria . . . well, she fussed constantly, so it was hard to tell when she was out of sorts. She hasn’t changed much. Although she behaves a lot better for my husband.”
“That’s good.”
“It would be if he were around,” Tasha mutters.
“So he’s away a lot?” Paula asks, surprised by her candor.
Tasha shrugs. “He might as well be. He works in the city. You know—the commute, the long hours, and sometimes he travels on business.”
“That’s hard. Then you’re alone with the kids,” Paula says.
“Yeah, and it’s not even that I’d mind so much if it were only on weekdays, but now it’s starting to cut into our weekends. Like this Sunday, he has to fly out of here in the afternoon so that he can be in Chicago for an early meeting on Monday—but look, I don’t know why I’m unloading on you.”
“Because it stinks. Look, I know what it’s like to be on your own as a mom.” Do I ever, Paula thinks wryly. “After a while, you could really use another pair of hands, right?”
“Exactly.”
Paula grins and is rewarded when Tasha flashes her a brief smile. It dims quickly, though, and Tasha looks down at the still-whimpering baby in her arms.
Paula can practically read her mind. She’s thinking about Rachel Leiberman. Paula’s done her homework. The two were close friends. “You must be so upset today, Tasha,” she says. “I’m so sorry about Rachel.”
“I can’t believe it,” Tasha says, turning tear-filled eyes toward Paula. “It’s like a nightmare. And the worst part is . . . her daughter’s upstairs, playing with mine. And her son is sleeping. They ha
ve no idea what’s going on.”
“Nobody’s told them?”
“No. And I don’t think I should. They wanted to know why they were here when they woke up, and I told them their parents had some things they had to take care of. They’re so little. They didn’t even question it.” Tasha’s voice breaks.
Paula reaches into her pocket and pulls out a neatly folded tissue. She hands it to Tasha.
“Thank you,” Tasha says, sniffling. She wipes her red-rimmed eyes.
“Look, I know this is a terrible time, and the last thing I want to do is make things harder for you. But if I could just ask you a few questions about your friend—”
“What kind of questions?”
“I’m an investigative reporter.”
Okay, that isn’t technically the truth—at least, not according to her boss, Tim. But he has no idea what Paula is capable of doing, if only given the chance. And now, tired of waiting for the chance to be handed to her, she’s simply taking the initiative to go for it. To prove herself.
She tells Tasha, “I’m hoping to uncover a lead that will help me to figure out who murdered your friend.”
“Isn’t that the cops’ job?”
“Definitely. But I’m going to do anything I can to help. If there’s a murderer on the loose in Townsend Heights, I want him caught before he strikes again.”
“So do I,” Tasha says in a small voice. “I’m scared to— What do you mean ‘if there’s a murderer on the loose’?”
Paula shrugs. “It isn’t clear why your friend was killed.”
“You don’t think it was random? That it could have happened to anyone?”
“Do you?”
“I have no idea,” Tasha says slowly.
The baby fusses.
Absently, Tasha bends and retrieves a small plastic car from the floor by her feet, handing it to him. Then she says, “I keep thinking about Jane Kendall, wondering whether this has anything to do with that.”
“Well, what do you think? Did you know Jane, too?”
“Only slightly.”
“Is there anything you can think of that Jane and Rachel might have had in common? Anything at all?”
“Just Gymboree,” Tasha says. “That’s it. We all go to the class once a week with our kids. Other than that, Rachel and Jane travel in completely different circles.”
“And you can’t think of anyone who’d have a reason to want either of them dead?”
Tasha flinches. “No.”
That’s it. She’s done talking to me, Paula realizes, watching a veil descend over Tasha’s face.
It was the word dead. Too strong. Paula shouldn’t have used it. But she momentarily forgot to tread carefully. Maybe she can still—
“You know what? I’ve got to go up and check on the kids,” Tasha says abruptly. “Right now.”
“I’ll wait here . . .”
“No. I’d rather have you leave . . . if you don’t mind.”
She’s trying to be firm, Paula realizes, but it isn’t really her nature. Good. She might get something out of Tasha Banks yet. But not today.
“Can we get together again and talk about this?” Paula asks. “Maybe meet for coffee in a day or two, when things die down? How about while your husband’s away? Maybe you’ll feel like getting out of the house.”
“I’d have my kids with me. . . .”
“Then we can make it pizza. Look, I’ll call you,” Paula says hurriedly. She fishes in her purse and hands over a card. “In the meantime, here’s my number. Office, home, cell phone. If you think of anything at all that might help, call me. Please.”
“I will,” Tasha says, glancing at the card, then at Paula.
“I really am sorry about your friend,” Paula tells her, pressing her hand gently, holding it more than shaking it. “Look, if there’s anything I can do for you—even just taking your kids off your hands—let me know. Okay?”
Tasha looks surprised. “Thank you.”
Paula smiles. “Like I said, I’m a mom, too. I know how draining it is when they’re so young. Just take it easy, okay?”
“I’ll try. And maybe we can have coffee or pizza or something.”
“I’d like that. See you, Tasha.”
Paula walks out the front door and glances at the house across the street. The throng has swelled. There’ll be no getting near Ben Leiberman today.
She glances down the block.
The Gallaghers’ house is barely visible from here, but she can clearly see a silver Mercedes parked in the driveway. For a moment she considers a confrontation with Fletch.
No.
Not yet.
It’s too soon.
She has to wait until the time is right.
“Mitchell?”
He looks up from the masked, robed figure he’s doodling on the inside of his notebook cover with a black ballpoint pen.
Uh-oh. Miss Bright is watching him. He was supposed to be working on the questions at the end of section three in his science textbook.
“Yeah?” Mitch asks cautiously.
“I’ve just received a note.” She waves a piece of paper in her hand.
Mitch frowns. He hadn’t even seen a messenger from the office.
Well, that’s because he was so caught up in what he was drawing—and in worrying about the killer on the loose in Townsend Heights.
Looks like Lianne was right about that. His mother woke him up early this morning and sent him to Blake’s, saying there had been a murder and she had to go cover it.
It turned out something happened to another lady from Townsend Heights. Mitch did his best not to show how scared he was as he watched the Channel 12 news with Blake’s family before school, scanning the crowd outside the dead lady’s house for his mom’s face. He thought he’d seen her once, but he wasn’t sure.
“You’re wanted in the principal’s office immediately,” Miss Bright tells Mitch. “Bring your books with you.”
There’s a quiet snicker behind him.
“What’d you do this time, Bailey?” Robbie Sussman whispers.
He frowns. He hasn’t done anything. Why would he be wanted in the principal’s office? Unless . . .
There’s a sickening thud in his stomach.
Mom.
Has something happened to her?
He grabs his notebook and textbook and forces his rubbery legs to carry him toward the door.
Standing at her kitchen sink, Karen pours the last of the coffee in the pot down the drain. It’s grown dark and bitter after sitting on the hot burner for several hours. She made it around three this morning, when she and Tom had realized they wouldn’t be able to get any more sleep and might as well get up for good.
She replays the events of the past six hours again, forcing herself to remember every detail—to confront the realization that what happened to Rachel could have happened to her. Or so it seems.
She, too, was alone in the house around midnight. She, too, turned out the lights and went up to bed, deciding not to wait up for her husband.
Tom came home soon afterward, crawling into bed beside her, finding her still awake. She snuggled against his reassuring warmth, telling him that the baby was sleeping soundly, apparently over the worst of her illness. Tom, in turn, told her about his ordeal with the client and that the man wanted to meet with him again the next day.
They made love, then—quietly, quickly—before Karen drifted off to sleep in her husband’s arms.
Sirens awakened them both. Only when they realized the police cars were rushing up their quiet dead-end street did they climb out of bed to see what had happened. It was Tom who walked down the block, then returned with the shocking news of Rachel’s murder.
Even now, hours later, Karen still can’t quite absorb what has happened.
/> She can’t grasp the fact that her friend is dead.
Not just dead. Murdered. Violently. In her own bed.
At least, that’s what Tom told her. But he was fuzzy on the details, saying that the cops had tried to shoo him away, and that he couldn’t even talk to Ben Leiberman, who was distraught.
Now Tom is dozing on the couch.
Taylor is in her swing, having greedily sucked down her morning bottle, which means she’s back to normal.
Earlier, Karen spoke to Tasha. She hadn’t known anything more than what Tom had told Karen. She had Rachel’s children at her house and was doing her best to shield them from the scene across the street. Karen knows she should offer to go down there and help. She can always leave Taylor with Tom. Yet some part of her is reluctant to confront what has happened. As long as she stays here at home, in her safe little cocoon, she can avoid the horror of the truth for a while longer.
But not forever . . .
Out of the corner of her eye, Karen spots a sudden movement through the window above the sink. She glances up.
Jeremiah Gallagher, clad in a heavy parka, jeans, and boots, is walking across the yard next door.
No, not walking.
Slinking, Karen thinks. There’s something decidedly furtive about the way he’s moving. As though he’s up to something and he’s worried somebody might catch him.
She sets the coffee pot in the sink and instinctively steps back away from the window. Just in case he glances in her direction and sees her watching.
She can still see him from here, through the space between the white ruffled curtains. But he won’t see her.
What in the world is he doing? He’s going into the storage shed again and closing the door behind him.
Why?
What’s in there?
Karen toys with a strand of her long, dark hair, wondering what to do. Should she wake Tom and tell him?
Why would she? Just because the boy next door has gone into the storage shed?
No, she reminds herself. Because the boy next door is the last person who saw Rachel alive. And now he’s acting suspiciously. As though there’s something in the shed that he doesn’t want anyone to know about.
The Last to Know Page 20
