The Last to Know

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  She closes the basement door behind her, then, training the flashlight beam on the steep stairway, continues her journey into the depths of the old house.

  It’s cold down here. Damp. Cobwebs brush against her face as she makes her way through one cavernous room after another. The wine cellar. The root cellar. The coal bin.

  At last reaching the back wall of the stone foundation that was dug well over a century ago, Margaret opens the rough-hewn door to a moldering storage closet. Her beam illuminates a few rusted old tools that hang on the walls. Otherwise, the closet is empty.

  Not quite. Margaret shudders, hearing a sudden scurrying somewhere at her feet as she steps inside.

  Holding the flashlight steady with one hand, training it on the back wall of the closet, she reaches out, feeling for the concealed latch Jane showed her that day so long ago.

  One tug, and the back wall of the closet transforms into a door.

  A door that leads to an underground tunnel that will take her away from the house and into the woods, far beyond the glare of the lights and cameras.

  Margaret steps over the threshold and pulls the door safely shut after her, one hand clutching the flashlight, the other feeling in her pocket to make sure they’re still there.

  The photograph.

  And the butcher knife.

  Wrapped in her flannel bathrobe, Tasha scuffs downstairs in her big fuzzy slippers, wondering where Joel can possibly be.

  He left over an hour ago to pick up the food and the video.

  In the front hall, she peers out into the night. The wind is gusting and it’s raining now. Just a light rain that patters against the windows, but Tasha knows that a nor’easter is predicted at some point this weekend.

  Maybe Joel won’t be able to go to Chicago tomorrow, she thinks hopefully.

  Or maybe she should just come right out and ask him not to go.

  Before his sudden shift in mood earlier tonight, she wouldn’t have dared. But the way he treated her earlier, before he left . . . well, he might have realized how much she needs him. He might be willing to tell his boss that he can’t make the trip.

  Tasha decides to ask him about it when he gets home.

  Where is he?

  How long can it possibly take to get Chinese food and a video? Okay, he did have to order the food and wait for it to be prepared. And he did have to browse in the video store. Plus, the strip with Panda Palace and Blockbuster is a few miles from here, outside of town.

  Even considering all of those things, he should be back by now.

  What if something has happened? Like a fender bender?

  Then he would have called, she tells herself.

  Worried, Tasha paces into the kitchen.

  Her gaze falls on the telephone receiver lying face-up on the counter, and a wave of relief washes over her.

  Of course. Joel said he was taking the phone off the hook because of reporters. If he tried to call her to say he would be delayed, he wouldn’t get through.

  Tasha hangs up the phone, hoping he’ll call—or better yet, walk in the door—soon.

  You should have known better than to come here, Sharon. You should have trusted your senses. But your curiosity got the best of you, didn’t it.

  Look at her, picking her way through the marshy ground overgrown with grass, looking over her shoulder every few seconds, almost as though she suspects she’s being watched. But she doesn’t think to look ahead of her, over toward the shed. Not that she would see anything if she did. A perfect hiding place, here in the shadows behind the overgrown lilacs alongside the shed.

  Ah, Sharon.

  Even glimpsed from a distance, through the murky darkness and driving rain, she’s beautiful, with that stunning figure and that blond hair of hers.

  Does she sense that these are her last moments of life? Does she realize she’s about to draw her last breath? Does she know now that she’s no better, no different, than the others?

  A few more steps, and she’ll be in position.

  One . . .

  Two . . .

  Three . . .

  She gasps, looking up. “My God,” she says in the split second before she realizes. “You just scared the hell out of me. What are you doing here?”

  And then she knows, in an instant, her surprised expression giving way to horror and then a twisted mask of agony as her hair is yanked back and the blade swiftly slices her throat.

  At last Jeremiah arrives at his destination, shivering, soaked from the rain that, thankfully, didn’t begin falling until a short time ago. As he picks his way through the last few yards of mist-draped woods over finally familiar terrain toward the clearing just ahead, he can think only of food. And sleep.

  He hasn’t eaten all day today, either. He couldn’t bring himself to even consider ingesting anything he could possibly find in the forest. Certainly not raw game, or worms, or grubs. He sipped water from a cold, clear stream. It had a faintly metallic flavor, but his throat was so parched it didn’t matter.

  Now maybe he can find something to eat in the remains of the vegetable garden he and the twins planted last spring. The deer have probably taken any tomatoes and beans that survived the light frosts they’ve had until now, but you never know. And there are pumpkins, not all of them the size of the enormous prize one that he was supposed to help his sisters lug to the harvest festival. Maybe he can cut into some of the smaller sugar pumpkins using his father’s axe, as long as it’s still in the shed.

  Shivering, Jeremiah remembers that there used to be a couple of old blankets in the shed, too. They used them for a long-ago day at the Jersey Shore, and Melissa refused to allow them back into the house to be washed, saying she didn’t want her washing machine full of sand. Jeremiah’s dad stashed them on a shelf with citronella candles and potting soil and rose spray, and they were still there the last time Jeremiah looked.

  In fact, everything beyond the charred ruins of the house—the shed, the garden, the girls’ wooden swing set—is just as it was left the night of the fire. Jeremiah knows his father intends to sell the property when he comes back home from the Middle East.

  And then what? He’s pretty sure his father doesn’t intend for him and his stepsisters to five with Uncle Fletch and Aunt Sharon forever.

  But now, with everything that’s happened, Jeremiah has no idea what his future holds. For all he knows, he could spend the rest of his life in prison for murder.

  Swallowing hard, his throat sore from two days hiking in the cold, damp air, he steps into the overgrown yard. The rain is coming down harder now, and the ground is marshy beneath his feet.

  He’ll check out the vegetable garden first, then the shed.

  Then, coming into view of the garden, he stops short.

  No . . .

  It can’t be.

  Needing to believe that the scene before him is distorted by the rain and mist, Jeremiah takes a step forward. Then another.

  Then a scream escapes him as he finally understands that the gruesome sight is no illusion.

  Paula hurries toward Officer Brian Mulvaney as he stands in front of her car parked in the fire lane in front of the town hall. His ticket pad is in his hand and he’s shaking his head.

  “Brian, I’m so sorry,” she calls to him.

  He looks up in surprise, spotting her amid the swarm of people coming from the press conference. “Paula, hi.”

  “That’s my car,” she says apologetically, jingling the keys. “I couldn’t find a spot for the press conference—every spot in front of my apartment two blocks away is taken, and even the commuter parking lot is full.”

  “I know. I’m headed over there next,” he tells her, gesturing around them at the throng of chattering reporters. “I can’t believe these out-of-town idiots don’t even give a second glance at the signs that say you need a permit
to park in that lot or you get towed.”

  “They don’t care. They just want their story. And so do I, I guess,” she admits, knowing she’s guilty as charged. And she can’t exactly come right out and ask him not to ticket her. But with any luck . . .

  He grins and tears up the ticket he was writing. “Yeah, but you’re local, Paula,” he says. “The least I can do is cut you a break. I was just about to have you towed away. I’ve just about had it with this town being overrun by outsiders, and it doesn’t look like that’s going to change any time soon.”

  “Thanks, Brian. You don’t know how grateful I am. This is the second favor you’ve done for me today.”

  His grin fades. His voice low, he tells her, “Yeah, but don’t tell a soul about the other one. I mean, I don’t want this getting out, either. But cops rip up tickets all the time. The other thing—letting you check out the murder scene—they won’t understand.”

  “Don’t worry, Brian. I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone about that, and it was really helpful for my story. You know, to set the tone,” she lies.

  Soon enough, Paula—not the local cops, not the seasoned detectives, not the big-city investigative reporters—will blow open the Leiberman and Kendall cases by revealing the shocking clues everyone else has missed. Then Brian Mulvaney will realize that he—and everyone else in town—underestimated Paula’s journalistic skills.

  “I really appreciate what you did for me, Brian,” she says. “I know how busy you are with everything that’s going on.”

  “Well, if the coroner’s office can rule out suicide in Jane Kendall’s death, you’ll have an even bigger story than you originally thought.” He shakes his head. “Two murdered women in Townsend Heights.”

  Three, Paula corrects him silently. You’ve forgotten Melissa Gallagher. But I haven’t. . . .

  Tasha, on the couch, awakens with a start, hearing footsteps in the kitchen. Her heart racing, she calls out, “Joel?”

  What if it’s not? Her mind whirls. Her gaze falls on the fireplace tools across the room. Can she make it there and arm herself with a poker before she’s attacked?

  “It’s me,” he calls.

  “Thank God.” Relieved, she rubs her eyes and gets to her feet, glancing at the clock. She sat down only five minutes ago to wait for him, but apparently she drifted off. She’s so exhausted, all she really wants is to go upstairs and crawl into bed, but she can smell the savory aroma of the Chinese food. She’ll have to eat. After all, Joel got it just for her.

  Making her way into the kitchen, she finds her husband hanging his dripping raincoat on one of the hooks beside the door.

  “What happened to you?” she asks.

  “It’s a monsoon out there, that’s what happened.” He takes off his soggy shoes and puts them on the mat, then strips off his socks, too.

  “I mean, why did it take you so long?” She peers into the shopping bag filled with boxy white takeout cartons. “I was worried.”

  “I tried to call you, but the phone was off the hook, remember?”

  “I know, I just figured that out a few minutes ago, actually. So what happened?”

  “The Panda Palace was jammed. Not just people eating there and coming in to pick up takeout, but their phone was ringing off the hook for deliveries because of the weather. So by the time I placed our order, then waited for it, then went to the video store . . .”

  “Well, I really appreciate it,” she tells him, grabbing napkins from a drawer and carrying them and the bag to the living room. “What movie did you rent?”

  “That Steve Martin thing from last year.”

  She knows which movie he means. She already saw it one night on cable when he was working late. But she doesn’t have the heart to tell him that after all he went through to get it, so she says, “Sounds great”

  “I’m going upstairs to change into dry clothes. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  She’s just set the food down in the living room when the phone rings. Tasha sighs. It must be a reporter. As she goes to answer it she tells herself she’ll let the machine get the next one, or just take it off the hook again now that Joel is home.

  “Tasha? It’s me.”

  “Karen, hi. I thought you were going to be another reporter.”

  “They’re still calling?”

  “There was a lull, but they’ve started again. You’re lucky you’re unlisted.”

  “Well, you know Tom. Mr. Privacy.” Karen’s tone is subdued. “Did you hear about Jane?”

  “Yes. It’s horrible.”

  “I know. I keep picturing that sweet little girl without a mommy.”

  “Me, too. I guess I almost expected that this was how it would turn out, but somehow it’s still a shock.”

  “I know. And I’ve got to tell you about something strange that happened, Tasha. Do you know Fletch Gallagher’s nephew?”

  Fletch Gallagher. As always, the mere mention of his name makes her uneasy.

  “I know who he is,” she tells Karen. “He babysat for Rachel’s kids the night she—”

  “Exactly.”

  Karen goes on to tell Tasha what she saw: Jeremiah Gallagher lurking around the shed in his backyard, then disappearing into the woods with some kind of bundle. She says she hasn’t seen him since.

  “Tom thinks I’m being paranoid or nosy or both, but I can’t help thinking maybe he had something to do with Rachel’s death.”

  Tasha considers that. She barely knows Jeremiah, but from what she can tell, he’s something of a loner. Which doesn’t mean he’s capable of murder, but you never know. Besides . . .

  “What about Jane?” she reminds Karen. “If she was killed, too, do you think he had something to do with that? Because I don’t know if he had any connection to her.”

  “I don’t know what to think,” Karen tells her. “All I know is that he was behaving suspiciously, and two women are dead. Tom doesn’t think I should get involved. What do you think I should do?”

  “I’m honestly not sure,” Tasha says as Joel comes into the room wearing sweat pants and a thermal pullover. He gives her a questioning look. “Wait, let me see what Joel thinks.”

  “About what?” he asks. “Who’s on the phone?”

  “Karen.” She briefly explains the situation to him. “Should Karen call the police?”

  “Definitely,” Joel says without hesitation. “It sounds like they already consider the kid a suspect This could be important information.”

  “Joel says to call the police,” Tasha tells Karen.

  “I heard him.” Karen sighs.

  “Are you going to do it?”

  “I think I’ll sleep on it,” she decides, and adds, “If I manage to get any sleep. Tom will be out late tonight, and I’m jittery.”

  “I know what you mean. If you need anything, Joel and I are home, okay?”

  Tasha hangs up. Her husband hands her a pair of chopsticks and a carton.

  “Did you get a whole quart of this?” she asks, surprised by the size.

  “I figured you can have the leftovers while I’m away.” He grabs another container and opens the flap.

  Tasha slides the chopsticks from their paper sleeve, considering his words. She chooses hers carefully. “So you’re still going away tomorrow, then?”

  He looks at her in surprise. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Because of what’s going on here, Joel.”

  She forces herself to keep her manner calm, almost casual. She doesn’t have the energy for an argument. Besides, she doesn’t want to put Joel on the defensive, knowing that will make him even less likely to change his travel plans—if there’s any chance of that at all. Judging by his expression, there’s not.

  “Look,” he says after a beat. “I’d stay here if I could, Tasha. But my job is on the line—”

&nb
sp; “Joel, our lives could be on the line. Mine and the kids’.” So much for staying calm.

  “If you’re afraid—”

  “I have good reason to be afraid! Two of my friends have been murdered—”

  “You should go stay with my parents.”

  “No,” she says flatly. “How can I do that? Hunter has school—”

  “He missed Friday. He can miss again. It’s kindergarten, Tasha. He’ll recover.”

  “And I can’t stand the thought of listening to your mother tell me how we were fools to ever move up here, and how dangerous it is, and—”

  “She won’t say that, Tasha.”

  “Where have you been, Joel?” she asks, frustrated. “She already did say it. All day today.” But Joel, as usual, had been miles away, spaced out, thinking about whatever it is that lately consumes his thoughts, his time.

  “Just tune her out, the way I do,” Joel advises, his mild tone rankling.

  He acts as though it’s so simple.

  Maybe it is, some reasonable part of Tasha points out, but it’s overwhelmed by the part of her that is fed up, and frightened, and hurt. She wants Joel to say, “To hell with the job, I’m staying here to protect you.”

  But he won’t

  She tosses the chopsticks onto the table and stands.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To bed,” she flings over her shoulder as she walks toward the stairs.

  “What about your food?”

  “I’m not hungry. I’ll have plenty of leftovers for tomorrow. While you’re gone.”

  The tears don’t start until she’s upstairs, lying alone in their queen-size bed, listening to the wind and rain lashing against the house. She tells herself that Joel will come up to apologize.

  But she realizes, as she drifts off to sleep later, that he isn’t going to come up at all.

  The phone is ringing when Fletch walks into the house. He hurries across the kitchen to answer it, conscious that he’s tracking mud across the floor, and not giving a damn.