Dead Before Dark

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  “But why would Garland have stolen the scrapbook?” Neal asks Lucinda, shaking his head as he hands her a mug of strong hot Irish tea. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I know it doesn’t. All I’m saying is that he walked through the kitchen on his way out the door. No one else was in here, and we would have noticed if one of the kids had left the room.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Probably.”

  Neal shrugs and sits across from her, sipping his own tea.

  Lucinda has never been a big believer in circumstantial evidence. Too many times, her own intuition has led her to look beyond the obvious—with fruitful results.

  Too bad her intuitive gifts seem clouded by her own involvement in this case. Aside from having sensed something wrong when she walked into her apartment earlier, she hasn’t had any psychic impressions of who left the book in her apartment, or why someone stole it away again and left the cryptic message in its place.

  “I still think the sheet of paper fell out of the scrapbook when you put it on the table,” Neal tells her.

  “But I went through it a couple of times, and I never saw it.”

  “Maybe you missed it.”

  Maybe she did. But if it had fallen from the album’s pages, it might have landed upside down, or on the floor….

  The way it was found, lying face up, margins almost precisely perpendicular to the edge of the table, makes it seem far more likely that someone deliberately placed it there.

  “Why don’t you tell me what was in it, before we jump to any more conclusions.”

  “There were articles and pictures of several young women who died years ago. They were all college students. And they all committed suicide, supposedly.”

  “Supposedly.”

  “Right. Ava Neary was one of them. Camden Hastings’s sister—remember?”

  “Yes. You were all over television, talking about that case.”

  “Don’t remind me.” She sighs. “I was trying to help. I thought maybe somebody who knew something would see it and come forward.”

  “Looks to me like somebody did.” Neal’s face, creased with age yet still handsome, is grim. “I don’t like this.”

  “You’re not the only one.”

  “So the scrapbook was filled with newspaper articles?”

  “Not original clippings. They were photocopies. Someone probably made them from a microfiche of the old newspaper pages or printed them off the Internet.”

  “All suicides are initially investigated as homicides, Cin. You know that, right?”

  “I do, but the cops investigating them didn’t have the big picture. They’re all isolated cases, handled by local police in seven different jurisdictions. It doesn’t look like anyone even connected the victims—other than in this scrapbook.”

  “It was a lot easier to miss patterns in the days before computers, and to miss signs of foul play. Forensics back then might as well have been nonexistent compared to what we have today.”

  “I know. And there were similarities in these cases that might have raised a red flag if anyone had connected them.”

  “Like?”

  “Like all of the women were young and pretty, with long, straight hair parted in the middle.”

  “It was the early seventies, right? That’s what everyone looked like.”

  “They all used particularly violent means to kill themselves. One drove her car off a cliff, a couple of them hung themselves, some jumped to their deaths, one even shot herself in the mouth.”

  “That’s unusual. Men tend to kill themselves using violent means. Not women. Women swallow pills. Shut themselves in a garage with the motor running. That sort of thing. There are exceptions, but…” He shakes his head.

  “Exactly. And in every one of those reports, if you look at the quotes from the people who knew the victims, nobody around these girls saw it coming. The suicides happened out of the blue. Some of them left notes, but they were typewritten.”

  “Isn’t that a surprise.”

  “Neal, if the same person who killed Ava Neary killed the rest of them…”

  Neal nods. “We might have a serial killer on our hands.”

  “Well, we don’t. I mean, this all happened decades ago. But it does seem like someone wants us—me—to tie it all together.”

  “Let’s just hope whoever managed to get into your apartment didn’t play an active role in any of it.”

  “I doubt it. Why would the killer want someone to solve the murders?”

  “Some serial offenders leave clues or even communicate with the authorities, as if they consciously—or subconsciously—want to be caught. But that’s usually not really the case. More likely, what they want is attention. Even anonymous attention. They’re starring in their own scripted drama.”

  “More like pulling the strings in a puppet show.”

  “Exactly. They want to demonstrate that they’re in control. That’s what it’s all about. Control. Power. They’ll tease the authorities into coming close, dangerously, oh-so-close—and then slip away again, to show who’s in charge.”

  But I’m not the authorities, Lucinda thinks.

  And anyway, forty years have passed since the first so-called suicide was committed. Hearing from the killer now doesn’t fit a typical pattern…does it?

  “Maybe it wasn’t the killer who left me this scrapbook, Neal. Maybe one of the victims’ family members saw me on television, and wanted me to know that Ava wasn’t the only one.”

  “I don’t buy it. Even if the person wanted to remain anonymous, he could have just called the police hotline number.”

  “Seeing all those women together in a scrapbook was pretty powerful stuff, though.”

  “Then why not mail it to you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I do. Someone wanted to scare the hell out of you, Cin.”

  “Well, they didn’t succeed.”

  Neal just looks at her.

  “All right, maybe they succeeded just a little.”

  She sips her tea, hating that this happened to her, hating that she’s scared.

  “How much do you know about this guy Jimmy you’ve been seeing?”

  Startled by Neal’s abrupt question, she considers it—and realizes it’s one that’s been in the back of her own mind ever since she found the album on her bed.

  “For one thing, I’m not seeing him anymore.”

  “I thought you just—”

  “I told him tonight when we got back that it’s not going to work out.”

  “That’s good. I wasn’t crazy about him.”

  “No way, really?” She smiles faintly, but only for a moment. “You don’t think he did this…do you?”

  Neal throws up his hands. “After all these years in this business, Cin, I wouldn’t put anything past anyone. You know that.”

  “Jimmy was with me all weekend, though. He picked me up Friday night to take me to the airport, and he brought me home again tonight.”

  “Okay…so you had your eyes on him the whole time he was in your place?”

  “Tonight, yes. The other night…”

  “The other night, what?”

  She shakes her head. “I’m not sure. We were running late for the flight, and I was making sure I had my passport and watering the plants and all that last minute stuff…. He was in my room because he carried my bag and that’s where I had it, but…I just wasn’t paying attention. I can’t remember if I was in there after he was, or not.”

  “So if he was the last one out of your bedroom, he could have left the album on your bed.”

  “He could have…but it would have been pretty damned risky, don’t you think?”

  “You know as well as I do that some people—dangerous people—thrive on the thrill of taking risks.”

  “Jimmy isn’t one of them. Trust me.”

  But how can you be sure? You only know what he’s told you. What he’s shown you. You’ve never even met anyone else in his
life, never seen his kids or heard them call him while you were with him, never seen where he works, or lives….

  How do you know any of it is true?

  “Just be careful around him, Cin, if he tries to get in touch again.”

  “I will.” The mere thought that Jimmy could possibly be behind this—as a prank, or something more sinister—is far more disturbing to her than she lets on to Neal.

  She’s always been a good judge of character. Goes with the territory when you’re a psychic. She’s reasonably sure Jimmy didn’t do it.

  But not a hundred percent sure, are you?

  Lucinda has never had much trouble falling asleep, despite all her nervous energy. Or, perhaps, because of it. Most nights, she falls into bed exhausted and is typically out cold within minutes of hitting the pillow.

  Not tonight.

  She can’t stop thinking about the missing scrapbook.

  She has no idea what the numbers mean, but one thing is clear: Lucinda is being followed. Watched.

  That alone is enough to keep her awake into the wee hours.

  Not that she fears a stranger is lurking in the apartment with her now. She examined every inch of the apartment when she got back here, holding her BlackBerry with a worried Neal connected on the other end of the phone line.

  “No Boogey Man,” she assured him before hanging up, forcing an upbeat tone into her voice.

  She’s pretty sure Neal didn’t buy it, because he asked her, one last time, if she was sure she wanted to spend the night here alone.

  “I’m absolutely positive, Neal.”

  And she absolutely was.

  Still is.

  This is, quite simply, how she operates. Lucinda Sloan doesn’t run scared, and she doesn’t rely on other people to bail her out of tough situations. Where would she be if she did that?

  Back on the Main Line, living off her parents’ money, and under their thumbs.

  No, thank you. She’s been taking care of herself ever since the day she moved out of their stone mansion for the last time, after years of coming and going from boarding schools and college dorms.

  Whatever is going on here, she’ll handle.

  Even if I am secretly scared shitless and have to sleep with the light on.

  She rolls onto her back and stares at the cracks in the plaster ceiling, once again going over every detail.

  One thing keeps nagging at her: Maeve’s comment about a man breaking the vase.

  There’s no doubt that the child has an active imagination.

  But what if she was telling the truth?

  He smiles as he leafs through the scrapbook, this time with bare fingers chapped blotchy red from the relentless cold.

  He had forgotten, over all those insulated years in prison, how harsh the elements can be. Had forgotten how wind off the water can slice like a knife; can rub raw the skin over joints until it splits and bleeds.

  Maybe he should wear gloves more often—not just to prevent leaving fingerprints.

  No need to worry about that now that the scrapbook is back in his possession, though.

  No need to worry about anything from here on in.

  Things have fallen into place like clockwork in the past couple of days.

  Clockwork.

  His grin broadens at his own cleverness.

  What did she make of his first little clue: the numbers?

  Could she possibly have figured out what they mean?

  No…but she will, soon enough.

  And soon enough, she’ll discover the second clue he left her. Not tonight, though.

  First thing tomorrow morning. He’d bet his life on that. He’s been watching her long enough to know she’s a creature of habit.

  Standing abruptly, he carries the scrapbook over to the hearth. After moving the screen aside, he jabs at the logs with a wrought iron poker, stirring the red-hot embers back to life, enjoying the crackling sound.

  When the blaze is good and ready, he opens the book one last time, to the page that shows Ava Neary’s photo.

  “Thank you, sweetheart,” he softly tells her.

  Then he tosses the scrapbook onto the fire and watches the ferocious flames lick her smiling, unsuspecting face.

  Chapter Three

  On this dismal winter morning, there’s no real sunrise. The rectangles of sky beyond Lucinda’s bedroom windows simply go from black to charcoal and finally to a sodden gray, signaling that it’s safe for her to turn off the bedside lamp.

  Feeling as though someone took a loofah to her eyelids, she gets out of bed and laces her fingers at the nape of her neck, stretching. Her entire body aches with tension, but sleep is a lost cause.

  She dozed off at some point in the night, but not for long, and it was a restless sleep marred by a reoccurring dream she’s had lately.

  In the dream, she’s always working a big wooden jigsaw puzzle. It’s almost done, but for some reason, she can’t tell what it’s supposed to be; the picture has worn off the box. She fits one piece after another until she gets to the end—and realizes one piece is missing. She looks everywhere for it, but it’s nowhere to be found, and without it, she can’t tell what the picture is.

  It makes no sense, of course. One missing piece wouldn’t make a puzzle picture ambiguous. But dreams have little logic; unless she finds the missing piece, all her work has been for nothing because the puzzle has no meaning.

  Whenever she wakes from this particular dream she feels exhausted—though today, she’d probably feel that way regardless.

  Grateful for the light of dawn, dim as it is, Lucinda goes into the bathroom to brush her teeth.

  Her reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror catches her off guard. The fluorescent lighting is harsh, emphasizing the dark circles beneath her eyes and the haunted expression in them.

  She quickly opens the mirrored door to get the toothpaste and leaves it open as she brushes her teeth and splashes water on her face, not wanting to look at herself.

  An immediate caffeine fix is in order.

  She goes to the kitchen, opens the fridge, grabs a can of Pepsi, and chugs some. Not exactly the breakfast of champions, but the sweet fizz is just what she needs first thing every morning—particularly this morning.

  When she ordered it for breakfast the first morning in Curaçao, Jimmy looked at her as though she’d just asked the waiter to score her some heroin.

  “Pepsi? At this hour?”

  “We’re in a different time zone.”

  “Yeah, an hour ahead of Philly.”

  “Whatever. I drink Pepsi for breakfast. Sue me.” That was the first time she wished she were back in the slushy, muddy Northeast, but it wasn’t the last.

  Remembering what Neal said last night about Jimmy, she decides it’s a very good thing she impulsively broke it off last night. Just in case…

  Just in case he happened to have killed Ava Neary and a bunch of other innocent girls back in the sixties and seventies?

  That’s hardly likely. How old can he be? A couple of decades older than she is—but he’s been pretty vague about his age.

  For all she knows, he was twelve when Ava was killed.

  Or maybe he was twenty—around Ava’s age.

  Troubled, Lucinda takes a stack of fluted white paper filters from the cupboard and separates one.

  Wishing Cam weren’t skiing somewhere out West, where it’s still the middle of the night, Lucinda is planning to call her cell phone later. Cam should be told about the scrap-book. Told, warned—just in case someone has been prowling around her as well. At least she’s safely out of town for the time being.

  As Lucinda fits the filter into the black plastic basket she tries—as she’s been doing all night—to remember the details about some of the women who appeared in the scrapbook before it was snatched away.

  She clearly recalls two of the victims’ entire names.

  One is Sandra Wubner. The girl bore an incredible resemblance to Ava—even more so than the others. Lucin
da read her story with particular interest.

  Sandra Wubner hung herself while she was babysitting for a little girl, who found her body. The child’s mother told the police her daughter said Sandra’s boyfriend had been over that night, which he later denied, even providing an alibi.

  Lucinda can’t remember his name, or that of the family for whom Sandra had been babysitting, but she’s pretty sure it was Italian. And she’s positive Sandra Wubner lived—and died—in Buffalo.

  The other memorable so-called suicide victim was Elizabeth Johnson. Lucinda had known an Elizabeth Johnston back in boarding school. When she was skimming the scrapbook the name jumped out at her, and she did a double-take before seeing that it was Johnson. No T.

  Common name.

  She can just imagine how many hits she’d find on a search engine. At least she knows that this Elizabeth—like her old friend—was also from suburban New York City. Westchester, maybe, or Connecticut. She wishes she could remember where, but she can’t. One of the shore towns. Rye? Darien? Where was it?

  Yawning deeply, she measures coffee grounds into the filter basket. Instead of making half a pot—all of which she drinks herself on an ordinary morning—she decides to go for the full twelve cups. She’ll need it.

  About to fill the glass carafe at the tap, she notices something inside, resting on the bottom.

  Frowning, she opens the lid.

  What on earth?

  It’s a ring.

  She pulls it out to examine it.

  A signet ring, engraved with an elaborately swirled letter Z and caked with something dried and brown.

  As Lucinda holds it, a vision sweeps her thoughts.

  A woman.

  She’s lying on a tile floor in a pool of blood, face frozen in terror….

  Familiar face.

  Eyes wide open…

  Familiar blue eyes…

  As quickly as it came over her, the vision disappears.

  Gripping the edge of the sink, Lucinda realizes she’s just seen the corpse of Randy Barakat’s wife, Carla.

  Cam gently settles the pink-wrapped bundle into the cradle.

  “There,” she barely whispers. “Go back to sleep now. It’s early.”