The Bad Sister

by Kevin O'Brien

  Eden told herself that just because she’d obliterated the words on paper, it didn’t mean the idea was gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Friday, September 18, 12:40 P.M.

  “Those murders were tragic—and a stain on this university’s otherwise excellent reputation,” Father O’Hurley said. He sat in the big, leather chair behind his desk under the sanctimonious gaze of his mother as St. Anne in the portrait. “People don’t need to be reminded about something that happened fifty years ago. We’d all just as soon forget . . .”

  Sitting across from him once again in the astonishingly uncomfortable straight-back antique chair, Ellie just nodded. She’d already pointed out that she hadn’t shared her theory about a copycat killer with anyone except Detective Castino. “And that was in an effort to help him with his investigation into a student’s death,” she’d added.

  But now, she just remained silent. She didn’t mention Look Homeward, Angel again or how much Diana looked like the first victim of the Immaculate Conception murders, Greta Mae Louden. She’d already told him. But he continued to chew her out over her call to Detective Castino.

  Ellie guessed that a part of him was aggravated because she’d waited until this morning to return his call. It also must have unnerved him a bit that she didn’t act contrite, throw herself at his mercy, and ask to do a dozen Hail Marys and a dozen Our Fathers as penance.

  The ironic thing was that, since talking with Nate Bergquist last night, she wasn’t quite as fixated on the Immaculate Conception murders as before. A part of her was almost willing to accept that Eden O’Rourke might have indeed gone off of her own volition and was perfectly fine right now. And perhaps Diana had, sadly, taken her own life. The theories she had about those events were just that—theories, speculation.

  She’d been distracted and sidetracked by everything Nate had told her last night. She’d stayed at his place, talking with him until close to nine o’clock. He’d even ordered them a pizza. While they’d eaten, he’d shown her a second file, which he’d hidden—along with a revolver Frank had given him—under the floorboard of the kitchen cabinet. In the file were articles and photos from Portland newspapers about the explosion at his family cabin. Then she’d come home and read even more about the incident online, including an article debunking the story about the cabin being a crystal meth lab. The piece had several testimonials from Nate’s former patients and colleagues at the veterans hospital. Ellie came to the conclusion that Nate Bergquist was a damn nice guy. And he needed her help.

  So, for at least one night, she’d lost focus on the Immaculate Conception murders and the possibility that a copycat killer was now on the loose.

  She was almost grateful to Father O’Hurley for reminding her just how important that was.

  “That was a terrible time in the history of this university,” he said. In the big picture window behind him, the sky was darkening over the lake. “I won’t let you dredge it up again and cause a panic at the school with all this loose, irresponsible talk about a copycat killer. Do you understand, Ms. Goodwin?”

  “Completely, Father.” She got to her feet. “And I’m sorry to have taken up your time with all this. I know you’re busy.”

  He seemed a bit flummoxed that she’d gotten up before he was ready to dismiss her. “Yes, well, I hope I won’t have to talk to you again about this,” he grumbled, rising from his chair.

  Ellie stopped in front of his office door and turned to him. “I hope not,” she said. “But then, we’ll know for sure by Sunday, won’t we?”

  His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “Jane Marie Eggert,” Ellie said. “She was last seen at a bar in Highwood on the night of September nineteenth, 1970. Her body was found under a bridge on Sycamore Way the following morning. She’d been strangled. This Sunday is the fiftieth anniversary of when they found Jane’s body.”

  He glared at her.

  “Have a nice weekend, Father,” Ellie said. “I truly hope it’s uneventful.”

  Then she walked out of his office.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Saturday, September 19, 11:52 A.M.

  Chicago

  At first, Hannah thought the immaculate four-story art deco edifice was a condominium for a select few rich residents. Tucked between two tall apartment buildings along Lake Shore Drive, it had a gated driveway, perfectly trimmed hedges, and a flagpole in front.

  She stared at the building from the backseat of the Lincoln Town Car. Rachel was at her side. Rachel’s driver, Perry, stopped at the end of the short driveway, and the gate opened.

  “Here we are,” Rachel announced, “home sweet home.”

  “For some reason, I thought you lived in a house,” Hannah said as the car pulled up to the front door.

  “Yeah, I do. This is my house. C’mon. Perry will get our stuff . . .”

  As they climbed out of the car, Hannah couldn’t stop gaping at the house. The front door opened, and a stout, fifty-something brunette waited for them in the doorway. She had a pretty smile, and wore a plain black short-sleeve dress and a pearl necklace. “Welcome home, Rachel!” she said cheerfully. “And you brought a friend. How lovely . . .”

  Rachel gave her a hug. “Alida, this is Hannah.”

  The woman shook Hannah’s hand. “It’s so nice to meet you,” she said. She had a very pleasant demeanor that seemed sincere, yet restrained.

  “Alida is the glue that holds this place together,” Rachel explained, stepping into the house. “We’re all helpless without her.”

  Hannah followed Rachel into the grand foyer—with a polished wood parquet floor, a dramatic, curved staircase, and a beautiful chandelier overhead. A huge, framed painting hung on the wall above a mirrored table. The early 1900s portrait of a woman in white looked like it belonged in a museum. Hannah was in awe of the place, which seemed stately, but not stuffy. She’d only seen houses like this in the movies—and in Architectural Digest.

  With their overnight bags in tow, Perry quietly moved past them and then up the stairs.

  “Your mom and dad should be home any minute,” Alida said to Rachel. “They left the club a little while ago. They’re looking forward to having lunch with you, Rachel. Your mom wants to eat out on the terrace. Hildie’s fixing your favorite, BLTs.”

  “Cool.” Rachel turned to Hannah. “Our cook, Hildie, makes the best BLTs. Is that okay with you?”

  “Sure,” Hannah answered, shrugging.

  “We’ll be up in my room,” Rachel told the housekeeper. “Give us a shout when lunch is ready.”

  “I’ll let Hildie know there’ll be one more,” Alida said.

  Hannah followed Rachel up the stairs. “Your parents are expecting me, aren’t they?” she whispered. “I mean, you told them I’m spending the night, didn’t you?”

  “Hey, it’s not a problem,” Rachel said, heading down the spacious hallway decorated with more museum-quality art. “This is my house, too. I can have my friends over any time I want.”

  Rachel’s bedroom had a queen-size, four-poster bed with a pale pink silk coverlet. Everything was white, pale pink, or mint-colored, and all those hues were incorporated in the plush, rose-patterned carpet. The windows provided a view of the Chicago cityscape. There was a TV on one of the dressers and, above the desk, a pretty portrait of Rachel that must have been painted a couple of years ago. And there was a fireplace, too, of course.

  Hannah’s concern about her unanticipated presence in the house was set aside as she got a look at Rachel’s exquisite bathroom—with a vanity, walk-in shower, huge tub, and separate stall for the toilet. Her walk-in closet was as big as Hannah’s bedroom at home, and it featured a remote-controlled revolving shoe rack with what seemed like a hundred pairs of shoes.

  They both unpacked their overnight bags.

  When Alida came to the bedroom door and announced that Rachel’s parents were home and ready for lunch, Hannah got all nervous again.

  Last night, in
preparation for this visit, Hannah had googled Richard and Candace Bonner. She watched a YouTube video of their appearance on a local evening show, Chicago PM, over the summer. Mr. Bonner was interviewed outside on the lakefront about some charity yacht race. He was a handsome, slightly jowly older businessman. But he also looked sporty in his baseball cap and Izod shirt. What with all the sailing terms he used, Hannah hadn’t had a clue what he was talking about, but he spoke with authority. Mrs. Bonner was on the same show, but in the studio with the host. She was so elegant and stylish in her Chanel suit. She had that older Princess Grace thing going for her. Yet she seemed down to earth as she traded quips with the Chicago PM hosts. She was promoting a charity event tied to the yacht race, with a who’s who of guests: “Our good friend Harry Connick Junior has agreed to sing a few songs for us, and of course, the mayor will be there . . .”

  Hannah couldn’t help feeling anxious about meeting them. These were the same two people who had been on TV a few weeks ago. Sure, she’d been on TV, too, but only because of a horribly humiliating national news story about her screwed-up family. Rachel’s parents were local celebrities. Plus they were paying for Hannah’s schooling and her room and board. All of that was intimidating enough, but as a bonus, Rachel hadn’t told them that Hannah was here—and spending the night, no less. And the Bonners had a pretty low opinion of her father, so the whole thing promised to be awkward as hell.

  She and Rachel headed downstairs. On their way to the terrace, they passed by the formal dining room with a huge fireplace, a table that must have sat thirty people, and above it, three chandeliers. Then they moved through the paneled study with yet another fireplace and a wet bar. The terrace was just outside a pair of open French doors.

  “I heard we had a guest for lunch, but Alida didn’t say anything about how pretty she was,” Mr. Bonner announced, getting up from the beautifully set glass-top table on their terrace. It was in the shade of a green awning. “Or is that chauvinistic of me to say?”

  “Very, Dad,” Rachel said, planting a kiss on his cheek.

  He gave her a fierce hug and then shook Hannah’s hand. “Great to meet you,” he said.

  He was the same middle-aged, husky business-tycoon Hannah had seen on TV—only friendlier than she’d expected. He barely resembled the young stud in the framed photograph in Rachel’s bedroom at the bungalow.

  Hannah’s mother was even more beautiful in person—with flawless skin and soft, delicate features that the TV cameras hadn’t quite captured. She looked closer to forty than to fifty-something. She wore a tennis outfit, but didn’t appear as if she’d broken a sweat any time recently. Sitting at the table with a tall glass of iced tea in her hand, she seemed so composed and regal. She and Rachel merely brushed cheeks for a greeting. “Oh, I still can’t get used to what you’ve done with your hair,” she murmured.

  “It’s great to see you, too, Mom,” Rachel muttered, sinking into her chair.

  Rachel’s mother turned to Hannah. “She looks just like Mia Farrow in Rosemary’s Baby, doesn’t she?”

  Hannah shrugged. “I’m afraid I’ve never seen that movie. I—I absolutely love your house. It’s gorgeous. And I can’t get over your garden . . .”

  She was thinking of her mother, who was always toiling away in her backyard garden at home—her far-from-glamorous mother, and their modest four-bedroom house. The Bonners’ terrace had a beautiful old stone fountain, potted flowers and plants, and overlooked a courtyard with a koi pond and lush gardens.

  Rachel’s mother smiled at her. “Well, thank you, dear. What can we get you to drink? Iced tea, Perrier, a soft drink?”

  A skinny, gray-haired, uniformed maid set a glass of iced tea in front of Rachel.

  “Thanks, Sylvia,” Rachel sighed. “How’s your arthritis?”

  “Manageable, thanks for asking, Miss Rachel,” she answered quietly. Then she turned toward Hannah. “To drink, miss?”

  She saw that everyone else had iced tea. “I’d love an iced tea, thank you very much,” Hannah said just to be agreeable, even though she craved a Diet Coke.

  “Well, a polite one,” Mr. Bonner said. “You can come over for lunch any time, young lady.”

  “So what are you two planning to do with your afternoon?” Rachel’s mother asked.

  “Well, since Hannah hasn’t ever been to Chicago, I figured I’d take her to the Art Institute and Millennium Park,” Rachel said.

  “How nice,” Mrs. Bonner said with a pleasant smile. “Where are you from, Anna?”

  “It’s Hannah, Mom,” Rachel said. “Hannah O’Rourke, you know, my sister? And she’s from Seattle. But I think you already knew that.”

  Mrs. Bonner turned to gaze at Hannah. She kept the same pleasant smile plastered on her face. But from the rest of her expression, she may as well have had a mouthful of broken glass.

  * * *

  “When we invited you to come home this weekend, we didn’t say you could bring a friend along,” Mrs. Bonner declared in a shrill voice, “and especially this girl—of all people. If you’d bothered to tell us in advance—or even ask—we would’ve told you no. I suppose that’s why you didn’t ask. Did you enjoy putting your father and me on the spot like that? How could you? You know how we feel about her father. Do you have any idea what an imposition this is for your father and me? Are you listening to me, young lady?”

  “Yeah, it’s like absolutely no imposition on you guys!” Rachel shot back. “You’d think we didn’t have a household staff! You won’t even know she’s here. You don’t have to lift a goddamn finger for her—”

  “That’s not the point, and you know it!” Mrs. Bonner barked.

  Mr. Bonner said something in a low voice. Hannah could only make out the tone of his voice. It sounded like he was whispering and trying to calm down Rachel and her mother.

  Hannah sat on the edge of the tub in Rachel’s bathroom. The vent in there made it all too easy for her to hear the Bonners’ discussion downstairs in the study.

  She’d managed to get through the awkward lunch. Once they’d found out who she was, Mr. and Mrs. Bonner seemed to have difficulty even so much as looking at her. Mr. Bonner kept clearing his throat—like something was stuck in the back of it. He addressed Hannah only twice: first, to ask how she liked Our Lady of the Cove, and second, to ask if it was true that it rained a lot in Seattle. He also talked about his golf game. At least, he tried. Mrs. Bonner barely spoke. She ate one half of her sandwich, excused herself, and said she had to make some calls. Then she left the table.

  That was when Rachel turned to her father and told him: “You might as well know, Daddy. I took that paternity test and mailed it in this morning.”

  He cleared his throat again, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and said: “We’ll discuss this later. I’ve lost my appetite.” Then he left, too.

  Hannah couldn’t eat anything after that. The BLTs weren’t really all that sensational—too much mayonnaise. But Rachel finished up her sandwich and fries. Then the two of them went up to Rachel’s bedroom.

  Rachel was apologizing for her parents, when there was a knock on the bedroom door. It was Alida, telling Rachel that her parents wanted to talk with her alone downstairs in the study.

  That had been fifteen minutes ago, and for a while, all Hannah had heard was a hushed, angry murmuring. Then, the voices had gotten louder, and she’d figured out the sound was coming from the bathroom vent.

  “How dare you!” Rachel’s mother bellowed.

  After trying to decipher more muffled conversation for the last minute or two, Hannah was startled to hear Mrs. Bonner’s voice now at full volume: “Where do you get off, young lady, calling me rude? You’re the rude one, parading that girl in front of us, giving us absolutely no warning about who she is. And you were rude to her, too! You put that poor girl in a terrible position. Have you even thought about tonight? What are you going to tell her now? Talk about awkward. We’ve already told your grandmother that you’re coming to dinner...”r />
  “Well, why can’t Hannah come, too?” Rachel asked.

  “You’re not bringing her to the club,” her mother said. “This is family only!”

  “Well, Hannah’s family! She’s my family!”

  “Nana wouldn’t understand! I swear to God if you say anything to your grandmother about this nonsense. . .”

  Hannah heard Mr. Bonner shush them. Then there was more murmuring.

  She’d had enough. Slump-shouldered, Hannah wandered back into Rachel’s bedroom and started to pack her overnight bag. She figured she could Uber to the train station and catch the commuter train back to Delmar. So she’d have to sleep in the bungalow by herself tonight. It beat staying someplace where she wasn’t wanted. She never should have let Rachel talk her into this.

  Yet, twenty-five minutes later, Rachel talked her into staying: “My parents aren’t mad at you. They’re mad at me. If you leave now, believe me, it’ll just make everything worse. I’m going to this stupid dinner with my parents for only, like, two hours. The rest of the time, we can hang out and have fun. You don’t want to go back and spend the night alone . . .”

  Perry drove them to the Art Institute. It was kind of difficult for Hannah to appreciate all the wonderful, famous art while Rachel went on and on about what a bitch her mother was. Hannah agreed with her, but was careful not to say anything. After all, her scholarship was riding on the generosity of Rachel’s parents. Hannah kept thinking about how poised and chic Mrs. Bonner had seemed on TV, but when things didn’t go her way, she really was pretty horrible.

  “I’m so glad she isn’t my real mother,” Rachel said in front of the masterpieces of Monet. “I wish you knew more about your aunt Molly. I’ll bet she was really sweet. I can’t wait to meet your mom and ask her . . .”

  They checked out Millennium Park, and Hannah took some selfies of them in front of “The Bean” sculpture for Instagram.

  With so many people in the park, Hannah kept thinking they might run into Eden. It was silly, considering how huge Chicago was. But she figured her chances of seeing Eden there were better than bumping into her on campus any time soon. But of course, they didn’t see her.