Nighttime Is My Time Page 10

  He saw the startled glance Jean Sheridan gave to Sam Deegan. She hasn’t told him about the lunch table group, Jake thought. He didn’t know who this guy was, but it would be interesting to test his reaction to what Jake was now sure was a breaking story. He pulled out the picture of the girls at the lunch table from his pocket. “You see, sir, this was the group at Dr. Sheridan’s lunch table in their senior year at Stonecroft. Over these twenty years since they graduated, five had died as of last month. Two of them were killed in accidents, one was a suicide, and one disappeared, supposedly caught in an avalanche in Snowbird. Last month, the fifth one, Alison Kendall, died in her swimming pool. From what I read, it seems to be a possibility that it was not an accidental death. Now Laura Wilcox seems to be missing. Don’t you think that this is a pretty bizarre coincidence?”

  Sam took the picture, and as he studied it, the expression on his face became grim. “I don’t believe in coincidence of this magnitude,” he said brusquely. “Now if you’ll excuse us, Mr. Perkins.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about me. I’m going to wait around to see if Ms. Wilcox shows up. I’d like to have a final interview with her.”

  Ignoring him, Sam took out his card and handed it to the desk clerk. “I want a list of the employees who were on duty last night,” he said, his voice commanding and forceful.

  33

  “I thought I’d be gone by now, but I had a whole bunch of messages waiting for me when I got back from the brunch,” Gordon Amory explained to Jean. “We’re shooting one episode of our new series in Canada, and some major problems have developed. I’ve been on the phone the last two hours.”

  His bags at his side, he had come up to the front desk as the clerk was showing Sam the worksheets of the hotel employees. Then he studied Jean’s face. “Jean, is something wrong?”

  “Laura is missing,” Jean said, hearing the tremor in her own voice. “She was supposed to have been picked up at two-fifteen to go to the airport. The bed in her room wasn’t slept in, and the maid said that some of her toiletries seem to be gone. Maybe she just decided to stay with someone and is perfectly all right, but she was so definite about being with us this morning that I’m terribly worried now.”

  “She was certainly definite about being at the brunch when she was talking to Jack Emerson last night,” Gordon said. “As I told you, she was pretty cool to me after I told her she didn’t have the faintest chance of being cast in the upcoming series, but in the bar after dinner I overheard what she said to Jack.”

  Sam had been listening to their conversation. He turned to Gordon and introduced himself. “We have to realize that Laura Wilcox is an adult. She has every right in the world to go off by herself or with a friend, and to change her mind about checking out. Nevertheless, I think it would be wise to follow up and see if anyone, either a hotel employee or a friend, knew her plans.”

  “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Amory,” the clerk said. “I have your bill ready.”

  Gordon Amory hesitated, then looked at Jean. “You think something may have happened to Laura, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do. Laura was very close to Alison. She simply wouldn’t deliberately skip the memorial, no matter what plans she had for last night.”

  “Is my room still free?” Amory asked the clerk.

  “Yes, of course, sir.”

  “Then I’m going to stay at least until we know more about Ms. Wilcox.” He turned to Jean, and for an instant, even in the midst of her concern about Laura, she was struck by the realization of what a handsome man Gordon Amory had become. I used to feel so sorry for him, she thought. He was a pathetic loser back then, and look what he’s made of himself.

  “Jean, I know I hurt Laura last night, and it was lousy of me—kind of a payback, I guess, for the way she used to brush me off when we were kids. I could have promised her a part even if it wasn’t the lead in that series. I have a feeling she may be desperate. That could explain why she didn’t show up this morning. I bet she’ll be back with or without an explanation for where she’s been, and when she is, I’m going to offer her a job. And I’m going to hang around to do it personally.”

  34

  Jake Perkins stayed in the lobby of the Glen-Ridge, watching as, one after another, the employees who had been on duty Saturday night went into the small office behind the desk and talked to Sam Deegan. When they came out, he managed to buttonhole enough of them to learn that they got the impression that Deegan was also going down the list and phoning anyone who was off today but had been around last night.

  The upshot from what he heard was that no one had seen Laura Wilcox leave the hotel. The doorman and the valet parkers were absolutely certain that she had not left by the front door.

  He correctly guessed that the young woman in a maid’s uniform might be the one who cleaned Laura’s room. When she emerged from talking to Deegan, Jake followed her across the lobby, jumped in the elevator behind her, and got off at the fourth floor with her. “I’m a reporter for the Stonecroft newspaper,” he explained as he handed her his card, “and I’m also a stringer for the New York Post.” Close to the truth, he thought. Before much longer, I will be.

  It wasn’t hard to get her talking. Her name was Myrna Robinson. She was a student at the community college and worked part-time at the hotel. She’s kind of naïve, Jake thought smugly as he observed her absolutely thrilled expression at the excitement of having been questioned by a detective.

  He opened his notebook. “What exactly did Detective Deegan ask you, Myrna?”

  “He wanted to know if I was sure that some of Laura Wilcox’s cosmetics were missing and I told him I was absolutely positive,” she confided breathlessly. “I said, ‘Mr. Deegan, you have no idea how much stuff she managed to get on top of that skinny vanity in the bathroom, and half of it’s gone. I mean, things like cleanser and moisturizer and a toothbrush and her cosmetic bag.’ ”

  “The kind of stuff any woman carries when she goes away overnight,” Jake said helpfully. “What about clothes?”

  “I didn’t talk about clothes to Mr. Deegan,” Myrna said hesitantly. Nervously she twisted the top button on her black uniform dress. “I mean, I told him I was sure one of her suitcases was missing, but I didn’t want him to think I was nosy or anything, so I didn’t mention that her blue cashmere jacket and slacks and ankle-top boots weren’t in the closet.”

  Myrna was about Laura’s size. Dollars to doughnuts she had been trying on the clothes, Jake thought. A suit and slacks were missing—probably what Laura planned to wear to the memorial service and brunch. “You told Mr. Deegan about a suitcase that isn’t in her room?”

  “Uh-huh. She brought a lot of luggage with her. Honest, you’d think she was on a round-the-world trip. Anyway, the smaller suitcase wasn’t there this morning. It was different from the others. It’s a Louis Vuitton—that’s how I noticed it wasn’t there. I love that pattern, don’t you? So distinctive. The two big ones she had are creamy-colored leather.”

  Jake prided himself on his ear for French, so he winced inwardly at Myrna’s pronunciation of “Vuitton.” “Myrna, is there any chance I could get a look at Laura’s room?” he asked. “I swear I won’t touch a thing.”

  He had gone too far. He could see an alarmed expression replace the excitement on her face. She looked past him down the corridor, and he could read her thoughts. If the housekeeper ever caught her bringing someone into a guest’s room, she’d be fired. Quickly he backtracked. “Myrna, I shouldn’t have asked you that. Forget it. Listen, you have my card. It would be worth twenty bucks to me if you take my number and give me a call if you hear anything about Laura. How about it? Want to be a girl reporter?”

  Myrna bit her lip as she considered the offer. “It’s not the money,” she began.

  “Of course not,” Jake agreed.

  “If you put the story in the Post, I’d have to be an unnamed source.”

  She’s smarter than she looks, Jake thought, as he nodded eagerly
. They shook hands on the deal.

  It was nearly six o’clock. When he went back to the lobby, it was almost deserted. Jake went up to the desk clerk and inquired if Mr. Deegan had left the hotel.

  The clerk looked tired and distressed. “Look, sonny, he’s gone, and unless you want to rent a room, I’d suggest you go home, too.”

  “I’m sure he asked you to let him know if Ms. Wilcox returns or if you hear from her,” Jake suggested. “May I give you my card? I became friendly with Ms. Wilcox during the course of the weekend, and I’m concerned about her, too.”

  The clerk took the card and studied it. “Reporter for the Stonecroft Academy Gazette and writer-journalist-at-large, huh?” He tore the card in half. “You’re too big for your breeches, sonny. Do me a favor and get lost.”

  35

  The body of Helen Whelan was discovered at 5:30 P.M. on Sunday afternoon in a wooded area in Washingtonville, a town about fifteen miles from Surrey Meadows. The discovery was made by a twelve-year-old boy who was cutting through the woods, taking a shortcut to his friend’s home.

  Sam got the message as he was finishing his interviews of the employees at the Glen-Ridge House. He called Jean in her room. She had gone upstairs to phone Mark Fleischman, Carter Stewart, and Jack Emerson, in the hope that one of them might have known Laura’s plans. She had already seen Robby Brent in the lobby, and he had disclaimed any knowledge of where Laura might be.

  “Jean, I have to go,” Sam explained. “Have you reached anyone yet?”

  “I talked to Carter. He’s very concerned but has no idea where Laura might be. I told him that Gordon and I are having dinner, and he’s going to join us. Maybe if we can make a list between us of the people Laura seemed to be spending time with, we might come up with something. Jack Emerson isn’t home. I left word on his answering machine. Same with Mark Fleischman.”

  “That’s about the best you can do for the moment,” Sam said. “Our hands are legally tied. If no one has heard from her by tomorrow, I’ll try to get a search warrant to go through her room and see if she left any indication of where she might have gone. Otherwise, sit tight.”

  “You will go over to the rectory in the morning?”

  “Absolutely,” Sam promised. He snapped closed his phone and hurried out to his car. There was no point in telling Jean that he was on his way to the crime scene where another woman who had disappeared had been found.

  Helen Whelan had been struck with a blow on the back of her head and then had been stabbed repeatedly. “He probably hit her from behind with the same blunt weapon that he used on the dog,” Cal Grey, the medical examiner, told Sam when he arrived at the crime scene. The body was in the process of being removed, and under floodlights investigators were combing the roped-off area for possible clues to the killer. “I can’t be sure until I do the autopsy, but it looks to me as if the injury to her head might have knocked her out. The stab wounds happened after he got her here. One can only hope that she didn’t know what was happening to her.”

  Sam watched as the slender body was lifted into a body bag. “Her clothes don’t look disturbed.”

  “They’re not. My guess is that whoever grabbed her brought her directly here and killed her. She still has the dog’s leash around her wrist.”

  “Hold it a minute,” Sam snapped to the attendant who was opening the stretcher. He squatted down and felt his feet sink into the muddy ground. “Let me have your flashlight, Cal.”

  “What do you see?”

  “There’s a smear of blood on the side of her slacks. I doubt she got it from the wounds in her chest and neck. My guess is that the killer was bleeding pretty heavily, probably from a dog bite.” He straightened up. “Which means he may have needed to go to an emergency room. I’ll get an alert out to all the hospitals in the area to report any dog bites they may have treated over the weekend or that may come up in the next few days. And make sure the lab runs tests on the blood. I’ll meet you back at your place, Cal.”

  On the drive to the medical examiner’s office, the waste of the life of Helen Whelan hit Sam with intensity, catching him in the pit of his stomach. It happened whenever he encountered this kind of violence. I want that guy, he thought, and I want to be the one who cuffs him. I hope to God that wherever that dog bit him, he’s in misery right now.

  That train of thought gave him another idea. Maybe he’s too smart to go to an emergency room, but he’ll still have to take care of that bite. It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack, but it might be worth notifying all the pharmacies in the area to watch out for someone buying items such as peroxide and bandages and antibacterial ointments.

  But if he’s smart enough to avoid a hospital, he’s probably smart enough to shop for stuff like that in one of the big drugstores where there’s a long line at the cash register and no one is paying attention to what’s in the basket except to scan it.

  Still, it’s worth a try, Sam decided grimly, remembering the smiling picture of Helen Whelan he had seen in her apartment. She was twenty years older than Karen Sommers had been, he thought, but she died the same way—savagely stabbed to death.

  The mist that had come and gone all day had turned into a driving rain. Sam frowned as he switched on the windshield wipers. There couldn’t be any connection between those cases, though, he thought. There hadn’t been a similar stabbing in this area in twenty years. Karen had been in her home. Helen Whelan had been outside walking her dog. But, then again, was it possible that some maniac had been lying low all these years?

  Anything was possible, Sam decided. Please let him have gotten careless, he thought. Let him have dropped something that would lead us to him. Hopefully we’ll have his DNA. That must be his blood on the dog’s whiskers and maybe also the smear on her slacks.

  Arriving at the medical examiner’s office, he pulled into the parking area, got out of his car, locked it, and went inside. It was going to be a long night and a longer day tomorrow. He had to see the pastor at St. Thomas and persuade him to open the records of baptisms that had taken place nearly twenty years ago. He had to get in touch with the families of the five women from Stonecroft who had died in the order in which they sat at the lunch table—he needed to know more about the details of their deaths. And he needed to find out what had happened to Laura Wilcox. If it weren’t for the deaths of the other five from her class, I’d say she just took off with a guy, he thought. From what I understand she’s pretty lively and has never been without a man for long if she can help it.

  The medical examiner and the ambulance with Helen Whelan’s body arrived seconds behind him. Half an hour later Sam was studying the effects that had been removed from the body. Her watch and a ring were her only jewelry. She had probably not been carrying a handbag because her house key and a handkerchief were in the pocket on the right side of her jacket.

  Lying on the table next to the house key was one other object: a pewter owl a little over an inch long. Sam reached for the tweezers that the attendant had used in handling the keys and the owl, picked up the owl and examined it closely. The unwinking eyes, cold and wide, met his gaze.

  “It was way down in the pocket of her slacks,” the attendant explained. “I almost missed it.”

  Sam remembered there had been a pumpkin outside the door of Helen Whelan’s garden apartment and a paper skeleton in a box in the hall that she must have been planning to hang up somewhere. “She was decorating for Halloween,” he said. “This was probably part of the stuff she had. Bag everything, and I’ll take it to the lab.”

  Forty minutes later, he was watching as the clothing of Helen Whelan was checked under a microscope for anything that might help identify her killer. Another attendant was examining the car keys for fingerprints.

  “These are all hers,” he commented, as with tweezers in his hand he reached for the owl. A moment later he said, “That’s funny. There aren’t any fingerprints on this thing, not even smudges. How do you figure that one? It didn’t walk into her
pocket. It had to have been put there by someone wearing gloves.”

  Sam thought for a minute. Had the killer left the owl deliberately? He was sure of it. “We’re keeping this quiet,” he snapped. Taking the tweezers from the attendant, he picked up the owl and stared at it. “You’re going to lead me to this guy,” he vowed. “I don’t know how yet, but you will.”

  36

  They had agreed to meet at seven o’clock in the dining room. At the last minute Jean decided to change into dark blue slacks and a light blue sweater with a floppy wide collar that she had bought at an Escada sale. All day she had been unable to shake off the chill of the cemetery. Even the jacket and slacks she had been wearing seemed to retain the cold and dampness she had felt there.

  Ridiculous, of course, she told herself as she touched up her makeup and brushed her hair. While standing in front of the bathroom mirror, she paused for a moment, holding the brush and staring at it. Who had been so close to Lily that he or she had managed to take her brush from her home or handbag, she wondered.

  Or was it possible that Lily managed to trace me and is punishing me for giving her up? Jean asked herself, agonized by the thought. She’s nineteen and a half now. What kind of life has she led? Have the people who adopted her been the wonderful couple Dr. Connors described to me, or did they turn out to be bad parents once they had the baby?

  But instinct immediately told Jean that Lily wasn’t playing games to torment her. This is someone else, someone who wants to hurt me. Ask for money, she pleaded silently. I’ll give you money, but don’t hurt her.

  She looked back into the mirror and studied her reflection. Several times she had been told that she resembled the Today show host Katie Couric, and she felt flattered at the comparison. Does Lily look like me? she wondered. Or is she more like Reed? Those strands of hair are so blond, and he used to joke that his mother said his hair was the color of winter wheat. That means she has his hair. Reed’s eyes were blue and so are mine, so she certainly has blue eyes.