Are you scared yet, p.27
Are You Scared Yet?, page 27
"Ah, Detective, there you are." Paul Trubant appeared in the archway leading from the old house into the new addition. "Rachel Gibson said I might find you here. You have a minute? I thought we could take a walk."
Delilah looked at him. She could still hear the two women, but they were quieter. They might have heard Paul's voice in the hall. She thought about what Callie had said about him asking who Delilah was dating. Was the teen right? Did he have a thing for her? "A walk?"
"To talk about your niece." He lowered his voice. "The girls." He glanced around as if looking to see if anyone was present. "They tend to take up for each other. Carry tales. I know Callie's gotten to be good friends with some of them. I thought we could take a walk outside, just to be sure we're not overheard."
Delilah looked back down the hall, still curious as to what two nuns would be arguing over. "Um... sure," she said, looking back at Paul. "Let's go out the front so Callie doesn't spot us from the lemonade stand. Otherwise, we'll both be in trouble."
Chapter 22
"I'm not budging on this issue, Marty," Julie said firmly, holding the remote control to the TV in her hand. "And I don't appreciate you raising your voice that way to me. I laid out the ground rules before the interviews ever started. You agreed to my stipulations."
Marty stood in her smart, white linen suit, between the small TV on the table and Julie. "You can't even see her face." She gestured in the direction of the still photo on the screen.
"I can tell who it is and that means her family, her friends, everyone else will recognize her."
"You don't seriously think it's a secret, why any of these girls left or were sent away from home, do you?" Marty demanded.
Julie looked down at the remote in her hand. Marty should not have shouted at her, but Julie shouldn't have shouted back either. It was totally inappropriate. "It doesn't matter," she said quietly, setting the remote down on Sister Agatha's desk. "What matters is that we promised anonymity and that extends to news programs I've allowed to be filmed here. You have to take this clip out. You have to take it out, or I'll revoke my permission for you to use any of my or my staff's interviews and then I will call the producers and inform them that you no longer have my permission to air those interviews."
"You don't understand how badly I want this job," Marty said, her voice surprisingly thick with emotion. "I need this job. I need to get away from here. I need to make a fresh start, Sister Julie."
Julie studied Marty for a long moment. Her face was so pretty, pretty enough to be a model's, but pain, emotional pain that Julie sensed ran deep, shone in the woman's eyes. "Why is this story important to you?" she asked.
"It's not." Marty turned slightly to stare at the still photo on the screen of Izzy and Amanda leaning over a flower box, planting zinnias. On the tape, the girls only appeared for an instant, and it was shot from an angle that didn't really capture their faces, but it was shot of them just the same. Marty had apparently allowed her cameraman to shoot the domestic scene one morning when she'd come to interview Sister Agatha while Julie was out.
"Did you have a baby?" Julie said gently. Marty's suffering was so apparent on her face that Julie could feel it in her own heart. "Did you have to give up a child?"
"You don't understand."
"I probably do, better than you realize." Julie hesitated, considering the ramification of saying anything more to a reporter. But Sister Agatha knew. She assumed the bishop did. And surely all the girls in the house knew because there were never secrets between them.
Julie fingered her cross. Maybe it was time she started telling her story. Maybe, then, at last, she could leave her own pain in the past where it belonged. Maybe by voicing that pain, she could help others. "I understand," she said, her voice growing strong, "because I gave up a child."
"What do you mean?" She stared at her for a second, then understanding passed over her angry face. "You had a baby? A nun?"
"Before I became a nun. I was a teenager, just like these girls." Julie took a step toward her. "If you want to talk about this. About what happened to you, we can. Now. Later. Whenever you're ready to talk, I'm ready to listen. I think you need someone to listen, Marty."
"Don't be ridiculous. If I need psychiatric counseling, I'll pay for it." Marty hit the stop on the VCR and popped out the tape. "I'll take the girls out. They don't add anything, anyway." She strode past Julie to the door. "Anything else, Sister?"
"Please don't leave like this, Marty. I'm not doing this to harm your career. It's about the girls. Two separate issues." She paused and then started again. "You know, if you'd tell me, maybe I could help you," Julie offered.
"You can't help me. I had an abortion when I was sixteen." She jerked open the door. "No one can help me, Sister. No one can help anyone. No one can help anyone but themselves."
Julie followed Marty, but she hurried down the hall.
Monica stood off to the side, just outside the office door, her gaze downcast. "Oh, dear," she muttered, clearly embarrassed. "I was looking for you. I didn't know if you wanted to put some of the cash in the safe." She produced a large manila envelope, fat with bills.
Julie looked, wondered how much Monica had heard. Wondered if she owed her some sort of explanation. "Monica," she said gently.
"It's okay." Monica pushed the envelope into Julie's hand. "You don't have to say anything, Julie."
Before Julie could say anything more, Monica was gone.
* * *
Paul scooped his son out of the grass, walking away from the petting zoo set up in a small, fenced in area near the garden. Pauly fussed, opening and closing his little hands, wanting to pet the baby goat again, but Paul lifted him to his shoulders and the toddler was mollified at once.
"There we go, attaboy. Look how tall you are now. What a big boy." Paul glanced over his shoulder. He'd been avoiding Kitten all day, but it had been hard. He'd caught her several times following him, watching him. This seemed to be a game to her. A dangerous game. An hour ago, she'd actually walked up to Susan and spoken to her.
Paul couldn't imagine what she was thinking. Actually, he could. She called him on his cell phone earlier. She had said she was in the house, that she could see him. She wanted him to meet her in one of the upstairs dormitory rooms. When he'd refused, she'd become angry.
It was time to get out of here. Time to go home. He and his family had been here for hours. No one would think anything of his going home now. A man had to get his young children to bed early on a Saturday night to make church in the morning, didn't he?
Balancing Pauly on his shoulders, Paul walked around the back of the house, weaving his way through the crowd. The summer fund-raiser had always been well attended, but this year it seemed as if half the county—half the state—had come. There were easily four hundred people milling around the old farmhouse, and it seemed as if the crowd had never died down all day.
"Should we go find Mommy, Pauly?" Paul asked his son, holding both of his chubby hands. "Where's Mommy?" He walked around the house to the place where they had left their blanket, picnic basket, diaper bag, and other belongings beneath the huge lilac bushes. The blanket was gone, as was everything else.
"There you are," Susan said.
Paul could tell he was in trouble. "Honey." He turned around, spinning Pauly. The toddler laughed.
"Where have you been?" she demanded, her voice tight. "I've been looking for you for the last hour." She reached up to her son and he threw out his hands.
Paul lowered the little boy into his mother's arms. "We've been around. We walked down to the pond to feed the fish. We went to the petting zoo."
She eyed him, her tone cool. "You've been with someone, haven't you?" she whispered.
"Susan, honey." He gestured to their son. "I don't know what you're talking about. I've had Pauly with me."
Her face remained stern. "Didn't stop you from picking that girl up on the boardwalk that night," she accused.
He looked around. There were people milling around the front yard, coming in and out of the house. The remaining Bread Ladies, the sisters Cora and Clara, sat on old aluminum lawn chairs on the porch, watching, listening, no doubt, to every word they could hear.
"Honey, not here," he said quietly. He didn't know what had gotten into her. Had she seen him speaking to Kitten at the lemonade stand earlier? She couldn't have. She'd been taking the girls to the bathroom when he'd run into Kitten there.
Then he wondered if Kitten had said something to her. Why else would Susan be this upset? It had months since they had even discussed his indiscretions. As far as he knew, she thought that had all ended when he went back to AA.
"Let's go home. We'll talk there."
"I don't want to talk," she said. Pauly patted her face and she pushed his hands down. "I want to go home, take a shower, and go to bed, Paul. I just want to go home," she said, her eyes filling with tears.
"Then we'll go home, honey." He reached out to rest his hand on her hip and guide her across the front lawn. "Where are the girls?"
"I told Annie she could use her last ticket to try and win a goldfish. Chloe took her. I told Chloe to meet us at the car."
"Perfect end to a perfect day," he said as they walked across the yard. It was growing dark and someone had strung lanterns in the tree overhead so that they cast patches of pale light in the trampled grass. "Here, let me carry him. He's getting so heavy." Paul took the toddler from his wife's arms. "We get home," he said, "and I'll get everyone bathed and in bed. You have your shower and go to bed. I'll take care of everything. You look beat."
"I am," Susan agreed, the tightness easing from her voice.
Paul dropped his hand on his wife's shoulder and kissed her temple. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted someone standing under the big tree watching them.
She just wasn't going to be happy until he broke it off with her, was she?
* * *
"So, you having a good time?" Delilah patted the spot beside her on the wooden bench and looked up at Callie who had just walked out of the house. "Want to sit down?"
"Sure. I guess so. For a minute. Then I gotta go. Sister Agatha is like this crazed woman. She wants things cleaned up before they're like even dirty." Callie pulled the elastic from her pony tail, leaned over, gathered her red hair, secured it with the elastic again, and then stood up.
"I'm glad she's putting you to work. It's good for you." Delilah gazed out over the backyard from the haven she'd discovered between the potting shed and a stone bird bath. The auction items had all been paid for and she had been relieved of her duties an hour ago. Now she was just hanging around, waiting for Callie, trying to enjoy the evening.
The bandstand, the makeshift dance floor on the parking lot, and the carnival booths were lit with lanterns and twinkle lights strung in the trees, but the bench, off to one side of a grassy area, sat in shadows. From here, Delilah could watch people without being detected.
Callie dropped down on the bench. "It's been kinda fun, I guess. I get all the heavy work, of course because nobody else is supposed to lift heavy things," she said, sounding full of importance. "But the really heavy things, I make Mattie lift them."
"I know the Sisters are happy to have your help." Delilah patted her knee.
Callie leaned back on the bench. "So," she said casually, "what'd Dr. Trubant have to say about me? He think I'm crazy?"
"What?" Delilah looked at the teenager beside her.
"I saw you talking to him earlier today. Acting all secretive. You were talking about me. I could tell."
Delilah considered denying it, but she could tell by the look on Callie's face that there would be no point. The girl was too intuitive. "No, he doesn't think you're crazy. In fact, he thinks you're pretty with it for a fourteen-year-old."
"Pretty with it?" Callie wrinkled her freckled nose, that closely resembled Delilah's. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It just means you've got good sense."
"Apparently not good enough sense to keep from getting caught with my friends' weed in my locker," she mused sarcastically.
Delilah looked at her in the semidarkness. "Question is, are you smart enough not to do it again?"
Callie watched a toad hopping in the grass under the birdbath. "I know it was stupid and I know this is no excuse, but Mom makes me crazy. She... she doesn't listen to me. She never wants to hear what I have to say."
"So you've been drinking, smoking marijuana, and skipping school to get her to listen to you?"
Callie was quiet for a minute. "I don't know. Sounds kind of stupid when you say it like that."
Delilah had to smile to herself. She'd certainly done her share of stupid things when she was a teenager.
"So... he didn't say anything too bad?" Callie pressed, kicking out one foot and then the other.
"Nope. We didn't talk that long about you, actually. He said you were doing great."
"Great enough that I don't need to go any more?" the teen asked hopefully.
"Not that great."
Delilah saw Callie smile.
"There you are. I've been looking for you all day." Snowden stepped into the privacy of the shadows of the potting shed. "Hi, Callie."
"Hello, Chief Calloway," Callie looked up at him as if considering him in a new light. "How are you tonight?"
Delilah felt heat rise in her cheeks, knowing very well what the teen was up to. She just prayed Callie didn't say anything too embarrassing.
"Fine, thank you. I hear from my mother that you're an excellent librarian's assistant," he said with a casual smile. "Maybe you ought to think about library science when you go to college."
"Maybe I should." The teen popped up off the bench. "I better go. I'm supposed to be helping Tiffany and Yolanda take down some tables. Catch you later, Aunt Delilah." Callie sneaked a quick glance at Delilah, a silly little smile tugging at the corner of her pink lip-balm saturated mouth.
Delilah gave her a "get-the-heck-out-of-here" look and the teen skipped off.
Snowden sat down on the bench beside Delilah. He wore a pair of khaki cargo shorts and a navy polo. He stretched out his long legs beside hers. "You been avoiding me today?" he asked quietly.
She gazed out at the group of men and women, aged four or five to probably eighty-five, doing the twist to an old fifties song the band was playing. "Not really," she said. "I've just been busy. I took care of the auction table most of the day."
He nodded.
Both watched the dancers for another minute or two in silence until he spoke again. "You want to talk about last night?"
She looked down at her own short, pale legs next to his long, dark ones. "Not really."
He exhaled and was silent again.
They continued to watch the dancers and it occurred to Delilah that to any casual passerby, they would appear to be two co-workers or just neighbors chatting. They didn't look like lovers who had made a baby together. She swallowed the lump that rose in her throat.
"I've been thinking about the case today," she said. It was funny that it was easier for her to contemplate a serial killer than her own personal life. "I was thinking we should broaden our pool of suspects."
"Meaning?"
"We've assumed we're looking for a male."
"And you think we could have a female killer?" he said, almost incredulously. "Again?"
"I know. I know, it's highly unlikely, according to statistics."
"Especially when a kidnapping was involved. This isn't the same as last summer. Alice Crupp ambushed her victims. She killed them where she attacked them and left the bodies."
She raised one finger. "But drugs were probably used in these kidnappings. You drug someone with GHB, you can get them to walk on their own, or at least it's a lot easier to move them around."
He put his hands behind him, resting the heels of his palms on the edge of the bench and leaning back. "Then there's the matter of moving the bodies after death. Rob weighed a hundred and sixty pounds."
"I could probably move a hundred and sixty pounds," she observed thoughtfully. "If I wanted to badly enough."
"Have anyone in particular in mind?"
Delilah thought about the conversation she'd had this morning with Marty Kyle. The reporter had interviewed both victims. That was certainly not evidence enough to seriously suspect her, but it was a common thread between the two victims. Certainly as significant as them having the same clerk at the minimart. And then there was the fact that Paul Trubant had counseled both victims. He wasn't female, obviously, but maybe she should consider him, as well.
"No," Delilah said to Snowden. "No one even on the radar, really. It's part of what's making me so crazy. I keep thinking he... or she's right here." She gazed out at the crowd, looked at him and back at the dance floor again. She needed to tell him about the second letter she received. She'd been thinking about it off and on all day. She supposed this was as good a time as any.
"Listen, I wanted to tell you. This probably has nothing to do with anything, but I got a weird piece of fan mail yesterday. Mailed to my personal P.O. box."
"Weird in what way?"
"I'll bring it in on Monday and let you see for yourself. There was a clipping of me, a photo. And it says something about me doing a great job on the case... but, it's not signed." She hesitated. "And this is the second unsigned letter I've received from the same person in the last couple of weeks."
"Second?" He turned on the bench to face. "Why didn't I know about the first?"
"I didn't think it meant anything. It didn't seem that odd at the time, so I tossed it."
"You shouldn't have done that."
"I know that now, but Snowden, I got a lot of these letters last summer. It just didn't occur to me..." She sighed.
"Bring it to me."
"I will," she said.
He was quiet again and then Delilah felt his hand on hers. "Delilah, we need to talk. I—"
"Please," she whispered under her breath, looking straight ahead, afraid to look at him for fear of what she might say. What he might say. "I can't do this right now."
