Love Kills (11 page)

The ski patrol arrived too late. She had crashed into a grove of large fir trees.

Rachel, a clever young entrepreneur, had launched her own business at age twenty-three. Unable to find a high-fashion handbag with built-in, easy-to-reach compartments for her cell phone, credit cards, cash, and cosmetics, she created her own. Friends adored it. Every female who saw it wanted one for herself.

A slick national fashion magazine featured her creation. Then the
Enquirer
photographed Lindsay Lohan carrying one, and what began as a cottage industry took off, with a small factory, scores of employees, and stores like Saks Fifth Avenue and Bloomingdale's stocking the distinctive bags. About to branch out into shoe, fashion, and jewelry design, Rachel met the love of her life and took time out for romance.

Rachel took a sketch pad on their honeymoon, an exotic trek to Mayan ruins in Guatemala. She hoped for design inspirations.

Poisonous snakes are native to the region. Warnings were posted at their hotel and on the trails. As the newlyweds hiked a jungle path, a small but deadly snake apparently dropped out of a tree and down the front of Rachel's blouse, a sunshine-yellow safari shirt she had designed herself. The bridegroom reacted heroically, local police said. He tore away her shirt and removed and killed the snake. But, bitten several times, she died before help could arrive.

Too bad she didn't design a compartment in her backpack for anti-snakebite venom, I thought.

Local police, reluctant to scare off tourists, declined to discuss the dangers further but did acknowledge that a number of such deaths occur annually, among both visitors and residents. They sympathized with the bridegroom. He had been distraught, they said.

The investigators in each case scoffed at any possibility of foul play. After witnessing his Academy Award–worthy performance as grieving bridegroom, no one ever suspected Holt.

Brilliant, I thought, as I transcribed my notes. The self-made widower knew how to manipulate law enforcement's jurisdictional boundaries. The bride's friends and relatives, who might be suspicious, ask questions, and demand answers, were back home, sometimes thousands of miles away. The investigators most often worked for small unsophisticated police agencies in remote resort destinations where they were better trained in tourism and public relations than in homicide investigation. They were also accustomed to the misadventures of visitors on a holiday. Tourists in unfamiliar settings sometimes stumble into deadly accidents.

I had seen it in Miami, had written the stories. Tourists killed while boating, Jet Skiing, sky-diving, swimming, or snorkeling. People normally cautious at home feel invulnerable on expensive annual vacations. They never see it coming.

Patterns emerged. The victims were already successful or climbing the ladder, mostly from well-to-do families. Each was outgoing, creative, and pursuing a central passion in her life, before being swept off her feet by Marsh Holt. They were busy playing music, writing, designing, or participating in national sports competitions, with little time for romance, until he entered their lives.

How does he select them? I wondered. Did he really wander into a symphony hall in a strange city, see Vanessa, and choose her? Is it really that random?

Vanessa at the cello, the stunning professional portrait her parents had sent me, had been published in full color in the arts section of the
Boston Globe
several weeks before they met.

Suzanne had been featured in her local newspaper and in the literary magazine that published her prize-winning short story. The magazine had used a photograph of her with a short bio on the contributors' page.

The business section of Rachel's local paper had featured the young entrepreneur's booming design business, along with two photos depicting her with some of her creations.

Photos of Colleen had been published in the sports sections of numerous newspapers, including a great shot of her and her favorite horse clearing a high hurdle in competition at Madison Square Garden.

So did the killer discover his victims in newspaper stories? A chilling thought. I have always believed that a news story reporting a success or personal achievement is a gift to the subject and an inspiration to readers. Rare, often once-in-a-lifetime occurrences, they are proudly included in résumés and scrapbooks. They are framed and hung proudly in family homes. Loved ones cherish them.

Eventually, obituary writers will see a feature and include the information in your final story. Or a police reporter like me will find it and include the good with the bad to balance the story of your arrest, conviction, or bad ending.

A famous jewel thief once confided to me that he found the names and smiling faces of his victims on the pages of glossy magazines that report on the social lives of the very rich.

Could reporters like me be helping a killer target his victims?

I was about to leave when I heard from Liz. “He spent a year in Amsterdam.”

I caught my breath. “Did he get married there?”

“I'm still checking. But he went there on his honeymoon. A girl he met in Canada.”

“Is she alive?”

“No, she fell down a flight of stairs. By accident.”

“There's another one,” I told Lottie. “Number six. The wedding was in Ontario. Her name was Alice.”

“Was?”

“Has anybody ever survived a honeymoon with him?”

Lottie had come to my place. We ordered pizza, and I tossed a big green salad. Daintily, she lifted the lid on the still-warm pizza box and did a double take. “Anchovies?” She wrinkled her nose. “Neither of us likes anchovies.”

“I ordered that half for me. Just felt like anchovies for a change.”

“Uh-huh.” She cut her eyes at me.

“I'm not some crazed mother-to-be suffering from hormonal cravings,” I said quickly. “Can't I try something different?”

“I'm not saying a thing.”

She opened a light beer and I sipped ginger ale.

“Read this.” I handed her Suzanne Chapelle's prize-winning short story.

The protagonist of “A Fish for Benji” was a small boy who lived on the bayou with his dirt-poor parents, a harsh mother, and an abusive father. Poignant and rich in atmosphere, with a frightening undercurrent, the story was clear evidence of the young author's promise. Lottie put down her slice of pizza after the first page and read straight through without a word.

“Wow,” she said, as she finished.

“Talk about lost potential,” I said, scooping ice cream into a soup bowl. “Suzanne Chapelle wrote that at age nineteen. Who knows what she would have written at twenty-five, thirty, or forty-five? Imagine all the poems, books, and stories no one will ever read.”

“It ain't right,” she said. “What is that?” She squinted at the bowl in front of me.

“Chocolate-chip mint. Want some?”

She wrinkled her nose. “No. Not with pizza and beer. Marsh Holt should be the poster boy for capital punishment. Nobody deserves it more.”

“So many jurisdictions are involved.” I paused and licked the spoon. “Remember the cross-country murder sprees of serial killers Ted Bundy and Christopher Wilder and Andrew Cunanan? Their faces were on the network news every night. Wanted posters everywhere. Everybody knew who they were. But nobody knows Marsh Holt is out there. Nobody's even aware of the murders. Somebody has to put it all together first; then a cop somewhere will arrest him and a prosecutor will actually take one of these cases.”

“Only one way to do it,” she said. “Lay it all out in the newspaper, chapter and verse. Once his name hits the headlines, big-name prosecutors will fight to nail his ass.”

I nodded. “That's why I'm going to Arizona first thing tomorrow.”

 

The bell interrupted as I packed the next morning. Expecting Mrs. Goldstein, I threw the door open.

My heart sank. It was my mother, bright and shiny as a new penny, in a little navy bouclé suit with white piping and shiny gold buttons.

“Hi there.” I kept my voice cheerful. Chaos and angst were the last things I needed at the moment. I knew if I became crazed, I'd forget something important, and I needed to make every minute of this trip count. I already felt extremely self-conscious in my mother's presence. Though I've never lived up to what she believes is my fashion potential, I've always confidently argued the point. But looking in the mirror now…

“You should have called,” I said, smiling. “I would have had breakfast ready. Come on in. You're just in time for coffee.”

She bustled inside, lugging several bulging shopping bags, put down her packages, and opened her arms. I was up for a hug.

“I apologize for the last time I was here,” she murmured in my ear. “You just caught me at a bad moment, totally off guard. This was nothing I ever expected.”

“Me either,” I said truthfully.

She declined coffee. She wanted to drop something off on her way to work.

“Your last months will be during the hottest, ickiest weather, the dog days of summer,” she said, moving her packages to the couch and the coffee table, “so I brought a few things to help see you through. Come on,” she coaxed, “have a look.”

I tore away tissue paper and began to unwrap bundles. Clothes! Maternity clothes! I dove into the bags with glad cries. Her timing could not have been better. This was Christmas morning and my best birthday all wrapped up in one.

Despite her superb fashion sense, I was never comfortable having my mother choose my clothes. But at the moment I was running out of big safety pins, had nothing to wear, and neither time nor money to shop, and the problem was fast approaching critical mass. It's not easy to be optimistic when your fat pants are too tight.

I wanted to weep at the cool, crisp white eyelet blouse paired with both black slacks and a skirt, each with cleverly designed waistbands designed to expand with your own. Best of all were the blue jeans. I didn't know such garments existed. They were classic jeans in every way, except for the elastic panel across the belly.

This was my surprise introduction to the architecturally engineered world of maternity wear. My mom had unexpectedly come through, big time.

I stripped off my baggy T-shirt and drawstring slacks and went into a try-on frenzy. Four or five different tops, mix-and-match combinations, cool, crushable, and as fashionable as such garments can aspire to be. We ooohhed and ahhhed and shrieked and laughed like schoolgirls, until she was hiccuping and I was absolutely giddy.

She spotted my half-packed suitcase as we transferred my new wardrobe to the bedroom closet. I said I was traveling to report a story and would be back soon. It seemed best not to delve into detail. She asked only whether it was safe and I assured her it would be.

She urged me to call her frequently. “One more thing,” she said. “Is my grandchild a boy or girl?”

She had actually managed the word
grandchild
without choking up. Go, Grandma.

“Definitely one of the above,” I said. “I didn't look when they did the sonogram. I don't want to know.”

“But why?”

“The whole thing has been a surprise.” I shrugged. “I just decided to keep it that way. I'll know soon enough.”

She pondered that for a long moment. “That means the layette is limited to yellow, mint green, or white.” She tapped a manicured fingernail against her chin. “Unless, of course, we shop at the last minute, right after delivery.”

I nodded guiltily. I hadn't been entirely truthful. Knowing that the baby was she or he would make this child an individual, a real person with wants, needs, and a future. That seemed too daunting right now. I needed our connection to remain abstract for a little longer. When push came to shove, so to speak, it would be real for the next twenty years. For life, probably. I hear one never ceases being a mom.

My own mother, who now sat across from me, her expression concerned and eager, busily scribbling lists of what we needed in her Daily Planner, was proof of that.

When she began to check off items like receiving blankets and baby monitors, I realized how little I knew.

“I have a lot to learn,” I admitted.

“Me too.” She touched my cheek. “We'll learn together.”

After she left, I unpacked my big T-shirts and baggy pants and happily replaced them with my new duds.

Lottie noted my good spirits when she came to drive me to the airport. “I knew you'd lose the blues once you got back to work and into real life.”

She also insisted I call to fill her in on my progress every day. If I keep all my promises, I thought while boarding my flight, I'll have no time to work. I'll spend my days on the phone instead, dutifully checking in with Fred or the city desk, my mother, Mrs. Goldstein, Lottie—even Ryan.

Oddly enough, at the moment I just felt incredibly grateful that they cared.