No One Needs to Know (34 page)

“Well, we won’t stay too long then.” Laurie glanced around his living room. “I really like your place, Vincent.”

It was clean, but cluttered looking, thanks mostly to the bulky antique furniture that seemed to belong in a big old house—not this small apartment. Plus he’d collected a lot of junk—the greater part of it related to U.S. presidents, including small bronze busts of Washington, Lincoln, and Kennedy, and a model of the White House. There were books on the presidents and framed presidential portraits in the tall bookcase. He didn’t seem to have any political party preference either. There were portraits on the walls of Obama, Clinton, Reagan, FDR, and Eisenhower. Scattered among them were several framed family photographs.

“Is this you?” Laurie asked, pointing to a school photo of a gawky-cute boy in a turtleneck sweater. A mark above his eye looked like a flaw on the faded photo.

“Yes, that’s me, looking like a nerd,” he said with a laugh.

In one of the photos, he was a teenager, wearing his glasses and standing between a couple in their late sixties. “Are those your grandparents?” she asked.

“No, that’s my mom and dad,” he said, hovering behind her. “They’re dead now.”

Laurie figured he must have inherited the bulky, old furniture from them. “You look a little like your dad,” she remarked.

“That’s funny, because they adopted me when I was four,” he replied. “They were really nice people—to—y’know, take someone like me. Maureen used to say I was ‘special,’ but they were the ones who were special. Would you like a Coke or a root beer?”

She smiled at him. “Oh, no, thanks.”

She couldn’t help thinking about what a jerk Brenda was for insinuating that Vincent’s apartment was probably some chamber of horrors—like Ed Gein’s back parlor or something. Moreover, Vincent was a hell of a lot better host than Brenda was.

“Do you think I’d spoil my lasagna dinner if I had a cupcake now?” he asked.

Laurie laughed. “Oh, what the heck, go for it.”

“Would you or Joey like one?”

“No thanks, those are all for you.” Gently bouncing Joey in her arms, she studied the other framed snapshots. “Is this Maureen with you in front of the Christmas tree?” she asked.

Sitting on his sofa, Vincent had the Tupperware container in his lap. He was prying off the lid when he looked up at her. “Yes, that was taken last year.”

“She has a kind face,” Laurie murmured. She looked like a sweet lady, someone Laurie would have enjoyed having as a neighbor or a friend.

“I have all her Christmas ornaments now,” Vincent said, carefully peeling the paper cup off a frosted cupcake. “Maureen had the best Christmas ornaments. I have her photo albums, too. They’re right here . . .” He nodded at the clunky, oak, two-tiered coffee table in front of him. Three thick ring-binder books were stacked on the lower tier. “Would you like to see?”

Laurie hesitated. “Ah, sure . . .”

Vincent put down the cupcake long enough to move the books from the coffee table to the center sofa cushion. Laurie sat down on the other side of the couch. Joey shifted around in her lap and reached over her shoulder, which prompted Vincent to stick out his finger out. Joey grabbed it. Vincent laughed. “Hey, Joey . . .”

Laurie opened the first album, and noticed several faded color photos of two teenagers and a baby not much older than Joey. They were outside, smiling and squinting in the sun. It looked like they were in a park. From their bell-bottom jeans and the long hair, parted down the middle, Laurie guessed the photos were from the late sixties or early seventies. A young man with black hair combed over his forehead was in some of the shots, too. “Is this you?” Laurie asked, pointing to the baby.

“No, I don’t know whose baby that is,” he said. “But that’s Maureen with the brown hair, and that’s her brother. I don’t know who the other girl is. I’m not in this book until near the end. You can skip ahead if you want to. Would it be okay if Joey let go of my finger now so I can eat my cupcake?”

“Oh, of course, I’m sorry.” She moved Joey a bit lower into her lap, and he released Vincent’s finger without a fuss. Laurie looked at the other girl in the photos—a brunette. She remembered what Tammy Cassella had said about Maureen, how she’d discovered something about Cheryl which had made them “almost like family.” The dark-haired girl in these photos looked nothing like Cheryl. Laurie figured she was grasping at straws.

“Did Maureen and Cheryl know each other long before Maureen started working for her?” Laurie asked.

“I don’t think so,” Vincent said, reaching over and turning several pages of the album. “Here’s where I am . . .”

Laurie glanced at the brownish-tinted photos of a teenage Vincent—with his parents and Maureen, who looked about thirty years old. It appeared to be an intimate Thanksgiving dinner. There were shots of a cooked turkey on a table with a centerpiece arrangement of foldout crepe-and-paper pilgrims and pumpkins. Another man was in the photos with them: a balding, brawny-looking guy with an affable smile.

“That’s Maureen’s husband, Jim,” Vincent said, pointing to the man. “He was a sheriff in this small town outside Spokane. He and Maureen were good friends with my parents. Only he died of cancer. Our neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Blankenship, were there that Thanksgiving, too. But I don’t think we got any photos of them. This picture was taken in 1984, when Ronald Reagan was president . . .”

Laurie glanced around the room—at all the presidential portraits. “You’d know, of course.”

Nodding, he took a bite out of his cupcake. “Jim died in 1990, when George H. W. Bush was president,” he said with his mouth full. “Jim and Maureen didn’t have any kids. And she didn’t have any family. My dad died from Parkinson’s when Clinton was president in 2000. After that, my mother got cancer, and Maureen helped take care of her. Mom died when the other Bush was in office in 2004. Anyway, since both Maureen and I didn’t have any family, we decided to look after each other. We moved here to Seattle nine years ago. This cupcake is really good. Pardon me for talking with my mouth full.” He took another bite.

“That’s okay,” Laurie said. “You know, I was thinking about something you said the other day. You mentioned that Maureen told you to be polite to Cheryl, but not to get too friendly. Do you know why she said that?”

He finished up his cupcake with one final bite, and shook his head.

Joey started to squirm a bit, and she shifted him around on her lap again. “I know Maureen helped Cheryl get the apartment here, but I get the impression she—well, it seems to me Maureen did that in order to keep an eye on her.”

Vincent frowned. “I’m not sure what you mean. Are you talking about like when Maureen did her homework on Cheryl?”

Laurie gazed at him and blinked. “She did
homework
on Cheryl?”

He nodded. “Yeah, Maureen collected a whole bunch of homework on Cheryl.”

“You mean she was doing research on her? Did she have documents about Cheryl’s background?”

He nodded again, and then scratched the back of his head. “It was a secret, but I guess she wouldn’t mind me telling you, since she’s dead. Maureen kept it all in a blue folder. But after she died and I went through her stuff, I couldn’t find the folder anywhere. I guess she must have thrown it away.” Vincent winced a little. “Um, I’m going to need to take my shower pretty soon . . .”

Laurie closed the photo album. “Oh, of course, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stay so long . . .”

“You’re welcome to come back and watch TV,” he offered.

She got to her feet, and shifted Joey around so he was astride her hip. “Thanks, but I’m due over at Cheryl’s. We have to cook some food for tomorrow . . .”

“Maureen used to do that, too,” Vincent said, walking her to the door. He opened it for her. “Well, thanks for the cupcakes, Laurie. Bye, Joey!”

“Thanks for your hospitality,” Laurie said, stepping outside. “Wave good-bye, Joey.”

It took him a moment to catch on—and he finally waved at Vincent.

She stole a look at Cheryl’s unit across the courtyard. The lights were on. Laurie figured she’d get through the next couple of hours with Cheryl if she didn’t talk about anything beyond tomorrow’s menu.

“Laurie?” Vincent called to her—in almost a whisper.

She turned around. “Yes?”

“Y’know that stuff I told you about Maureen’s homework?” he said. “Maybe you better not tell Cheryl. She might not like it.”

Laurie nodded. “Don’t worry, Vincent. I wouldn’t dream of telling her. Thanks again.”

Joey waved good-bye once again.

Then Laurie turned and started for home.

She didn’t have to wonder what had happened to that blue folder full of “Cheryl homework.” It had probably gone up in smoke—just like Maureen.

She heard a knock on the door just as she was getting Joey ready for Cheryl’s.

With him wiggling in her arms, Laurie checked the peephole. Through the slightly distorted glass, she saw Cheryl waiting outside. Laurie unlocked the door and opened it. “Hi, I was just on my way over . . .”

Cheryl leaned against the doorway. She looked tired. She held one of the bags from the farmer’s market. “Are you going to hate me if I cancel on tonight?”

Laurie shook her head. “No, not at all,” she replied. “Are you okay?”

“Physically, yes,” Cheryl sighed, setting down the bag. “My mental state is another story. I’m in kind of a funk.”

“What happened? You seemed in a good mood at the farm.”

With a melancholy smile, Cheryl reached up and caressed Joey’s cheek. “I’m always in a better mood when I’m out in the country like that. But then I got home and switched on the news.” She shrugged. “They were talking about Dolly Ingersoll, and the reality of it finally sunk in. I guess I’d been in denial all day about it. She wasn’t one of my favorite people, but she certainly didn’t deserve to die.”

“Do you think she was murdered?” Laurie asked.

“From the news report, the police seem to think she was mugged and tossed down those stairs.”

“And what do you think?” Laurie pressed.

Cheryl gave her a pale smile. “I think I should head back home and get those beans cut.” She nodded at the produce bag on Laurie’s threshold. “I meant to ask earlier, what are you going to make with all these Granny Smith apples?”

“Eva Marie Saint’s Apple Pie. I figure six of them should be enough.”

“Oh, one of your Superstar Diner specials,” Cheryl said, nodding. “Well, I’m sorry to leave you alone with all those pies to bake.”

“It’s no problem. Are you really sure you want to be by yourself tonight? It might help if you talked about what’s bothering you.”

“No, that wouldn’t help at all,” Cheryl said. “Right now, what I need is some alone time with my work—and maybe an extended consult with Dr. Chardonnay. That would make me feel better. Anyway, I apologize for backing out of our plans tonight.” She patted her shoulder. “Laurie, if I seem to—to shut you out at times, I hope you don’t take it personally, because it has nothing at all to do with you. I happen to think you’re pretty terrific. I mean that.”

“Thank you, Cheryl,” she said. She took a deep breath and tried to choose her words carefully. “I really like working with you. But—well, I keep thinking of what happened to Maureen, and then the copycat murders—and now Dolly Ingersoll. I think you know something, and you can’t tell me or just don’t want to. But you need to tell me this much. Are Joey and I at risk?”

Cheryl’s eyes wrestled with hers, and she didn’t say anything for a moment.

“Please, don’t act like I’m crazy,” Laurie whispered. “We both know what I’m talking about.”

“Joey’s safe,” she finally replied. “Starting tomorrow morning, I think it would be best if I loaded up the food truck by myself. That’ll give you more time in the morning. You can drive yourself to and from the set. You should be all right.”

“What are you saying? Do you think someone’s coming after you?”

Cheryl shook her head. “I’m just being cautious, that’s all. Please, don’t ask me anything else. And please don’t quit on me.”

She touched Joey’s cheek again. Then, before Laurie could say anything, she turned around and hurried across the courtyard.

Joey wouldn’t fall asleep. She ran out of the usual lullabies and ballads to sing to him. He finally nodded off during her slow, quiet rendition of Lady Gaga’s
Bad Romance.
The Eva Marie Saint Apple Pies were a breeze in comparison. It was the actress’s recipe, which Laurie had found in
Bon Appétit
magazine. It was easy, because the crust didn’t have to be rolled, and came out like shortbread. Customers at the Superstar Diner loved it.

While the pies baked, two at a time, Laurie checked on Google and Craigslist for Seattle restaurants now hiring cooks. Cheryl had just asked her not to quit. But she’d also finally confirmed Laurie’s suspicions that being around her just wasn’t safe. Maybe that was the real reason Cheryl had canceled tonight. Laurie thought about the mornings they’d loaded up the food truck—when it wasn’t even light out. She realized how vulnerable they’d been on their pickup route from the bakery to the butcher to the film locale. If someone were to come after them, that would have been an ideal time. Obviously, Cheryl realized that.