Where should she start?
“Come on,” Tom said. “Men keep most of their secrets in one of two places: the study or the bedroom. Doreen might not know that, but you do. And this house doesn’t have a study.”
She went into Al Strehlke’s bedroom (trailed by Goober), where she found an extra-long double bed made up in no-nonsense military style. Tess looked under it. Nada. She started to turn toward the closet, paused, then pivoted back to the bed. She lifted the mattress. Looked. After five seconds—maybe ten—she uttered a single word in a dry flat voice.
“Jackpot.”
Lying on the box spring were three ladies’ handbags. The one in the middle was a cream-colored clutch that Tess would have recognized anywhere. She flipped it open. There was nothing inside but some Kleenex and an eyebrow pencil with a cunning little lash-comb hidden in the top half. She looked for the silk strip with her name on it, but it was gone. It had been removed carefully, but she saw one tiny cut in the fine Italian leather where the stitches had been unpicked.
“Yours?” Tom asked.
“You know it is.”
“What about the eyebrow pencil?”
“They sell those things by the thousands in drugstores all over Amer—”
“Is it yours?”
“Yes. It is.”
“Are you convinced yet?”
“I…” Tess swallowed. She was feeling something, but she wasn’t sure what it was. Relief ? Horror? “I guess I am. But why? Why both of them?”
Tom didn’t say. He didn’t need to. Doreen might not know (or want to admit it if she did, because the old ladies who followed her adventures didn’t like the ooky stuff), but Tess supposed she did. Because Mommy fucked both of them up. That’s what a psychiatrist would say. Lester was the rapist; Al was the fetishist who participated vicariously. Maybe he even helped with one or both of the women in the pipe. She’d never know for sure.
“It would probably take until dawn to search the whole house,” Tom said, “but you can search the rest of this room, Tessa Jean. He probably destroyed everything from the purse—cut up the credit cards and tossed them in the Colewich River, would be my guess—but you have to make sure, because anything with your name on it would lead the police right to your door. Start with the closet.”
Tess didn’t find her credit cards or anything else belonging to her in the closet, but she did find something. It was on the top shelf. She got off the chair she’d been standing on and studied it with growing dismay: a stuffed duck that might have been some child’s favorite toy. One of its eyes was missing and its synthetic fur was matted. That fur was actually gone in places, as if the duck had been petted half to death.
On the faded yellow beak was a dark maroon splash.
“Is that what I think it is?” Tom asked.
“Oh Tom, I think so.”
“The bodies you saw in the culvert… could one of them have been a child’s body?”
No, neither of them had been that small. But maybe the culvert running beneath Stagg Road hadn’t been the Strehlke brothers’ only body dump.
“Put it back on the shelf. Leave it for the police to find. You need to make sure he doesn’t have a computer with stuff on it about you. Then you need to get the hell out of here.”
Something cold and wet nuzzled Tess’s hand. She almost screamed. It was Goober, looking up at her with bright eyes.
“More meat!” Goober said, and Tess gave him some.
“If Al Strehlke has a computer,” Tess said, “you can be sure it’s password-protected. And his probably won’t be open for me to poke around in.”
“Then take it and throw it in the goddam river when you go home. Let it sleep with the fishes.”
But there was no computer.
At the door, Tess fed Goober the rest of the hamburger. He would probably puke it all up on the rug, but that wasn’t going to bother Big Driver.
Tom said, “Are you satisfied, Tessa Jean? Are you satisfied you didn’t kill an innocent man?”
She supposed she must be, because suicide no longer seemed like an option. “What about Betsy Neal, Tom? What about her?”
Tom didn’t answer… and once again didn’t need to. Because, after all, he was she.
Wasn’t she?
Tess wasn’t entirely sure about that. And did it matter, as long as she knew what to do next? As for tomorrow, it was another day. Scarlett O’Hara had been right about that much.
What mattered most was that the police had to know about the bodies in the culvert. If only because somewhere there were friends and relatives who were still wondering. Also because…
“Because the stuffed duck says there might be more.”
That was her own voice.
And that was all right.
- 46 -
At seven-thirty the next morning, after less than three hours of broken, nightmare-haunted sleep, Tess booted up her office computer. But not to write. Writing was the farthest thing from her mind.
Was Betsy Neal single? Tess thought so. She had seen no wedding ring that day in Neal’s office, and while she might have missed that, there had been no family pictures, either. The only picture she could remember seeing was a framed photo of Barack Obama… and he was already married. So yes—Betsy Neal was probably divorced or single. And probably unlisted. In which case, a computer search would do her no good at all. Tess supposed she could go to The Stagger Inn and find her there… but she didn’t want to go back to The Stagger. Ever again.
“Why are you buying trouble?” Fritzy said from the windowsill. “At least check the telephone listings for Colewich. And what’s that I smell on you? Is that dog?”
“Yes. That’s Goober.”
“Traitor,” Fritzy said contemptuously.
Her search turned up an even dozen Neals. One was an E Neal. E for Elizabeth? There was one way to find out.
With no hesitation—that would have almost certainly have caused her to lose her courage—Tess punched in the number. She was sweating, and her heart was beating rapidly.
The phone rang once. Twice.
It’s probably not her. It could be an Edith Neal. An Edwina Neal. Even an Elvira Neal.
Three times.
If it is Betsy Neal’s phone, she’s probably not even there. She’s probably on vacation in the Catskills—
Four times.
—or shacked up with one of the Zombie Bakers, how about that? The lead guitarist. They probably sing “Can Your Pussy Do the Dog” together in the shower after they—
The phone was picked up, and Tess recognized the voice in her ear at once.
“Hello, you’ve reached Betsy, but I can’t come to the phone right now. There’s a beep coming, and you know what to do when you hear it. Have a nice day.”
I had a bad day, thanks, and last night was ever so much w—
The beep came, and Tess heard herself talking before she was even aware she meant to. “Hello, Ms. Neal, this is Tessa Jean calling—the Willow Grove Lady? We met at The Stagger Inn. You gave me back my Tomtom and I signed an autograph for your gran. You saw how marked up I was and I told you some lies. It wasn’t a boyfriend, Ms. Neal.” Tess began to speak faster, afraid that the message tape would run out before she finished… and she discovered she badly wanted to finish. “I was raped and that was bad, but then I tried to make it right and… I… I have to talk to you about it because—”
There was a click on the line and then Betsy Neal herself was in Tess’s ear. “Start again,” she said, “but go slow. I just woke up and I’m still half asleep.”
- 47 -
They met for lunch on the Colewich town common. They sat on a bench near the bandstand. Tess didn’t think she was hungry, but Betsy Neal forced a sandwich on her, and Tess found herself eating it in large bites that made her think of Goober snarfing up Lester Strehlke’s hamburger.
“Start at the beginning,” Betsy said. She was calm, Tess thought—almost preternaturally so. “Start from the beginning and tell me everything.”
Tess began with the invitation from Books & Brown Baggers. Betsy Neal said little, only occasionally adding an “Uh-huh” or “Okay” to let Tess know she was still following the story. Telling it was thirsty work. Luckily, Betsy had also brought two cans of Dr. Brown’s cream soda. Tess took one and drank it greedily.
When she finished, it was past one in the afternoon. The few people who had come to the common to eat their lunches were gone. There were two women walking babies in strollers, but they were a good distance away.
“Let me get this straight,” Betsy Neal said. “You were going to kill yourself, and then some phantom voice told you to go back to Alvin Strehlke’s house, instead.”
“Yes,” Tess replied. “Where I found my purse. And the duck with the blood on it.”
“Your panties you found in the younger brother’s house.”
“Little Driver’s, yes. They’re in my Expedition. And the purse. Do you want to see them?”
“No. What about the gun?”
“That’s in the car, too. With one bullet left in it.” She looked at Neal curiously, thinking: The girl with the Picasso eyes. “Aren’t you afraid of me? You’re the one loose end. The only one I can think of, anyway.”
“We’re in a public park, Tess. Also, I’ve got quite the confession on my answering machine at home.”
Tess blinked. Something else she hadn’t thought of.
“Even if you somehow managed to kill me without those two young mothers over there noticing—”
“I’m not up for killing anyone else. Here or anywhere.”
“Good to know. Because even if you took care of me and my answering machine tape, sooner or later someone would find the cabdriver who brought you out to The Stagger on Saturday morning. And when the police got to you, they’d find you wearing a load of incriminating bruises.”
“Yes,” Tess said, touching the worst of them. “That’s true. So what now?”
“For one thing, I think you’d be wise to stay out of sight as much as you can until your pretty face looks pretty again.”
“I think I’m covered there,” Tess said, and told Betsy the tale she had confabulated for Patsy McClain’s benefit.
“That’s pretty good.”
“Ms. Neal… Betsy… do you believe me?”
“Oh yes,” she said, almost absently. “Now listen. Are you listening?”
Tess nodded.
“We’re a couple of women having a little picnic in the park, and that’s fine. But after today, we’re not going to see each other again. Right?”
“If you say so,” Tess said. Her brain felt the way her jaw did after the dentist gave her a healthy shot of novocaine.
“I do. And you need to have another story made up and ready, just in case the cops talk to either the limo driver who took you home—”
“Manuel. His name was Manuel.”
“—or the taxi driver who took you out to The Stagger on Saturday morning. I don’t think anybody will make the connection between you and the Strehlkes as long as none of your ID shows up, but when the story breaks, this is going to be big news and we can’t assume the investigation won’t touch you.” She leaned forward and tapped Tess once above the left breast. “I’m counting on you to make sure that it never touches me. Because I don’t deserve that.”
No. She absolutely didn’t.
“What story could you tell the cops, hon? Something good without me in it. Come on, you’re the writer.”
Tess thought for a full minute. Betsy let her.
“I’d say Ramona Norville told me about the Stagg Road shortcut after my appearance—which is true—and that I saw The Stagger Inn when I drove by. I’d say I stopped for dinner a few miles down the road, then decided to go back and have a few drinks. Listen to the band.”
“That’s good. They’re called—”
“I know what they’re called,” Tess said. Maybe the novocaine was wearing off. “I’d say I met some guys, drank a bunch, and decided I was too blitzed to drive. You’re not in this story, because you don’t work nights. I could also say—”
“Never mind, that’s enough. You’re pretty good at this stuff once you get cooking. Just don’t embellish too much.”
“I won’t,” Tess said. “And this is one story I might not ever have to tell. Once they have the Strehlkes and the Strehlkes’ victims, they’ll be looking for a killer a lot different than a little book-writing lady like me.”
Betsy Neal smiled. “Little book-writing lady, my ass. You’re one bad bitch.” Then she saw the look of startled alarm on Tess’s face. “What? What now?”
“They will be able to tie the women in the pipe to the Strehlkes, won’t they? At least to Lester?”
“Did he put on a rubber before he raped you?”
“No. God, no. His stuff was still on my thighs when I got home. And inside me.” She shuddered.
“Then he’ll have gone in bareback with the others. Plenty of evidence. They’ll put it together. As long as those bad boys really got rid of your ID, you should be home and dry. And there’s no sense worrying about what you can’t control, is there?”
“No.”
“As for you… not planning on going home and cutting your wrists in the bathtub, are you? Or using that last bullet?”
“No.” Tess thought of how sweet the night air had smelled as she sat in the truck with the short barrel of the Lemon Squeezer in her mouth. “No, I’m good.”
“Then it’s time for you to leave. I’ll sit here a little longer.”
Tess started to get off the bench, then sat down again. “There’s something I need to know. You’re making yourself an accessory after the fact. Why would you do that for a woman you don’t even know? A woman you only met once?”
“Would you believe because my gran loves your books and would be very disappointed if you went to jail for a triple murder?”
“Not a bit,” Tess said.
Betsy said nothing for a moment. She picked up her can of Dr. Brown’s, then put it back down again. “Lots of women get raped, wouldn’t you say? I mean, you’re not unique in that respect, are you?”
No, Tess knew she was not unique in that respect, but knowing it did not make the pain and shame any less. Nor would it help with her nerves while she waited for the results of the AIDS test she’d soon be taking.
Betsy smiled. There was nothing pleasant about it. Or pretty. “Women all over the world are being raped as we speak. Girls, too. Some who undoubtedly have favorite stuffed toys. Some are killed, and some survive. Of the survivors, how many do you think report what happened to them?”
Tess shook her head.
“I don’t know, either,” Betsy said, “but I know what the National Crime Victimization Survey says, because I googled it. Sixty per cent of rapes go unreported, according to them. Three in every five. I think that might be low, but who can say for sure? Outside of math classes, it’s hard to prove a negative. Impossible, really.”
“Who raped you?” Tess asked.
“My stepfather. I was twelve. He held a butter knife to my face while he did it. I kept still—I was scared—but the knife slipped when he came. Probably not on purpose, but who can say?”
Betsy pulled down the lower lid of her left eye with her left hand. The right she cupped beneath it, and the glass eye rolled neatly into that palm. The empty socket was mildly red and uptilted, seeming to stare out at the world with surprise.
“The pain was… well, there’s no way to describe pain like that, not really. It seemed like the end of the world to me. There was blood, too. Lots. My mother took me to the doctor. She said I was to tell him I was running in my stocking feet and slipped on the kitchen linoleum because she’d just waxed it. That I pitched forward and put out my eye on the corner of the kitchen counter. She said the doctor would want to speak to me alone, and she was depending on me. ‘I know he did a terrible thing to you,’ she said, ‘but if people find out, they’ll blame me. Please, baby, do this one thing for me and I’ll make sure nothing bad ever happens to you again.’ So that’s what I did.”
“And did it happen again?”
“Three or four more times. And I always kept still, because I only had one eye left to donate to the cause. Listen, are we done here or not?”
Tess moved to embrace her, but Betsy cringed back—like a vampire who sees a crucifix, Tess thought.
“Don’t do that,” Betsy said.
“But—”
“I know, I know, mucho thanks, solidarity, sisterhood forever, blah-blah-blah. I don’t like to be hugged, that’s all. Are we done here, or not?”
“We’re done.”
“Then go. And I’d throw that gun of yours in the river on your way back home. Did you burn the confession?”
“Yes. You bet.”
Betsy nodded. “And I’ll erase the message you left on my answering machine.”
Tess walked away. She looked back once. Betsy Neal was still sitting on the bench. She had put her eye back in.
- 48 -
In her Expedition, Tess realized it might be an extremely good idea to delete her last few journeys from her GPS. She pushed the power button, and the screen brightened. Tom said: “Hello, Tess. I see we’re taking a trip.”
Tess finished making her deletions, then turned the GPS unit off again. No trip, not really; she was only going home. And she thought she could find the way by herself.
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