The Last of the Moon Girls(51)



“Sounds like a bad movie plot.”

“If you’re going to pursue the dysfunctional-family angle, you have to look at it from all angles. You can’t pick up one end of the stick without picking up the other.”

Lizzy considered this. No doubt he’d seen his share of acts over the years, but her gut—and her nose—told her Susan Gilman’s pain was real. “She wasn’t faking it, Roger. No one could fake that.”

“At the risk of sounding jaded, people are capable of faking all sorts of things.”

“Maybe. But not in this case. If anything, she blames herself for not being strong enough to stand up to her husband the night the girls went missing. If she had, maybe things would have ended differently—for the girls as well as Althea. And maybe there would have been more than one suspect on your list.”

“Fred Gilman, for instance?”

Lizzy waited a beat before answering, trying to tamp down her frustration. “Tell me you wouldn’t have taken a second look at him if you knew Heather’s home life was falling apart. I spoke with a friend of hers from high school—Jenny Putnam—and she backed up everything Susan said.”

“We questioned her right after the girls went missing. We questioned several of Heather’s friends. No one knew anything. At least not anything they were willing to share.”

“Well, her memory seems to have improved with age. And maybe hers isn’t the only one. I’ve been thinking about looking up some more of her classmates, maybe knock on a few doors, see what people remember.”

There was a long stretch of quiet. The kind that meant the person on the other end was forming a response that might not be well received. “I’m not sure that’s wise given what’s already happened.”

“What’s . . . happened?”

“Andrew told me about the doll. He also told me you refused to call the police.”

“I didn’t refuse, Roger. I’m just . . . waiting.”

“For what? A noose is a threat, Lizzy. There’s no other way to spin it. And you’re the one insisting there’s a killer on the loose in Salem Creek. Why not leave the door-knocking to me?”

It irked her that he didn’t believe her capable of talking to a few ex-cheerleaders. She was also worried that a detective—even one not in uniform—would make them skittish. The good people of Salem Creek might claim to believe in law and order, but they had an ingrained distrust of those sworn to uphold it.

“I’ll make you a deal, Detective,” Lizzy said, as she restarted the car. “I’ll track down Heather’s classmates and see what I can find out. If I stumble onto anything promising, I’ll turn them over to you for the thumbscrews and rubber hoses.”

He sighed, a sound of resignation. “You do realize that you nosing around isn’t going to sit well with folks.”

“I’m a Moon, Detective. We’re used to most things we do not sitting well with folks.”





EIGHTEEN

August 2

The school office was smaller than Lizzy remembered, a warren of closed doors, scarred desks, and hideous chairs stamped out of orange plastic. The smells were the same, though: a combination of coffee, scotch tape, and printer ink perpetually suspended in the fuggy air.

A woman behind one of the desks slid her glasses down her nose, brows raised. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so. I was wondering if the school might have back copies of old yearbooks lying around somewhere.”

The woman blinked at her. “Old yearbooks?”

“I’m looking for 2012 specifically. I’m back for a visit and was hoping to look up some old acquaintances, but I’m afraid I need to jog the old memory.”

The woman surveyed her with a bland expression. If she found the request suspect, she gave no sign. “You need the library,” she said crisply. “They have a full set going back to 1973, when the school was built. Ask for Jeannie. She’ll know where to find them.”

Jeannie, as it turned out, ran the library like the Pentagon, requiring Lizzy to sign in at the front desk, including name, time of arrival, and the purpose of her visit. Standard procedure for all nonstudents, she explained brusquely. She was then asked about her intentions for the yearbook and informed in no uncertain terms that the books from the archives were for review on premises only, and never allowed off the property. Lizzy assured her the yearbook would be going no farther than the cafeteria. In the end, Jeannie relented, but only after Lizzy offered to leave her driver’s license as collateral.

She was probably on a fool’s errand, but she had to at least try.

She had jolted awake at 3:00 a.m. with an image in her head: a woman wearing a hairnet over a puff of mousy brown hair. The Lunch Lady—who smelled of violets and talcum powder, and had been kind to a girl who spent every lunch hour with her nose in a book. Sometimes an extra Jell-O had found its way onto her tray. Or a second cookie, when they were oatmeal raisin, because they were her favorite.

At first, she couldn’t imagine why the memory had surfaced, but eventually it dawned on her. What better place to begin her search for Heather’s high school friends than with a woman who’d spent virtually every day of the last thirty years feeding Salem Creek’s teens?

Louise Ryerson.

Like most kids, Lizzy had known her only as the Lunch Lady, but Evvie had had no trouble coming up with her name, or confirming that she was still working at the school. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been able to provide an address, and directory assistance had been no help. Which left calling on her during her work hours, and asking if she’d be willing to sit down and look at a few photographs. It was a long shot, she knew. Nearly a decade had passed since Heather Gilman and her friends had walked the halls of Salem Creek High, but maybe the yearbook would help her remember.

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