On the way to the school, Laurel chatted about how much she was enjoying her new career and how comfortable she felt interviewing members of the Oyster Bay Police Department. “Chief Rawlings has been so kind to me. I really hope he can make it to our Bayside Book Writers meeting on Saturday. I loved his chapter! I wrote down so few criticisms that he’s going to think I’m buttering him up in order to get information for my articles.”
The two women discussed Rawlings’ chapter and what progress they hoped to make on their own manuscripts. Olivia didn’t tell Laurel that she’d reached a writing roadblock since receiving the vial of blood from Will Hamilton. It was now impossible to dream up plot lines focusing on Kamila, her fictitious Egyptian concubine, in the face of such poignant real-life drama. Luckily, Laurel was brimming with ideas for a contemporary romance novel and discussed these for the remainder of the ride.
Pampticoe High was bustling with activity when Olivia and Laurel stopped by the front office to collect visitor badges. Students were in the middle of changing classes and poured through the dingy hallways, talking, laughing, shouting, and slamming lockers. Half of the teens wore ear buds and listened to music as they moved while another large percentage was talking or texting on cell phones.
Olivia thought back to the boarding school she’d attended—the strict dress code, the rule of silence when in public areas, the insistence on politeness and proper etiquette at all times. Had these students attended Olivia’s school, most of them would have been immediately hauled off to detention for inappropriate dress and the use of foul language, their electronic devices confiscated and all privileges revoked.
“This is a different world,” she commented under her breath after an oblivious young man barreled into her and then shuffled off without so much as an apology.
Ms. Glenda’s domain was refreshingly quiet and orderly. Olivia only had to watch the woman interact with a single student to see that she ruled the library with a blend of softness and steel. She was also remarkably unsurprised by Laurel’s request that she recall the names of former students with notable physical deformities.
“A nice young police officer asked me the very same thing yesterday afternoon,” Ms. Glenda whispered, removing her reading glasses to clean off a smudge on the left lens. “It was no small feat to consider the unusual birthmarks, burns, scars, missing limbs, additional fingers or toes, and excessive overbites of two decades worth of students!” Having finished with her glasses, she put them back on and gazed at Laurel with interest. “I see your experience with the school paper eventually blossomed into a career. Journalism suits you, my dear. I’ve followed your recent articles with pride, knowing I once taught you how to conduct research.”
Laurel blushed prettily. “You certainly did, Ms. Glenda. Believe me, your coaching has come in handy more than once over the last few weeks.”
Ms. Glenda preened and Olivia suspected the woman deserved every accolade she received. It couldn’t be easy to instruct the group of unruly miscreants Olivia had seen in the school’s hallway. “I don’t know why the police were interested in my memories of days gone by, but I suspect it has something to do with the Cliché Killers. Didn’t you come up with that nickname? Quite catchy.”
Nodding modestly, Laurel held her blank notebook page in the air. “I think we’re chasing down the same lead. Were you able to assist the police?”
“Not at first.” Ms. Glenda indicated they should follow her into the stacks. She pulled a yearbook from the shelf, found the page she was looking for, and then held it open against her chest with the blue cover facing outward. “I thought I’d be of no help until the officers used the words ‘cliché’ and ‘tease’ in the same sentence. Two faces quickly surfaced in my mind.” She studied Laurel. “Surely you remember a student being teased for the strange sounds she made when she tried to talk. Does the phrase, ‘cat got your tongue’ help you remember?”
Laurel began to shake her head, but then stopped. She paled and reached for Ms. Glenda’s yearbook. The librarian pointed to a group of photographs featuring the senior class. “See there? It says, ‘Absent from this group: Andrew Davis and Ellen Donald.’ ”
“Ellen Donald.” Laurel’s words were barely audible. “I remember her now. Oh! I may have . . . I believe I joined in when the older girls made fun of her.”
Ms. Glenda seemed satisfied by the admission. “Her older brother was Rutherford. He graduated three years ahead of Ellen and was also severely tongue-tied.”
Olivia accepted the yearbook and put her finger on the place where Ellen’s photograph should have appeared on the page. “Wasn’t their condition reparable?”
“I imagine so.” Ms. Glenda reclaimed the yearbook and shelved it, clearly signaling that she didn’t want to discuss the matter any further.
“Can you provide us with a more concrete answer?” Olivia demanded, sensing the librarian knew more than she was willing to let on. “Or point us to a faculty member who might have a more complete recollection of the Donald siblings?”
Her pride stung, Ms. Glenda crossed her arms over her chest. “I do not like to gossip, especially when it comes to former students of mine.”
“Of course you don’t!” Laurel whispered passionately. “You must feel protective of them. I’d never quote you without your permission, but people have been hurt, Ms. Glenda. You could help bring an end to the robberies, to the violence, afflicting
two
counties.”
Listening to the plaintive tone of another former student, Ms. Glenda capitulated. Turning slightly, she spoke solely to Laurel. “The Donalds were a Jehovah’s Witness family. There were six children in all, Rutherford and Ellen being the youngest. Those two rarely spoke at school, and when they did, it was almost impossible to understand what they were saying. Their words were garbled. The guidance counselor and several teachers attempted to talk the parents into seeking medical treatment, but Mr. and Mrs. Donald refused to listen. It was their belief that their children were perfect in the eyes of God and that they had been born with twisted tongues for a reason.”
“Those poor children,” Laurel murmured sadly. “They faced ridicule their entire childhoods when it could have been avoided?”
“I’ve heard that the procedure is fairly straightforward. I don’t remember what it’s called, but apparently it’s performed on infants quite often. A surgeon cuts away the extra tissue the child was born with, allowing the tongue to move more freely. At their age, the Donald kids would have had to go into the hospital. A local doctor offered to do the surgery for free, but the parents wouldn’t even consider it.” Ms. Glenda pursed her lips in disapproval.
Olivia’s eyes had strayed to the row of yearbooks on the shelf. “The robbery victims were classmates of the Donalds. We can safely assume that at least one spouse of each couple contributed to the misery of the Donalds’ high school career.”
“Let’s test that theory before we leave.” Laurel pulled another yearbook from the shelf. “I’ll try to find Christina Quimby. I know her maiden name.”
Laurel found Christina’s photo quickly. After that, she looked up Felix Howard, followed by Sue Ridgemont’s husband. “Chief Rawlings was a step ahead of us. Unless the Donalds are using false identities, he’ll have them in custody today.” She glanced at her notebook. “I wonder if their parents are still local. I should try to find their house. It would make the perfect photographic accompaniment for my article on Rutherford and Ellen. Maybe I could even get an interview before they know what their kids have been up to. I could pretend to be doing a piece on Jehovah’s Witnesses.”
Olivia was more than a little astonished that her friend was able to remain so detached from the story. After all, the crimes had been inflicted on her schoolmates and she knew, if only by distant acquaintance, one of the perpetrators. “Come on, Diane Sawyer. I need to let Haviland out of the car. We can do a search for the parents using your home computer.”
Laurel thanked Ms. Glenda and followed Olivia out of the library. After passing through a pungent hallway smelling of sweat and disinfectant, they both exited the school and drew in grateful breaths of refreshing autumn air.
On the way back to Laurel’s house, the women exchanged title ideas for the next piece on the Cliché Killers. Olivia’s phone rang and her heart fluttered. Was it the lab? At the next stop sign, she looked at the screen. Her contractor had called to let her know the work on the lighthouse keeper’s cottage was done and she was free to move furniture back in.
“Our writer’s group can meet at its usual locale this weekend. That was my contractor calling with the good news.”
“I’ve heard about him from April Howard. She told me that you’d offered her a job,” Laurel said as Olivia parked the Range Rover. “When I’m done breaking this story, I’m going to do an article on you, Oyster Bay’s behind-the-scenes benefactor.”
“That’ll be the end of your career for certain,” Olivia growled. “I’ll buy the paper and fire you. And I’m
not
joking. In any case, everyone in town is fully aware of every move I make without any help from you or the
Gazette
.”
Ignoring her, Laurel told Haviland he was free to take care of business in the strip of woods separating her property from her neighbor’s. “Their dog does it on our front lawn all the time and they
never
pick up after her.” Laurel glared at the Georgian house next door. “Go wild, Haviland!”
Cocking his head at the sound of his name, Haviland trotted off to the specified area. The women waited until he’d complied with Laurel’s wishes and then Olivia called him back into the house, promising to take him to the park immediately after lunch.
Laurel asked Olivia to boot up her laptop while she placed a call to Chief Rawlings, hoping to prime him for information before he made what was sure to become a celebrated arrest.
“No luck,” she told Olivia. “He’s not answering his office or cell numbers and I can’t reach Officer Cook either. He’s kind of been my go-to guy. That man loves the idea of having his name in the paper.”
As Olivia began a search for the Donald family, the doorbell rang. Haviland, who had stretched out on the tiles under the kitchen table, raised his head and lifted his ears in curiosity. Then, seeing that his mistress hadn’t reacted to the sound, he flopped back onto the cool floor and closed his eyes.
Upon hearing more than one set of footsteps in Laurel’s hallway, Olivia stopped typing. It seemed odd to her that there were at least two people in the house, perhaps more, and yet no one spoke. The feeling intensified. Sensing something was wrong; she swiveled in her chair and gasped.
There was Laurel—trembling hands held above her head in surrender, face ashen with terror.
She stood shakily between the rigid bodies of a man and a woman. They both had tanned skin and brown hair streaked gold by the sun. They were both armed and their deep-set dark eyes were cold with rage.
The woman held a knife with a sinister black blade and the man held a length of steel wire. They wore identical work gloves with red rubber palms.
Olivia’s eyes moved from the bloodred hue to the clenched jaws and icy calm stares of the Cliché Killers. Rutherford and Ellen Donald had clearly not fled town.
The siblings had another agenda. They’d come to exact their revenge on one more Pampticoe High alumnus.
They’d come for Laurel.
Chapter 16
So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their ending.
—J. R. R. TOLKIEN
“I
’m sorry, Ellen!” Laurel cried, turning to face the woman on her left. “I was an idiot to tease you like I did! I was
more
than an idiot! I was cruel but I am so, so sorry!”
Ellen shrugged, indicating that Laurel’s apology hadn’t moved her one bit. “You were a stupid sheep. You were all sheep, doing what the cool kids told you to.” Her words were flawlessly clear and laced with bitterness. The woman who had grown up with a major speech impediment now spoke with the elocution of a Juilliard actress. “Rutherford and me were little bugs for you to step on. You didn’t think about anything but your clothes and your boyfriends. Now you’re all grown up and you’re still the same.” She gestured in a wide circle with her knife. “Perfect house. Perfect little family. Sheep.”
“And a perfect job where you get to judge other people in print. Do you think you’ve earned the right to influence people?” Rutherford growled. “We’ve read what you’ve written about us, little lamb. Let me ask you, what do you
really
know about us?”
Laurel’s face crumpled. “I know you’re not wicked! People were mean to you and you both suffered. I played a part in that, but I have two precious boys—”
“Shut up!” Ellen shouted angrily, spittle flying from her mouth. “
My brother and I
never got a chance to have families of our own. Not only did our folks force us to live at home until we were nearly
thirty
, but people screwed with us for too many years before that for us to come out normal. We’ve waited a
long
time to punish everyone who hurt us. You need to understand”—she brought the tip of her black blade within centimeters of Laurel’s eye—“we have nothing to lose.”
“You were one of them, Laurel,” Rutherford hissed and then, in a frightening singsong, he whispered, “Cat got your tongue, cat got your tongue, cat go your tongue,” until Laurel put her hands over her ears, her fingers shaking like branches in a hurricane wind.
Olivia had sat through this charged scene as though made of stone. Her focus was divided by the appearance of the Donald siblings and the absurd thought that if she were a character in a movie or a book, she’d immediately come up with a plan to save her friend. There would have been some useful weapon at hand and the police would have been battering down the front door, moments away from rescuing the women in the midst of a desperate struggle against the villains.