“Just hear me out.” Tish held up her hands. “It’s not just a story about Laura’s death. There’s more. I want the book to be a catalyst to reopen the investigation. I want to solve the case. I want to find out who murdered Laura.”
Stride folded his arms. “You?”
“That’s right. Look, I’ll do it on my own if I have to, but I want your help. What’s more, I think you want to help me. This is a chance to put this case behind you once and for all. Cindy told me what kind of person you are. How every death takes a piece out of your soul.”
He was angry now. “Ms. Verdure, don’t you think I would have reopened this case years ago if I thought there was more to be done? Laura’s murder was never unsolved. We know who did it. He got away. He disappeared.”
Tish shook her head. “I don’t believe that’s what happened. I don’t think you do, either. There was a lot more going on in Laura’s life that summer. It was easy for the police to pass it off on some anonymous vagrant, a black vagrant. Talk about your stereotypical bogeyman. No one wanted to deal with the fact that it was probably someone close to Laura who killed her.”
“Do you have a suspect in mind?” Stride asked.
“Well, you could start with Peter Stanhope.”
Serena’s head snapped around at the mention of Stanhope’s name. “Peter was involved?” she asked Stride.
“Yes, he was the prime suspect for a while,” Stride admitted.
“Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?” Serena asked.
Stride was silent. Peter Stanhope was an attorney from one of Duluth’s most influential families, but more important, he was one of Serena’s clients as a private investigator.
“I’ve done my homework,” Tish continued. “Randall Stanhope had the police in his pocket back then, and it wouldn’t have been hard for him to shift the focus away from his son. Somebody needs to take a close look at Peter Stanhope.”
Serena pushed her chair back with an iron screech and stalked away from the table.
Maggie watched her go, then leaned forward, shaking her head. “Look, Trish.”
“It’s Tish.”
“Tish, fish, knish, whatever. Let me give you a reality check. You can’t go around making accusations about anyone, let alone a rich lawyer like Peter Stanhope, without evidence. You can’t expect the police to help you.”
“Unless you’ve got something new to add to the investigation, we can’t do anything,” Stride added. “Even if we wanted to.”
“I do have something new,” Tish said.
Stride’s face was dark and suspicious. “What is it?”
“I know Laura was being stalked.”
WHO KILLED LAURA STARR?
TWO
May 20, 1977
Laura showed me the letter today. I caught her reading it on her bed when I went into her room, and I saw what it was before she could hide it. I could tell she was upset. I wondered how long she had been staring at it before I came in.
The note was written on ruled white paper, the kind we use in school. The edge was jagged where it had been torn out of a binder. Someone had used red lipstick to scrawl the message.
WHERE DO YOU WANT IT, BITCH?
“What the hell is this?” I demanded. “Where did this come from?”
Laura snatched the note out of my hand. “Someone put it in my locker.”
“Do you know who?”
“I have no idea.”
I wanted to see it again, but Laura hid it away in the drawer of her nightstand before I could ask.
“You have to tell someone about this,” I said.
Laura ignored me. She hummed along to a Hall and Oates song on her record player. “Sara Smile.” Her fluffy blond hair jiggled as her shoulders swayed, and she rubbed her index finger nervously as if she were trying to wipe away a stain. She acted as if, by putting the note away, it didn’t exist anymore.
“Laura,” I chided her. “This is serious. If you won’t tell anyone about it, then I will.”
She wagged her finger at me. “Oh, no, you won’t, little sister. I don’t want to make a big deal about this. You know what boys are like. It’s just a joke. It would make it worse if I acted like I was scared.”
I didn’t think it was a joke.
I flopped down into Laura’s white beanbag. I knew there was no point in trying to change her mind, because she didn’t call me “little sister” except when she was being stubborn. Most of the time, Laura liked the fact that I was the one in charge of the house. I could boss her around when it came to chores, and she didn’t care. She was like a sailboat drifting on the lake, letting the wind decide where she would go and not really minding where she ended up. Me, I revved my motor and followed the shore.
I stared at her on the bed. She wore a V-necked white T-shirt and cutoffs with a thick black belt. She was much prettier than I was. She had the curves and the boobs and the big Farrah hair. Jonny told me last week that my face was much more interesting than Laura’s, because it wasn’t symmetrical and perfect like hers was. He thought that was a compliment. I told him he needed to do better.
My own hair is so dark it’s almost black, and I keep it straight as an arrow, with a perfect part down the middle. I have a sharply angled nose, like a little shark’s fin jutting off my face. My irises are so large and dark that they crowd out the whites of my eyes. I have two little peaches for breasts.
Hey, I knew who the guys went for. It was Laura, not me. Maybe that’s why Laura was much less comfortable with guys than me. She kept her distance. She rarely went out on dates. During the winter, she went to the movies with Peter Stanhope a few times, but she broke it off when he wanted to get into her jeans. As far as I knew, Laura was still a virgin. Not that she would tell me that kind of thing.
“You haven’t been around much lately,” I said. For more than a week, Laura had been disappearing after school. Coming in late or staying out all night. Acting quiet and brittle. Twice I heard her crying in her room.
“So?”
“So are you okay?”