excuse the saying. She lived there for a while. Don’t ask when because I don’t remember. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m late.”
“I want you to run Dale Lundy for me.”
“When I get back I’ll do it first thing,” he said, hefting his bulk into his unit.
The doors to the
The library was located on a quiet Apalachicola street; a red brick, one-story building with white trim. Laura asked the librarian if she had newspapers or microfiche dating back to the time of the de Seroux murders.
The librarian looked at her, a vague uneasiness creeping into her deep violet eyes. She was a pretty woman, powdered and small, somewhere in her thirties. “The de Seroux murders?”
“That’s what I heard. Someone named Henry de Seroux killed his wife and daughters here in Apalachicola.”
The librarian looked shocked. “When was this?”
“A long time ago. It’s not something that people would forget, though.”
Definitely flustered. “Excuse me, let me take a look, see what I have on the database.”
She went into the back room. Laura waited.
At last she returned. “I couldn’t find any references on the computer, but that doesn’t mean anything. We have back issues of the
“So you never heard that story? Have you lived here long?”
“Twelve years.”
“I guess it would be before that then.” A mass murder would appear on the front page, so all she’d have to do was look for the headlines. She’d start with 1990 and work her way back from there.
The librarian took her to the little alcove where the microfiche machine was. She showed Laura how to wind the tape on the spool, and Laura let her, although she’d done this many times before.
There was no reference to a mass murder in 1990. Or 1989, 1988, 1987.
By the time she got to 1983, her neck was beginning to ache.
And then she saw it: Page One, June 12, 1983.
She read quickly, getting more excited as she read.
Henry de Seroux, a respected dentist and family man, had cancelled the newspaper subscription, the water, the electricity, and the gas; gave his golf clubs to his surprised receptionist; and went home to kill his family and himself.
No mention of a young man who could be a cousin. No mention of any other family at all.
There was a picture of the family, though. A studio portrait with a gauzy, blue background. The two girls were pretty and blond. One of them, sitting on her mother’s lap, was five or six. Her name was Carrie. The other, standing, was older—eleven? Twelve?
Marisa.
She looked familiar, and Laura suddenly realized why. Marisa de Seroux looked a lot like Linnet Sobek.
And Alison Burns.
And Jessica Parris.
Laura hit the button to photocopy the page.
Back in her room, Laura started a fresh page of her legal pad. Looking for links.
She stared at the list. A couple of things occurred to her immediately.
Punching in 1411, Laura requested the number for the Copper Queen Hotel in Bisbee, Arizona, then called the hotel. The front desk answered.
“I wonder if you could help me,” Laura said. “I was in the bar last weekend when you had the pianist there. I liked him so much I asked if he could play for my wedding. We exchanged cards, but I can’t find his anywhere, and the wedding is in three weeks. Could you help me out? I think his name was …” She looked at her notes. Jimmy or Dale: Pick one. “Dale.”
“Let me take a look,” the woman replied. “Hold on.” The phone clattered.
A minute passed before the woman picked up again. “Dale Lundy, right? He’s playing this weekend, too. All I have is a cell phone number.” She recited it.
