SEVENTEEN
July 29
Lizzy breathed a sigh of relief as she left the county registrar’s office. She was nowhere near through with the red tape, but at least she’d gotten the ball rolling. It had taken days to round up and sort through Althea’s financial papers, which consisted of a battered accordion file, a pair of dog-eared ledgers, and a shoebox filled with canceled checks and loose receipts.
On the upside, in the drawer of Althea’s writing desk, she had discovered a manila envelope containing property tax documents, a declaration of trust, a beneficiary deed, and a boilerplate “Last Will and Testament.” Everything she’d need to handle the deed transfer—and apply for a mortgage if it came to that. Of course Althea had seen to it all.
She’d know more once Chuck Bundy came out and had a look around. If he ever came out. She had called his office this morning to touch base and had been dismayed to learn that he hadn’t returned to work yet. His son had undergone a second surgery, and the possibility of a third hadn’t been ruled out. She had asked that her good wishes be passed along. She could hardly begrudge the man time with his son, but she couldn’t let this drag on much longer. If he didn’t return to work soon, she’d have to find another Realtor. Maybe she’d talk to Andrew when he got back from Boston, ask if there was someone he’d recommend.
Her cell phone rang. She checked the display. Roger. It had been two days since she’d left the message about her conversations with Susan Gilman and Jenny Putnam, and she’d begun to wonder if he’d decided to steer clear of the case entirely, perhaps on the advice of his brother.
“Hey, Roger.”
“Sorry for the delay. I was out of town wrapping up an investigation when I got your message. I take it you have some thoughts to share about Heather Gilman.”
Was she imagining the impatience in his tone? Probably not. And who could blame him? He had real clients, the kind who paid for his services and didn’t try to tell him how to do his job. “I do, actually. I sat down with Susan Gilman on Monday.”
“So I gathered from your message. For the record, I sat down with her too, on numerous occasions.”
“I know. I didn’t mean . . . she’s in a different place now, Roger. She’s free to say things she wasn’t back then. Did you know she had doubts about my grandmother’s guilt?”
“I didn’t,” he said, after a brief beat of silence. “But her husband was vocal enough for both of them. The papers, the news, every day the same thing. Why hasn’t that woman been arrested yet? How many more innocent girls have to die? And not once, during any of that, did his wife contradict him.”
“Because she was scared. She told me flat out that he was a bully, and after my conversation with him, I can personally attest to it.”
“You’ve spoken to Fred Gilman?”
In her eagerness to relate her conversation with Susan, she’d apparently forgotten to mention her visit to Meadow Park. “Yes. I went to his house, but he refused to speak to me. Though I definitely got the bully vibe. I can see why she was afraid of him.”
“There was no domestic history. We checked.”
“And we both know a man doesn’t need to use his fists to intimidate his wife.”
“All right. I’ll grant you that. But there were no signs of violence in the home. No broken bones or black eyes, no frequent ER visits. Just the normal bumps and bruises. You’re saying she thinks it was him?”
“No. Not exactly.”
“Then what are you saying?”
The impatience was back, his tone brisk and snappish. Lizzy pulled into the first parking lot she came to—Stay-Brite Dry Cleaners—and put the car in park. She needed him to hear her out, so he’d have a clear picture of life in the Gilman house. “I’m saying there were things going on back then that no one knew about. Creepy stuff. Like a father giving his fifteen-year-old daughter a box of condoms without telling her mother. Heather was running wild, skipping school and drinking. But Mr. Gilman didn’t want to hear it—and he didn’t want anyone else to hear it either. Especially the police. That has to set off some bells.”
“You just said his own wife doesn’t think he did it.”
“She doesn’t. But wives aren’t always objective, even under normal circumstances. And things in that house were far from normal.”
“Sounds like you think it was him.”
“I certainly think it’s possible. Susan said her husband had a kind of obsession with the girls. With Heather especially. But everyone was so convinced it was Althea that no one else was even considered.”
Roger blew out a sigh. “That isn’t true. Just because we didn’t broadcast our every move doesn’t mean we weren’t doing our jobs. I can assure you we looked at him. In fact, we looked at both of them. Both had alibis for the night the girls went missing. Fred was seen by several neighbors out in the garage, working on an old Mustang he was restoring, and it was Susan’s turn to host her card club’s weekly canasta game, which didn’t break up until almost midnight. That’s when she realized the girls weren’t home. Unfortunately, she waited almost five hours before calling it in.”
“Because Fred wouldn’t let her call sooner. He didn’t want the police involved, and still doesn’t, apparently. You don’t find that odd?”
“His daughters are dead, Lizzy. Murdered. I can’t say I blame him for not wanting
