Last to Know (Chapters 1 & 2)

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LAST TO KNOW

Elizabeth Adler

MINOTAUR BOOKS

New York

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This is a work of fi ction. All of the characters, organizations, and

events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s

imagination or are used fi ctitiously.

LAST TO KNOW. Copyright © 2014 by Elizabeth Adler. All rights

reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information,

address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www .minotaurbooks .com

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ISBN 978- 1- 250- 01992- 9 (hardcover)

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First Edition: July 2014

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PROLOGUE

This will not be the fi rst time I have killed, though I am not one of

those roaming, spur- of- the- moment serial killers. I am discreet,

careful, choosy in fact, about whom I want to kill, and why.

I am not an evil person; on the contrary I believe I am, if not good,

then certainly kind. I am kind to animals unless they aggravate me,

pleasant with babies because they are not worth the bother of aggrava-

tion, and I know how to use charm well enough to fool most people.

“Murder?” you might be asking. Am I talking casually, seriously,

about murder? That is not the way I would put it. There is a reason I

choose who should depart this life and it is always a logical one. Now I

have picked out the next.

Rose Osborne is not dead yet, but she is going to die. And soon. Later,

I will tell you exactly why.

How can I not be evil, talking so easily about killing someone? Believe

me, I am as normal as you who are judging me.

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Elizabeth Adler

2

You will never know me, never meet me. Not for me the long, fantasy

sexual bites of the vampire. If you want blood then the femoral artery at

the junction of the thigh and the crotch cuts easily while at the same time

giving access to the most intriguing and secret parts of the anatomy.

The knife is my favorite method. I have used it more than once,

though sometimes other, more fi tting methods work better, as you will see

later.

So, be aware I am among you. I am the one who always helps out at

the animal shelter, at the scenes of disaster, with the old people . . . that’s

how “normal” I am. And why you, like Rose, will always be the last to

know.


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1EVE NING LAKE, Massachusetts, 3 A.M.

Harry Jordan’s wooden vacation house was certainly the

smallest, as well as one of the oldest, on Eve ning Lake, a

resort where nothing bad, like murder, ever happened, but which

in recent years had become a little too smart for Harry’s style:

too cocktail- partyish; too many lonely blond wives with hungry

eyes; too many miniature dogs peeking out of Range Rover win-

dows. Mind you Harry’s own car, a classic ’69 souped- up E-type,

British racing green with tan leather seats, was certainly a head-

turner, but then Harry owned that car because he loved it with

a passion, not for show. And the dog usually to be seen gazing

from its windows was a large silver- gray malamute- mix that

looked remarkably like a wolf, but with astonishingly pale blue

eyes.


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Elizabeth Adler

4

The dog’s name was Squeeze and it went everywhere with

Harry. Which, since Harry was a hom i cide detective on the Bos-

ton squad, meant that Squeeze had seen a cross section of hard

life on the streets as well as the plusher environment of Harry’s

own Beacon Hill apartment. Not only did Squeeze know that the

best place to eat in town was Ruby’s Diner near the precinct, he

also knew the locations of the best bars. Squeeze had it pretty

good and so, Harry had thought, did he, until last week when the

woman he was going to marry left him and went to Paris instead.

Which was the reason he was here at Eve ning Lake. Alone. But

for the dog.

Squeeze was Harry’s alarm clock. At fi ve thirty every morn-

ing, even on Harry’s infrequent days off, it waited, eyes fi xed on

the fl ickering green digital display of the clock, zapping it with a

fast paw at the fi rst ring. Usually all that happened was that Harry

would roll over onto his back. After another couple of minutes the

dog would leap onto the bed and lay its massive head on Harry’s

chest, staring fi xedly at him. Another couple of minutes and Harry

would groan under the dog’s weight, open his eyes and stare

straight into the dog’s. It would not move and Harry had no option

but to get up. That was their morning routine. The difference now

was that it was not yet morning.

It was 3 A.M., the darkest hour of the night. And they were

on vacation at the lake. So what, Harry wondered, was up with

Squeeze anyway. He always left the door leading to the porch

open so the dog could push in and out as needed. Something

must be wrong.

He sat up and looked at the dog, standing by the door, taut as

a hot- wired spring, staring intently back at him. Knowing he had

no choice he got out of bed and went in search of his pants.


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LAST TO KNOW

5

At forty Harry looked pretty good, six- two, muscular despite

a lack of serious exercise and his erratic diet of junk food eaten on

the run. There were a few furrows on his brow now and his dark

hair was beginning to recede a bit at the temples and somehow

never looked as though it had been combed, and maybe it hadn’t

if he was in a hurry, which he mostly was; his level gray eyes un-

der bushy brows seemed to notice everything about you in one

sweeping glance and he never seemed to have time for a decent

shave, so sometimes he had a rough beard. Stubble became him.

At least that’s what women thought. They found him attractive.

His colleagues did not agree. They called him “the Prof ” because

of his Harvard Law degree, earned the hard and, for Harry, bit-

terly boring way. He’d given it up years ago and become a rookie

in the police department instead. The reason he’d used was that

he didn’t want to waste his time getting criminals off on legal

technicalities for large fees; he would rather be out on the streets

catching them.

Harry had worked his way up from patrol cars to se nior de-

tective. And he was good at what he did.

What very few of his colleagues knew about Harry— because

to him it was not important, and besides it was nobody’s business—

was that at the age of thirty he’d inherited a trust fund set up by

his grandfather that made him rich. At least, rich enough to buy

the brownstone on Boston’s Beacon Hill, which he’d converted

into apartments. He rented out the three top fl oors but kept the

apartment on the garden fl oor for himself. He redid this to his

own specifi cations, walled in the garden, and later bought him-

self a pup. The malamute.

Harry’s fi ancée had not enjoyed sharing her man with a very

large, very present dog. She objected when Squeeze jumped fi rst


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Elizabeth Adler

6

into the Jag and sat shotgun next to Harry, while she was ex-

pected to struggle into the small space in the back that almost

could be called a seat. She also had not liked Harry’s hours, espe-

cially the nocturnal ones. “You never take me out to dinner any-

more,” she’d complained, though she did like it when Harry

cooked.

For a man who existed on food eaten on the run Harry hap-

pened to be a very good cook, though only old- fashioned things

like pasta Alfredo, scampi Livornese, spaghetti Bolognese— all

recipes taken directly from his rare and trea sured copy of the

Vincent Price cookbook with its menus and recipes from some of

the great restaurants of the world, circa 1970. Exactly Harry’s era,

taste- wise. Forget today’s avant- garde chefs and what Harry called

tortured food: he liked it simple and, if he was lucky, good. If not

then a burger was just fi ne.

He was fussy about his wine though. Harry enjoyed a good

Claret. He never called good red wine “Cabernet,” nor did he

trust “Chardonnay”— he preferred a Graves or white Bordeaux.

Anyhow, Harry thought now, swinging his legs out of bed and

gazing out the window at Eve ning Lake, glimmering blackly on

this moonless night; anyhow, the fi ancée whom he’d loved dearly,

Mallory Malone, the girl of his dreams, had had enough. Paris,

she had told him, would be more fun than another night alone in

Boston waiting for the phone to ring or sharing more takeout

fried chicken and a bottle of his good red. “I can share a bottle of

good Bordeaux with anyone I like in Paris,” she’d added.

Harry had seen the tears in Mal’s eyes as she walked out the

door for the last time, not slamming it, though he guessed she had

every right to. He had not gone after her. It would not have

worked; he knew it, and she knew it. Not the way things were,


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LAST TO KNOW

7

with him dedicated to his work. While she had given up her own

successful special investigations TV show, which looked further

into unsolved crimes of the past, for him.

He’d called his best buddy and colleague, Carlo Rossetti, bro-

ken the news, and for the fi rst time in his police career said that

he needed to take time off. He needed a break. He wanted time

out from stabbings and shootings and killings on the streets. He

needed to rethink his life. He needed to be alone and the old gray

wooden fi shing shack on the lake that had been his grandfather’s

was just the place.

It consisted of two sparsely furnished rooms, a corner kitchen

with a hot plate and a micro wave, a white- tiled shower that needed

regrouting— a job Harry promised himself to do while he was

there— a porch with an old three- legged orange Weber barbecue

with a lift- up lid and several years’ worth of burned- on grease.

There was a narrow wooden jetty and a small rowboat with a

little outboard motor. Powerboats were not allowed on the lake,

only sails and boats like Harry’s. A copse of birch trees, trunks

gleaming silvery in the night, protected him from the sandy road

that led around the lake, giving him privacy, though he did have

an excellent view of nearby houses, much larger and grander than

his own, and also of those on the other side of the lake, the larg-

est of which was owned by a fl ashy blonde with a daughter who

looked about eigh teen, though when Harry glimpsed them in the

mini- market, he thought that with her pale straight hair and elu-

sive blue gaze, she might be closer to thirteen. It occurred to him

looking across the lake now, that it was odd, with such a big house,

so little entertaining was done. Unlike with the rest of the summer

people there were no cocktail parties, no barbecue nights, no boozy

laughter. And apparently no friends for the young daughter. Quite


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Elizabeth Adler

8

different from the Osborne family who lived a couple of houses

away. He’d encountered Rose Osborne on his early morning

walks. She too, seemed always to be alone. They’d exchanged

morning pleasantries. She’d said please come by, they kept open

house, but Harry never had. He found Rose attractive: a sumptuous-

looking woman, round and full and . . . welcoming . . . was the best

word he could use to describe her, with her wildly curling long

hair, often pulled in a messy ponytail, her intense brown eyes, her

long legs and— of course he had noticed— her slender ankles. She

always seemed last- minute thrown- together in a sweatshirt, capris,

and sneakers, and sometimes she was on her bike: “Getting my

morning exercise in,” she’d call cheerfully in passing, throwing

him a smile that, lonely man that he was now, Harry really appre-

ciated. Still, maybe because he was attracted to her he had never

taken Rose up on her offer, never gone by for that cup of coffee or

that eve ning drink. He respected marriage and married women

were not his style. Besides, he was still a man in love. With Mal-

lory Malone. Or at least he thought he was. Thought maybe she

was too, in love with him. Maybe a little bit.

Every now and then, though, he would see other members of

the Osborne family dashing in and out, a remote- looking college-

age son, who gave off “keep away from me” vibes that spelled a

problem to Harry; a couple of fl uffy teenage girls; and a boy, elev-

enish, small, skinny, ginger- haired and, unlike the rest of that busy

house hold, always alone. Harry noticed things like that and it

made him wonder why the kid was always alone. He also noticed

that the boy would hide up in the fi g tree where a branch led, he

guessed, to his bedroom window. So the kid sat up there and

spied on his family and the rest of the world. He would probably

make a good detective.


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LAST TO KNOW

9

And then there was the husband, Wally Osborne. The famous

writer. Wally wrote scary novels that could make the hair stand

up on the back of your neck and which were made into fi lms that

made you want to shout out loud, “Look behind you, the killer’s

there!”

You might expect a writer of evil books to look evil, or at least

a bit mad. Wally Osborne looked neither. He was tall, lean, and

handsome with permanently tousled blond hair, deep blue eyes,

and a light summer tan which, Harry knew, must send the local

women into raptures. He thought Rose Osborne probably had a

hard time keeping tabs on a husband like that. But that was none

of his business.

Anyway, he was at Eve ning Lake, it was three in the morning,

and he was climbing into the sweatpants he wore to the gym and

a soft dark blue sweater, a present from his ex, thrusting his feet

into sneakers, grumbling as he laced them up, glancing at the

dog, still expectantly waiting.

“So, okay, let’s see what’s up, Squeeze,” he said resignedly. He

wasn’t sure what it might be but the dog surely knew something,

and since he was still a cop, even though he was thinking about

quitting, Harry needed to investigate.


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The Osborne house nearby Harry’s sat squarely on the edge

of Eve ning Lake. “Sat” rather than “perched” because this

was a solid house, built to last, ninety years before by a genera-

tion that respected solid workmanship and the art of a true

craftsman.

It still sat, rather than perched, all these much- lived- in genera-

tions later, a white clapboard structure, raised on stilts at the

waterfront with a veranda, or “porch” as it was always to be called,

running the length of it lakeside, and a jetty where variations of

small boats were moored. Omar Osborne was one of the fi rst set-

tlers and certainly one who voted for the irrevocable rule that no

motorboats be allowed. Eve ning Lake would remain unpolluted,

he hoped, for his descendants.

New houses now edged the lake, some of them Gatsbyish in

their size, but local laws kept them to “simple” splendor, and many

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Elizabeth Adler

12

of the fi rst old shacks were still there, the brown wood faded to a

silvery gray, a reminder of times past though still lived in and

enjoyed.

The house was traditional. A row of French doors opened onto

the porch, fronting a spacious light- fl ooded room with oversized

“lived- in” sofas covered in nut- brown heavy linen, and comfy

chairs with rarely plumped- up cushions, covered in cream bro-

cade, obviously brought from some other house to join the mix-

and- match melée, because this house had never felt the hands of

a “decorator.”

“It all simply came together, the way it should,” was what Rose

Osborne told her visitors, apologizing for the trek up the wide

creaking wooden staircase— she never knew when asked whether

it was oak or chestnut, and was always surprised by the question

because she was too worried about guests having to march up

three fl oors to their rooms.

The main guest room was on the second fl oor and had gables

jutting like eyebrows over the short windows. Rose’s favorite color

was turquoise, and she’d had the gables painted that cheerful

color, though now because they weren’t too keen on having the

upset caused by repainting every three years they had faded to

what Rose called her “passionate blue.”

“Why ‘passionate’?” guests would ask and be rewarded with a

smile and Rose’s answer that many people had asked her that,

but it was her secret. Hers and her husband, Wally’s. She had

never even told her three children what it meant. Which, in fact,

was that it was exactly the color of the pure silk nightgown her

husband had surprised her with on their honeymoon, bought in

some outrageously expensive boutique and which they certainly

could not afford, but that he’d said he’d just known would look


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13

wonderful on her and that he wanted to make love to her wear-

ing it.

So he had. They had. And the nightgown was still there,

wrapped in special tissue to preserve the silk, in the second

left- hand drawer of her vanity, under lock and key. A memory

preserved. Occasionally, dreaming of the past, Rose would un-

lock the drawer, take out the package, carefully unwrap the tis-

sue, and look at the most beautiful garment she had ever owned.

Its pale champagne lace trim was as delicate as ever, its blue as

turquoise as the Mediterranean on a summer eve ning when that

coast turned luminous in the fading light.

In back of the house a forest of birch mounted the hill, silver at

dawn and eve ning, blank and peeling in the full light of day. Atop

the hill, brambles tangled at a walker’s feet, thorns scratched

childish hands seeking blackberries, and old wells, dry now but

once the area’s only source of fresh water, crumbled, away from

the main paths with warnings posted to “take care.”

The small town of Eve ning Lake, only a village really, lay two

miles down the sandy road that led behind the house, which

had a sharp gravelly turnoff that you had to watch out for or you

would miss it. There was a lean- to on the left where cars could

park, and a would- be vegetable garden struggled on the right where

tender Boston lettuces pushed through the sandy earth and rad-

ishes grew to giant size and where, if left un- netted, birds or ani-

mals ate all the tiny sweet tomatoes that here were more true to

their fruity origin than mere salad fi xings.

Two chimneys sat atop the Osborne house and in winter smoke

plumed straight up. The builder had done a good job on those

fl ues, as he had on everything else.

There was a “mud room” to the left of the front door. It was


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Elizabeth Adler

14

called the “front” door because it faced onto the road, though no

one ever used it, they always walked directly into the kitchen by

the side door, now painted Rose’s turquoise blue. Fishing tackle

and wellington boots, tennis rackets, dog leads and raincoats, a

vacuum cleaner, buckets and a whiskery old broom were stored

in there.

Rose and Wally’s “boudoir” was above the living room, a spa-

cious sprawl with a big old brass bed. Dylan’s song “Lay Lady

Lay” (across my big brass bed) used to be Wally’s favorite song:

they had played it endlessly on their old hi- fi in those early days,

so of course Wally had fi nally had to buy his big brass bed. A long

white chaise stood under the window where Rose would read;

there was a pretty vanity against the wall where the light fell per-

fectly onto the mirror; and a smallish bathroom in pale marble

with a tub deep enough for soaking, and big enough for two.

Beyond that, down the hall, was the twins’ room, a girly pastel

horror of dropped clothing, still- plugged- in curling irons, spilled

powder and abandoned tubes of lipstick. The cat they had rescued

from the side of the road as a minute kitten that had to be fed by

an eyedropper slept on their beds. Now hefty, he was called Baby

Noir because of his luxuriant black fur, and he scared the hell

out of everybody who came near him, except, of course, Madison,

whose beloved he was. There was also Peggy the Pug: beige, fl at-

black- nosed, soppy and snoring, and Frazer’s best friend.

Roman rarely allowed anyone into his room, which he kept in

almost total darkness. He had the whole top fl oor to himself, ac-

cessed by a stairway leading from the kitchen, as well as from an

outside fl ight of, by now, rather rickety wooden stairs, something

Rose had always had her doubts about, especially with a teen-

ager. When he was younger she had locked that door and pock-


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eted the key. Now Roman was eighteen and objected to “being

locked in.” His father had come out on his side and the key had

been handed over, though not without misgivings on Rose’s part.

“What if he escapes at night, runs off in the dark, partying,

drinking . . . doing lord knows what?” she’d asked Wally. But her

husband had laughed her fears off with the same old same teen-

ager get- out card.

“Look at him,” he told Rose. “He’s a quiet, well- behaved, re-

sponsible young man. He works hard, gets good grades, he’s on

course for a scholarship to a good college, let him have his fun.”

It was Wally’s opinion that his son was far too quiet and could

use a bit more “fun,” and should get out alone more. He stayed

home too much, hung around the house, always on his phone or

his tablet, always somewhere else in his head.

“That’s teens for you,” Wally emphasized to Rose. But Rose

wasn’t buying in to that cliché and she worried. She wished he

was more like the twins, outgoing, lovable, touchable, hugs and

kisses all round. As well as “teens” she guessed “boys would be

boys.” In fact all the clichés seemed to suit her son. Right now,

that is.

A big house, then, though never grand. A true family house,

fi lled with friends and people of all kinds. This was the Osborne

house. Charming, calm, friendly. Until that night. When every-

thing would change.


Last to Know (Chapters 1 & 2)

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Transcript of Last to Know (Chapters 1 & 2)