The Last Thing She Said Read online

  Not long after that, Lacey started working for a rare book and document store in town. The owner was Sal Loughlin, a fellow book nerd who Lacey had gone to high school with. Sal was into deep books and great literature, which was a complete contrast from Lacey’s longtime boyfriend, Rick Hudson, who had a promising career as a football player.

  Rick did not take her decision for them to take a break well at all. Lacey started getting phone calls at all times of the day and night. She felt like she was being followed. I could feel someone watching our apartment, too.

  Suddenly, out of the blue, I found out that she’d quit her job. I guess she thought that if she distanced herself from Sal, who she had begun dating, that Rick would back off. When I tried to talk to her about it, she said I had everything backwards.

  That was the last conversation we had.

  That night, Billy and I were at the campus pub when Sal walked in with a black eye. He said that Rick had been waiting for him when he had closed up the shop that night. Billy told him to go to the police, but Sal refused. He said he was not going to let anyone come between him and Lacey, the love of his life.

  I rushed home and found Lacey’s body on the kitchen floor. She’d been strangled.

  Immediately, I gave the police Rick Hudson’s name, but he had three witnesses—friends of course, who said the four of them had gone kayaking and camping out. Not only that, but he said he had moved on from Lacey and had another girlfriend, who also alibied him.

  Of course, they could have been lying. However, the police could never break Rick’s alibi. I wondered if they’d even tried. Rick Hudson was Penn State’s star football player.

  Lacey’s mother and I always believed the police and university covered up Lacey’s murder to protect him.

  Sal was devastated, of course. He had confided to me that he and Lacey were planning to get married. That, he claimed, was why Rick had killed her. After her funeral, Sal withdrew from me and all of Lacey’s friends—saying that we reminded him of Lacey and it was too painful.

  From what I heard, Sal never got married because he never got over Lacey.

  Lacey’s mother, Leah, had asked me to lie and say that I saw Rick leaving the apartment that night. I had refused. Lacey’s brother, Rex, a brute of a man, showed up at my place, drunk and threatened me, but I refused to let him intimidate me, even though he did scare me to death. Lacey’s family never forgave me for letting Rick get away with murdering her. Leah harrassed me for years—alternating between pleading and threatening me. She wanted me to suddenly remember things that would force the police to arrest Rick.

  After the book came out, Leah and Rex started showing up at my events. They wouldn’t let me forget that Lacey’s future had been ripped away from her. Meanwhile, I was free to live my life.

  The guilt still tears me apart.

  Lacey’s murder taught me a hard lesson about cherishing the time you have with those you love. You never know when they will be gone.

  My parents had to tread softly when it came to Billy—a lesson they learned from my brother Kyle.

  Two years older than me, Kyle had gone to school at the University of Southern California. He had disappointed Father enough by not getting into Harvard, but he did manage to graduate with his bachelors—not at the top of his class, but he did graduate.

  Father was horribly disappointed. “How could the son of Horace Billingsley not be smart enough to get into graduate school?”

  “Because I couldn’t find anyone to hire to take the entrance exam for me,” Kyle answered. It was true. Kyle had been buying research papers and tests throughout his college career. He didn’t want to go into business with Father. While in California, he had gotten in with the rock music scene. He wanted to become a talent agent for boy bands.

  It was in consideration for my mother that Father did not disown Kyle. While he refused to finance Kyle’s career, he did allow us to continue relations with him, which was fortunate for me.

  Having gone before me, Kyle understood what I would be going through. Likewise, I was able to serve as a buffer between him and Father. More than once, I had managed to finagle money from Father to send to Kyle when he needed it.

  George and I were Father’s last hope for a legacy. There was no role for Billy in fulfilling that legacy.

  I actually thought I was strong enough to go up against Father when Billy asked me to marry him the Valentine’s Day of my senior year. I was thrilled. It was a dream come true for me. Gladly, I accepted the ring and took Billy home.

  Mother cried—but they were not tears of joy. Father refused to give us his blessing. At twenty-one, I told him that he could not forbid me to marry the man I loved.

  True, he said, but if I married anyone but George Livingston, then I would be dead to him.

  Mother cried the rest of the weekend as if she had lost a child. In essence, she was losing a child. Father did not bluff. He was as hard as stone. If I married Billy, then I would be cut off from my family.

  While I could go on without Father, I could not do that to my mother. My heart broke like I had never thought possible when, at the end of the weekend, I gave Billy his ring back and said goodbye.

  What was supposed to have been a joyous occasion turned into a funeral.

  Not wanting to take any chances, Mother and Father announced my engagement to George the next week and a date for our wedding was moved up three years to that June. Instead of marrying George after he finished law school, I married him before. We lived in a townhouse next to Harvard Law School campus.

  Most young married couples have difficulty when one of them is going to law school. The stress and demands of the program makes one half of the couple feel neglected.

  Not so with George and me. We had a cordial loving relationship not unlike that of two siblings. Our marriage was one of cohabitation.

  I accepted my lot in life like a bird locked in a cage. Everything I wanted was provided for me—except freedom to live the life I wanted.

  Other women on the outside would look in and envy my life. A lovely home. Beautiful clothes. Travel. I had a handsome successful husband.

  Inside, I was miserable.

  While George pursued his law degree, I wrote my novel The Last Thing She Said. Writing allowed me to escape into the world of Maisie Peabody, my protagonist. A country club wife and socialite turned private sleuth in search of her friend’s killer, Maisie was strong enough to live life on her terms. Yes, Lacey’s murder was on my mind while writing that book.

  Little did I know that my escape would give me the tools to make my escape.

  I had sent the book to Bella Walton, a college friend who’d gotten a job as an editor in New York, for her input—expecting nothing more than a “job well done.” She passed the book on to Sue Richardson, a prestigious literary agent.

  Two years after George graduated from law school, The Last Thing She Said was a number one best-seller and Hollywood came knocking.

  By that time, George and I were leading separate lives.

  Keeping in touch with our friends from Penn State, Bella would pass on information about what Billy was doing. After getting his doctorate in literature, he had accepted a teaching position in Shepherdstown, West Virginia.

  Bella was a true friend. She saw that I was basically a walking dead woman. I was alive, breathing, my heart was beating, but I was dead because an important part of me was missing.

  For seven years, I moved through a fog that only lifted after my mother died in a horrible car accident.

  The night of my mother’s viewing, I was alone with her before the funeral home opened up for visitors. I was holding her hand. Then, I felt Billy’s firm hand on my shoulder.

  Bella had called him with the news. He had flown to New York to be there for me. It was as if the seven years that had passed between us had never happened. The feel of
his arms around me made me feel more alive than I had ever in years.

  Without even asking, I knew my father’s vow would be the same. If I divorced George, I would be dead to him. But with Mother gone, there was no reason to be alive to him.

  However, George was a good man. My friend. I could not humiliate him by walking out.

  Then, it occurred to me. If leaving George would make me dead to Father, then why not die?

  Yes, I knew I would be walking away from the literary career I had created for myself. All of the critics were saying that I was the next Robin Spencer. That was a small price to pay to be with the man I loved.

  Instantly, I began planning my disappearance.

  All of the royalties and money from my writing was deposited into a savings account and other money market accounts that had both my and George’s name on it. Over the years, they had accumulated to more than a million dollars—especially after a producer purchased the movie rights. While I was willing to walk away from my copyright for The Last Thing She Said, I didn’t want to walk away from that money. If anything, I wanted it to be available for Billy’s and my children. Timing was crucial. I had to transfer the funds to an off-shore bank under a phony name without raising an alarm. I am quite proud to say that I had succeeded.

  In researching my kidnapping, I found that no one seemed to notice that one-point-three million dollars disappeared less than a month before my disappearance.

  We used some of it to pay cash for our stone house overlooking the battlefield. The rest we invested for our children. We have divided the remainder into three IRAs for Speare, Amanda, and Erin. They will be pleasantly surprised to find this out when my estate is settled.

  I had a case of first editions of The Last Thing She Said. Knowing that those books would become quite valuable after my disappearance, I shipped it to Billy. Except for a couple of books, the case is still in the back of my closet. I’ve signed each book. Please divide them among our children.

  I had contacts in the police department who knew less than savory characters. I needed a new identity and social security number. I had found a man in New York who gave me the identity of Shannon Hill, which I changed to Blakeley after I married Billy.

  When Robin Spencer told me about the mystery writers conference in Harpers Ferry and asked if I’d like to attend with her, I felt as if it were fate stepping in. Billy lived minutes away.

  When George told me that he was speaking at a conference at the Bavarian Inn in Shepherdstown, I thought it would be over. Then, I saw it as an opportunity. I was staying at the Hill House. George was staying at the Bavarian Inn.

  After the book signing where I first met you and your mother, I told Sue that I was going to meet George at O’Toole’s Pub, which was within walking distance in Historic Harpers Ferry. Then, I walked out of Hill House, speaking to numerous fans and authors, making sure everyone knew I was walking to the pub to meet my husband.

  I was almost out the door when Lacey’s family confronted me. Insane with grief, she pulled a dagger on me and caused a big scene right there in the lobby. In front of everyone, she accused me of getting rich from Lacey’s murder. I was paralyzed with humiliation and fear. Then, Robin Spencer came out of nowhere and disarmed her. In the middle of all the chaos, I heard Robin ordering me to go—to run to Billy.

  I ran out of the hotel and didn’t stop running until I was in Billy’s arms. He was waiting for me in Hog Alley, across the street from a pub called O’Toole’s.

  We drove away without one look in the rearview mirror. I left everything—my entire past—behind.

  We drove straight from there to Ocean City where Shannon Hill married Dr. William Blakeley.

  The plan was for the police to assume that Mercedes Livingston had been abducted or killed or simply walked away from her life. Whatever became of Mercedes Livingston would become a great mystery—not unlike the mystery of whatever became of Amelia Earhart.

  You can imagine my shock when Billy and I saw the news days later that Mercedes Livingston and her husband had been abducted and the kidnappers had demanded half a million dollars in ransom.

  My car, a red Camaro that I had rented for the conference, was found in the Potomac River in Shepherdstown. I had left the Camaro in the parking lot at Hill House when I went to meet Billy. I don’t even know how the kidnappers knew it was my car.

  My father paid the ransom, but the kidnappers never released Mercedes Livingston and her husband.

  Now you know why. The kidnappers never had Mercedes Livingston to begin with. Maybe they had kidnapped George, but not me. Ten years later, George’s skeleton was found in a wooded area in Kearneysville when they were building the bypass to Martinsburg.

  I was heartbroken and confused.

  Obviously, Christopher, you can see why I could not come forward with the truth. Everyone would assume that I had staged my kidnapping and had killed George—possibly because he tried to stop me from leaving after discovering that I was siphoning money out of our savings account. They’ll assume that I extorted money from my father. But that wasn’t the case. I didn’t need Father’s money. Worse, they would think Billy was in on it. I couldn’t do that to him. So, we decided to say nothing.

  Who in my life could have done such a thing? That is where my heartbreak comes. You see, Christopher, there was only one person who I had let in on my plans.

  My brother. Kyle and I were close, and I didn’t want him to think that I had died some horrible death. I was certain that he would understand why I was running away. Kyle could not have killed George. They were friends. Besides, Kyle was in California when George disappeared.

  Someone took my rental car, extorted money from my father, and killed my husband.

  Now, Christopher, it is time for the truth to come out. I want my children to know that their mother was the author of The Last Thing She Said, which is now an American classic.

  Before the truth can come out, there is a mystery that must be solved—the murder of George Livingston.

  Christopher, please, as a friend, can you find my first husband’s killer and make things right for my children?

  Love,

  Mrs. Shannon Blakeley

  Chapter Four

  “You can’t take this letter into evidence.” Turning his back to keep the letter out of Helen’s reach, Chris folded it and stuffed it into the envelope.

  “It’s evidence that Shannon Blakeley committed suicide.” Helen reached around Chris for the envelope only to have him hand it off to Doris.

  “Actually, she didn’t commit suicide,” Doris said. “She says right here that she willed her heart to stop. Without evidence of poison, drug overdose, a bullet, or any other means to rush her demise, the medical examiner can only conclude that her death was by natural causes.”

  “In which case this letter isn’t evidence,” Chris said. “It’s her personal communication to me.”

  “My people saw the book and envelope next to Shannon’s body,” Helen said. “My captain is going to expect me to tell him what was in it.”

  “Tell Ross that the book was a gift for Christopher,” Doris said.

  “Which is the truth.” Chris took the envelope from Doris. “This letter is about a personal matter that has nothing to do with Shannon’s death.”

  “Also the truth.”

  “It’s evidence pertaining to the Mercedes Livingston kidnapping and George Livingston murder.” Helen reached for the envelope only to have Chris hold it above his head.

  “Which isn’t your case, Helen,” Doris said. “The feds made it very clear that they had jurisdiction over the Livingston case. They didn’t want the locals’ help.”

  “When my superiors find out I’m withholding crucial evidence to an open murder case I will be so fired.”

  “I’ll take Ross to lunch and ask him if he’s been working out,” Doris said
with a wave of her hand. “By dessert, the Livingston case will be the furthest thing from his mind.”

  “Helen, what’s going to happen when you contact the feds about what’s in this letter?” Chris asked.

  “Before or after they say it’s the delusional fantasy of a senile old woman?” Helen asked.

  “That’s my point.”

  “We all knew Shannon,” Helen said. “She was not a delusional senile old woman. Billy wrote the book on Mercedes Livingston—literally. In academic circles, he was considered the expert on her writing and The Last Thing She Said. He taught a course on her and became chair of the English and Literature Department at Shepherd in part because of that expertise. Now, we know how he had such insight into her writing. He was married to Mercedes Livingston.”

  “Pretty damn clever if you ask me,” Doris said with a sly grin.

  “It’s because I know Shannon was not one bit senile that I’m taking her letter seriously. This is new information from a credible source about a kidnapping and murder. We need to investigate the matter.”

  “‘We’ being who?” Chris asked. “What if you take this letter to Ross, who will turn it over to the feds? What do you think is going to happen when they check into it?”

  “Based on Shannon’s confession that she faked the kidnapping—”

  “Shannon didn’t fake any kidnapping,” Chris said. “She didn’t make the ransom demand. She just rode off into the sunset with the man she loved and let the chips fall where they may.”

  “How appropriate. A mystery master disappearing into an air of mystery.” With a giggle, Doris shuddered. “I like it.”

  “It wouldn’t be so bad if someone didn’t get murdered in the process,” Helen said.

  “The first thing the feds will do is talk to those who knew Shannon best.” Doris rose her eyes to look up toward the hay loft. “When I tell them how much stress she had been under while taking care of Billy, who was terminally ill…”