Timeshare
As Zachary Mondale sat behind the wheel of his Mercedes waiting for the red light at the corner of 7th Avenue and 34th Street to turn green, he glanced at Macy's department store and frowned. A large banner hung above the entrance counting down the number of shopping days left until Christmas.
"Damn it! I wish they wouldn't do that!"
"Do what?" asked Jefferson Prine, his good friend and attorney, who was sitting in the passenger seat beside him.
"Keep harping on how many days are left to buy Christmas gifts."
"Do they? I didn't notice. My wife does all the shopping in the family. I just pay the credit card bills at the end of the month."
"I can't expect Caitlin to buy her own presents."
"True. Thankfully, Riley always lets me know exactly what she wants. This year, it's a Chanel coat."
"You're lucky. My wife wants to be surprised."
"She's a woman. Buy her a piece of jewelry. They like the bling."
"Caitlin has a drawer full of jewelry. She's also got a closet bursting with clothes and shoes. That's the problem. What do you buy a woman who has everything?"
"I'm afraid you're asking the wrong guy, my friend," Jefferson laughed. "Even if Riley had everything, she'd still want more."
Once the light turned and Zachary continued on to his office for the annual board of directors meeting, his thoughts shifted from Christmas shopping to the more pleasant subject of his company's profits. It had been another excellent year, and the corporation's directors would have good cause to celebrate.
As he had anticipated, news of the record-breaking earnings was met with a round of applause. Immediately following the conclusion of the meeting, chilled bottles of Dom Pérignon were uncorked.
"A toast," Zachary announced, raising his glass, "to a very profitable year and to many more to come."
"Here! Here!" the directors cried in unison.
Once business was over, the meeting turned into an impromptu party. As the celebrants gathered around the buffet (provided by one of New York's finest restaurants), the question of where people were spending the holidays came up.
"I'm taking the wife and kids on a Mediterranean cruise," one director boasted. "We're going to get away from this cold weather and soak up the sun."
"Not me," another said. "I like a white Christmas. I've rented a house in Aspen for three weeks. I can't wait to hit the slopes."
"What about you, Zach?" the company's secretary asked. "What do you and Caitlin have planned?"
"We're going to stay home."
"Christmas in New York? That sounds like a Hallmark movie."
"Since I began this company, I've gone to so many places on business that travel has lost its charm. I'm sick of all the airports, taxis, hotels and restaurants. I want to relax and enjoy the holidays in my own house."
"What about your wife? Doesn't she want to get away?"
"Caitlin is a homebody at heart. She doesn't really feel comfortable in a hotel, sleeping in a strange bed. Although she does enjoy going up to Cape Cod. Her mother was from Boston, and that's where her family spent their summer vacations."
"Why don't you buy a vacation home on the Cape then? It can be a home away from home."
"The only problem with a vacation home is not being able to utilize it enough," Zachary explained. "We have a pretty active social life here in New York."
"There is a third option," Jefferson said, joining in the conversation. "You can always buy into a timeshare unit. Riley and I own one down in Orlando so we can take the kids to Disney World every year."
"But you have to share a house with other people. I imagine it's not much different from staying in a hotel."
"That's what I thought, but I discovered it's not true. When I open that front door, I have the feeling of ownership. It's my home. Look at it this way, if you buy a house that other people lived in, it doesn't make it any less yours."
"That's true."
"Besides, you were looking for a gift for some who has everything. Why not give her a gift that keeps on giving? Buy her a timeshare on Cape Cod. If she doesn't like it, you can always rent it out."
"I'll think about it," Zachary said and returned to the buffet table to refill his plate.
* * *
"What's this?" Caitlin asked when she opened the large box on Christmas morning, only to find a key taped to the bottom, beneath a layer of tissue paper.
"Your Christmas present," her husband answered. "It's a key to the lock on our front door."
Grinning like the Cheshire Cat, Zachary handed her another, smaller box. She quickly unwrapped it to find a brochure for a development of seaside cottages in Truro, Massachusetts. Each two-story unit came with two bedrooms, a bath, an eat-in kitchen, a dining room, an outside deck and a large living room with a fireplace.
"Have you planned a vacation for us?" she asked.
"That's a timeshare unit. We own it every September. I thought that would be the best time of the year to go up to the Cape since it won't be overrun with tourists."
"This is such a great gift! But can you get away for an entire month every year?"
"I'll try. But even if I'm unable to go, there's no reason you can't stay there."
"Ah! So, this is your way of getting rid of me and having some time to yourself!" Caitlin teased.
"I must confess. I had no idea what to get you for Christmas, and Jefferson suggested this."
"Well, I love it! I think it's one of the best gifts you've ever given me. I can't wait until September to go up to New England and make use of it."
The holidays soon passed, and the Mondales' lives continued on their usual busy course. Zachary devoted most of his time to his business, and Caitlin fulfilled her duties of supportive wife. Having no career of her own, her sole job was to be her husband's hostess and social ambassador. That meant a seemingly never-ending succession of dinner parties, company-sponsored functions and charity events. When she was in her twenties and thirties, she enjoyed her fast-paced social life, but middle age was now slowing her down. She was at the point where she would prefer sitting down to a homecooked meal in her own kitchen to dining out in New York's latest trendy bistro.
Winter with all its unpredictable weather was soon over, and spring arrived to everyone's relief. The heavy coats were put away, and light jackets were brought out. The temperatures continued to rise as spring turned to summer. That July and August were hotter and more humid than most. Caitlin looked forward to September when she and Zachary could drive up to Massachusetts and spend the month in her seaside cottage.
Cool ocean breezes, the cry of seagulls, the sound of the waves crashing on the beach, she mused, closing her eyes in a brief moment of pleasant reverie.
When the day finally came, however, her husband had to bail out at the last minute.
"I have to go to San Francisco," he said.
"Can't you handle whatever the problem is by teleconference?"
"I wish I could, but it will be much easier to do in person. Maybe I can join you at the end of the week."
On the morning of September first, Caitlin put her luggage in the back of a rented SUV and took I-95 to New England. By lunchtime, she was crossing the Bourne Bridge. After navigating her way around the rotary—what she referred to as a "circle" when she lived in New Jersey—she followed Route 6 until she arrived in Truro. When she finally arrived at her timeshare unit, she pulled in back of the cottage and turned off the car's engine.
"How adorable!"
She reached into her bag for the key, which was easy to find since it was still attached to a red Christmas ribbon. The inside of the cottage was pretty much as she had expected: comfortable furniture in a cozy atmosphere. As the homeowners' rules required, the previous occupants had removed their personal belongings from the unit. Maintenance had then sent a housekeeper to freshen the place up for the next tenants, leaving behind the lingering scent of Lysol when she was finished.
I could live her all year long, she thought, gazing out the bay window at a sailboat bobbing on the water.
Hoping to fully enjoy the rare gift of free time, she had picked up a paperback novel while stocking up on groceries at a nearby Stop & Shop. She made herself a cup of coffee, opened a box of LU Le Petit Ecolier—in English, little schoolboy cookies. Pushing on the back of the recliner so that her legs were raised, she opened the book and began to read. Sipping her coffee and nibbling on the dark chocolate-covered buttery biscuit, she made her way through the first chapter of the murder mystery. The sky darkened, and it began to rain as she started the second chapter. She was on her third chapter (and third cookie) when her cell phone rang.
"How do you like the place?" Zachary asked.
"I love it!"
"It doesn't feel like a hotel?"
"Not at all. Right now, I'm curled up in the recliner reading a book."
"Ah! So, you've become a lady of leisure?"
"At least for the next few weeks. But come October, I'll be back in New York, ready to assume my social obligations."
"I'm still hoping to wrap things up here by the end of the week. Then I can catch a flight to Boston."
"I'll pick you up at the airport."
"No need. I'll just rent a car."
The call ended soon thereafter. Zachary was a busy man, and there were many things he had to attend to, problems that had to be solved and people that had to be pacified. Part of him envied his wife her little getaway to the timeshare. He could not remember the last time he had the opportunity to kick back his heels and read a book.
* * *
After making herself grilled chicken and a salad for dinner, Caitlin returned to the living room. Instead of sitting in front of the bay window to read her novel, she curled up on the sofa to watch television. A portion of the monthly maintenance fee on the timeshare included cable TV and Internet service, but she would need the remote to turn the power on.
Her eyes scanned the room. There was nothing on the coffee table except a vase of artificial flowers and several magazines. Matching table lamps were on the end tables that flanked the sofa. Then she noticed each of the end tables had a drawer in it. She opened the first. All it contained was a pad of paper and a pen. She had better luck in the second one. Not only did she locate the remote, but there were spare batteries and a cable TV channel guide in it as well.
When Caitlin picked up the cardboard cable guide to see what channels were available, she felt something sticking to the back of it. She turned it around and discovered a Polaroid snapshot. It was not the old technology that took her by surprise; rather it was the subject of the photograph. The young woman, who appeared to be in her early twenties, was bound and gagged, and a red scarf was tied around her neck. Most disturbing was the terrified look in her eyes. The painting on the wall just above the woman's head left no doubt that the photo was taken in the timeshare's master bedroom.
Suddenly, the peaceful, "at-home" feeling she had enjoyed since unlocking the front door vanished. The full realization that other people—unknown people—called these same rooms home hit her hard. She had deluded herself into believing that her fellow owners were like her and Zachary: ordinary people who wanted a place where they could escape their busy lives for a few weeks each year. The possibility of sharing ownership of the unit with a sexual deviant now hit her.
Alone in the cottage, she felt vulnerable. After making sure the front door was bolted, she went from room to room, locking the windows and assuring herself there was no one hiding in the closets or beneath the beds.
"A Polaroid snapshot?" Zachary asked with surprise when he phoned that night. "It must be an old photo. I don't think they make film for those cameras anymore."
"I didn't think so either, so I checked on Amazon. Fuji not only makes film, but it also makes its own instant camera. Look, you must think I'm being silly, but just knowing that the person who took that photo has probably got a key to this house ...."
"I don't think you're being silly at all. It's better to be safe than sorry. Still, I don't believe you have anything to worry about."
"You don't think finding a photo like that is disturbing?"
"Who am I to judge consenting adults who like to get tied up? What people do in the privacy of their own bedrooms is none of my business."
"But during the month of September, it's our bedroom, not theirs."
"Did they leave anything else behind?"
"No. All the personal items were removed—clothes, toiletries," she conceded and then laughingly added, "whips, chains."
"That's my girl!" Zachary exclaimed. "Just laugh the whole thing off."
Despite her best efforts to forget about the photograph, Caitlin could not get the look in that young woman's eyes off her mind. If the act was one between two consulting adults, why did she look so frightened?
The following day she took an early morning walk on the beach. On her way back, she stopped at the office and spoke to Axyl Warburton, the man in charge of maintenance.
"Everything okay with your unit?" he asked when she introduced herself. "The AC's working okay? No plumbing issues?"
"Everything's fine," she assured him. "I was just wondering about the other owners of my unit. What kind of people are they?"
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Mondale. I can't tell you anything about them. We have strict policies to protect the homeowners' privacy. I'm sure you wouldn't want me giving out your personal information to anyone."
"You're right. I just thought it would be nice to know who sleeps in my bed the other eleven months of the year."
"I wish I could help you, but I'd lose my job."
Caitlin thanked the man for his time and returned to her cottage.
Three days later, Zachary flew into Boston from California. Although he could only spare five days before he had to be in New York for a stockholders' meeting, the couple made the most of their time together. They visited the Cape Cod National Seashore, drove up to Provincetown, took the ferry to Nantucket and went on a whale-watching excursion.
"If you can come back here before the month ends, maybe we can drive to Plymouth," Caitlin suggested as her husband packed his bag to return to Manhattan.
"I'll try," he said, refusing to make a promise he would most likely not be able to keep. "But if I can't make it, you stay here and enjoy yourself."
* * *
On the morning of September 27, Caitlin began putting some of her clothes into her suitcases. She wanted to have everything packed in two days' time so that she could leave first thing in the morning on the thirtieth and avoid the heavy traffic going into the city. Leaving out just three outfits, two nightgowns, one pair of shoes and her daily toiletries, she removed all her other belongings from the bedroom closet and drawers.
Her packing accomplished, she wanted to take advantage of the day's warm temperatures and clear, blue skies. She drove to Hyannis and visited the Kennedy Memorial and the John F. Kennedy Museum. After lunch at the British Beer Company, she went on a boat ride past the Kennedy compound. It was the historical significance of the seaside homes that appealed to her. She tried to imagine Joe, Jr., Jack, Bobby and their sisters playing a game of touch football on the green lawn as young Teddy watched.
While contemplating the assassination of the two brothers, she glanced down at a copy of the Cape Cod Times someone from an earlier sailing had left on the boat. Beneath the headline, BODY FOUND ON TRURO BEACH, was a police drawing of the unidentified victim.
That looks like her! Caitlin's brain screamed.
It was the same hair and facial structure as the girl in the Polaroid photo. The only difference was the look in the eyes. The girl in the drawing, who was found with the murder weapon, a red silk scarf, still tied around her neck, did not exhibit the fear the bound young woman in the snapshot did.
It took several moments for Caitlin's brain to bypass one shock and confront another, more horrible bombshell.
That poor girl might have been killed in my home! I might be living under the same roof as her murderer!
Rather than drive back to the cottage, she headed directly toward the Truro police station.
"May I help you, Ma'am?" the officer at the front desk inquired.
"I have information about the body found on the beach."
Caitlin was immediately taken to talk to Lamont Rustin, one of the detectives assigned to the case.
"Do you know her identity?" the policemen asked. "Was she a friend or relative of yours?"
"No, I don't actually know who she is, but I recognized her from the drawing in the paper."
She then told Rustin about the Polaroid photograph she found in her living room end table.
"Let me see it," he said.
"I'm afraid I don't have it with me."
Caitlin had a talent for reading the expressions on people's faces, and the look on Lamont's told her he put no stock in her story.
"I'll need to see the picture in order to investigate your claims any further," he announced in a dismissive tone. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to meet with the medical examiner."
A woman of financial means and social standing among New York's elite, she was not one to accept his dismissal so easily.
"When would be a good time for me to return with the photograph?" she asked in her haughtiest manner.
"You can stop by the station any time after four. I'll probably be working late."
As Caitlin put the key into the front door lock, there was none of the joyful anticipation she felt upon her arrival on the first day of September. With trepidation rather than happy expectation, she entered the timeshare, her senses alert to any possible danger.
"Now, where did I put that snapshot?" she said aloud, her voice echoing through the empty cottage.
The obvious place, the drawer in which she had found it, was empty.
She did not think she threw it in the trash, but she had been so startled by the discovery that she might have done just that.
That detective isn't going to listen to me without the photograph. I only hope there'll be enough forensic evidence to catch the killer.
After a restless sleep that night, she woke on the morning of the twenty-eighth, packed her remaining belongings and left for New York two days early.
* * *
On a snowy February morning, Caitlin opened the website of the Cape Cod Times as she had done several times a week since October. She was delighted to learn that an arrest had been made in the murder of the Jane Doe found in Truro. According to the Times, the man in custody was a car mechanic who lived in Barnstable. Relieved that he was not a co-owner in her timeshare, she was able to finally put the incident out of her mind.
That probably wasn't even the same girl as in the photograph, she reasoned. I'm sure Zachary is right. It was most likely a case of two consenting adults engaging in a little kinkiness in the privacy of their own home—or at least it's their home for a specified period of time each year.
For the next six months, Caitlin's time was consumed by her role as the wife of one of the wealthiest, most successful businessmen in America. By the time Labor Day arrived, she was ready for a much-needed vacation.
"I suppose you'll be going to the Cape while I'm away," Zachary said as he prepared for a three-week business trip to Tokyo.
"Yes. I've already started packing my things."
"I'm glad you're not letting that Polaroid photo scare you off."
"I'll admit it did bother me at first, but I'm over it now."
Three days later, Zachary Mondale was in Japan and his wife was heading north on I-95 to New England. As she crossed the Bourne Bridge, she felt a warm sense of coming home. Oddly enough, after only one September spent in Truro, she felt a deeper sensation of "belonging" in Cape Cod than in either her current home in Manhattan or her birthplace in New Jersey. Because the timeshare was a gift to her from Zachary, it was the only home she ever owned. The cottage was not her parents' house or her husband's; it was all hers.
"Home sweet home," she announced as she opened the front door and stepped across the threshold, pulling two of her four rolling suitcases behind her.
Once her luggage was in the house and the SUV's cargo area was empty, she drove to Stop & Shop to stock up on supplies for the month. As Caitlin was waiting on the checkout line to pay for her groceries, her eyes were drawn to the current issue of the Cape Cod Times. The headline claimed that a second unidentified body was found on a beach in Truro.
"I thought the police caught the killer," she said to herself.
The cashier, overhearing her comment, explained, "You mean the one they arrested after the first girl was found last fall? They did, but there was not enough evidence to indict him, so they had to let him go."
"Maybe now that he's murdered again, they'll have a better case."
"I hope so. But until he's behind bars, I'm going to keep my doors locked and carry a can of pepper spray in my purse."
Caitlin purchased the newspaper and read the article as she sat in her car in Stop & Shop's parking lot. There was no police sketch included, but according to the Times' reporter, the second victim was a woman in her mid- to late-twenties. She was five feet, four inches tall, weighed approximately one hundred twenty pounds and had blue eyes and short, curly blond hair. Like the brunette the previous year, she was strangled with a red silk scarf.
On the drive back to her cottage, Caitlin pondered the advisability of remaining in Truro or going back to New York. The saner voice of reason prevailed. She returned to the timeshare and brought her groceries into the house. After making sure all the windows were locked and no one was hiding beneath a bed or in a closet, she made herself a light lunch and then sat in the chair beside the bay window to read her book.
Perhaps a murder mystery wasn't the best choice of reading material, she thought as she opened to the first chapter of the latest James Patterson bestseller. Maybe I should have bought one of those Yvette Delacroix romances instead.
Seven chapters and two cups of coffee later, she put the book down for the day. The sun was setting, and trying to read in the fading daylight was straining her eyes. The gathering darkness and the quiet stillness of the cottage made the homeowner uncomfortable. What she needed to dispel the gloom was music. Rather than listen to the play list on her phone, she would see what music stations were provided by the cable company. There was usually at least one that offered a selection of Eighties rock. Born and raised in New Jersey, she frequently relied on Springsteen and Bon Jovi to lighten her moods.
However, as her fingers circled around the knob of the end table drawer, her hand frozen.
What if there's another Polaroid picture inside?
The second mental debate of the day ensued. Again, she managed to suppress her fears and opened the drawer. Nothing was inside but the TV remote and the cardboard cable guide.
After enjoying a frozen pepperoni pizza—she was on vacation, after all, and allowed herself the luxury of "junk" food—she sat down on the sofa with a glass of wine and streamed two episodes of Foyle's War on Acorn TV.
More murder mysteries? Really? Why not watch a comedy?
But homicides in war-torn Hastings, England, were far removed both in time and place from modern Massachusetts. She certainly did not have to worry about some Nazi sympathizer sneaking through the door to murder her in her sleep. Once Foyle solved the crime and arrested the culprit in the second episode, she turned off the television and went upstairs.
Caitlin briefly considered a long, hot bubble bath but decided on a quick shower instead. The soaking tub would have to wait until tomorrow.
As she crossed the threshold of the bedroom, she tried not to look at the painting above the four-poster bed. She did not want to imagine the young, dark-haired woman, bound and gagged, sitting on the bed.
That may not even have been the same girl, she tried to tell herself. There was a resemblance between the Polaroid photo and the drawing in the paper, but those police drawings are not always reliable likenesses.
The windows were locked. The door was bolted. She was safe.
Then she pulled back the covers of the bed.
Caitlin's hand trembled as she reached out for the Polaroid photograph. This one, however, was not of a girl with long dark hair, parted in the middle. This girl had short, curly blond hair. Although the physical appearance was different, the look in their eyes was the same. Here was another bound woman, terrified for her life.
In what could be seen as a fight or flight moment, she chose to remain in the room. After reassuring herself that there was no killer hiding beneath the bed or in the closet, she locked the bedroom door and, with some difficulty, pushed the heavy dresser in front of it. The last thing she did before she got under the covers and went to sleep was put the photograph in her handbag.
* * *
Detective Lamont Rustin recognized the wealthy New Yorker when she entered the police station.
Not her again! he thought with annoyance. I've got two murders to solve. I need her like I need a hole in my head.
"What can I do for you, Mrs. Mondale?" he asked, managing to remain polite.
"I found a second photograph in my cottage. This one was of a blond woman."
"May I see it?"
With an I-told-you-so look on her attractive face, Caitlin opened her designer handbag. The smug expression soon faded as she rifled through the contents.
"I don't understand! I put it in here last night."
"Perhaps it fell out. Why don't you go back to your home and see if you can find it?"
"You still don't believe me!"
"That's not true. My partner and I have to check into dozens of tips, which are prioritized by their likelihood to yield results. If you bring me that picture, I guarantee I'll stop what I'm doing and check into the other owners of your timeshare."
"I'll get you that proof if I have to tear down the place with my bare hands!"
As she stormed through the front door of the timeshare and mounted the stairs to the second floor, she had no thought for her own safety. The sting of humiliation was all she felt.
That detective probably thinks I'm some kind of lunatic looking to grab attention.
"There it is!" she declared triumphantly when she saw the Polaroid snapshot lying face down on the carpet beside her bed. "Now let's see Detective Rustin dismiss me as though ...."
The she turned the photo around. Her words turned to a scream, and the picture fell from her hands. The bound woman was neither a brunette nor a blonde. The hair was red, like Caitlin's. Terrified, it took several moments for her to recognize her own face.
"No! It can't be! I never ...."
A sound from behind made her spin around. This was another fight or flight moment. Since the killer was blocking her way to the door, flight was not an option. And when she saw him wrap the ends of the red scarf around his fists, she lost the will to fight. Instead, she whimpered, cowered and begged for mercy.
But her pleas fell on deaf ears.
* * *
Detective Rustin felt the sting of guilt when he looked down at the dead body on the beach with the photograph of her own terrified image clutched in her hand.
"She tried to tell me the killer had his victims in her cottage, but I didn't listen."
"This isn't your fault," Ira Van Putten, his partner, assured him. "If she had those photos, why didn't she produce them? Besides, we were certain that mechanic from Barnstable was our man."
"Yeah, well, we now know he didn't kill the brunette or the blonde. I doubt very much he killed Mrs. Mondale."
Later that afternoon, he entered the Mondales' timeshare. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. There was a James Patterson book on the ledge of the bay window, and the TV remote was left on the coffee table. The kitchen was clean: no dirty dishes in the sink, no groceries on the counter, no rotting food in the refrigerator. The bedroom was equally tidy. Before she went to the police station, Caitlin had even taken the time to hang up her nightclothes and make the bed.
"I want you to turn this place upside down," Rustin told the uniformed officers who were at the house to execute a search warrant. "If you find any Polaroid photographs, notify me immediately."
"What the hell's a Polaroid?" a young rookie, straight out of the academy, asked.
"It's an antique camera," replied a fellow officer. "That was way before digital cameras and cell phones were popular."
It took only two hours for the police to search every nook and cranny of the timeshare.
"Find any pictures?" the detective asked eagerly.
"No," the officer answered. "But I did find this way in the back of the second bedroom closet."
It was a vintage Polaroid Land Camera, one that had obviously seen better days.
"Take it to that camera shop in Yarmouth. I want to know if it still works."
After leaving the cottage, Rustin returned to the police station where he began an inquiry into the other owners of the timeshare. That particular cottage, he learned, was not fully occupied. Other than the Mondales, who owned it during the month of September, there was an elderly school teacher who inhabited it for two weeks in June, a middle-aged couple from Ohio who occupied it during the month of July and a retired doctor and his wife who came up from Florida every year in August. For the remainder of the year, the house was vacant.
"None of these owners seems a likely killer," the detective announced.
The forensics report, when it arrived, had little to offer. The case seemed to be growing cold fast.
"Why does policework seem so easy on TV?" he asked Ira when the two men stopped for coffee one morning. "How often do you see a case go unsolved on Law & Order or CSI?"
"May personal favorite is Criminal Minds," his partner laughed. "For fifteen seasons, a group of FBI profilers come in and not only solve homicides but invariably manage to save the killer's next victim just as their UNSUB is ready to pull the trigger, plunge the knife or tighten his hands around someone's throat. How many real cops do you know get there in the nick of time like the goddamned U.S. cavalry in an old western?"
As the two detectives joked about fictionalized crimefighting compared to actual policework, Rustin's cell phone rang. It was the owner of the camera shop in Yarmouth.
"This Land camera is quite a collector's item," the photographer told him. "It's an early model, made around 1954 or '55. There's no way it could have been used to take a photograph, though. It needs a complete overhaul."
The detective was about to thank him for his time and tell him to keep the camera, but the photographer was not finished speaking.
"I did find an ID plate on it, though. It was once owned by a man named T.J. Marks."
The color drained from the detective's face.
"Are you sure that's the right name?"
"The rest of the camera may not be in the best condition, but the name plate is perfectly legible."
"Thank you. I'll send someone by your shop to pick it up sometime this afternoon."
"What's up?" Van Putten asked. "Was that call about the case?"
"It can't be!" the detective mumbled to himself; he apparently had not heard his partner's question. "Let's get back to the station."
When he pulled his car into the municipal parking lot, however, he did not enter the police station but headed for the town hall instead.
"Where are you going?" Ira called.
"I need to check something out."
Rustin went straight up the stairs to the second floor to speak to the clerk who recorded deeds. He wanted to know who owned the property on which the timeshare units were built.
"Before the cottages went up, there was a single-family house there owned by the Truro Land Development Group. They tore the house down ...."
"I don't care about that," the detective said, cutting the clerk off. "Who owned the house?"
"Let me see. A Miss Enid Laurenson from Pennsylvania owned it for five years. She inherited it from her mother, Mrs. Rue Laurenson, also from Pennsylvania, in 1983."
"And before them?"
The clerk searched further back, all the way to 1952.
"Here it is. Mr. Thomas J. Marks."
The clerk's voice trailed off. The name was a familiar one, or rather familiar is not the correct adjective. Notorious would be a better one.
"Marks," the stunned civil servant repeated. "Isn't that ...?"
"Tom Marks, the serial killer," Rustin said. "Back in the mid-Sixties, he strangled four women here on the Cape. My father was on the force back then. He said there was talk that Marks was the Boston Strangler and that Albert DeSalvo had been falsely accused."
"They caught him, though, right?"
"Yes. Marks was tried, convicted and electrocuted, back before Massachusetts abolished the death penalty."
It was a short walk from the town hall to the adjoining police station, but it seemed much longer as the two detectives made their way back.
"That's the strangest coincidence I've ever come across," Detective Van Putten said. "I remember reading about Tom Marks when I was a teenager. He was an amateur photographer, as I recall. He liked to photograph his victims. That's how the D.A. was able to convict him."
"I've got an even more bizarre coincidence for you. Tom Marks strangled his victims with red scarves that he left tied around their necks."
Ira stared open-mouthed at his partner.
"Just like ...?"
Rustin nodded.
"It seems we've got a copycat killer on our hands," Lamont theorized. "The guy must be a real Harry Houdini. How else did he get in Mrs. Mondale's locked bedroom, not once but three times? And how did he get that old camera to work?"
Detective Rustin suddenly did an abrupt about-face and headed for the parking lot.
"Where are you going?" his partner cried.
"To Yarmouth. I know it sounds insane, but I don't think a copycat killed those women. Furthermore, I've got a crazy hunch that if we destroy that camera, we can put Marks's murderous spirit to rest."
Thankfully, the detective's bizarre hunch proved to be correct. Although the murders of Caitlin Mondale and two unknown women officially went unsolved, once the vintage Polaroid Land camera was smashed into dozens of pieces and those pieces put in the town hall's incinerator, there were no more bodies found on Truro's beaches.
Salem was concerned when he learned he had to share his Cape Cod getaway with a dog.
