“So, that means—”
“Cornwell’s pushing the Kings as suspects to justify throwing so much money at his brother-in-law’s company.” Patti fills in the gaps. “Meaning he’sliterallylooking the other way while someone else is out there killing these girls.”
Elsie groans with frustration. Yet again, a man in a position of significant power has proved himself to be utterly lacking in integrity. Yet again, women have been let down. She takes the photo of Sarah and inspects it: an attractive young woman, clear eyes lined with kohl, hair slashed into an Edie Sedgwick crop. She is wearing a college sweater emblazoned with large letters.
“Berryview,” Elsie mutters as she places the photo back on the table. “I’ve got a friend in Berryview. Do you think she’s in danger there?”
She knows she has to tell Bev that another girl has gone missing, and this one was right on her doorstep.
“She’s a woman,” Patti deadpans. “What do you think?”
Twenty-Six
“Missing? Not killed?”Margot asks, browsing the skirts on the rail.
“Well,” Elsie replies, “we don’t know.” Elsie is standing, arms folded, several feet away from Margot and Beverley, as if she could never lower herself to engage in a hobby so banal as shopping. “There’s no body yet, so…”
“If he hasn’t killed her already, he must be keeping her somewhere.” Margot pulls out a Mary Quant mini and holds it to her waist. “Maybe we’re looking for someone with an outbuilding or a basement? It has to be close. We know Berryview’s in the middle of his operating zone.”
“Bev,” Elsie urges, “I just want you to be safe. Are you keeping your doors locked?”
Beverley knows the whole of Berryview has been keeping their doors locked. Recently, she has felt a blanket of terror descend over the suburb. Mothers beckon their children in as soon as the sun starts to dip; husbands lift dumbbells in open-doored garages, arming themselves with the means to protect their families.
“Do you think we need to get creative?” Margot asks with relish. “Pose as housing researchers or whatever, find out who’s got a creepy basement?”
“Actually, I’ve been thinking about sex more than architecture,” Elsie counters. Margot’s relish morphs into delighted astonishment. She turns to Beverley, mouth wide.
Elsie tuts at the reaction. “I don’t think we’ve explored the sexual motive enough,” she explains. “It seems to me like all our husbands had certain sexual proclivities. They were obsessive to some degree, like they had thisneedfor something that we couldn’t quite fulfill, right?”
Beverley watches Margot consider it. She’s sure Margot and Stephen had a great sex life. She’s always been too ashamed to tell them about her and Henry’s, about the times he put his hands around her throat when they were in bed.
“We don’t know yet if the girls were sexually assaulted, but we do know Diane Howard Murray probably spent some time working as a prostitute,” Elsie continues. “So perhaps there is a sexual element to these crimes that we’re missing. Bev, you had a theory that our guy probably uses prostitutes regularly…”
“Sure.” She nods. They don’t need to know that it’s Henry’s theory, not hers.
“I think you could be right, and that’s how Diane Howard Murray crossed his path. But the thing is, I’ve been thinking maybe we’re approaching this in the wrong way.”
Margot turns, knotting a malachite-colored headscarf under her chin. “What do you mean, the wrong way?”
“Surely the people we should be speaking to about this are those women, the ones being visited by these men.”
“Well, how do we go about doing that?” Bev asks.
“I heard about a group of women in Calabasas who run a café forgirls like Diane—somewhere for them to get warm, get a cup of coffee, somewhere safe for them to rest. Maybe we pay them a visit?”
Beverley nods eagerly. Margot raises an interested eyebrow.
“Given that Diane probably picked up guys around there, I figure we go to this café, ask around, see if they’ve come across anyone acting strangely, see if anyone has been particularly violent recently, any guys with weird quirks.”
“Anyone withthe look,” Margot adds, widening her eyes.
“Well, you might joke, but yes,” Elsie replies. “Women are intuitive. We can sense when someone is dangerous, even if it takes us a while.” She looks between Beverley and Margot. “What do you think? We could go tonight. I’m sure I can track down the address.”
Beverley sighs. “My mom can’t take the kids tonight. She has bridge.”
“Looks like it’s you and me, Margot,” Elsie says, with a pursed smile.
“It’s a date.”
