Scrapbook of Murder Read online

  “Today a calendar and book deal, tomorrow the cover of Vogue?”

  He winked. “Anything’s possible. They are rather photogenic.”

  Lucille expressed her annoyance over our banter by exhaling one of her classic harrumphs. I glanced over at her and found myself the recipient of a dagger-filled glare. I turned back to Zack. “I suppose we should serve dinner.”

  “Preferably sometime this century,” said Lucille.

  ~*~

  Since Alex and Nick would like nothing better than for Zack and me to marry, they eagerly offered to clean up the kitchen after dinner. “You two probably have a lot to talk about,” said Alex as he cleared plates from the table.

  “Among other things,” whispered Nick, loud enough for Zack and me to hear.

  I fought to keep a straight face as I issued a parental admonishment. “No TV or video games until you’ve finished your homework.”

  Nick saluted.

  “Wouldn’t think of it,” said Alex. Luckily, I knew he meant it. Given my financial situation and with college looming on the horizon, he needed to keep pulling down straight A’s if he had any chance of securing a scholarship.

  Once Zack and I entered his apartment, he grabbed a bottle of wine from the refrigerator and poured two glasses. A sauvignon blanc would have been the perfect accompaniment to our seafood dinner but thanks to my mother-in-law, we had to settle for an after-dinner glass well out of her sight.

  Zack handed me one of the glasses, and we got comfortable on the sofa. “Did you finish Lupe’s photo album while I was gone?”

  “Not quite. Something happened.” I choked back the lump forming in my throat. “Lupe’s in the hospital. In a coma.”

  “Jeez! What happened?”

  I told him about the hit-and-run. “There’s an outside possibility it was deliberate.”

  “Road rage?”

  I shook my head. “More like she was targeted.”

  “Why?”

  I drained my wine glass, then from the beginning, explaining how Lupe had discovered the names of the boys at the party the night Carmen and Elena were raped and how after her visit to Our Lady of Peace, she was nearly run off the road. “I called Detective Spader and told him of my suspicions. He didn’t find a connection between the earlier incident and the hit-and-run. He also checked into the whereabouts of the four men that day and said all have solid alibis. He’s convinced it’s nothing more than coincidence.”

  “But you don’t?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not sure. I need more proof.”

  “Why do you think Lupe was targeted?”

  “Gut instinct? Maybe one of those men put out a hit on her.” These things happened all the time, often for nothing more than one punk feeling another punk had disrespected him. “After all, this is New Jersey. Hiring a hit man is often as easy as ordering a pizza.”

  Zack knit his brows together and shook his head. “That quickly? I think you’re letting your imagination run away with you.”

  I sighed. “Maybe. But I have to know for certain. Given everything that’s happened, it’s the least I can do for Lupe.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This is all my fault.”

  “Here we go again. For the hundredth time, none of this is your fault.”

  “It is. When I questioned Cynthia’s death, I set all these events in motion. Carmen would still be alive, and Lupe would never know about her sister or the rape. The hit-and-run may be just a tragic accident. Or maybe not. But if I can find out who was responsible for what happened to Carmen—”

  “Hold on!” Zack grabbed me by the shoulders, shaking me slightly. “You’re not planning to confront these men, are you?”

  I inhaled a deep breath before answering him. “Confront is an extremely strong word.”

  “Give me a better one.”

  I explained about the interviews I’d arranged.

  He jumped to his feet, raised his arms, then slapped them against his thighs. “That is the absolute worst idea I’ve ever heard.”

  I shrugged. “It’s the best I could come up with.”

  He dropped back down onto the sofa. “You really think one of those men will admit what happened that night? No one would be that foolish.”

  “Probably not, but you never know what someone will say in an interview, especially if they remember the evening as just a wild party that occurred during the freewheeling sixties. After all, neither Carmen nor Elena ever pressed charges. Those men may not believe they did anything wrong.”

  Zack didn’t say anything, just stared at me as the seconds ticked away. Finally, he raked his hands through his hair and said, “It’s a good thing those ducks cooperated. I’m back from Madagascar in the nick of time.”

  “For what?”

  “I’m taking on a pro bono assignment.”

  “For whom?”

  “For you, sweetheart. I know I can’t talk you out of this harebrained idea. So, I’m tagging along to these interviews as your photographer-slash-bodyguard. Hopefully, you’ll only need me for my prowess with a camera.”

  As opposed to…what? His fists? Or worse yet, his gun? Maybe this whole interview scheme of mine wasn’t such a brilliant idea after all.

  FOURTEEN

  The next morning Zack and I set out to meet Coach Renquist and his wife at their home in the quaint, historic village of Cranbury, New Jersey, one of the many Washington-slept-here towns that dotted the state. An overcast sky threatened snow, even though the weather report had predicted nothing more than an occasional flurry. I placed my non-existent money on the ominous gathering clouds, not the overpaid, surgically enhanced meteorologist on the morning news. She obviously hadn’t bothered to look out her studio window before stepping in front of the cameras.

  Because Rutgers had lost their final game of the season on Thanksgiving Day, with Michigan State knocking them out of playoff contention, the coach had plenty of time for a non-football interview. His wife, he’d told me on the phone, loved to make scrapbooks and even had a dedicated craft room in their home.

  The Renquists lived in a modest white clapboard Victorian one block off the village’s North Main Street shopping district. They answered the doorbell together.

  As a couple, the Renquists were polar opposites in looks. The coach, towering well over six feet, had retained much of the muscular physique of his playing days, except for the slightest of paunches straining the knit of his red Scarlet Knights sweater. He wore his steel gray hair in a modified marine buzz cut that should have created a no-nonsense air about him, but a perpetual twinkle in his eyes offset the sternness of the flattop.

  In contrast, Mrs. Renquist was a petite dumpling of a woman whose head barely reached up to her husband’s shoulder. Her rosy cheeks and wire-rimmed glasses reminded me of Mrs. Claus—the one from the North Pole—if Mrs. Claus paid for expensive salon highlights and dressed in Lilly Pulitzer.

  After introductions the couple ushered us into a cozy front parlor filled with overstuffed Ethan Allen furniture. Several needlepoint pillows, including a few with the Rutgers emblem and mascot, decorated the sofas and chairs. A blazing fire crackled in the fireplace, the mantle lined with trophies from the coach’s playing days. A tea service and platter of homemade cookies sat on the coffee table, which was situated between the two facing sofas.

  “Please, sit,” said Mrs. Renquist. She motioned toward the table as Zack and I made our way to one sofa while she and the coach settled into the other one.

  “I took the liberty of preparing some refreshments,” she continued as she lifted the teapot. “How do you take your tea, Mrs. Pollack?”

  “With lemon,” I said. “And please, call me Anastasia.”

  “Then you must call me Bernadette.” With a pair of silver tongs she dropped a small wedge of lemon into the tea, then handed me the delicate floral patterned porcelain cup and saucer that so perfectly matched the décor of the room.

  “I feel I already know you,”
she continued. “I’ve read your magazine for years and have made many of the craft projects you’ve featured.”

  “I’d love to see some of them.”

  Her face lit up. “Would you, really?”

  “Of course. As well as your scrapbooks. Your husband tells me you’re an avid scrapbooker.”

  “Yes, Rodney said you wanted to discuss scrapbooking.”

  “The feature I’m writing is about the importance of preserving and handing down family memories.”

  The coach patted Bernadette’s chubby thigh. “My wife has certainly done that.”

  “I’m in the process of creating an album for the daughter of a neighbor who recently passed away,” I said. “The daughter stumbled upon a suitcase of old photos in her mother’s attic. That’s what gave me the idea for the magazine feature.”

  The coach motioned to the built-in bookcases that flanked either side of the fireplace. “Bernadette’s been making scrapbooks since we first met. We have shelves of them.”

  “And when did you meet?” I asked as I retrieved a tape recorder from my purse. I held it up and asked, “Do you mind? It’s easier than scribbling notes.”

  “Not at all,” he said. “We met in kindergarten.”

  My eyebrows shot up to my hairline. “You’ve been scrapbooking since you were five years old?”

  Bernadette laughed. “Not exactly. Rodney exaggerates. I always saved mementos, though. By the time I was in my twenties, I had amassed dozens of shoeboxes filled with photographs, greeting cards, ticket stubs, concert programs, anything that connected to a special memory.”

  “She even kept the wrapper from the first candy bar I shared with her,” said the coach. “A Three Musketeers bar.”

  Bernadette blushed. “It’s true. I eventually preserved the contents of all the shoeboxes in scrapbooks.”

  “We both knew from the day we met that we were meant for each other,” said the coach.

  His wife nodded. “It was love at first sight. For both of us. We married the day after we graduated college. Neither one of us ever dated anyone else.”

  Zack was busy taking candid photos as they spoke. I briefly caught his eye and saw that the same thought had entered his mind at the moment it entered mine. Rodney Renquist may never have dated anyone else—that his wife knew of—but that probably hadn’t kept him from having sex with another woman. Or two.

  “No one?” I asked.

  “Never,” they both replied in unison, smiling at each other as they clasped hands.

  I wanted to believe them. They came across as the poster couple for happily-ever-after. Maybe the coach left the party before Carmen and Elena passed out, but why was he even at the party that night without Bernadette? By their own admission the two were attached at the hip from Day One.

  As I continued to chat with the couple, I realized I really wanted to eliminate Coach Renquist as a suspect. However, I saw no way of directing the conversation to the circumstances surrounding that infamous night without admitting my ulterior motive for being in their home. Any suggestion of wrongdoing on his part would destroy a lifetime of love Bernadette had for her husband. How could I plant suspicions about him in her mind?

  “You two seem to have led a charmed life,” I said. “Any regrets? Anything you wish you could go back and say to your teenage selves?”

  An expression of puzzlement settled across Bernadette’s face, as if the concept of regret seemed foreign to her. “What do you mean?”

  I shrugged nonchalantly. “Perhaps a warning not to do something you did back when you were a teenager or advice about doing something differently?”

  Bernadette grew thoughtful. Finally, she said, “I did always regret not taking a fourth year of French in high school.”

  Coach Renquist laughed. “Well, I certainly have one huge regret.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “I’d have run the ball myself instead of passing to Pete Donatello in the fourth quarter the last game of our senior year. He fumbled the ball. Trinity Catholic retrieved it and went on to score the winning touchdown. We were undefeated for the season until that game.”

  “And he’s never let Pete forget it,” said Bernadette.

  “You still keep in touch with your former high school teammates after all these years?” I asked.

  “Of course, as well as my college and pro teammates. Football is a brotherhood, much like the armed services. We’re bonded for life.”

  Great! It had never occurred to me that the senior football players from Our Lady of Peace continued to maintain their friendship over the past half century. Women often sustained lifelong friendships from childhood through their twilight years, but I’d never known a man to do so. Men didn’t bond the way women did, at least not in my experience.

  I had scheduled an interview with Peter Donatello for later that afternoon. I wondered how often my four interviewees spoke with one another. Was it no more than the exchanging of Christmas cards and a phone call once a year, or did they get together once a week for beers and poker?

  What if one of them mentioned their sit-down with me, and they compared notes? They’d never believe I randomly selected the four of them out of a state population of over nine million. I darted a quick glance toward Zack. He didn’t say a word, but his expression told me he was thinking the same thing. If one of the four had put out a hit on Lupe, my goose was cooked—to a crisp.

  I fought to keep the worry out of my voice or from showing on my face and pressed on with the interview. “High school, college, and the NFL? That’s a lot of players. You keep in touch with every single one of them?”

  “All who are still living.” He grew somber for a moment. “We’ve lost a few good men over the years. Cancer. Heart attacks. One died in a car accident.” He paused for a brief moment. “And a few other tragedies that never should have happened.”

  Bernadette and the coach turned to face each other, sorrow written in their expressions. She squeezed his hand; he squeezed hers back.

  I assumed he referred to Kirk Zysmerski’s drug overdose, but since I wasn’t supposed to know about that, I quickly changed the subject. “You have a fifty-year high school reunion coming up, don’t you? Are you planning to attend?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” he said, turning back to me. “Of course, I would have liked to attend with a national college championship trophy to show off after all these years. Never did land one of those for my coaching.”

  “There’s always next year,” said Zack.

  The coach shook his head. “Now that the season’s over, I’m hanging up my cleats for good.”

  “Retiring?” I asked.

  “It’s time. We bought a Winnebago and plan to travel around the country while we’re still young enough and in good health.”

  “Sounds like a great way to enjoy retirement,” I said. “I’m assuming it goes without saying, that football is your fondest high school memory?”

  “Football and Bernadette.”

  I chuckled. “Very diplomatic of you, Coach.”

  We chatted for a few more minutes while we finished our tea. Then Bernadette removed the tea tray from the table and replaced it with half a dozen of her numerous scrapbooks. The first two scrapbooks covered the couple’s early childhoods, one book for Bernadette, one for the coach.

  “No siblings?” I asked Coach Renquist, noting the absence of other children in the family photos as Bernadette highlighted various pages.

  He shook his head. “Not for want of trying. My mother suffered a series of miscarriages both before and after my birth. Eventually, my folks gave up trying, grateful for the one healthy kid they had.”

  If nothing else, with no younger sister, that eliminated the coach as the host of the party Elena and Carmen had attended.

  After flipping through each page and describing the events surrounding many of the photographs and mementos, the coach occasionally adding side commentary, Bernadette replaced the books on the shelf and pulled o
ut the next half dozen. This went on for two hours until we’d covered the length of their decade’s long relationship, ending with the recent birth of their seventh grandchild.

  When Bernadette finished showing off her scrapbooks, we were given a tour of the house. In each room she proudly pointed out the crafts she’d created. Zack continued taking candid shots throughout the tour. We ended in Bernadette’s craft room where she showed me a variety of projects in various stages of completion.

  Three hours after we’d arrived, we said our goodbyes to the couple. A light dusting of snow now covered all non-paved surfaces. Wind-whipped flakes swirled around us as we hurried down the street to Zack’s Boxster. “So, what does your sixth sense tell you?” he asked once we’d settled into his car and he turned over the engine.

  I chewed on my lower lip. “I don’t know what to think.” As we drove out of Cranbury toward Princeton, the location of my second scheduled interview, I thought about the time we’d spent chatting with Coach Renquist and his wife. I saw no telltale signs to suggest the man was hiding a horrible incident from his past and nothing to indicate Bernadette knew anything about that infamous night. “The two of them come across as a loving, open book.”

  Of course, I’d lobbed only softball questions at them. “Unless Coach Renquist is one of the greatest actors of all time, he certainly doesn’t strike me as someone who would have taken part in drugging a couple of innocent girls and raping them, let alone trying to cover up his involvement years later by hiring someone to run down Lupe.”

  “Could Elena be mistaken about the number of boys who attended the party? Maybe the coach wasn’t there.”

  I watched the windshield wipers swish back and forth several times before I responded. “I’d like to believe that.”

  Zack remained silent until we stopped at a local diner for lunch. After we placed our orders, I studied his face. His expression told me something else weighed on his mind, probably the fact that the four guys kept in touch and how I may have put myself in danger—yet again. As much as I hated the anticipated conversation, I needed to let him vent his concern. “I see brain gears spinning.”