Chapters (46)
- Title Page
- Copyright Page
- Dedication
- Acknowledgements
- one
- two
- three
- four
- five
- six
- seven
- eight
- nine
- ten
- eleven
- twelve
- thirteen
- fourteen
- fifteen
- sixteen
- seventeen
- eighteen
- nineteen
- twenty
- twenty-one
- twenty-two
- twenty-three
- twenty-four
- twenty-five
- twenty-six
- twenty-seven
- twenty-eight
- twenty-nine
- thirty
- thirty-one
- thirty-two
- thirty-three
- thirty-four
- thirty-five
- thirty-six
- thirty-seven
- thirty-eight
- thirty-nine
- forty
- forty-one
- forty-two
“Dorothy didn’t tell the chief,” Kayla said. “She doesn’t like him. He egged her house at Halloween when he was a kid. She didn’t say that—just that if he was a good cop, then he didn’t need her giving him clues. She doesn’t like Cody either. He let his dog poop on her lawn a few times.” She looked at me. “Dorothy’s really old, but she never forgets anything.”
“Especially an insult,” Paula murmured.
“Aunt Rose said Dorothy was just trying to stir up trouble because she was still mad at Cody. Dorothy said, no, she saw Claire arguing with him behind Martin’s Hardware. The women from the cookie place were buying stuff in the store, and Cody came in, and Claire snuck out back with him, and no one saw but Dorothy. She followed them. They were arguing.”
“Did she say what it was about?”
“Aunt Rose wouldn’t let her. She said she was sick of rumors and that if Dorothy knew something that would help find Mom’s killer, then she’d damned well better tell Chief Bruyn.”
“Kayla ...” Paula said.
“She said damned.” Kayla held up her notepad. “I wrote it right here. Then Dorothy said maybe she was wrong, and that’s when they saw me and started talking about something else. But I don’t think Dorothy made it up. I’m sure she saw Cody arguing with Claire.”
fourteen
fourteen
I left with Dorothy’s address, though Paula warned me that she probably wouldn’t speak to me.
I went straight to Dorothy’s house. Walked, not rode, in case she had something against motorcycles. The lights were on and a car was in the drive. I figured it was a bad idea to cut across the lawn, so I took the walkway to the porch, rang the bell, and waited very patiently for at least a minute before knocking. No one answered.
I left a card in the door, asking to meet for coffee—my treat—at her convenience. You couldn’t get any more considerate and respectful than that. At least, I couldn’t.
Next stop: the real estate agency to fax the crime-scene photos to Adam, who’d offered to check out the ritual for me. The agency operated not only as a copy shop, but as a typing, résumé-writing, and speech-writing service. They did Web site development, too. When times are tough, the weak bail and the tough get creative.
Tough definitely described the local real estate agent. While I was faxing my files, she tried to sell me on three rental properties—leased by the week, she promised. As for the murders, she said Cody was clearly the killer. If not him, then Alastair Koppel. She didn’t have any evidence to support her claims, simply that Cody was a “useless little snot” and Alastair a “dirty old perv,” which wasn’t news on either count.
