The downside was that Trina had to be the one to tell many of Amy Owen’s friends and co-workers about her death. The task was made worse by the fact that Amy was apparently liked by everyone. No secret delight, no affected shock.
This particular friend, a plump, freckled redhead, turned milk-pale. “Dead?”
Seeing her sway, Trina said, “Please. Sit down.”
“Murdered?”
Gently taking her upper arm, Trina backed her up to the couch and pushed. Marcie Whittaker never took her stunned gaze from Trina’s face.
“How can she be?”
How did you answer that kind of question? It implied that there was a rational order, a why for every action, a series of logical consequences. It suggested that if you took to heart all of your parents’ warnings, you’d be safe, loved, prosperous. Trina had been a cop long enough to know that things didn’t work that way.
She and Lieutenant Patton had divided up names. Amy had had dozens of friends. After talking with the crew at the beauty salon, they’d each taken a list and started contacting anyone who might have spoken with Amy in the days leading up to her death, or who might have been with her yesterday. Since her vehicle had not yet been located, finding out where she might have gone that night was critical.
Trina remembered Marcie from high school. She and Amy had been part of a pack of popular girls—cheerleaders, homecoming princesses, stars of the spring musicals. As remote from Trina’s world as Will Patton had been. They’d walked down the hall in groups of three or four, laughing and tossing their long, shining hair, their clothes always perfect, their complexions glowing from a weekend on the ski hill. Money was never a problem for any of the popular kids, Trina had believed then.
In the intervening years, Marcie had put on weight. She’d gotten married right out of high school and had two school-age children as well as a toddler. Trina had expected a fancy house and found her instead in a modest rambler on a street of mostly rentals. Marcie had invited her in with surprise and said, “My youngest is down for a nap. You want to talk about Amy? Why?”
Now, in answer to the unanswerable, Trina said, “Amy may just have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s what we’re trying to determine.”
“Was she…”
“Raped?”
Marcie bit her lip and nodded.
“Yes, I’m afraid so.” They’d decided to admit that much.
“Oh God, oh God.”
“Did you speak to Amy in the last couple of weeks?”
Tears oozed from Marcie’s eyes. She nodded. “Excuse me. I need to—” She leapt to her feet and bolted from the room.
Trina used the time to study the framed photos on the mantel. Most were presumably of Marcie’s children, redheads all like their mother. Trina recognized the man who appeared in many only because Marcie had taken the last name Whittaker. In high school, Dirk Whittaker had been one of the swaggering jocks, a state All-Star tackle. Like a lot of brawny guys, he’d put on serious weight in the ten years since he’d graduated.
What interested her most was that, displayed with the family photos, there were three framed snapshots, probably taken at several year intervals, of Marcie with her old crowd, including Amy Owen. In the first, all were recognizably the same people they’d been in high school—still slim, stylish, confident. By the next photo chronologically, although all were posing jauntily and laughing, some of the crowd had changed: begun to put on weight, quit expending so much effort on their appearances. Perhaps half were still sleek and beautiful. By the most recent photograph, the distinction was obvious. Some, like Amy, still looked beautiful, privileged and entitled, while others in the crowd showed the toll taken by jobs that didn’t allow for hours at the gym, by scrimping financially, by the exhaustion of raising children.
Will Patton was in the middle photo. A young woman Trina didn’t recognize stood within the circle of his arm. She bore a superficial resemblance to Amy: she was also tall, although dwarfed by his height, and her hair was the silvery shade of ash-blond that had to be natural. Amy was prettier in a conventional way; the woman with him had a distinct bump on the bridge of her nose, ears that poked out a little, and a catlike slant to her eyes that gave her the look of an elf. Maybe not beautiful, hers was still the kind of face you didn’t forget.
Trina suspected that the fine-boned, moonlight-pale girl gazing up at Will Patton rather than at the camera was Gillian Pappas, the victim of the original murder. Her gaze lingering on the couple, Trina felt an odd squeezing in her chest she wanted to believe was pity but she knew was more complex.
“Those are my kids,” Marcie said dully from behind her.
“What a cute little girl,” Trina felt obligated to say.
Marcie came to stand beside her. “Amy is in some of these.” She picked up the most recent, framed in silver. “Right there.”
No Will in this photo. Trina wondered if he’d quit coming home, quit hanging out with his old friends. No, not entirely, because he’d been at J.R.’s with a couple of them.
“You stayed close friends, then.”
Although Marcie had given no indication of recognizing Trina, she seemed to assume that everyone knew she and Marcie were best friends. “Well, naturally. We didn’t spend as much time together, of course. I mean, I’m married and have kids. But we talked a couple of times a week and had lunch every week or two. She didn’t mind if I brought Vicki. Amy wanted kids.” Hit by the knowledge that Amy would never have a baby, Marcie began to cry again. Silently, with bewilderment.
Trina opened her notebook. “Had she mentioned anyone following her, some guy making her nervous? Anything like that?”
“No, I’m sure she didn’t.”
“Was she seeing a man?”
“She went out. But not with anyone special. She got divorced just last spring, you know.”
“Are you aware of her dating in the past few weeks?”
Marcie named a couple of men. “Plus she was hoping this guy we knew in high school would call her. Will Patton.”
Trina’s fingers tightened on her pencil. “Had he called, to your knowledge?”
Marcie shook her head, eyes wet. “Amy would have been on the phone instantly if he had. She had this huge crush on him. I mean, she always did. She said she saw him last week, that he’s moved back to Elk Springs.”
“Was there anyone who might have felt jealous if he could tell how she felt about Mr. Patton?”
“Felt jealous? Oh. Like, did she blow some guy off so she could concentrate on Will?” Marcie shook her head again. “Like I said, she’d see men, but it was casual. The only one who might be jealous was her ex, but he had his chance.”
Interested in her spiteful tone, Trina asked about the victim’s relationship with her ex-husband.
“I think he wanted her back. But he still didn’t intend to really settle down. You know? He’s this big outdoors guy. He wants to ski all winter and mountain climb all summer. He works up at Juanita Butte in the winter, but he never even looked for a job in the summer. He got mad when she had to work. Plus, she didn’t like to climb.”
“Her parents described the breakup as amiable.”
“It was.” Marcie shrugged. “But he kept coming around. She slipped a couple of times and had sex with him, which was dumb.”
“Did she have other sexual relationships?”
“You mean, did she screw guys? Sure.” Marcie sounded surprised, as if a single woman being sexually active was a given.
No, there was more