Dead Wrong

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 to her tone, Trina suspected; she was just a little envious. Married almost ten years, with three kids, she probably lived vicariously through Amy’s tales.

“Anyone in particular?”

“Um…” Marcie thought. “Adrian Benson. She told me the other day he wasn’t that good in bed, even though he’s hot.”

Benson was one of the men she’d said earlier that Marcie might have dated in the previous week or two. Trina starred his name. He wasn’t anyone she recalled from high school.

“If she met a man over drinks and liked him, would she be likely to leave with him?”

“Yeah, why not?” The moment the words were out, Marcie’s mouth formed an O. Amy Owen had very likely paid an extreme penalty for trusting a dangerous man.

Trina steered her gently back to the final day. Yes, she’d talked briefly to Amy midafternoon. “I told her I’d try to get a babysitter Saturday night so Dirk and I could go out.”

Trina already knew that Amy had worked yesterday, leaving the salon about four. “Did she mention plans for yesterday evening?”

“She said she was bored and might go get a drink. She didn’t say where or if she was going with a friend.”

Trina wrote down Amy’s favorite hangouts and then thanked Marcie. Handing her a card, she said, “Please call if you think of anything at all that you think we should know.”

The next friend of Amy’s on Trina’s list actually recognized her.

Bronwen Fessler had started a clothing boutique in town that Trina had heard was very successful. Daddy Fessler was a banker and had had plenty of money to bankroll her.

The clothes in the window were bold and bright-colored. Stuff that shouldn’t have gone together somehow did, like a hot-pink cashmere turtleneck and lime-green wool slacks. Maybe, Trina decided, studying the display carefully, the skinny loomed scarf worn as a belt accomplished the magic. Personally, she might have bought all three pieces and never in a million years considered putting them together.

Which, she guessed, was why she was a cop and not a fashion designer or owner of a boutique. And why everything she wore was boring.

She pushed open the door, making the bell that hung above it tinkle. Bronwen Fessler hadn’t changed much, just become more stylish. A petite brunette with short, artfully tousled hair, she sat on a high stool behind a glass case that held jewelry and on top of which was the cash register. She appeared to be attaching labels to chunky bracelets laid out on the glass top in front of her. Through the window Trina hadn’t noticed the two women browsing sweaters displayed in cubes on the back wall.

Bronwen glanced up with a practiced smile that she aborted. “Officer…” she began in surprise, then, “Wait. I know you, don’t I? From school. No, don’t tell me. Something like Teresa.”

“Trina. Trina Giallombardo.”

“Right.” She seemed pleased by her memory rather than by Trina’s appearance. “You’re a police officer, huh?”

“A detective.” Being able to say that still gave Trina a thrill. “I’m here to speak to you about a friend of yours.”

“A friend of mine?”

“Um, excuse me,” one of the women interrupted. “I’d like to try this on.”

“Certainly,” Bronwen told her. To Trina, she asked, “Can you wait a minute?”

“No problem.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as Bronwen Fessler charmed and flattered the two customers, who looked about forty but were probably older. There was nothing like being loaded to help a woman keep her looks. These two had perfectly dyed and coiffed hair, suspiciously smooth faces, skillfully applied makeup and carefully tended figures. In the end, one bought two sweaters and the other a necklace, all for prices that made Trina gape.

Staring after them, she exclaimed, “Did she just pay almost seven hundred dollars for two sweaters?”

“And they were on sale. Sweetie, people do, you know.”