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"What about Ginny's father?" I asked.
She started at that, coffee sloshing. "Pardon me?"
"Ginny's father. Is he a local? Did she have any contact with him?"
"Oh." She laughed. "Sometimes I forget she had a father. Certainly never felt like it. He left town before she was born. She was, for all intents and purposes, my daughter. Mine alone."
My responsibility. I heard that, even if she didn't say it.
"What about Claire Kennedy? I know she arrived after Ginny's death, but was there any way Ginny might have known her? Did Ginny ever move away from Columbus? Work outside it? Socialize outside it?"
"The only time Ginny left Columbus was to party, and even then, no farther than Portland. I encouraged her to take a job in the city. I thought it would help if she got away from Brandi. She just accused me of trying to get rid of her. The truth, I'm sure, is that she was afraid to leave. This was all she knew. Could she have met Claire at one of those parties in the city? I suppose it's possible, but from what I've heard of Ms. Kennedy, she didn't seem the type to have gone to them."
"Did Cody know Claire? Any rumors? A chance meeting, maybe?"
She shook her head. "Nothing I ever heard of."
"I did," said a voice from the hall.
We turned to see Kayla. She stood there, notepad clutched to her chest.
"Dorothy told Aunt Rose that she saw Cody talking to Claire the day before she
died. They were fighting." She pursed her lips. "Arguing, I think she meant, not really fighting."
"I never heard this," Paula said.
"Neither has Bruyn," I said. "He'd have been all over it."
"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
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, resume-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.
As I LEFT the real estate agency, I was plotting my next move. When I saw a baby carriage blocking the sidewalk, I stopped so quickly I nearly fell into it. The woman behind it was in her early thirties with artfully streaked blond hair and the kind of designer blouse, slacks, and pumps ensemble you couldn't find within fifty miles of Columbus.
"My husband didn't kill Ginny Thompson," she said.
