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His stare was chilling. It was as if he had put his hands around my neck and squeezed.
Chapter 19
A YOUNG WOMAN burst into the room, the sound breaking her father’s double-fisted lock on my eyes.
Janet Worley said, “Nicole, these people are from the police.” To me, she said, “I’ll be in the parlor,” and she left the room.
Nicole Worley was midtwenties, pretty, with a heart-shaped face, dark hair, green eyes, flushed cheeks. She wore jeans and a green sweatshirt with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife logo on the front.
Nicole asked her father, “What’s going on with you?”
“Your mother. She drives me round the bend.”
“I wish you wouldn’t fight.”
“The way she goes on about that self-important prick —”
“Stop that.”
“You women are crazy.”
“All right. All right,” Nicole said to her father. To me, she said, “I’m Nicole. You wanted to see me?”
Nigel started cleaning the burners on the stove, and Nicole joined us at the table.
I said, “We need some basic information, Nicole. Where were you over the last few days?”
“I was off on a rescue,” she said. “Pronghorn antelope get panicked at headlights, or at anything really. This one was hung up in a fence.”
“And when did you leave for this rescue?”
“Friday morning.”
“Were you alone?”
“Yes. I drove up north to Mendocino County by myself. What is it that you want to know? Did I kill some people and then dig up their heads? Leave them on the back step to scare my parents?”
“You tell me, Nicole. Did you have anything to do with the remains found here yesterday morning?”
“Absolutely not, and I cannot imagine how something like this could ever have happened.”
“Can you tell me how it’s possible that the three of you live in this house and are completely unaware of a series of crimes that happened over time outside the back door?”
Behind us, Nigel Worley said angrily, “Bloody cheek, these questions.”
“Dad, don’t you have something else you could be doing?” said Nicole.
Nigel Worley was a big, angry man with large hands. I could picture him turning violent. But if he’d killed these seven people, his exhuming their heads made no logical sense. And putting a garland of chrysanthemum blossoms around them seemed a little dainty for him.
I said, “Mr. Worley. Do you think Mr. Chandler could have been involved in what has happened here?”
“Killing and digging would require actual labor, wouldn’t it? I don’t picture Mr. Chandler getting his hands dirty.”
I didn’t know about Harry Chandler, but Nigel Worley looked like he got his hands dirty every day.
Chapter 20
NIGEL WORLEY SLAMMED AROUND behind us, crashing the last of the iron trivets against the stove.
