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“Drug and alcohol problems?” I asked.
Layne nodded sadly. “Deep down, despite all the money, all the beauty and good fortune, she was an insecure, anxiety-ridden person.”
“When did you last see her?” Johnson asked.
“Yesterday around five thirty,” she said.
“Would you have been the last person to see her alive?”
“I would think so,” Layne said. “She had no plans for the evening. She was going to read and watch a movie.”
Drummond asked Layne if she knew the other three dead women, the two socialites and Francie Letourneau. When Layne responded by asking the sergeant if he thought Maggie Crawford had been murdered, he told her he was just covering all the bases. Layne said she’d fired Letourneau after Maggie caught her stealing silver. She’d e-mailed the personal assistants of Ruth Abrams and Lisa Martin but never met them.
“Did Mrs. Crawford run in their circle?” Drummond asked.
“Same fund-raisers, that kind of thing,” Layne said, nodding.
Even though we had no conclusive evidence that Maggie Crawford had been murdered, in my mind the four killings were linked. Three socialites, all using the same Haitian maid at some point. Three socialites and the maid now dead. This was no coincidence, which meant that there was a missing link, some factor that tied them all together.
“How long have you worked for her?” I asked.
“Five years next month,” Layne said sadly.
“Would you know if some of her things were missing?” Johnson said. “Like jewelry? Clothes?”
Layne nodded. “I think so. Do you want me to look?”
“We’ll wait until the forensics folks do their thing,” Drummond said. “Tell me about her.”
“Maggie?” Layne said, then thought. “Most of the time she was the kindest, funniest, most generous person you could ever meet, a real joy to work for. But sometimes, when her mind was altered, she was a tyrant, a little rich girl who wanted what she wanted right now. And even when she was sober, she often had this kind of…I don’t know…melancholy or wanting about her. There, you can see it in her expression in that painting over there.”
Layne gestured toward an oil painting of Maggie Crawford, barefoot, dressed in jeans and a pink blouse. She was sitting on a sand dune with sea grass around her, caught in three-quarter profile as she looked out toward the ocean. I walked over to study it, saw the expression the personal assistant had been talking about.
“That’s a big thing among the super-rich, right?” Johnson said behind me. “You know, getting your portrait painted?”
“I don’t know; I suppose so,” Layne said.
“Ruth Abrams and Lisa Martin had portraits done of them,” Drummond said, coming over to examine the painting. “Coco.”
“What?” Johnson said.
“Right here in the corner,” the sergeant said. “It’s signed Coco.”
“I have no idea who that is,” Layne said.
“Oh, I think I might,” Johnson said. “I met a Coco just this morning.”
Chapter
65
Starksville, North Carolina
Around four o’clock that afternoon, Bree walked along the railroad tracks where she’d seen Finn Davis give a three-finger salute to six young men riding freight cars on a train heading north.
“What are we looking for?” Naomi said.
“I don’t know,” Bree said. “And unfortunately, neither did your client.”
