“George?”
“Detective Gleason.”
I ignored the correction. “Do you have an ID on the so-called jogger/witness?”
“No.”
“Maybe that was his car, then. Think about it. Maybe he wasn’t jogging. Maybe he was in the house when Melanie Joan supposedly dropped by. Maybe he had just killed Leila and was looking for someone to pin the murder on.”
Gleason didn’t say anything for what felt like a long time.
“Are you still there?” I said.
“How do you know the jogger was male?” he said.
I rolled my eyes. “It was a lazy assumption,” I said. “But that isn’t my point.”
“I know what your point is,” he said.
“How much would it hurt to check a few surveillance cameras in the town of Union? Or E-ZPass records?” I said. “How many resources would it drain to look into the possibility of a killer who drives a very distinctive car and doesn’t happen to be Melanie Joan Hall?”
He sighed. “I’ll look into it,” he said. “Thank you for calling.”
He ended the call. I wanted to throw my phone at the window. “You will not look into it,” I said. “Obviously.” I was starting to get a headache—a mixture of nerves and poor hydration and this heavily pollinated country air.
The nerves were the worst part, though. I was genuinely nervous for Melanie Joan.
I called Rita Fiore and got her voicemail. I left a message about the Porsche and told her that Charles had seen it, too. “He said it was a sweet ride,” I said. “I doubt he recalls the license plate, but who knows? I just wanted to pass along the info, and you can do with it what you will.”
I started up my car and began driving down the mountain. I figured I’d go into Union, get a bottle of water at the one convenience store I’d noticed. I could ask around about Leila, see if random strangers had opinions on any Porsche-driving secret enemies this hermit of a woman might have had. Hell, maybe I could track down that DoorDash guy. Thinking about it made my head hurt even more. On a good day, I hated this type of meandering investigation.Fishing with a gill net,as mydad would have said. And this wasn’t a good day. Fishing with a gill net required time and patience, and right now I was short on both.
My phone pinged with a text. I cringed, thinking about what it might say. I hadn’t been getting the best news lately. I waited for another ping, but none came, and so I figured maybe it wasn’t an emergency. Just more lousy news. I waited until I was safely down the mountain and through the woods and on the edge of town. When I saw the convenience store I’d planned on visiting, I pulled into the parking lot and read the text.
“Well, how about that?” I said.
The text was from a number with a Connecticut area code:It’s Mimi, it read.I got your DM. Can you meet?
Forty-one
I wasn’t about to play hard to get. I texted Leila Donnelly’s mother that I happened to be in Union and could meet her anywhere, at any time, and that I hoped that time was soon.
I waited. When I didn’t hear back right away, I grabbed a bottle of water in the convenience store and brought it up to the counter, figuring that as long as I was here, I may as well set up my gill net. “You mind if I ask you a weird question?” I said to the clerk after she rang me up.
“I get weird questions all day long,” the clerk said. She was probably in her early twenties, with pin-straight black hair, an ornate neck tattoo, bright blue eyes, and no-nonsense glasses that made her seem approachable. I had no doubt she got weird questions, and that many were far more intrusive than anything I’d ever dream of asking. “What’s up?” she said.
I cleared my throat. “Did Leila Donnelly ever come into this place?”
“Who?”
“Famous romance writer. Just died?”
She gave me a blank look.
“I’m guessing you’ve never heard anybody talking about her, either. She lives relatively close by.”
The clerk shook her head. “I’m more of a horror fan.”
“Okay, fair enough. One more?”
