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“You think Jeffe and the Big Foot Believers created this film, that it’s a hoax?” Alvarez asked.
“Oh, no. I don’t think Carlton would be involved in that. He’s sincere. But there are others . . .” She lifted a hand from her computer mouse and waggled it back and forth. “I’m not so sure.”
“You got names?” Pescoli asked.
“All of the kids you suspect in the murders could have taken the suit. For the Bell brothers, Alex O’Hara, Donny Justison, Bryant Tophman, and the rest of them, including Marjory Tuft’s stepsons, it’s all just a fun time for them to get together and go out in the woods and hunt a Sasquatch. They hang out with Ivor Hicks and Fred Nesmith—nutcases—and secretly laugh at them and play the whole game. Any one of them could have taken the costume. Or not . . .” She clicked another button on her computer and said, “I checked with costume stores as far away as Spokane and Boise, even Salt Lake. None rented any Sasquatch costumes in the last couple of months, but now, with the upcoming reality show, there’s more interest.”
“Great,” Pescoli said.
“This next page,” Zoller continued, “is a list of all the materials used to make the missing costume. All man-made. Any fibers
located at any of the scenes will be compared.”
“Good.” Pescoli squirmed in her chair again. “This is progress,” she said, but they still had no answers.
They talked some more, got no further, decided to take a break. Pescoli’s back was beginning to ache, and she’d had several texts from Bianca asking about when she was coming home. Bianca was at the house by herself as Santana and Jeremy were also working late, rounding up a couple of steers that had gotten out of a hole in the fence line at the Long ranch.
On my way, she typed and headed out, first calling in a to-go order at Wild Wills, then driving to the lower section of town, where, already, banners announcing Big Foot Daze had been strung across Main Street near the courthouse. It was amazing how quickly the town had adopted the holiday and gotten it together. All propelled by Mayor Justison, who, it seemed, when she was so inclined, could move mountains, and find a Sasquatch or two in the process.
She parked in a no-parking zone as the lot and streets were full. If she actually got a ticket, she’d deal with it, and she wouldn’t be inside long enough to get her Jeep towed.
Heading into the restaurant, she passed Grizz, who, it appeared, had also gotten into the spirit of Big Foot Daze as he’d given up his bikini to don an ape mask, just as if he were pretending to be Sasquatch. In her current mood, Pescoli actually missed the swim attire.
The whole town had gone nuts, she thought, embracing the newfound holiday celebration and the damned reality show somehow while conveniently pushing the tragedies of the two girls’ deaths to the background. The doors to the restaurant opened, and Terri Tufts, Wilda Wyze, and Billie O’Hara walked in. They started for the bar when Wilda caught sight of Pescoli.
“Just a minute,” she said to her friends. Then she turned to loom over Pescoli. She wasn’t a short woman, but Wilda, the ex-bodybuilder, currently in black skinny jeans and a bat-wing T-shirt, had to be over six feet. With a hawkish nose, and eyes glinting with suppressed fury, she reminded Pescoli of a huge crow. “I heard you and your partner have been harassing my sons.”
“Just asking questions.”
“I know about you cops. It’s because of their damned father.” As she mentioned Franklin Bell, her entire face puckered, as if she’d just sucked on a lemon. “But they’re not like that worthless piece of crap. And they look out for each other. Have each other’s back. They’re good boys.”
How many times had she heard that phrase during this investigation? Every parent wanting to impress upon her that their kids were “good.”
“They knew the victim,” she said. “Both of your sons. Two girls are dead and each of them contacted Kywin.”
“Along with others.”
“Who live with an ex-con.”
“My boys are practically adults.” Again, the tightlipped expression. “I’d have them live with me, but I’ve got Greg and the girls—” She caught herself making excuses and said, “You can’t blame my sons for their father’s sins. I know that you busted Franklin a couple of times and that you hate him, well, fine. That’s . . . that’s your job, and the son of a bitch deserved it.”
“You pressed charges,” Pescoli reminded her.
“And I would again! He beat the crap out of me, wanted to kill me. I said he deserved it, didn’t I? He should be locked up for life!” Her color had risen. She was really working herself up, and Pescoli thought, with her size and musculature, she could still probably give her ex a run for his money when they got into it. “But Kip and Kywin, they’re not Frank.”
“Hey!” Billie O’Hara touched her friend on the arm. “Let it go. She’s been at my boys, too. Regan’s just doing her job.”
Wilda sent a withering glance at her shorter friend. “But she’s zeroed in on mine.”
“Don’t think that’s true,” Billie argued, gold hoop earrings catching the light as she shook her head. “I just don’t get why you aren’t all over Donny Justison. He was the boyfriend, right? And she broke up with him, I heard. He’s got a temper, that one.”
“But he’s the mayor’s son.” Terri Tufts joined the party. Added her two cents. “And she’s involved with Bernard Reece, so Donny, like Austin, has got a built-in attorney.”
“We’re looking at everyone,” Pescoli said.
“Well, just look at everyone equally,” Wilda advised, agitated. “My kids are innocent!”
Wilda seemed particularly upset, and Pescoli wondered if she knew something she wasn’t telling, too. She decided to press her. “Kip and Kywin know something, Wilda. I intend to find out what it is, and if they’re involved in the death of Destiny Rose Montclaire or Lindsay Cronin, I’m going to nail them.”
