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“Right, right, but, do you think . . . I mean did the driver . . . was she buried alive?” He had to ask, had to know.
She reached for the door handle, signifying the end of their conversation. But she hesitated and said under her breath, “Twenty years. What the hell?” To O’Day, she said, “I don’t think so.” She flashed a cold smile. “There appears to be a bullet hole in the back of her skull, so I’d guess she was dead before she was put into the car, or at least driven into the pit. But, really, that’s all I can tell you now.”
“Wait a sec.” He was putting it together now. Hadn’t his wife and kid just read that book . . . the one about the woman who went missing here, what? Twenty years ago? And hadn’t she last been seen in some kind of tricked-out Cadillac? What the hell? There had been lots of talk about it lately, and now the press was here, Johnny-on-the-spot.
He stared into those mirrored glasses and said, “Are you telling me that we just dug up fuckin’ Didi Storm?”
CHAPTER 28
Vera was struggling. It was obvious. She started rocking again, pushing against the carpet with the toe of her tennis shoe. “I didn’t read that book, even though Jensen wasted his money on a copy. Didn’t need to. I can’t imagine why a book on Didi would even be published. She was just another woman with loose morals who slept around and never made it big.”
Remmi wanted to argue but held her tongue when she caught Noah’s eye and silent message: Let her talk.
“She’s been gone what—?” Vera threw out a hand. “Twenty years or so? But she’s right here, isn’t she?” She pointed at the carpet and said bitterly, “Right here in this room. With us now. She’s like a bad smell, you know. No matter what, you can just never get rid of her!”
“Maybe you didn’t want to,” Remmi said, and she saw Jensen’s total look of bewilderment.
Vera shook her head. “Trust me, I never want to hear her name again.”
Remmi wouldn’t let it go. “Even if you could make money off her?”
“Are you kidding?” Vera actually recoiled.
“What’re you talking about?” Jensen asked, but a light seemed to be dawning in his eyes.
Noah said, “We know you were in contact with Trudie Crenshaw.”
“Trudie who? Oh—wait, the woman who was killed?” Vera tried to act innocent, but it didn’t quite come off. “I just saw it on the news. She was supposedly the person who wrote the book, right?”
“Wait a sec,” Jensen said. “This doesn’t make any sense.” He reached into the top drawer of a small table and pulled out a copy of I?
??m Not Me. “It was written by—”
“Maryanne Osgoode,” Remmi said. “It’s a pseudonym.” When he didn’t seem to get it, she added, “An alias.”
“Oh. Why?”
“Anonymity,” Noah interjected. “But it didn’t work. The author’s dead. Murdered.”
Jensen looked from Remmi to Noah and back again. “What do you mean murdered. Like killed?”
Jensen had improved, but he was still no Rhodes scholar.
“Gertrude Melborn Crenshaw. She was my mother’s best friend, and she married Mom’s first husband, Ned Crenshaw,” Remmi explained.
“Whoa . . .” Jensen was processing slowly.
“They were attacked at their ranch near Sacramento last night. She’s dead, and he’s in ICU, critical condition,” Remmi added.
“Holy shit, why?” Jensen asked and stared at his mother.
Noah said, “We’re hoping you can tell us.”
“Me?” Jensen asked, seeming incredulous, as from the hallway the sounds of a baby cooing reached their ears. “How?”
Noah said, “Your phone.”
“What?” He gazed at Noah blankly.
