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“Uh-huh. Seneca’s got Ariel, but she was still in the house. Didn’t realize I was taking a picture, and I really didn’t notice that she was in the shot as I was concentrating on Mom, and Didi was death on anything proving that there were two babies. She’d admitted to one, but she didn’t want anyone—not the public, not her boss, not anyone—to know there was a second one. I didn’t understand it at the time, but she was obviously planning the baby swap from the time they were born.”
“Maybe before.”
“Yeah, possibly when she found out she was going to have twins. She wasn’t very happy but got over it.”
“So that’s Seneca.” He walked to a table lamp as if to get a better view.
“Uh-huh. Why?”
Noah was studying the snapshot, his brow beetled. “Do you have any other pictures of her?”
Remmi shook her head. “I don’t have many pictures period.” She motioned to the bookcase. “What you see is what you get. These just happened to be in some of Didi’s stuff I took that night. Why?”
“I’ve seen her before.”
“Recently?”
“No.” His eyes narrowed. “Back then. With Ike. But I don’t think that was her name.” He glanced back up at Remmi. “She had this exotic look about her, and she was at the house. Mom wasn’t there. She and Ike were in his little shop, and she was talking about a bike . . . no, a moped.”
“A motorized scooter.”
“Essentially, yes. Ike had one, and she was asking about it, but it was just conversation. There was something else . . .” He thought for a moment, staring at the photo again. “She wanted him to fix something that was not his usual thing, and he was saying he could do it.” Noah shook his head. “It’ll come to me, but I’m sure Ike didn’t call her by Seneca.”
“What then?” Remmi asked.
“I can’t remember right now,” he said, drawing the picture closer to his face, “Something like . . . Shelly or Shirley or something.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “God, it’s right on the tip of my tongue, but it’s not there,” he said, staring at the picture.
Shelly or Shirley . . .
She yawned, all of a sudden weary to the marrow of her bones.
“Go to bed,” he ordered, and this time she didn’t argue when he pointed her in the direction of her bedroom.
* * *
Settler couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t shut down. She’d stayed at the hospital until 2:00 AM, returned home, taken Earl out again, and even managed a short run. By 4:00 she should have been exhausted but was still keyed up.
Who had attacked Ned Crenshaw and his wife?
Had to be because of that damned book, right?
What was the thinking when trying to prove collusion in a presidential election? Follow the money?
The department was already on that, as well as trying to figure out the blood at the scene. Tomorrow, they might have a hit with the blood typing. They would be able to see how many wounded victims and/or attackers had been at the crime scene. Phone and credit cards and computer records might link the Crenshaws to Trudie Crenshaw’s killer. The bullet casings and any other trace evidence would hopefully provide a link to the murder in the desert, or not. The same killer could have used a different weapon.
Maybe, too, there would be something more on a tox screen for Karen Upgarde. She doubted it. Those things, like DNA, took time, but the lab could do miracles if motivated.
She drank a banana, strawberry, spinach, and yogurt smoothie, usually her go-to for breakfast, but what the hell? It was early in the morning, right? Just very early. After the smoothie, she fell into bed. Earl whined, and she gave in. “Up,” she said, and that was all the encouragement the dog needed to hop onto the bed, lick her face, then burrow under the covers.
Staring at the ceiling, Settler tried once more to put the pieces together. Noah Scott was back, claiming he wanted to clear up his past and find Remmi Storm again. True? She didn’t know. She filed that into the “maybe” category.
She glanced over at the book lying on her bedside table. The torn picture on the cover did look a lot like Karen Upgarde. So why had that woman jumped? Or had she been pushed? Still a lot of unanswered questions there, and the unfocused photograph of the hotel room hadn’t provided a clear-cut answer. Who would encourage a woman to leap off a nineteenth-story ledge?
The thought that it could have been Didi Storm herself floated through her mind.
Who else would profit from the publicity? But would the aging, B-level impersonator go to so much trouble after hiding all these years? Would she drive a mentally unstable woman to end her life? For what? Publicity? To create “a buzz” about Didi? To try to make a comeback to a career that wasn’t that great to begin with? For a few bucks? Or maybe a few hundred thousand bucks?
Settler rolled over, drew up the covers, listened as rain started to fall again, slanting against the windows.
