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“Gretchen and I looked at the show staff and station staff today,” Mettner said. “Including Beau. The security guard at the station told us that he was there until five forty-five on Friday night. The guy saw him leave. Then he was with Margot on Saturday, as you know. In terms of the other staff, some have alibis for one murder but not the other. The only person who really doesn’t have an alibi for either is the camera operator, Liam Flint. His background check didn’t turn up anything worrisome. We looked at Gamble, since his name has come up now. He’s got no alibi for the time of Eve’s murder but the bartender at Leo’s says he’s there every Friday night from fivep.m. until about eleven.”
Josie said, “But did the bartender see him there between five and sixp.m. the night that Claudia was killed?”
Mettner raised a brow. He took out his phone and looked at his notes. “He did not specifically say. Every time I asked he just said, ‘Gamble’s always here at five on Fridays.’ Other regular patrons said the same.”
Josie trusted the word of the crowd at Leo’s about as much as she would trust a shark not to eat bloody chum. “I’d say that’s shaky, at best. Would any of them testify in court?”
Noah laughed. “I doubt that.”
Gretchen tossed her cell phone onto the desk. “Margot and Raffy will be at WYEP in one hour if you want to meet them to get the list of internet trolls and talk with Margot.”
“Perfect,” Josie said. “In the meantime, there’s someone else we need to talk with—someone who’s had access to the Collinses’ lives for longer than anyone else on their staff.”
Gretchen said, “The practice secretary?”
“Yeah,” Josie said. “She was the last person to see Claudia alive.”
Gretchen consulted a notepad on her desk. “Already on it. Her name is Trudy Dawson.” She rattled off an address in East Denton. “We stopped at her house earlier, but she was out. There was a nurse there. Evidently, Trudy lives with her elderly mother who needs a lot of care. She was out getting groceries. The nurse said to stop back, but we didn’t get a chance. She ought to be home.”
“Well,” said Josie, standing up. “Let’s go talk with her. Secretaries know all the dirt.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Trudy Dawson lived in a small one-story bungalow in a quiet neighborhood in East Denton. Her front walk was lined with solar-powered path lights that glowed in the dusk. An overhead light was centered over her front porch. Before Josie or Noah could knock on the door, it swung open. A woman stood before them, dressed in a pair of jeans and a blue sweater. Her brown hair was cut in a shaggy bob and shot through with gray. Dark brown eyes gazed at them over a thick pair of reading glasses.
“You’re the police,” she said, waving off their proffered credentials. “Beau called me yesterday to tell me the awful news. Then again this morning to give me more bad news. He asked me to look something up for you, too. The day nurse told me you’d been here earlier, but I was out.”
She stepped aside and ushered them into the house. Hot air enveloped them, slapping at Josie like she was standing in front of an oven turned up to broil. Immediately, sweat beaded along her upper lip. The front door opened directly into a small living room with a recliner and a saggy brown couch. Both were pointed toward a television tuned to the evening news on WYEP. A glance told Josie that in spite of the Collinses being part of the WYEP line-up, the news division still hadn’t caught wind of Claudia’s or Eve’s murders. They were instead reporting on a “heavy police presence in the city park” the day before—thanks to the machinations of Amber. It was only a matter of time before they found someone else—from the Collinses’ camp or WYEP—to go on the record about the two murders.
“Have a seat,” Trudy told them, pointing to the couch. Josie and Noah edged their way around a small circular coffee table and sat. Josie tugged off her coat. Noah pulled at his collar but left his on.
“I’m sorry about the heat,” said Trudy. She sat on the edge of the recliner. From the small end table beside it, she took a remote control and pressed one of its buttons. The chair emitted a whirring noise and lifted Trudy slightly upward. “It’s my mom,” she continued. “Early onset Alzheimer’s. She forgets to eat. Forgets how to eat. She’s skin and bones now, so she’s always freezing. I can open a window if you’d like.”
Josie wanted to jump at the offer, but Noah smiled and said, “That’s fine. We won’t take up too much of your time.”
Trudy fiddled with the chair remote again until she found a comfortable place. She sniffed and used her free hand to wipe away tears as they slid down her cheeks. “I’m still having trouble processing this. It doesn’t seem real. Poor Claudia. Have you made any progress?”
“Our investigation is ongoing,” said Noah.
Trudy set the chair remote aside and swiped at her cheeks again. “I’m sorry. I thought I was all cried out yesterday, but I guess not.”
Josie said, “Miss Dawson, we can come back another time if you’d like.”
“No, no. Please. The least I can do is answer your questions. Oh, I’m supposed to tell you this. There was a man, Archie Gamble. Beau asked me to check to see if he was a patient. I’m really not supposed to reveal patient names, but Beau was very convincing. He promised me I would not get in any trouble. At any rate, I don’t suppose it matters since we’ve never had a patient by that name.”
“Thank you,” Josie said. She took out her phone and pulled up the driver’s license photo of Gamble. Turning it toward Trudy, she asked, “Have you ever seen him before?”
Trudy studied his face. “I’m sorry, no. I haven’t.”
Josie asked, “Did Claudia ever mention him?”
“No. Never.”
Noah said, “How long have you worked for Beau and Claudia?”
Trudy gave a watery smile. “Since before they were Beau and Claudia. I worked for the doctor who had the practice before Beau took over. Beau came into the practice right after grad school. Then the other doctor retired, and Beau was flying solo. Claudia started on a permanent basis when it became obvious he was running the entire thing into the ground. She saved it. She’s saved that practice—and my job—more than once over the years.”
With the back of her hand, Josie wiped at the sweat forming on her brow. “What do you mean?”
