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Josie peered down at the return address on the envelope. It was Claudia Collins’s practice. It was addressed to the Pennsylvania Women’s Alliance for Refuge and Assistance. No postage had been put on the envelope. Gingerly, Hummel removed the envelope’s contents—also covered with fingerprint dust—and laid them out on the desk, smoothing the creases as he went. There were four pages. The first one was letterhead with Claudia Collins’s name emblazoned across the top. The date was fourteen years earlier. “This is a cover letter,” Josie said. “Enclosing her résumé for Director of Services.”
Noah said, “Beau Collins went on television yesterday and told the viewers that Claudia didn’t get this job.”
“Of course she didn’t get it,” Mettner said, pointing to the envelope. “Her application wasn’t mailed.”
“Why would Trudy Dawson have this?” asked Noah.
“We know why,” Josie said. “When we talked to her, she said how important—no, how critical—it was for her to keep the job as the practice secretary. Without that job, she couldn’t take care of her mom. Beau said that as a result of Claudia not getting that position, she stayed in practice with him.”
Mettner said, “Beau wouldn’t have kept Trudy on as secretary if Claudia left?”
“It’s not that,” said Noah. “Beau would have run the practice into the ground. It would not have survived without Claudia. That’s what Trudy said.”
Mettner pointed at the application. “You’re saying the secretary sabotaged Claudia’s career?”
“I don’t know,” said Josie. “Would Trudy have even known what this was? Is it something Claudia would have mailed from the practice where Trudy might have seen it and taken it?”
Hummel interjected. “Trudy’s prints are on it. Not the contents but the envelope.”
Trudy Dawson had been truly devastated that Claudia had been murdered. Was it all simply to do with keeping her job? Had her mother even been diagnosed all those years ago when Claudia put the résumé together? Would Trudy have had reason to act so desperately then?
“I think we need to talk with Beau,” Josie said. “About a lot of things.”
FORTY-TWO
Josie marched over to the Eudora with Noah by her side and once again, found Beau at Bastian’s bar. Her heart sank when she saw how glassy and empty his eyes looked. “Oh, hey there, detecshives.”
“You’re drunk,” Noah said. It wasn’t a question.
Beau waved an arm in the air and nearly toppled off his barstool. Josie caught him, sliding an arm around his waist, and guiding him upright again.
“Thanks,” Beau said. He signaled to the bartender but was ignored.
Josie said, “Mr. Collins, we have some questions for you.”
“Queshions, queshions,” he muttered. “Always with queshions. I told you errything I know.”
Noah bumped shoulders with Josie. “He’s in no condition to answer any questions right now.”
Anger seared the lining of Josie’s stomach. Every moment he was drunk to being nearly incapacitated was a moment he slowed their investigation. She said, “Mr. Collins, do you know about Trudy Dawson?”
His face fell. One hand clutched the empty glass on the bar, searching its depths for more. “Why do you think I’m drunk? One of your offishers told me when he ashed me for permission to review the offish surveillansh footage.”
Beau started to cry. Sobs shook him so hard that he started to slide off the stool. Both his hands gripped the edge of the bar. The bartender shook his head, snatched the empty glass away and walked to the end of the bar, where he made a phone call.
Noah stepped in and lifted Beau to standing. “I think you’re getting tossed out of here. Why don’t you let us get you up to your room?”
Beau nodded wordlessly. His splotchy red face was swollen and wet from crying. Josie positioned herself under his other arm. They started toward the exit. Several patrons stopped speaking and eating to stare. Josie saw one or two of them with their cell phones up. It would be on the internet in no time, she thought, and yet, Beau Collins would find a way to spin it. His grief over Claudia was so bad that he lost control and got so smashed, he had to be carried to his room by officers.
The manager of the hotel, John W. Brown, met them in the hotel lobby. He had been cooperative and fair during their investigation into people connected to the hotel, and had somehow weathered the scandal that broke as a result of that case. However, Josie knew that his priority was always the reputation of the hotel.
“Detectives,” he said, regarding them with a pained smile. “Mr. Collins.”
Beau didn’t look at him. Instead, he continued sobbing quietly. Even his tears smelled of bourbon.
Josie said, “We’re accompanying Mr. Collins to his room.”
Brown gave Beau a once-over. “Yes, I gathered that. I understand that you’ve been through a horrible ordeal, Mr. Collins. I do think Detective Quinn is correct in thinking that the proper place for you right now is in the comfort of your suite. However,” he turned his attention to Josie and Noah, “having a high-profile guest who is obviously in great distress carried from the bar by police is not a good look—for any of us concerned. How about if my staff assists Mr. Collins from here. I’ll be sure to call you directly if any other issues arise?”
