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Ruby. The same Ruby who had called Whiskey the night Nadine died? Ruby opened her mouth, but Whiskey spoke. “Take the agent what she needs. Get the child out of here. Go home. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
John had questions for her, but she had a small, frightened child. Now was not the time.
She nodded and obeyed.
“What do you want to know, Detective?” Whiskey asked.
“Where were you last Friday night?” He’d start with Atta’s disappearance and work his way back to the earlier victims.
Violet entered with a huge lump in her coat pocket. She stood in the doorway madder than a wet hen, but she wasn’t flaming. It was in the icy eyes and calm and cool composure. She slowly let her sight land on Whiskey.
His eyes widened. “You look—”
“I know.”
She and Ruby could pass for sisters.
“We’ve been chomping at the bit to talk to you.”
“He was telling us where he was last weekend.”
“Well?”
“I was here like I am most weekends. I can give you a dozen witnesses or more.” He tucked his hair behind his ears. His cocky grin begged to be punched off. Whiskey could trump up any number of liars. This was pointless.
“We found a piece of Atta’s shirt outside the bar. Putting yourself here really doesn’t put you in a good place. And we have a witness who says you and Atta had a row last Friday night. What about?” Violet asked and stepped inside the room, owning it and embellishing what they actually knew.
“I had no beef with Atta. She was cool. Never gave me any trouble.”
Probably too afraid. Like his other drug runners. But they couldn’t ask about that. They weren’t supposed to know it.
“She left here beat up. And since you’re the man in charge, wouldn’t you know it? And why didn’t you do something about the brawl down here tonight?”
“I just call that Saturday night, sweetie. And I was upstairs occupied. Didn’t hear anything outside my own room.” He glanced up. “Ask me where I was when Tillie and Darla got killed. Here. I have more alibis. And Nadine? I tried to help Nadine. When I left her, she was beat up but alive and doctored. Ask Ruby. She was there.”
Violet slightly winced. “I plan to.”
“There’s blood on Atta’s shirt,” John said.
“Great. I hope it helps you find the sick mother that’s doing this. It won’t be mine.” Whiskey pointed to Greg. “Bring me a brewski and get the guys cleaning up this place.”
“On it.” He eyed John as a warning to keep his mouth shut then left the room.
“What about the boy’s mom?” Violet asked. “Do you know where she might be? His dad?”
“His dad could be anybody in this holler,” Whiskey said through a tired laugh. “’Cept me. I’m not sweet on Bella Dawn. But you’re pretty.” He winked.
John bristled. Whiskey was doing nothing but reiterating what Violet already thought about herself—superficial.
Violet cocked her head. “I take out the trash. I don’t sleep with it. You have a nice night.” She stalked out of the room, and John followed.
Out in the hall, he sighed. “Now what?”
“Now, I talk to Ruby Boyd. In detail. I should have stuck around and not gone to Memphis. I could have already interviewed her,” she mumbled and buttoned up her coat. “I had her take Mason to Mother. She can watch over him until they find his mom or someone responsible can take guardianship. PS, he had a little cloth cowboy doll and the scarf or bandana around its neck was made out of sheer panties. I’m almost certain of it.”
“Were they yours?”
She arched an eyebrow. “Hardly. But it’s weird. The bandana thingy. My underwear gone. The purses. Even that homemade necklace around that plastic doll at the creek. Something is way bizarre.”
