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“Maybe. The M.O. is similar to the way Callie died. I can’t always account for his whereabouts. No one suspects him. He wouldn’t have any reason to murder those women, which puts him under the radar. But I don’t want John to know any of this. He’ll...he’ll mess things up. He’s a straight shooter, and he is by the book. But I got a good feeling, you and I...we’re alike. Keep John off me. I will avenge Callie.”
Violet blew a heavy breath. Greg didn’t want John to bring down Whiskey because he wanted to. For the same woman. This was going to get messy.
“Could Wendell be the killer?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t, Agent. Maybe. He’s violent when he’s drunk.” He glanced back. “I’ve got to go, but I’ll give you a peace offering. Keep a close watch on Ruby Boyd and Amy Miller.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re the only two holler girls left. They’re marked.” He headed for the door.
He didn’t say Whiskey Girls. And there were far more than two women left in this holler. “Why? What does that mean? Is the killer targeting Whiskey’s prostitutes?”
Greg glanced at the door. “I’m not the bad guy. I play one, and sometimes slip over the edge. But I don’t want any more women to die.” He disappeared behind the door.
She related on some level with Greg. She’d been told her whole life who she was and who she was to become. For a moment, she’d embraced it.
One push.
She shook out of the memory and brought the coffee upstairs, foregoing the washrag. Inside, Wendell was sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hand. Violet handed him his coffee.
“Why are we up here, Wendell? Whiskey seems to think it might be you who beat up Atta. Did you kill her too?”
“No. No!” He sipped the coffee, and after he swallowed a sob erupted, spittle flying from his lips, leaving them wet and puckered.
“But you did see Atta last Friday night, didn’t you? Because you were both here. You’ve had a guest room here for over a decade, Wendell. We know.” Violet wanted someone to tell the truth for once.
“Yes. I’ve tried to be the person I know I’m meant to be. The man God wants me to be.” Another sob escaped, his shoulders bobbing as he cried. “I beg Him to take this demon away from me. And for a while, I can resist. Until I can’t. Then I look in the mirror, and I see my father. Not my heavenly father. My dirtbag of an earthly dad. The man I don’t want to be. I’m exhausted and ashamed.”
Violet wasn’t here to offer counsel or consolation. “I understand that, Wendell. Wanting to be someone else. The better person crying to be let out. But what I need to know, besides your sins, is am I going to find your DNA on her swatch of clothing and on a beer bottle we found by the creek outside the bar?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” He wiped his mouth. “I came into the bar. I was gonna have one beer. But it turned into more. She came in. We got in an argument.”
“What about?”
“The fact the holler preacher was once again drunk at a bar ran by a criminal.” He drank the coffee, sniffed. “But who was she to condemn me! I boiled over and followed her outside, where we had it out and... God help me, I hit her. I slapped her right in the mouth. I’m not sure how the beer bottle broke. I think I hit it against the tree to scare her. Maybe even hit her with it. I can’t remember.” He held up his right hand. “Cut my hand.” His bloodshot eyes drilled into hers. “When she took off, I grabbed her, the bottom of her shirt ripped clean off. But I did not kill her. I came back inside when she stormed away. And the next thing I knew, I woke up in this room. That’s the last I saw her.”
He’d lied about his alibi to hide the fact he was a drunk. A mean one. “We’re going to have to retrace and recheck your alibis for Tillie, Darla and Nadine. Were you here last night?”
A slow nod. “I was upstairs. Drunk.”
“Did you see Bella Dawn?”
“Briefly, when she brought Mason upstairs. I didn’t kill these women. I didn’t kill my sister.”
But he’d been angry that his sister had condemned him, and he knew about her own sins. It fit with Scripture in Romans, and Wendell Atwater had proven himself to be a liar with a violent temper if drunk. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”
Outside in the hall, she asked, “Do you believe him?”
“I don’t know. He fits the loose profile we have. He’s definitely a solid person of interest.”
Violet had several persons of interest on her radar, but she needed time to process everything before snapping to conclusions and speaking too soon. “Your boy Greg said Regis was here last night. Saw him escort Bella Dawn out the front door. Now, maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe he’s casting light on Regis for other reasons.”
“To get us off his back.”
“Perhaps.” But not for that reason. Too much information and too many personal issues weighed like a bag of bricks on her skull. She wanted to be done with this day, this investigation—her past. Wendell’s words about being his father had struck her deeply. “I need some air.”
She clomped down the wooden stairs, spotted the bottle of Jack on the bar and swiped it—not like they’d care, and who would they call anyway—then she strode out the front door toward the creek, the wind picking up leaves and swirling them in the air, swaying trees and sounding more like beach waves than wind in the branches.
