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“That’s true, but no, there’s no explanation here I can see. We do have special notations when the customer has died because that process is a bit complicated, but I’m not seeing that here.”
After thanking him and ending the call, Jo researched her Atwater apartment in an online real-estate website.
“Tasha claims to have been on a romantic getaway in Maine this past weekend,” Arnett announced.
“I wonder if she stayed at the same B&B as Lopez?” Jo jotted down the contact information for Jennifer’s landlord while reaching for her coffee.
“Not unless Karnelian Kottage specializes in vampire weekends,” Arnett said.
Jo coughed on the coffee she’d just sipped. “Nice pun. Lopez would be proud,” she said when she caught her breath.
He gave her a blank look. “What?”
“Vampire Weekend,” she said.
He blinked. “Yeah, so?”
She rubbed her brow and tapped the landlord’s number into her phone. “Never mind.”
A woman hovering somewhere above fifty answered, with a distracted edge to her gravelly voice that made Jo wonder if she was truly paying attention.
“Yeah, Jennifer took off, what, five months ago? I miss her. She was a good tenant.” She somehow managed to sound bored and wistful at the same time.
“Do you have any idea where she moved, or why?”
“The where I can’t tell you. The why was she had some sort of family emergency, and begged me to let her out of her lease.” A sucking sound came over the line, like she was drinking from a straw and had hit the bottom of the glass.
Jo stretched to rap on Arnett’s desk, and put the call on speaker. “She didn’t say what it was that made her pack up and leave in a hurry?”
“Nah. I wasn’t too surprised because she never really talked about herself that much. Even when I asked she’d just be all, ‘Oh, you don’t want to hear about that, I’m not very interesting.’ Icantell you she put her belongings in storage, though, so I think she’s gonna be back someday.” Ice swirled in a cup. “Sorry I can’t tell you more.”
“You’ve been very helpful. And it was very kind of you to let her out of her lease.”
“Eh, not really. Finding renters isn’t really a problem. Finding renters who understand that normal people go to sleep before midnight is a whole ’nother story.”
“I don’t suppose you happened to have an emergency contact for her?”
“You know, I just might. Hang on.”
After a three-minute wait filled with swearing and the clang of metal drawers, she came back on the line. “Her cousin, Peter Constantine.”
Jo jotted down the number, thanked her, and hung up. “My Spidey senses are tingling on this one.”
“That’s good, because Tasha Quintana’s alibi checks out. Unless she has a private jet or a portal, she’s not our killer,” Arnett said.
“Let’s see if the cousin picks up.” Jo entered his number and connected the call.
An authoritative middle-aged man answered. “Constantine Tax Prep.”
“I’m Detective Josette Fournier of the Oakhurst County State Police Detective Unit. I’m calling about Jennifer Woods—”
“Oh my God, is she okay?”
Jo made pointed eye contact with Arnett as she repeated herself, and Goran and Coyne scooted closer to hear the call. “From your response, can I assume you haven’t seen your cousin lately?”
“You can, and I’ve been worried sick. I woke up to a phone message one day saying she’d be gone for a few months because she had to deal with something urgent.”
“Do you have any idea where she went?”
