The Girl Who Survived(37)

Nor did anyone in the building apparently.

All going to seed.

Like her lawyer, she thought, shivering.

Whereas Margrove had once been a famous attorney, nationally known, he’d slipped into near obscurity, his fortunes either gambled or otherwise wasted away, his B-and C-list celebrity friends having long disappeared into the woodwork, like so many cockroaches scuttling away from the light. After his failure to save Jonas McIntyre from a guilty verdict, Margrove’s fortunes had spiraled downward in a series of bad marriages and worse investments, his flamboyant lifestyle catching up with him, to the point he’d become a shell of his former self, a small-town lawyer scrabbling for clients.

“Sad,” she said aloud, but Margrove wasn’t the only victim of misfortune after the murders of her family. Just one more piece of roadkill on the highway of bad karma that had been the aftermath of the McIntyre Massacre.

Kara didn’t want to dwell on that now; didn’t see that it would do any good. Camping out here and waiting made no sense, so she returned to her car and fired the engine. What now? Drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, she glanced in the rearview mirror and caught her reflection: pale, eyes still red, brown hair lifeless and untamed.

She cut a quick U-turn when traffic allowed and after grabbing a large coffee from a kiosk near a local shopping center, she pulled into a slot near the north end and waited. It didn’t take long. At ten minutes to nine she spied Celeste, Merritt’s wife, pull up in an older black Corvette. Celeste climbed out, a huge coral-colored bag slung over one shoulder, her platinum hair streaked with pink and piled on her head, her body trim and taut in a short coat, black leggings, and over-the-knee boots. After locking the car remotely, balancing keys and phone in one hand and a large collapsible water bottle in the other, she made her way to the door of Allure Salon and let herself in.

Kara followed, stepping inside just as the lights came on, and Celeste, who had discarded her jacket, was turning over an OPEN, WALK-INS WELCOME sign that hung at eye level on the door. “Oh, hi,” she said. “I’m sorry. I have a nine o’clock who must be running a little late . . . Oh.” Her bright smile disintegrated as their eyes met. “Kara.” Celeste sighed. “Kara McIntyre. Dear Lord. I heard you’ve been calling my husband.” She moved to a small coffee stand pressed into a corner in the back, near a door marked RESTROOM and boasting a unisex door sign.

“Merritt hasn’t returned any of my calls.”

With a shrug, Celeste pulled the glass carafe from the coffeemaker and threw the remains of yesterday’s brew down one of the sinks lining the opposite wall. Between the mirrors mounted over the individual basins were shelves filled with hair care and skin products, even candles and herbal teas, the floral scents mingling with that of day-old coffee. “I kinda knew that. But we have a deal, my dear husband and me. He doesn’t interfere in my business and I do the same.” She glanced up as she refilled the pot, again from the faucet of one of the aligned basins. “It’s called giving each other space. It happens in marriages. If you ask me, it’s a necessity.”

“Jonas was released yesterday.”

“I heard.”

No news there. Anyone who watched the news or read a morning paper had been apprised of the fact that the McIntyre Massacre Killer was now a free man. “Did Jonas call Merritt? Or meet with him?”

“Again: unknown.” She was tossing old grounds trapped in a soggy filter into a trash can with a foot pedal, then as the lid clanged shut, reached into a cupboard, found a canister of ground coffee, and measured tablespoonfuls into a fresh filter. With the press of a button, the brewing machine was gurgling to life. “I don’t think I can help you, Kara. And really this is my place of business. I don’t feel comfortable talking to you about . . . you know, about it, what happened. My clients wouldn’t understand.”

“In a beauty shop. All anyone does is gossip.”

“Not when—” She hesitated, then hoisted up her pointed chin. “Okay, so I was going to say, ‘Not when a victim is here.’ That would, you know, hit too close to home. Be a real downer.”

Unfortunately, Kara did know. Maybe even understood, but she had her own mission. “Is Merritt at home? I can go to your apartment—”

“No!” Celeste snapped, irritated. And then more calmly, “He’s not there.”

Kara waited and saw the agitation in Celeste’s features. Her makeup was perfect, smooth skin without a blemish, pale eye shadow, plucked, arched brows over impossibly thick lashes, and full, glossy lips tinged with just a hint of color. But the whites of her eyes showed a few tiny red veins, and now her chin wobbled slightly. “Okay, so I guess you have the right to know. I’m worried about him. He’s been. . . obsessed lately.” “With Jonas?”

She waved a hand, lilac-tipped nails flashing. “With the whole damned thing. He’s slaved over this case for years. Years. Long before I met him, and now it’s all come to fruition and . . . well, he’s holed up in the trailer.”

“The trailer?” What was Celeste talking about?

“A mobile home he inherited from an uncle. Not one of the cooler, newer ones. I’d kill for one of those, let me tell you. But ours? It’s old. Piece of shit, if you ask me. Up on Mount Hood. Sawtooth Road.” Her neatly plugged eyebrows drew together. “I’ve been calling him for over a day now, but he’s still not answering his phone, well, you know that. He blew you off. Right?”