Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(43)
Cameras.
I glance involuntarily up toward the one set in the corner. It’s disguised, but not very well, with a paint job to match the bland walls. There’s no lit-up indicator to show whether or not it’s recording, but I can still feel its blank, impersonal stare.
I blink back images of nightmares and try to focus directly on Fairweather again. He’s asked me a question I missed. “Sorry?”
“You did speak to Mrs. Crockett, we know that. That call she made to you went on a bit. Wasn’t just a wrong number.”
“I didn’t say she didn’t call me. I said I don’t know her.”
His straw-colored eyebrows round up. “You usually have conversations with some stranger as you don’t even know?”
Despite the antique rural phrasing, I recognize the shark gliding under the surface of that question. “Sometimes,” I say. I keep it placid. “When they’re in trouble.”
“And what kind of help can you offer them, exactly?”
“Advice.” I’m tempted to leave it there and make him chase the rabbit, but I don’t. “Look, you know who I am and who my ex was. People—mostly women—sometimes reach out in dealing with difficult situations.”
“Such as?”
“One woman had a husband who was about to be arrested as a child molester. She didn’t know how to deal with it, or the fallout. Another woman wanted to do what I did: change her name to protect her kids from harassment. Sometimes I can help them. Mostly I can’t. Occasionally I get ones that just need to talk it out.”
“And Mrs. Crockett?”
“She wasn’t specific about what her problem was. She clearly felt like there was trouble, though I didn’t get the impression she thought it was danger to her. She wanted me to come up to Wolfhunter. She said she’d discuss it here.” I take in a breath, let it out. “To be honest, I thought maybe she suspected someone around her of some crime. That’s normally the case.”
“Did you? Meet with her?”
I see the spark fly through him, like a pilot light flaring up. How much of a career boost would it be for him to somehow pin a woman’s murder on the ex of Melvin Royal?
“No, I did not,” I say. Still calm. “I’m happy for you to look at my cell phone records, which should show you exactly where I’ve been since then, and I’ll give you a detailed timeline in writing. I’ve never been to Wolfhunter before we got here late last night.”
If he’s disappointed, he doesn’t show it. His helpful expression never shifts. “If you could write that all down for me, that would be real helpful,” he says. He opens a drawer on his side of the table and comes up with a lined yellow pad and a felt-tip pen. “I’ll need to ask Mr. Cade for his timeline from when Marlene first called until you got that second call too.”
“Of course. He’ll be happy to do that, and give you access to his cell records as well.” I wouldn’t normally make that kind of promise on Sam’s behalf, but obviously this detective’s not stupid; he’s going to get court orders and pull them whether we like it or not. Acceding will give us the edge on credibility.
“So what exactly did Mrs. Crockett say when she called you?” he asks me, and shifts a little forward. An invitation to share confidences, just between the two of us. He’s got a good command of body language, I’ll give him that.
“Not much. She called after we got back from Knoxville, after dinner.”
“Knoxville,” he repeats. “And why’d you go to Knoxville again?”
“I had an appearance on the Howie Hamlin Show. It’s filmed there.” My tone goes sharp again. He gives me a little nod.
“Yes, ma’am, I do remember that now.” He must have Googled me already, that would be standard procedure before taking an interview. “And what exactly did she say when she called?”
I think back. My memory’s not perfect, but it’s reasonably good, and I think I recount it well enough for him. He listens without comment. When I pause, he says, “And why didn’t you come to Wolfhunter when she asked you to?”
“Because I’m not stupid,” I say. “I don’t go running off to meet in secret with people I don’t know. Not unless I do it on my own terms. It might have been a trap.”
“A trap?” He sits back now. “Set by who, exactly?”
I start ticking off the list. “Fans of my ex. Absalom members who slipped the net. Random internet stalkers, of which I have dozens. Not to mention the families of my ex-husband’s victims, some of whom still believe I’m complicit. Oh, and all these crazy people stirred up by that mess on the Howie Hamlin train wreck, because now I’ve got Miranda Tidewell’s documentary crew stalking me. So . . . plenty of suspects.”
“Sounds like your life is difficult, ma’am.”
“Not nearly as difficult as the people who lost their loved ones so horribly,” I say. “Damn sure not as difficult as the lives of my children, who’ve had to endure more than I can imagine. I’m not wallowing in self-pity or paranoia. I’m just realistic about the number of people who want to see me humiliated or hurt. Maybe dead. But I’m not the one dead, am I? Can we get back to Marlene?”
He lets me shift the ground. “Okay. So after that initial call, you had no further contact with her, is that right?”