Save Her Soul (Detective Josie Quinn #9)(65)
There was still no word from Colbert PD. There was plenty of daylight left. “Gretchen,” Josie said, “finish your lunch fast. I found Vera’s other clients.”
Thirty-Three
They returned to Quail Hollow with Josie at the wheel. This time there was no rain and even more protestors out front. Across from them, on the other side of the drive leading into the Estates, was a handful of people that Josie quickly surmised were Quail Hollow residents. They stood in a cluster and shouted at the protestors; “Leave us alone!” and “Go away!” One woman yelled, “These are our homes! Go back to your own!” A man in his forties hollered, “Mind your own damn business.” The protestors retaliated with indignant accusations.
Gretchen said, “Maybe we should call the Chief? Or have someone from patrol come out here to monitor this?”
Josie pulled just inside the gates and parked. “See if you can get a patrol unit,” she said. “I think I saw Connie Prather in that group. Let’s go talk to her.”
As they walked back toward the feuding groups, a slight hush came over the protestors. Josie heard her own name whispered and gave them a wave. She and Gretchen made their way over to the Quail Hollow residents. Grateful that the throbbing in her thigh had receded to a dull ache, Josie picked up her pace. She zeroed in on a woman in her late fifties wearing a charcoal-colored sweater beneath a puffy pink vest, stretchy blank pants, and Uggs. In her hand was a leash that led to a small white dog who stood idly, looking utterly unimpressed by everything going on around him.
“Constance Prather?” Josie asked.
The woman raised a brow. “I know you’re not here to arrest me. I had nothing to do with ‘diverting’ or ‘stealing’ resources. I’m just here to help get rid of these people. They won’t give us a moment of peace. Honestly, I’ve lived here thirty-five years and we’ve never had any trouble like this. You want to talk to someone about your precious emergency resources, talk to Marisol Dutton. Her husband is the one trying to iron this all out with your Chief.” Without giving Josie or Gretchen a second to speak, Prather turned slightly and looked behind her. “Marisol,” she shouted. “Mar!”
Josie recognized the woman walking toward them from the photo of her and Vera at the salon, as well as photos of her in the press in recent months standing dutifully beside her husband during campaign events. Marisol was shorter than Prather, her brown hair streaked with gray and styled in waves to her shoulders. Her pale skin was thick with make-up. She also wore a pair of black stretchy pants, as well as knee-high boots. She clutched the lapels of a lavender sweater and pulled them across her ample bosom. “What’s going on?” she asked as she joined them.
Josie opened her mouth to speak, but Prather started talking again. “These are cops. You can’t tell? They’re cops. You need to talk to them about the supplies.”
Marisol glared at Prather. “You’re kidding me right now, right, Connie?” She turned back to Josie and Gretchen and extended a hand, which they each shook. “I don’t know anything about the supplies, honestly, but you can talk to my husband. As I’m sure you know, he’s a candidate for Mayor.”
“We’re aware,” Gretchen said.
Connie put in, “He’s also a real estate developer. He’s the one who had the bright idea to expand this place and call it Quail Hollow Estates.” She waved a hand around them. “I don’t know why he would mess with a perfectly good neighborhood, but he couldn’t leave it alone. Had to make it fancier. Now look. We’ve got a moat that’s flooding the back half of the properties and protestors.”
“Jesus, Connie,” Marisol snapped. “Shut it.” Turning back to Josie and Gretchen, she said, “He’s at his office. I can give you the address if you’d like.”
Josie took out her credentials and held them out for both women to study. “We’re actually not here about that.”
The two women looked puzzled. Marisol gave a weak smile. “What, then?”
Gretchen said, “We need to talk to both of you about Vera Urban.”
Prather said, “Vera who?”
Marisol lightly slapped her shoulder. “Please, Connie. ‘Vera who?’ Don’t you remember? It was on the news last night.”
Connie said, “Oh, she was the one you found in the flood, all wrapped up in a tarp.”
“No,” Josie said. “That was her daughter, Beverly.”
“Oh, right,” said Connie.
Marisol shook her head. “I can’t believe you don’t remember! It’s so tragic.”
Josie and Gretchen looked at one another, silently agreeing to hold back the news of Vera’s murder for now. Some of the other residents had stopped engaging with the protestors and begun drifting closer to them. Connie said, “Mind if we talk about this somewhere else?”
Marisol said, “Come back to my house. It’s the closest.”
The four of them walked along the tree-lined lanes of Quail Hollow until they came to the section where the original homeowners lived. Marisol Dutton lived only a block over from Calvin Plummer in a large, stately brick home. It was silent as a tomb when they entered. Single file, they followed Marisol through a large tile foyer into her kitchen. Connie scooped up her small dog and carried it in her arms. To one side of the kitchen was a solarium that looked out onto a deck. The sliding glass doors were closed but beyond, Josie could see the Duttons’ large yard and trees beyond that. A small table sat near the doors with four chairs, one for each of them.