“Maybe she made it worse,” Gretchen said, thinking of bewigged, gossipy Bonnie forcing dolls on her son.
“Maybe,” he agreed pleasantly, not particularly concerned with resolving his issues or delving into the reasons. “But the symptoms mimic those of the flu-nausea and sweating-and I avoid those feelings whenever possible. I couldn’t believe it when I was assigned to this case.”
“Speaking of the case,” Gretchen said, her waffle-filled fork midair. “Any progress?”
“That’s why I came to see you,” he said. “We have a suspect in custody.”
Gretchen sharply lowered the fork, and it clattered to her plate. “My mother?” she said, not sure what answer she wanted to hear. She had little doubt that her mother was alive and well, but her physical presence would be confirmation, an erasure of that tiny bit of lingering doubt, unspoken and consciously ignored, yet there all the same. Gretchen craved living proof. On the other hand, she couldn’t bear the thought of her mother behind bars, caged like a dangerous mountain lion.
Matt shook his head. “No, not your mother. Theodore Brummer turned himself in late last night. He confessed.”
“I never heard of him.”
“Well, he said he did it.”
“He confessed to Martha Williams’s murder?” Gretchen sighed with relief, noting the assertion in Matt’s expression. It was over. Her mother could come home, and she could return to Boston and the life she had made for herself there. She tried not to think of the recent negative qualities of that life. She could put it back together again, find a job, salvage her long-term relationship. She would consider it a new beginning, a starting point for the next phase of her life.
“Yes, he could only communicate in Spanish, no English at all. He says he did it.”
“Did he say why he killed her?”
“Apparently they knew each other from the Rescue Mission. He says he was drunk, she had a bottle of whisky and wouldn’t share. A physical fight ensued, and he pushed her.”
Gretchen’s eyes narrowed, and her brows furrowed. Killed for a bottle of whisky? Something felt wrong about that. The homeless lost their lives occasionally, and sometimes they did lose it over a bottle of booze.
But Camelback Mountain was miles from the area the city’s destitute frequented. Why chase her all the way up a mountain and then push her off?
A disturbing thought struck her, and she knew the answer before she asked the question. She sensed what Nina would have called her special inherited talent, a certain unspecified intuition. Goose bumps dotted her arms as she braced herself to cross paths once again with a duplicitous transient.
“What does this Theodore Brummer look like?” she asked suspiciously.
“Scruffy, smelly. Usually the homeless are nondescript and tend to blend in, but this guy has a large lump on his head that distinguishes him from the rest, some kind of growth.” Matt cupped his hand on the side of his head.
Gretchen stared at him.
She was right.
Nacho.
“What about the witnesses?” she managed to ask. “The ones who saw my mother on the mountain when Martha died?”
“If you’re asking if their sighting is credible, it is. She’s still wanted as an accomplice based on their accounting. She was on the mountain, and she’s guilty of something. Maybe not murder, but certainly she withheld information and obstructed the pursuit of justice. I’m not buying his motive. He didn’t kill Martha Williams over alcohol. And there’s still the possibility that your mother conspired with Brummer.”
Gretchen pushed her plate away, having suddenly lost her appetite.
“I suspected him all along,” Nina said. “Doesn’t surprise me at all.”
They drove toward Scottsdale Memorial Hospital through typically heavy traffic on their way to visit Daisy. Nina’s menagerie-Tutu, Nimrod, and the volatile Enrico-rode in the backseat, and Gretchen again felt gratitude for her cat and his independent character. His only requirements were a constant source of food and water and a warm body to cuddle with at night. Dogs, on the other hand… She let the thought go, resigned to the present situation and present, doggy-breath company.
The back windows were crusted with accumulated drool.
“Nacho didn’t implicate her,” Gretchen said, repeating the rest of the information supplied by the detective. “In fact he insisted that my mother had nothing to do with it. He was adamant, maintaining that he acted alone.”
“That’s good news.”
“The police still have a warrant out for her arrest based on the description from the hikers.”
“That’s not good news.”
Something still didn’t feel right about Nacho’s confession, but Gretchen was confident that her questions would be answered eventually. How, for example, could Nacho have been responsible for Daisy’s car accident? He didn’t even own a vehicle, so how could he have forced her off the road? And his concern for Daisy had seemed genuine. Why would he try to harm her?
However, his sneaky manner and covert actions made his guilty plea plausible. And he admitted to the murder. Case closed. Or almost. Maybe the reason for Daisy’s crash was simpler than it appeared. Daisy, inattentive or inexperienced, could have lost control and driven off the road. It was possible that, as the detective had conjectured, no one had tail-ended her.
“I don’t understand his penchant for speaking Spanish,” Gretchen said. “He refused to speak English, and as far as I know, he isn’t even Spanish. At least he doesn’t look Spanish. And we know he’s fluent in English. What’s the significance of the Spanish?”
“You think too much,” Nina said. “Accept his confession at face value.”
“And ignore the fact that he didn’t break in and steal Martha’s bag?”
“How do you know he didn’t?”
“Because he’s the one who gave the bag to us.”
Nina swung into the hospital parking lot, and all three dogs tumbled to the right side of the car. “Seat belts for you guys unless you learn to brace better for turns,” she warned.
“How are we going to fit Daisy into the car?” Gretchen said in exasperation. “There isn’t room.”
Nina slid the gears into the park position and turned off the engine. “It was your idea to take Daisy home with you,” she said. “I don’t approve of letting a vagrant take over Caroline’s home, but it’s your decision. Now, when you’re robbed blind, I’ll know exactly who did it.”
“You’re stereotyping,” Gretchen said. “I thought you were more open-minded than that.”
Nina grinned. “In answer to your question. We have plenty of room for Daisy because you can ride in the back with the pooches.”
Gretchen got out of the car and slammed the door.
Caroline didn’t flinch at the exorbitant amount of money she had paid for the doll. Thanks to the increasing popularity of plastic and the credit card service’s unethical tactics that trapped the impulsive consumer into a lifetime of interest-paying servitude, she had been allowed to spend more than she could reasonably repay. Usually outspoken about the evils of excessive credit debt, Caroline, in one single transaction, had joined the multitudes of overextended debtors.
She smiled with satisfaction.
Until now she had carefully avoided leaving a paper trail. In fact, she still practiced extreme caution. Watchful eyes would find no easy path to her temporary door. She had used only cash until the final moment when she had no other choice. The evasive maneuvers, however, would end soon enough.
The terms of a private auction were strictly adhered to, Caroline knew from her own experience with online selling. Bidders’ e-mail addresses were not disclosed, a distinct advantage for Caroline that effectively concealed her identity from the seller. Of course, this seller, she knew, also requiring anonymity, had used another identity and an escrow service to manage the transaction.