“No idea,” Jari said. “Downstate is all I know.”
Downstate? But Randall lived near Chilson. “Are you sure?”
“You bet. I think half the reason Carissa moved up here was to get away from him.” She spun her glass around. “He must have had a good job because she said he gave her lots of nice stuff, but she didn’t like the way he tried to control her. Weird, since they only dated for a few weeks. Carissa said she was embarrassed about how stupid she was to go out with a guy like that in the first place, so she didn’t tell anyone about him.”
“His name wasn’t Randall?”
Jari looked up at me. “You mean Randall Moffit? No, he came after the Weasel. That didn’t last long, though.”
She went on, talking about how Carissa hadn’t wanted to hurt Randall’s feelings, but my brain was locked in place.
The Weasel and Randall were two different people. There were two ex-boyfriends. Zofia had been right, my eyes truly had been closed. How long had they been that way?
And worse, what else had I been wrong about?
• • •
The next evening, after I’d had a determinedly cheerful telephone conversation with Tucker, Eddie and I sat out on the deck. We’d started with me on one chaise longue and him on the other, but he quickly decided that my lap was a better location.
He flopped onto my legs, curled into a large Eddie-ball, and started rumbling out a deep purr.
“So,” I said, petting him, “it’s time to tell Cade that I’ve failed completely to clear his name. I’m no closer to figuring out who the killer is now than when I started.”
Eddie opened one eye.
“Sad, but true,” I told him. “Yes, I know more about Carissa than I did, a lot more, but I still don’t know enough.”
I knew that she’d fled the traffic of downstate for the open roads of northern Michigan. I knew she’d been a pharmacist who’d left it all behind for selling expensive cars, and I knew she’d changed from the serious adolescent my brother had known to a woman who was intent on having a good time. And I knew she’d left behind at least two ex-boyfriends.
Had it been her bad experience with the Weasel that had made her want to take life less seriously? That she needed to have fun, that life wasn’t all work and no play?
Eddie yawned and stretched out, his front claws digging slightly into my skin.
I winced. “Watch it, buddy, those are sharp. Someone should clip them for you.” I thought about getting up and finding the clippers, but that would mean moving Eddie, and it just didn’t seem right.
“You know what else doesn’t seem right?” I asked. “That no one knows the Weasel’s name. How can that be?” But maybe it wouldn’t have been that hard. If you lived alone in a city, didn’t have any neighbors you were friendly with, and weren’t good friends with your coworkers, there would be no reason for anyone to know the name of every guy you briefly dated.
“We need to find out who he is,” I murmured. Whoever he was, I wanted him to be the killer. I didn’t want it to be Greg or Trock or even Hugo. I wanted it to be someone I didn’t know.
Eddie’s tail flicked around, tickling me something fierce. “You can stop that anytime,” I told him, but since he was a cat, he kept flicking.
I tried to catch the end of his tail, but he tipped it out of reach every time. Finally I used both hands to trap it down against my leg. “Ha! Got you…”
My voice trailed off.
A trap?
I considered the idea. And found it good.
A trap.
There was only one little problem. How do you set a trap for someone when you don’t know where he lives? Or even his name?
• • •
I left Eddie with a small handful of treats and a new cat toy—one with bells inside that I’d probably regret giving him come two in the morning—and drove up to the care facility to talk to Cade. About ideas for setting a trap for the killer.
It was long past dinnertime, closing fast on sunset, and the halls were mostly empty. The only things moving were the always-busy staff and the birds in the showcase in the hallway a few doors down from Cade’s room.
I stopped to admire the bright colors of their feathers. That, as well as their merry chirping, was enough to lift anyone’s spirits. “And what’s your name?” I asked a little guy. His head poked out of a tiny nest just long enough to let me see his brilliantly blue plumage. “Let me guess. Blackie. No, Snowflake.”
“Sorry. He’s Chirpy.” A nurse’s aide was standing in front of a laptop computer on a cart, tapping away at whatever it is that aides have to tap away at. She hadn’t been there thirty seconds ago and I don’t know how she’d arrived so silently, but maybe that was something they taught you in the certification class.
“Chirpy?” I asked.
“Yeah, I know, not very original, but we let every resident who wanted to name a bird name it whatever they”—she broke off into a huge yawn—“Sorry. Whatever they wanted.”
I glanced at the birdhouse. There were dozens of the little guys in there, and a number of them looked exactly the same to me. “Um, how do you know which one is which?”
She tapped at the computer a few more times, then flipped the laptop shut and turned to me. “Don’t,” she said, nodding slightly.
I began to see the beauty of the plan. Smiling, I said, “I’m Minnie.”
“Heather,” she said, and yawned again. “Sorry. I just switched from working midnights and it’s taking me a while to get adjusted.”
I shuddered. People were meant to be in bed and sleeping from eleven to seven, not on their feet and working. However, I was very grateful there were people who could function on that kind of schedule, and I was even more grateful that I wasn’t one of them. “I don’t even want to imagine,” I said.
“Oh, it’s not so bad. Like they say, the only thing you miss working midnights is sleep. I could get to all my kids’ concerts and soccer games, no problem. I didn’t always stay awake, but I was there.” She grinned, and the resulting lines around her mouth made me revise her age up a few years.
“I always thought working midnights would be a little, you know.” I hesitated, then said it. “Creepy.”
She shook her head. “Not to me. Most everyone is asleep; you can chart without an interruption, practically. The best thing about midnights is that it’s quiet. Peaceful, even.”
I’d never thought about it that way, and said so.
She nodded. “And the shift differential is nice.” She rubbed her thumb across the tips of her fingers. “But the kids are older now, and my husband sleeps better when I’m home, so I switched over. Still, I kind of miss how nice and quiet midnights are. At least most of the time.” A darkness shaded her face. “Of course, it’s not all puppies and kittens. Sometimes…” Her voice trailed off and she glanced over her shoulder. Toward Cade’s room.
Inside my head, dawn broke, even if it was almost sunset. This must be the aide who’d told the police that Cade was in bed the night of Carissa’s murder. This was the woman whose statement was a critical part of keeping Cade out of jail.
“I stopped by,” I said, “to visit Russell McCade.”
“You know Cade?” Heather’s smile was wide. “I’ve been a fan for years, since I was a kid. The first real picture I ever bought was one of his prints. I’d love to have one of his real paintings. They’re so lifelike they almost jump off the wall. Maybe someday I’ll be able to afford a little one.”
She looked wistful and I didn’t say that if I didn’t get something figured out, her wish might come true sooner than she might guess. “He’s one of the residents you’re assigned to?” I asked.
“I was so lucky. He’s such a nice man you wouldn’t think that he’s such a famous artist. I mean, people all over the world know who he is.” Her eyes were wide. “He said he’s sold paintings to people in over fifty different countries. I’m not sure I could even name fifty countries.”