Resemblance? Maybe, maybe not. She pegged the first redhead as middle to late thirties, Caucasian, very attractive. The hair might have been a wig or dyed for the occasion, as the killer had known of McEnroy’s penchant for redheads.
Hunted redheads, she thought, married a brunette. And what did that mean? Love, Eve supposed, but that love couldn’t and hadn’t outweighed his particular and prurient needs.
Second suspect, most likely a wig, or temp color job. In both cases, the hair made a statement—and was a detail that stuck in witnesses’ minds.
The killer struck Eve as too smart to use her own style and color.
She added Darla Pettigrew’s ID shot between the two sketches.
Again, maybe yes, maybe no on the resemblance.
Darla came in at thirty-eight—and looked it, if not a couple years older. Nondescript brown hair, medium length. Nondescript altogether, Eve mused, at least for the ID shot.
But she had those really good bones just like her grandmother. Eyes that might have sparkled if she bothered to smile, or didn’t look tired. Wouldn’t her actor grandmother know all the tricks with enhancements to play up the best features?
Then again, maybe Darla just wasn’t interested in enhancements or painting up. And Eve had to admit she’d be the last person to criticize that stand.
Still …
Darla Pettigrew had motive, big motive to Eve’s mind. She had access to privacy and a grandmother who likely wouldn’t question her, and she had e-skills.
Eve checked for vehicles, found none registered in her name. Eloise had two, one all-terrain—white, one luxury sedan—silver. And neither fit the witness statements.
Didn’t mean she didn’t have access to another.
Because it just kept niggling at her, she contacted Leah Lester.
“Lieutenant Dallas, Ms. Lester. I have a question about the support group.”
“Look, I told you everything I could. Why won’t you let me just put this behind me?”
“When someone murdered Nigel McEnroy, they put it in front of you. Give me your impressions of a woman in the group named Darla.”
Leah’s face closed in. “And I told you the group was confidential and anonymous.”
“I’ve spoken to Darla, and I’ve spoken to Natalia. I’m asking for your impressions of this individual.”
“I was a lot more invested in myself, to be honest, than the others. I only went because it was important to Jasmine.”
“Do you remember Darla?”
“Maybe. Vaguely. At least I think so, but what I’m not going to do is put the finger on some poor woman who got screwed by a man.”
“Cuts both ways,” Eve tossed back. “What you tell me may clear her. Her ex-husband was murdered last night.”
“Jesus Christ.” On a shudder, Leah pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. “Like McEnroy.”
“Yes. Now, impressions.”
“Vague, like I said. I stopped going, I told you that. I remember her as sort of broken—like a lot of us—but heartbroken, I guess. Her husband dumped her for a younger woman, and something about stealing the business she’d built. I guess I didn’t feel all that sorry for her. She wasn’t drugged and raped, just dumped.”
She let out a sigh.
“Like I said, I was more into my own problems. She looked like she had money, not like Un— not like one of the others whose ex smacked her around, until she got away with her kid.”
“How did she look like she had money?”
“I don’t know. Her shoes. She had really good shoes, and she was still wearing a wedding set. If the diamond was real, it was worth something. I’m just saying she looked like money.”