“Problems?” Alvarez asked as they walked into the station.
Sighing, she shouldered open the door, then repeated the conversation. “I’m going to need fortification for this.” She made her way to the lunchroom and eyed the coffeepot, then thought better of it. No reason to get the heartburn going again.
Making her way to her desk, she stripped off her jacket and sidearm, and looked up Claudia Dubois’s, the judge’s neighbor’s, number. Whether she was a little dingy or not, she was there on the street. She placed the call and as the phone rang, Pescoli remembered Claudia’s insistence that someone evil had been watching the Samuels-Piquard residence from the park.
Real?
Imagined?
Who knew?
Claudia answered on the fourth ring. “Doctor Dubois’s residence,” she announced curtly while Pescoli identified herself.
“Oh, yes, Detective! I’m so glad you called.” She sounded absolutely delighted.
“I was wondering,” Pescoli said, double-checking as she knew Claudia’s memory faded in and out, “if you remember Donna’s last name, the maid for Judge Samuels-Piquard.”
“Donna Goodwin,” she said clearly. “I told you that when you asked the other day. She lives outside of Missoula and cleans for Kathryn, well . . . did and for Velma next door.”
“Velma Miller?”
“Yes.” There was a perturbed tone to her voice, as if Pescoli were a cretin.
“Are the Millers home?”
“Of course they are. Their skiing trip only lasts a few days, just over Christmas. They’re always back before New Year’s.”
“Good to know.” If it turned out to be true. Claudia’s sense of reality seemed to shift with the days. Another question plagued her. “Have you seen the stalker again?”
“What stalker?”
Oh, dear God.
“The man in white, maybe white camouflage that you noticed under the tree in the park.”
“The park across the street from us?” she said, and there was a note of concern in her voice. “I told you about him?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. My. Well, I was probably mistaken about that. My husband, Barry, Doctor Baron Dubois, he told me I was mistaken.”
“Were you?” Pescoli asked, wondering about the little round man who had seemed so concerned about his wife when they’d spoken in the foyer of their large, brick home. Was he trying to protect his wife, not wanting anyone to know of her hallucinations, if that’s what they were, or did he have another motive?
“Was I what? Oh, mistaken.” She lowered her voice to a soft whisper. “Of course not. That man was there, I tell you, and if you ask me, he’s the one who killed Kathy!”
“Thank you, Mrs. Dubois,” she said as she spied Sage Zoller stick her head into the office. She held up a finger to indicate she was about done with the conversation and to hold on.
“You’re welcome, Detective, and please, stop by anytime.” As she hung up, Pescoli was left with more questions than she had when she’d first dialed. “What’s up?” she asked Sage.
“A couple of things.” The junior detective slid into the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. Leaning against the edge of Pescoli’s desk, she said, “First off, the lab can’t find anything from the ashes found in the judge’s house.”
“Not good news.”
“I know, but there it is. No way to analyze them any further. All they can say for certain is that it was paper.”
“Great.”
“But we got lucky on another lead. I was able to run down Rose Hellman, the waitress at Hot Stacks, and she did confirm that Edie Gardener, now Mrs. Art Danielson, was there on Christmas morning, sometime around ten or ten-thirty, and that there was quite a stir when she was given her ring. She let out a whoop that caught everyone in the restaurant’s attention; then her husband placed the ring on her finger, kissed her, and twirled her off her feet, knocking over several glass pots of warm blackberry syrup in the process. Everyone in the restaurant clapped.”