“It was nothing she said, but I saw her looking at Mr. Chesterfield on more than one occasion, and I thought she looked angry.” Porter shrugged. “That’s all. I may have misinterpreted what she was doing.”
“When you were drugged with the ether, did you see who did it or did you see the hand holding the cloth?” Robin asked.
“If I did, I don’t remember.”
“Do you have any idea who knocked you out or killed Mr. Chesterfield?”
“I’ve thought about it a lot, but I arrived in Portland just before rehearsals started, and I didn’t know anyone. The newspapers had stories about Mr. Chesterfield’s past, the murder trials and his disappearance. I read them, because I was working with him. But except for Mr. Chesterfield, I never met anyone, except Maria, who was involved in those situations.”
“Can you think of anything else you want to ask Nancy?” Robin asked her investigator.
“No. And thanks for taking the time to talk to us.” Jeff gave her his business card. “If you think of something that might help figure out what happened, give me a call.”
“Do you know when I can leave?” Porter asked.
“That’s up to the police,” Robin said, “but I don’t imagine they’ll keep you too much longer. Do you have Carrie Anders’s or Roger Dillon’s number?”
“They gave me their cards.”
“Call them. They’ll give you an idea of when you can leave.”
“Okay.”
“I understand you live in Minnesota?”
“Yeah. I’ll be glad to get home after what happened.”
“I don’t blame you. This has been a heck of an introduction to Oregon.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
“Roger Dillon?” the voice on the phone asked.
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry to call so late. This is Elmer Davis. I’m a homicide detective in Washington County. I met you and Morris Quinlan about five years ago at the crime lab when they were hosting a seminar on DNA analysis.”
“Right. I remember.”
“Was Morris Quinlan your partner?”
“Yeah, but he’s retired.”
“I have some bad news for you. Mr. Quinlan was murdered tonight in the parking lot of the Ramble Inn. I was wondering if you could help us with our investigation.”
“Me? How can I help?”
“His wallet and cell phone are gone, so I didn’t know who to contact. Then I remembered the seminar. We can spare his relatives the discomfort of making a positive ID if you do it.”
“I’ll be right there.”
The Ramble Inn was a run-down motel in the Washington County countryside, a half hour’s drive from Portland. A heavy rain began falling when Roger was halfway there, and it had not let up when he saw the flickering neon sign advertising the motel and tavern. When Roger pulled into the lot, a heavyset man with salt-and-pepper stubble and a graying crew cut walked up. He was wearing a windbreaker with a hood, and he peered through the front driver’s side window.
“Elmer?” Roger asked.
“Sorry to have to call you out here in this weather,” Davis answered. He pointed to an empty parking space in front of the motel. “Park there and we’ll get the hard part over.”
Yellow crime-scene tape had been used to cordon off a section of the lot that was illuminated by lights the forensic team had set up.