leather-bound volumes. Austen, Trollope, and Thackeray, no doubt. To my left was a blue Chinese vase as tall as I was. The red-and-blue Oriental rug was worn and frayed.
An angular woman with frizzy gray hair piled atop her head sat behind a massive walnut desk, staring at a glowing screen. The
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computer looked out of place in the carefully done Victorian room.
She heard my step, turned to see. Prominent collarbones detracted from her decollete blue silk gown with puffy sleeves. She frowned, making her porcelain-white face querulous. ”Yes?”
“Good evening, Mrs. Talley. I’m here about Lily Mendoza and Daryl Murdoch.” I closed the door behind me.
She drew in a sharp breath, stood. “You don’t think Lily had anything to do with what happened to him?” She lifted a hand, clutched at the thick rope of amber beads.
“We have to check it out.” I looked stern.
She held tight to the necklace. “She was upset, but she wouldn’t do anything like that. She’s a sweet, sweet girl.” I frowned at her. “What did she say?” Mrs. Talley stared at the hollow bust of Homer. “I hated doing it.
But I didn’t have any choice. Daryl held the mortgage on the house and he’d given me a break on payments while I’m getting the Green Door up and running.” She swung toward me, her face haggard.
“We’re doing real well. I can make a go of it. I have to since Johnny died and there isn’t any money and I have to be home during the day with my mom—oh, you don’t care about all that. But you see my position. Daryl insisted I fire her, said he’d call all the payments due immediately if I didn’t.” She looked at me with shamed, sad eyes. “I told her I had to cut back on staff, but she knew that wasn’t it. She’d seen Daryl leave my office and I guess she figured it out. She said,
‘Mr. Murdoch made you, didn’t he?’ ” Mrs. Talley’s eyes glistened with tears. “She came up and hugged me and told me it was all right, I mustn’t worry. Don’t you see? She’s a good girl.”
Units ran lengthwise behind the office with two shorter sections on either side. I found Lily’s apartment, number seventeen, by walking
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from door to door, checking the nameplates. An old Dodge with one flat tire listed in the drive on one side of the building. Through thin walls, a television blared. On the other side, a rocking horse and play-pen sat next to two motorcycles. A baby’s cry rose. Lily’s front curtain was drawn, but light seeped around the edges.
I knocked.
Through the thin door, I heard running steps. The door was flung open. For an instant her heart-shaped face was open and eager, dark eyes luminous. “Kir—”
I understood why Kirby Murdoch cared. She was lovely, dark-haired, slim, vibrant, but more than that, she had an aura of kindness as warming as a blazing fire on a snowy night.
“Miss Mendoza, I need to speak with you about the murder”—I let the word hang in the cold night air—“of Mr. Daryl Murdoch.” Her face was abruptly still and shuttered. “I don’t know anything about it.”
I forced myself to be brusque. “May I come in? Or would you rather go down to the station?”
She backed away, held the door for me.
The room had been provided with a small kitchenette. There was a small camp bed, a sofa with a red-and- black-checked throw, two chairs that had seen better days. A gooseneck lamp stood by a card table with a small computer. Textbooks were stacked on the floor.
She gestured toward the sofa, took one of the chairs, sat stiff and straight with her hands folded in her lap. She looked small in an oversize maroon sweatshirt with the emblem of Goddard College.
I looked at the books. “Are you in school?”
“I go part-time.”
“Are you putting yourself through school?”
“Yes.”
There was an admirable story here, a student without a family to help, making her own way, trying hard to build a better life. If Daryl
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Murdoch had been here, I would have told him he was a fool. I liked this girl, admired her, hoped she and Kirby would have the happiness they both deserved. But . . .
“You told Kirby his father got you fired. Kirby was furious. He called his father, threatened him, said he would pay for what he’d done.”
She didn’t say a word, stared at me with dread.
“He threatened his father, went to his office.“ Lily jumped up. “Kirby didn’t talk to him. He was too late. His father had left.”
“Kirby’s car was seen turning after his father’s.”
“Kirby didn’t follow him. I called Kirby, got him on his cell, told him to come here. He did. We were here. I promise.” Were they together at her apartment before—or after—Daryl Murdoch was shot?
Chief Cobb’s information indicated Kirby’s gun hadn’t been found. “Where did Kirby keep his gun?” She hesitated, reluctantly said, “In the trunk of his car.”
“Did you know it’s missing?” I watched her closely.
She lifted a hand to her throat. “It can’t be. Kirby went out for target practice Thursday afternoon.”
“Kirby claims someone stole it.”
