“It wouldn’t have done to tell them that, at the moment, the police are calling her death an accident,” Kingsley said, almost absently.
He frowned and looked back at the house. Diane got in and closed the door.
“There’s a note on your seat,” she said when he opened his door to get in.
Kingsley picked it up and read it out loud. “
“Not signed?” said Diane.
“It’s from Samantha,” said Kingsley. “Of course, when I met her, she was the drummer’s cousin.”
Chapter 25
Diane looked at him, perplexed. “She’s Stacy’s drummer’s cousin?”
“She told the police she was. I think we need to go to the mall,” he said.
He started to pull out of the drive just as a blue Volks wagen Phaeton pulled up, blocking them. A man jumped out, slammed his car door, and came marching up to the driver’s side of their car. He looked in his late forties or early fifties. A slight bulge hung over his belt. He wore dark blue suit pants and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a light blue tie, loosened. He banged on the roof of Kingsley’s car with his palms.
Diane got out of the car and looked over the roof at him. Kingsley got out on the other side. They stood face- to-face.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, coming around here harassing my family?” he said.
“We were not harassing,” said Kingsley. “We were asking questions about a young woman who visited here about four weeks ago.”
“You have no business here. I called the police to see what this was about, and they said the woman’s death was an accident,” he said. “So what are you playing at?”
His face was so red Diane was a little concerned. His comb-over fell into his face and he pushed it back.
“It wasn’t an accident,” said Kingsley. “But as to your complaint, we were not harassing your family. We were speaking with your wife in the presence of your neighbor.”
“You aren’t to set foot on my property again. Is that clear?” he said.
“We won’t need to,” said Kingsley. “The police will be handling it from here.”
“If it wasn’t an accident, the police would have told me. You think you know something they don’t?” he asked.
“Dad, I need to go to the library.” Samantha stood a few feet from him. A book bag hung on her arm.
A candy-apple red hardtop convertible, not there when Diane and Kingsley drove up, was parked in a small parking space just off the driveway. Diane assumed it was Samantha’s.
“I can’t get out,” she said. “You’re blocking the drive.”
“Just a minute, Sam, honey.” He turned to her. “Did these people upset your mother?”
“How could I tell?” she said. Her face looked both sad and a little angry.
“Sam, not now, and not in front of strangers,” he said.
Kingsley and Samantha exchanged brief glances.
“Dad, you’re always talking about me making good grades. Well, I need to get to the library,” she said.
“All right. Do you have your cell?” he said.
“Always,” she said.
“Don’t be too late.” He turned back to Kingsley and Diane. “I don’t want you here ever again. I don’t want you harassing my family, or my neighbors. Do you understand?”
“As I said, Dr. Carruthers, the police will be taking it from here. Now, we need to go, unless you intend to keep us here against our will,” Kingsley said.
He backed off and raised his hands, palms outward, then walked to his car. “Just remember what I said,” he yelled, getting into the driver’s seat.
Kingsley and Diane got back in their car and Kingsley drove off. Diane saw the bright convertible behind them. Kingsley headed toward the mall.
“I certainly hope Lynn comes through,” said Kingsley, “or I’ve just been bluffing.”
“I said there’s no guarantee she’ll come up with murder,” said Diane.
“But you think she will,” he said.
“Yes. And with what we found in the apartment, I think the police definitely need to reopen the case.” Diane glanced over her shoulder at the red convertible following them. “What is the deal with Samantha?” she said.
“I have no idea,” said Kingsley.
“She was there when you spoke with the drummer, right?” asked Diane. “She looks a lot like her sister. You didn’t recognize her?”
“We were in a dark cafe, and she has that pink and black hair and the weird makeup. No, I didn’t recognize her.” Kingsley glanced into the rearview mirror. “God. She found the body. What kind of hell is that?”
To Diane this was the hardest part of dealing with crime: the aftermath, the effect on the victims. Long after everyone thinks they should just get over it, the crime is always there inside them. Every day they wake up and it isn’t a dream; it’s a living nightmare.
“Are you okay?” he said as he turned on the Dawson ville Highway.
Diane nodded. “I wasn’t very professional, I know. It’s one of those characterizations that is likely to set me off-that I don’t know the pain of loss.”
Kingsley was acquainted with the tragedy Diane went through: the loss of her adopted daughter in a massacre in South America when Diane was there as a human rights worker.
“You may have done her some good. You let her know she isn’t alone in her grief,” he said.
“Maybe, but sitting in front of that painting day after day,” she said. “If it was her and not the father.”
“What? Did I miss something?” he said.
Diane told him about the indentations in the rug.
“I didn’t notice. What made you look at the rug?” he asked.
“It was the arrangement of the furniture,” she said.
“Do you have to be female to notice things like that?” he said.
“No.” She smiled. “Just experienced at doing crime scenes. Little anomalies stand out. I can’t imagine what it’s like for Samantha.”
He drove onto Pearl Nix Parkway and to the mall. Samantha wasn’t far behind. They walked into the mall with her and sat down in front of the Cookie Company after Kingsley got each of them a rather large chocolate chip cookie and a drink.
“Are you going to tell my parents?” asked Samantha after she took a bite.
“How old are you?” said Kingsley.
“Eighteen,” she said. “I’m an adult.”
Diane had to smile. She tried to hide it behind her cookie.
“I take it you’re not Jimmi’s cousin,” said Kingsley.
“No. We made that up for the police. I was so freaked out and Jimmi was, well, she was, I mean, Stacy was her friend since middle school.”
“Why didn’t you tell the police who you are?” asked Kingsley.
“I knew my parents would find out. I couldn’t let that happen. They would take my car away. And Mother would have some kind of screaming fit if she knew I was hanging with Stacy Dance. I showed the police one of my fake IDs.”
Kingsley rolled his eyes. “You what?”
Samantha reminded Diane of Star, Frank’s daughter, the girl he adopted at sixteen when her parents, Frank’s best friends, were murdered. Like Samantha, she had multicolored hair, was defiant, and used kid logic to make decisions.
“They didn’t care. They hardly questioned me,” she said. “I told them I lived in Ohio and was going home and that Jimmi could get in touch with me if they needed me.”
