Actually, not on its own volition. A cute little girl, perhaps eight, was standing in the doorway, staring up at me. She was the spitting image of Amanda.
“Is your mom or dad home?” I asked.
“You’re big.”
“I know.”
“You’re bigger than daddy.”
“I’m bigger than most daddies.”
“Really?”
“Uh huh.”
She giggled.
A cute little black cat worked its way through the little girl’s ankles. A blue bell jingled around its neck. The cat came right up to me and I scratched it between its ears. It was purring before I even touched it.
“That’s Tinker Bell,” said the little girl.
“He’s cute.”
“I love him.”
“I bet you do.”
“Alyssa honey, where are you?” There was a note of panic in the woman’s voice.
“There’s a policeman at the door, mommy.”
“I’m not a policeman,” I said.
The door was pulled all the way open and a woman folding a pair of briefs appeared. She was the older version of Amanda. The original version. She stared at me with eyes that were too blank, too red, too distant and too dead. She was dressed in a gray T-shirt and white shorts that revealed a fading tan.
“Mrs. Peterson?” I asked.
She paused, the white briefs hanging over her hand. “Who are you? You’re not a policeman.”
“I’m a private investigator,” I said. “Can I speak with you? About Amanda.”
She looked at me some more. A minute passed. Finally, she turned and disappeared into the darkness of her own home.
She left the door open. I took a deep breath and followed her in.
After asking if I would like a cup of coffee, and with my answer being in the affirmative, she promptly brought me one and set it in front of me. I needed something to do with my hands, because Amanda’s mother was making me nervous. She was in a bad place, a place I had emerged from years ago after the murder of my own mother. I knew what she was going through, but I did not want to empathize too much. I did not want to return to the bad place myself.
I was sitting in a thick sofa chair that matched the massive sofa near the fireplace, where Mrs. Peterson now sat. She reached into her black purse, which sat at her feet like an obedient dog, and removed a metal flask. She promptly poured a finger or two of something dark and bourbony into her coffee.
“More medicine, mom?” said the younger version of Amanda, who trailed in from the kitchen.
“Yes, dear. Now leave the adults alone.”
She did. Sort of. She grabbed a pink Barbie backpack, plopped on the floor near the rear sliding glass door, and proceeded to remove a Barbie and Ken doll from the bag. I noted that both were nude.
“How can I help you, Mr. Knighthorse?” asked Mrs. Peterson. She was looking down at one of my nifty business cards on the coffee table before her. But before I could answer she moved on. “Are you Indian? Your name sounds Indian.”
“My great grandfather was Apache. Apparently grammy had a taste for savages.”
“I wouldn’t call them sava-oh, I see, you’re kidding.”
“Yes, ma’am. But the Native American in me is diluted. Mostly, I’m German and Welch and a whole lot of man.”
She looked up at me and almost smiled. “You certainly are a whole lot of man. I should have guessed the German: blond hair, tall and muscular. Would have done Hitler proud.”
“I would have done anyone proud, ma’am.”
“A true knight in shining armor.”
She might have sounded flirty if her words were not empty and devoid of meaning. Like listening to a corpse speak from the grave.
“You’re here to try to clear Derrick?” she said.
“Yes.”
She drank from her spiked coffee. “So what the hell can I do for you?”
“First of all, I would like to express my condolences.”
“How very sweet of you.”
“Do you feel the police have found your daughter’s killer?”
“You get right to it.”
“I’m sorry if I offended.”
“No. I like it. No reason to dance around the subject. My daughter was torn apart just inches from our front door by a goddamn animal.”
Her voice never rose an octave. She spoke in a monotone, although her lower lip quivered slightly.
“Mrs. Peterson, did you ever meet Derrick?” I asked.
She nodded and looked away. She was watching Alyssa play with her oddly nude dolls. “Call me Cat. For Cathy.” She continued to watch Alyssa. Now Ken and Barbie were kissing in her hands. Butt naked.
“What did you think of Derrick?” I said.
“I thought he was wonderful. Charming, energetic. He seemed to really care about Amanda.”
“I liked him, too,” said Alyssa suddenly. Her voice echoed slightly in the darkened room. The upbeat child- like quality seemed out of place, but somehow appreciated. At least by me.
“Why did you like him?” I asked her.
“He made me laugh. Amanda loooved him.”
“That’s enough,” said her mother quietly. Then to me: “Yes. He seemed to love her as well.”
“But he was not permitted to come around?” I asked.
“No. Her father had strict rules about her dating African-Americans.”
“Did you agree with the rule?”
“I wanted peace in my house.”
“Did Amanda ever come to you about Derrick?”
“Yes. Privately, quietly. We would often talk about Derrick. She had more than a crush on him. They had been dating for over a year. She might have loved him, if you want to call it that.”
“Love knows no age.”
She didn’t say anything.
“So you didn’t condone her secretly seeing Derrick?”
“No. I encouraged her.”
She almost lost it right then and there. Her lip vibrated violently, but stopped when she bit down on it.
“Mrs. Peterson, you did not condemn your daughter to death by encouraging her to see Derrick.”
She turned and faced me. Her eyes were full of tears. A red splotch was spreading down from her forehead. She was getting herself worked up. Before she could unleash some unholy hellfire in my direction, I quickly added, “Cat, I was threatened by an unknown killer a few days ago to stay away from this case. The killer, I assume, represents the true murderer of your daughter. It’s the only thing that makes sense. I believe Derrick is innocent.”
She blinked. The splotch receded. “But you are not backing off the case,” she said.
“No.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for trying to help. I never believed in Derrick’s guilt, but aren’t you afraid?”
