“You know,” she went on, “the previous director retired, but she lives here in town. I bet she’d be happy to talk to you. She took the murder really hard. In fact, it’s why she retired when she did. Why don’t I call her, see if she’s home and tell her you’re coming over?”
Twenty minutes later, M.C. greeted Wanda Watkins, a small, energetic woman with a lovely silver bob and eyes so big they took up an inordinate amount of her face.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Watkins.”
“Call me Wanda. Come in.”
She led M.C. into her small living room. A big calico cat perched on the back of the floral sofa, another sprawled across the cushions.
Unfortunately, M.C. was allergic. She felt her nose twitch.
“My babies,” the woman said. She scooped up the one and shooed the other. “Please, sit.”
M.C. did. She took out her notebook and pen. “As Patsy told you over the phone, we’re looking into reopening the investigation into Rose McGuire’s murder. We have a possible new lead.”
“Thank God.” She stroked the cat. “It’s been difficult, knowing her killer was never caught. Not just because he was still free, but because Miss Rose was such a sweet woman. Always a smile, never a complaint.”
Wanda leaned forward. “They’re not all like that, you know. Some are cantankerous. Some bitter. They miss the independent lives they used to have, they don’t feel well or they’re just grieving having gotten old.” She smiled. “I loved them all, even the crabby ones.”
“You really liked your job.”
“I did. Very much.”
“Why’d you retire?”
“After Rose…I felt I should step down. Let someone younger take over.” Her eyes grew bright. “I felt, perhaps, if I had been more observant or more forward-thinking about security, it wouldn’t have happened.”
Another of violent crime’s victims-those left behind who blamed themselves.
“It wasn’t your fault,” she said softly. “There was nothing you could have done.”
“I tell myself that but…You know how it goes.”
She did, indeed. “How did the murderer get into the building? I noticed you had a keypad and call-box system. The main doors are kept locked twenty-four hours a day. Was anything different at the time of the murder?”
“We’ve added video surveillance, but that’s it.” She shook her head. “We believe a resident let him in. They would do that, see some ‘nice person’ at the door and buzz them in. We warned them not to…but they’re so trusting.”
“And now?” M.C. sneezed.
“Bless you. Can’t say. After Rose…died, we cracked down. Things may have become more lax. Time dims the memory.”
But not hers, obviously. Not about this.
M.C. thanked her and sneezed again. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m allergic to cats.”
Wanda handed her a box of tissues. “What a shame. You’re a dog person, then?”
She had never thought about it. “I guess I am.”
“Without my four-footed friends, I don’t know what I’d do.”
M.C. redirected her. “Who found Miss Rose?”
“I did, Detective.” She buried her fingers in the cat’s long fur. “We hadn’t heard from her that morning, so we called her apartment. When we didn’t get an answer, I offered to go check on her. That was, and still is, I believe, standard procedure. Her door was unlocked and…”
Her mouth trembled. “I’m sorry, Detective, must I go on?”
M.C. didn’t need her to paint a picture-she had seen the photos. “Can you tell me anything about the days leading up to Rose McGuire’s death? Was there anything special that you remember? Anything different?”
She thought a moment. “We’d had the birthday party for the center just a few days before. I remember so clearly because Miss Rose was dancing. Believe me, some of those oldsters, as I called them, could really cut a rug.”
A birthday party? The back of M.C.’s neck prickled. Julie Entzel and Marianne Vest had also attended birthday parties before they were killed.
“Not like people from your generation,” Wanda Watkins continued, “just standing there and swaying. No offense, of course.”
“No offense taken.” M.C. sneezed twice, then grabbed a tissue. “The party was held at the center?”
“That’s right. Other than Christmas, it was our biggest event of the year.”
“Tell me about it.”
“It was different every year, of course. But there was always some sort of show. Music and dancing. A special meal. Even a champagne fountain. Sparkling grape juice.” She leaned toward M.C. “Even though it was nonalcoholic, some of the residents still got tipsy.”
“That year, what was the entertainment? Do you remember?”
She screwed her face up in thought. “A clown. He was quite good.”
A clown.
Holy shit. Kitt had been right.
M.C. straightened. “Did you share this with the officers investigating at the time?”
“I’m sure I didn’t. It never came up.”
“What was the clown’s name?”
“I don’t recall. It’s been years.”
“Did you use a service?”
She shook her head. “We got a recommendation from someone.” She frowned in thought. “Who was that? The relative of one of the residents. But…I can’t remember who.”
“Has the center used him since?”
“We tried the next year, but the number was no longer in service and we couldn’t find a listing.”
“Could the name still be on file at the center? Or can you think of anyone who might recall his name? It could be important.”
Wanda would have had to be deaf to miss the urgency in M.C.’s voice. She looked stricken. “You don’t think… surely that nice clown-”
M.C. cut her off. “Is there a chance the man’s name is still on file at the center?”
“Probably not. When we couldn’t reach him the next year, I’m sure we took his name out of the Rolodex. Keeping up-to-date records was an obsession of mine.”
“What about a record of payment?” M.C. asked, knowing that most businesses kept their financial records a minimum of seven years, if not indefinitely
She nodded. “I bet there would be. We weren’t allowed to pay anyone cash.”
M.C. stood, excited. This could very well be nothing. But it didn’t feel that way. It felt like a big something.
She thanked Mrs. Watkins and handed her one of her cards. “If you even get a glimmer of a recollection as to this clown’s name, call. No matter the time. On my cell.”
The woman said she would and trailed her to the door. M.C. could tell she had questions, ones she knew better than to ask.
M.C. wouldn’t answer, of course.
She hurried out into the bright day. She had to call Kitt. They had checked the Fun Zone’s employees, but they hadn’t asked the victims’ parents if their children had been entertained by a performer from outside the Fun Zone. They also had to check with the Olsen and Lindz families to find out if they had also been entertained by a clown.
She dialed Kitt; got her message service. “Kitt, it’s M.C. I think we’ve got him. A clown performed at a party at Rose McGuire’s assisted-living community. I’m going to contact the other families, see if they remember a clown. I’ll keep in touch.”
