“Hell, no,” Vince chuckled. “I was pissed. I wanted to punish you.”
“Just so we’re clear on that.”
Vince dug a prescription bottle out of the pocket of his sport coat and shook out a colorful variety of pills. One for pain, one for nausea, an antidepressant ...
“You should have seen her take on that horrible woman from CPS,” he said, glowing with pride. “She’s a tough little mouse. She’s got a lot of spunk.”
“I wouldn’t want to cross her,” Mendez said. “She sank her teeth into me a couple of times over her students last year.”
“She stands right up to me,” Vince said, a sudden wave of love swelling through him.
“You’ve got a good thing going, man,” Mendez said. “Look at all the marriages that fail and fall apart these days. People have no sense of commitment anymore.”
“You really think Steve Morgan was having an affair with the vic?” Vince asked.
“Gut feeling.”
“You don’t like him.”
“I’m not crazy about you either, at the moment,” Mendez complained.
Vince rolled his eyes. “Get over yourself.”
He chose a trio of pills, tossed them back, and washed them down with locally bottled orange cream soda.
“He worked with Lisa Warwick on projects for the Thomas Center,” Mendez said. “He had an affair with her. He worked with Marissa Fordham on a project for the center. She was beautiful, sexy, single, liked men ...”
“Why would he kill her?”
“Say she threatened to tell his wife. What’s left of his marriage falls apart, and he loses his daughter.”
“What about the wife?” Vince asked, watching his reaction. Confusion.
“What about her?”
“Her good friend was having an affair with her husband,” Vince said. “Women aren’t that shocked when men cheat on them, but to be betrayed by one of their own ... That’s unforgivable.”
Mendez looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “You think Sara could have killed Marissa Fordham?”
“I’m saying if you’re looking at one spouse in a love triangle, you need to look at them both. They both lose in a divorce. The husband loses the wife and family. The wife loses a fairy tale—the handsome prince, the castle, the lifestyle ...”
“That’s crazy,” Mendez said. “Sara Morgan is just trying to hold herself and her family together. For her to have the kind of rage to do what was done to Marissa Fordham ...? No way. Besides, Fordham was found naked.”
“So? Maybe she slept naked and was attacked in the middle of the night. Or, let’s throw a twist into the story: Maybe she and Mrs. Morgan were more than friends.”
Mendez didn’t want to hear any of it. Interesting.
“The nine-one-one call,” he said. “The little girl said her daddy hurt her mommy.”
“People wear disguises.”
“The kid would know her own father.”
“Why?” Vince challenged. “Nobody else knows who he is.”
“Maybe Ms. Kemmer will know,” Mendez said, pulling the car to the curb in front of a fanciful Tudor cottage with a wildflower garden filling the front yard.
Dixon had asked them to bring Gina Kemmer in for the interview, but Vince wanted to see her in her own environment. A lot could be learned from a subject’s surroundings.
He got out of the car and looked around. Ms. Kemmer was the domestic kind. She loved her home, took pride in it, had literally and figuratively set down roots here.
The garden was an expression of joy, filled with old-fashioned climbing roses and tea roses, tall blue delphinium and pink foxglove, and snapdragons of all colors. Flower boxes under the front windows of the house spilled over with pink geraniums and ivy and blue lobelia.
The car in her driveway, parked in front of the little garage that matched the Tudor house, was a blue 1981 Honda Accord. Gina Kemmer was doing well for herself.
She wouldn’t like law enforcement officers coming into her sanctuary—not that anyone did.
She answered the door looking like she’d been knocked around. Her face and her eyes were swollen and red. Battered by grief. The girls working in the boutique on trendy Via Verde had told them their boss had taken the day off because of her friend’s death. They had batted their eyelashes at Mendez as they gave him Kemmer’s home address and phone number.
“Ms. Kemmer,” Mendez said, holding up his shield. “I’m Detective Mendez from the sheriff’s office. This is my associate, Mr. Leone.”
“We’re terribly sorry for your loss, Miss Kemmer,” Vince said gently. The kindly uncle act. “I apologize for the intrusion. We know this is a tough time for you.”
“I already spoke to detectives yesterday,” she said, looking worried. “I answered all their questions.”
Vince guessed she was probably around thirty. She was probably a pretty girl when she hadn’t been crying for a couple of days.
“Yes, ma’am,” Mendez said. “We’re just following up.”
“Having been Ms. Fordham’s best friend,” Vince said, “we’re hoping you might be able to give us a little more insight into who she was as person.”
“Oh.”
“May we come in?” Mendez asked.
Gina Kemmer nodded, tears welling up. She was in gray sweatpants and a McAster T-shirt that looked like she had slept in it. But she had made an effort and brushed her blond hair back into a ponytail. The girls from the boutique might have called to tell her the cops were on the way.
She turned away from them and walked back into the house, leaving them to follow.
“I can’t believe she’s gone,” she said, sinking down into an overstuffed chintz-covered chair in her living room. Her hand was shaking as she dabbed a tissue under her eyes. “Murdered. Oh my God. I heard she was stabbed like a hundred times! Is that true?”
She was afraid—like she thought if her friend had been murdered, she was probably next. The one good thing about murder, Vince thought: It generally wasn’t contagious.
“She was stabbed, yes,” Mendez said.
“You have a lovely home,” Vince said, admiring the space, checking for photographs. There were two of Gina Kemmer and Marissa Fordham in frames on the console table behind the sofa—one recent, one not.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“Do you rent or own?”
“Rent.”
“Are you the gardener?”
“Yes.”
“That’s some green thumb you have,” Vince said with a smile as he took a seat on the end of the sofa nearest her.
She turned a tiny shy smile and glanced down. “Thank you.”
“I’m so sorry you lost your friend,” he said sincerely. “We never imagine something like this will happen to someone we know. Murder is something that happens in the newspapers, on television.”
“No,” she said. “It’s like a nightmare, but I’m awake. I can’t believe she died that way. What could she possibly have done to deserve that?”
“Nothing,” Mendez said. “No one deserves to die like that.”
“It’s tough,” Vince said. “A person dies only once, but the loved ones they leave behind live that loss every day.”
Gina nodded, crying a little into her crumpled tissue.
“I’ll bet you have a lot of fond memories, though.”
“Yes.”
She had been looking back at her friendship with Marissa Fordham. Photographs were strewn on the coffee
