Motion to Dismiss (12 page)

Down another flight of stairs were two larger bedrooms, which overlooked the yard, and a bathroom. I wondered if Adrianna had come downstairs looking for her mother, and instead seen her broken body in the yard beyond.

For a moment the room blurred. I shut my eyes. I'd been fourteen when my own mother committed suicide, and though now, years later, I often go months without reliving that day, there are times it rolls over me like a tidal wave. I can recall it as vividly as though it were yesterday, the shattering emotions of discovering her, slumped behind the wheel of the family car, and knowing instantly that she was dead. My heart went out to Adrianna.

Duncan checked his watch. "You about finished here?"

I blinked, forced my mind back to the work at hand. "I guess so."

We climbed back upstairs, where I took a second quick look around the interior, then Officer Duncan locked up the house and left. I remained near the front of the house for another moment, trying to etch the scene on my brain. I wanted to see in my mind's eye what might have happened that night, to view the unfolding events as though I were at a movie. But all I saw was a nondescript wooden house in need of paint and a yard that was close to being unkempt. Both as still and lifeless as the woman who'd once lived there.

I spent the next half hour knocking on doors in the hope of finding a neighbor who had seen or heard something the night Deirdre Nichols was killed. For the most part, my knocks went unanswered, and the few people I did find home weren't able to help. Not that I expected anything different. How many people, after all, stay awake into the small hours of the night, peering out the window at their neighbors? Besides, I was certain the police had covered this ground before me.

I was ready to give up, when I saw a car pull into the driveway of the house I'd just left. In the interest of thoroughness, which I've learned over the years has its own rewards, I circled back. I reached the car just as a thickset middle-aged woman in khaki pants and a flannel shirt was emerging from the driver's door.

She was talking in animated fashion, as if she were in the middle of a conversation -- although I saw no one else in the car. I hesitated. People who talk to themselves are not always harmless. Then she reached into the back and pulled out a cat carrier. I relaxed. Eccentric, maybe, but not totally out of touch with reality.

The woman looked up as I neared. "Hey, Sophie," she said, interrupting her own monologue. "We've got company."

Since she was looking at me, if not actually speaking to me, I took her comment as a greeting and introduced myself. "If you don't mind, I'd like to ask you a few questions about the woman who fell off the deck across the street."

"The way I heard it, she didn't fall. She was pushed."

"I was speaking generally."

"That's a problem these days; too many people do."

"Sorry." My high school English teacher would have loved this woman.

"I'd be happy to talk to you, but I don't know anything." She started for the walkway. "You'll have to come along though. Sophie can't stand being cooped up in this cage much longer."

I followed her to the house.

"What did you say your name was again?"

"Kali O'Brien."

"I'm Alice Morely. You're not allergic to cats, are you?"

I shook my head.

"Good. I've got six of them."

I knew immediately upon stepping inside that I was in the presence of cats. There was cat hair everywhere, and a strong feline odor. A large gray cat skittered down the hallway ahead of us.

"Like I told the police," Alice continued as though we hadn't digressed, "I go to bed early and sleep soundly. Most nights anyway. I didn't see anything, didn't hear anything."

She pulled Sophie out of the cat carrier and gave her a kiss. "Isn't that right, Sophikins? We sleep through most anything, even that horrible stuff kids today call music."

"From down in the canyon?" I asked. Several other neighbors had mentioned music the night Deirdre was killed. "Was there a party that night?"

"There's one nearly every Saturday night. Although I don't know that
party
is the right word. Young people mostly, carrying on. Drives some of the people up here crazy, but doesn't bother me. They never stay at it very late. And like I said, I can sleep through most anything."

Another cat appeared, thumping down from an open shelf onto the hardwood floor. He arched his back and yawned before meandering out through an open doorway.

"What about things you might have noticed before that night?" I asked. "Any strange cars in the area? Anything out of the ordinary? Or maybe there were workmen at the house."

Alice Morely shook her head. "It's pretty quiet over there most of the time. Just her and the little girl."

"Did you know Deirdre Nichols well?"

"The woman? Not really. She didn't live there, you know. She was house-sitting for the Carsons. Not that I knew them well either. I didn't even know they were away until she brought over a package the postman had delivered to that address by mistake."

A black cat emerged from the other room and hopped up on a chair and then onto the table, which was covered with file folders and papers.

"No, you don't, Samuel. You know better than that." Alice scooped him off the table and into her arm. "I can't have you messing up the wetlands petition. Or my other work. You know I have to get my talk ready."

She looked at me. "I'm what you'd call a community activist. I work for causes I believe in. That's what this country needs, you know, more people who are interested and involved."

I nodded, waiting for the moment when I could exit gracefully.

"Too many folks are quick to complain but not so willing to do much about changing things. That's something that really sticks in my craw, people who won't lift a hand to make this a better world. I'm talking basic stuff, like staying informed on local issues. Voting, even."

I moved toward the door, and Alice Morely followed.

"Take the Carsons for example. Neither one of them is registered to vote. I know, because I worked the precinct during the last election. I can't understand a person who won't take the time to vote. It's a privilege our forefathers fought and died for. Around the world people are dying still, trying to have their voices heard. And here we've got people who treat voting like a burden. You vote, don't you?"

"Absolutely."

"Good." She crossed her arms. "I hope you write your government officials too. Most people don't, you know. They forget that voting isn't the only way to make their voice heard."

I opened the door myself. "Thanks so much for your help, Mrs. Morely."

"Sorry I didn't see anything that night. I really like to do what I can."

I nodded.

"If more people took responsibility and spoke up, this country wouldn't be in the mess it is."

I took the stairs down to the street two at a time.

Back in the car, I checked my watch and debated my next move. I flipped on the radio, switching from the all-news station to a classical one. While I agreed with Alice Morely about the grating effects of some of the current rock tunes, good music was both soothing and uplifting. After the morning I'd had, I needed both.

As I wound down the narrow road toward town, my thoughts drifted to the raucous music that several neighbors had mentioned hearing the night Deirdre Nichols was killed. About halfway down the road, on my left, was an open area where the grade flattened. The shoulder was wide there. I pulled off and climbed out of the car. Close to the road, yet relatively secluded, it was an ideal place to party -- except for the fact that sound, probably amplified by the terrain, would annoy the neighbors perched on the hillside above.

I looked up, trying to get my bearings. It was difficult to tell the houses apart, but I thought I could identify the one where Deirdre Nichols had been staying. From my current perspective, the third floor deck seemed even farther from the ground than it had earlier. My body tensed involuntarily as I envisioned her fall.

Had she known her killer and gone willingly to stand on the deck with him? Or had he dragged her there, struggling? And would she actually have welcomed Grady into her house in light of the charges she'd filed against him? It didn't make much sense to me, but then, lots of people do things I find hard to comprehend.

I wondered if anyone partying in the canyon that night had chanced to look up at the same time Deirdre was going over the railing. Of course, it had been dark, but the moon would have been almost full. You wouldn't be able to make out details under those conditions, but you might well have been able to see form and movement.

I wondered if the police talked to the kids who were there that night. And I wondered if they'd seen a man on the deck -- a man of Grady's description and build.

I pulled into a gas station and used the pay phone to call work.

"Is Marc around?" I asked Rose.

"He's come and gone. But he said to tell you that he's got a copy of the police report, and that he's working on the coroner."

It was good news that he had the report, bad news that he wasn't at the office, where I could look at it. "Can you leave him a message that I'd like to meet first thing tomorrow morning?"

"Sure. But if he doesn't call in again, he won't get your message until tomorrow anyway." I could hear the rustle of papers on Rose's end. "The press has been calling," she said. "Everyone wants a statement. What shall I tell them?"

"Tell them that Marc and I are both out."

I tried Marc's house next and got the answering machine. I left a similar message about meeting the following morning. There wasn't much I could do from the office, and I wanted to avoid running into anyone from the press, so instead of heading back to work, I drove to Rapunzel, the hair salon where Deirdre Nichols had been employed as a receptionist. I knew from news accounts that her coworkers were the last people known to have seen her alive.

The salon was near a busy intersection, sandwiched between a shoe outlet and a bagel shop. The storefront was modest, but the interior was a flashy array of bright lights, polished chrome, and shiny black lacquer. And mirrors. On every wall, floor to ceiling. The effect was dizzying.

To my left, three stylists were busy at work. The closest station belonged to a young woman in baggy white canvas pants, with a shaved head and so many body piercings, I lost count. Next to her was another woman, whose blond curls were secured haphazardly with colorful plastic clips. Neither looked as though she'd been to a hairdresser herself in years.

The stylist at the lead station was a man who looked to be in his mid-thirties, dressed all in black, including a heavy black five o'clock shadow, which I felt certain was cultivated rather than accidental. His hair was slicked back from his face, except where it was buzzed around the ears.

It was the man who addressed me. "What can we do for you?"

"You the owner?"

"That's me. Rick Bernard."

"I'd like to talk to you about Deirdre Nichols." When he didn't respond, I added, "She worked here, right?"

"Are you interested in her job?"

I shook my head. "I'm an attorney. I have a few questions."

He snipped a stray hair from the back of his client's head. "I'll be finished here in a minute, if you want to wait."

I sat, picked up a magazine, and tried to keep my eyes from drifting to the mirrored image of my own reflection, which jumped out at me from every direction. It was disconcerting, sort of like finding yourself suddenly cloned.

I scanned pages of fashion tips, makeup advice, and suggestions for finding and keeping the right man. God knows I could use help with all of them. The article that finally held my attention was a mother's loving essay about her grown daughter. Something that didn't apply to me at all. I felt a familiar longing stir within my chest. The chance to fashion an adult relationship with my mother is one of the things about her death that saddens me anew each time I think of it.

"Now, what can I do for you?" Rick Bernard asked, taking a seat beside me.

I closed the magazine and took a moment to shut down the memories as well. "To begin with," I told him, "I'm trying to get a sense of Deirdre Nichols. What her life was like, who her friends were, anybody she'd had trouble with, that sort of thing."

He ran a hand over his chin. "I'm afraid there isn't much I can tell you."

"Had she worked here long?"

"About five months, is all. We get a lot of turnover with receptionists. It's not exactly a career position."

"She was working out okay in the job?"

He shrugged. "She did her work, got along with people -- both the customers and the stylists."

"How about her hobbies? Interests?"

"Money. Spending it, that is." Bernard laughed as though he'd delivered the punch line to a hugely entertaining joke. "I didn't get the impression she was so interested in earning it."

"Did she live extravagantly?" Certainly nothing I'd seen so far had suggested that.

"Not as extravagantly as she'd have liked." Another short laugh. "She had expensive tastes though." Bernard popped a breath mint into his mouth. "I think she may have had some once. Not lots, but enough that she lived better than she had recently."

"How about friends?"

"No one I can name." He turned to the two women. "Either of you know who Deirdre was friendly with?"

"She was friendly with everyone," said the blond with clips.

"Who she was friends with is what I mean."

"That's what you should have said, then."

He stuck out his tongue. "I thought you went to beauty school not teacher's college."

"The answer to your question is no." The woman went back to folding strands of hair in foil.

"Except for that guy," piped in the other stylist. "What's his name?"

"Tony?" I remembered the name from the rape charge hearing. The man with whom she'd had a relationship that was, in her own words,
complicated
.

"Yeah, that's the guy."