Her Last Word
Page 59
The detectives crossed the concrete sidewalk and climbed the front steps to a green door.
Adler rang the bell. “I called ahead and told Mrs. Wallace we were coming.”
“Right.”
Footsteps clattered inside the house seconds before the door opened to a pale woman with red hair streaked with gray. She wore a large oversize T-shirt that bloused over full breasts and faded jeans. She appeared to be in her midforties.
“Mrs. Wallace?” Adler said, holding up his badge as Quinn did the same. He introduced them.
She studied the badges and frowned before pushing the door open. “I’m not sure what I can tell you.”
They stepped inside to a small living room. A worn beige couch, flanked by two burgundy recliners, faced a sixty-five-inch television now playing a muted cooking show.
After taking a seat, Adler asked, “Mrs. Wallace, can you tell us about the most recent day you cleaned the Crowleys’ house?”
“When I got there, Mrs. Crowley wasn’t home. But the last few months she’s been at yoga on Saturdays, so I didn’t expect her until about nine.”
“What time did you leave the house?”
“About nine thirty. It takes me almost two hours to clean it. I’m in the house six days a week.”
“Six days?” Quinn said.
“The Crowleys don’t like anything out of place.”
“Were you worried when Mrs. Crowley didn’t come home?” Adler asked.
“I thought it was unusual. She doesn’t leave the house much.”
“Why is that?” Quinn asked.
Mrs. Wallace rubbed her hands over her jeans. “I think she’s afraid to leave her house alone. She never discussed her fears with me, but I could see she was afraid. It was a big step for her when she started the yoga classes late last year.” She hesitated and then said, “She’d been seeing a doctor. I think he was helping.”
“So, Mrs. Crowley didn’t come home,” Adler said, doubling back. “What did you do?”
“I waited an extra fifteen minutes. She likes to review the work I’ve done. But finally I had to leave. I had another job.”
“You locked up the house.”
“I did,” Mrs. Wallace said. “I am sure of that.”
“Who has keys to the house?”
“The Crowleys, of course. Me. I think there’s a neighbor who does.”
“We checked. None of them had a key.”
She shifted, looking uncomfortable. “I know I locked that door.”
“I’m not accusing you of anything. It’s just that there were no signs of forced entry.” Adler smiled. “Did Mrs. Crowley have any friends?”
“None. For the longest time she kept to herself. She told everyone she was an artist, but she never painted. Her art studio was as pristine as the day she set it up. The canvases were all blank.”
“There’s a woman in town named Kaitlin Roe who’s interviewing people related to a cold case. Do you know if she ever met with Mrs. Crowley?”
“I heard Mrs. Crowley talking to a reporter on the phone once. But I think that reporter was a man.”
“You’re sure?” Adler asked.
“Yes. She was speaking on her cell, and his voice carried.”
“Any other visitors or callers?” Quinn asked. “You work in this house every morning. You hear and see things.”
“No. It was a good job and it paid well, but every day I was glad to get out of that house.” She shook her head. “And now she’s dead.”
“Did you ever hear the name Jennifer Ralston?” Adler asked.
“Yes, she was a friend of Mrs. Crowley’s. She visited the house sometimes. I cleaned for her once a few months ago.”
Adler tensed. “You had a key to Jennifer Ralston’s house.”
“Yes.”
“Did you hear what happened to Ms. Ralston?” he asked.
“No.”
“She was murdered in her home.”
Mrs. Wallace sat back, and her face tightened with tension. “I don’t have time for much television. I didn’t know.”
“What did you do with the key to Ms. Ralston’s house?” Adler asked.
“When I receive my work assignments from the central office, they give me a key. I turn it in at the end of the day with my time sheet.”
“You do that even for regulars like the Crowleys?”
“Yes. The company is very security conscious.”
“Did you ever bring any keys home?” he asked.
“No, never. I’d get fired for that.”
“Who else lives in this house with you?” Quinn asked.
“It’s me. Sometimes my grandson comes over to play.”
“Who’s your boss?” Adler asked.
“Am I in trouble?”
“No, ma’am, you’re not in trouble. You’re actually a big help.”
“My boss is Kelly Dixon.” She supplied her number.
“Thank you,” he said.
The detectives thanked Mrs. Wallace, and once in the car, Adler called Kelly Dixon at Margie’s Maids. His call went to voicemail, and he left his name and number.
He drove directly to Café Express, a funky shop with purple walls, modern art, and beads hanging over the front window. It looked as if it belonged in the city near the university and not in the suburban West End.
Out of the car, they crossed the lot and stepped inside. The scents of coffee and cinnamon greeted them. The shop had a collection of round tables and wooden chairs all painted vibrant colors. The place was empty.
Quinn glanced at her watch. “It’s almost closing time.”
A young woman holding two clean pitchers came out from the back. She glanced up and smiled. “Can I help you?”
Adler showed his badge and introduced them. “We’re trying to retrace the last few days of a murder victim.”
Her smile fading, she set down the pitchers and dried her hands on her green apron. “I’m Dot Lawrence, and I own the shop. I’m here a good bit of each day.”
Adler pulled up Erika’s picture on his phone. “Have you seen her?”
Dot studied the picture, nodding almost immediately. “Sure. That’s Erika. Are you saying Erika is dead?”
Adler accepted his phone back and tucked it in his breast pocket. “She is. When was Erika here last?”
“My God, that’s awful.” Dot brushed a loose strand away from her flushed face with the back of her hand. “Last Wednesday. She missed Saturday.”
“When she was here, did she meet with anyone?” Adler asked.
“Yeah. A guy. Had a young face, nicely dressed. He seemed very into her when she spoke. He was always taking notes during each of their meetings.” She shrugged. “Erika looked nervous.”
“Do you know his name?”
“No, sorry. He always paid in cash. I do remember his order: black coffee, heavy cream, and a couple of sugars. I don’t suppose that helps you too much.”
“You have security cameras?”
“Can’t afford one. But there are shops around here that do. I can tell you Erika was always here at 8:15 a.m. on Wednesdays and at 6:00 a.m. on Saturdays. He came in right after.”
“Did she meet with anyone else?” Quinn asked.
“No, just that guy.”
“Ever overhear them?”
“He was after something,” Dot said.
Adler rang the bell. “I called ahead and told Mrs. Wallace we were coming.”
“Right.”
Footsteps clattered inside the house seconds before the door opened to a pale woman with red hair streaked with gray. She wore a large oversize T-shirt that bloused over full breasts and faded jeans. She appeared to be in her midforties.
“Mrs. Wallace?” Adler said, holding up his badge as Quinn did the same. He introduced them.
She studied the badges and frowned before pushing the door open. “I’m not sure what I can tell you.”
They stepped inside to a small living room. A worn beige couch, flanked by two burgundy recliners, faced a sixty-five-inch television now playing a muted cooking show.
After taking a seat, Adler asked, “Mrs. Wallace, can you tell us about the most recent day you cleaned the Crowleys’ house?”
“When I got there, Mrs. Crowley wasn’t home. But the last few months she’s been at yoga on Saturdays, so I didn’t expect her until about nine.”
“What time did you leave the house?”
“About nine thirty. It takes me almost two hours to clean it. I’m in the house six days a week.”
“Six days?” Quinn said.
“The Crowleys don’t like anything out of place.”
“Were you worried when Mrs. Crowley didn’t come home?” Adler asked.
“I thought it was unusual. She doesn’t leave the house much.”
“Why is that?” Quinn asked.
Mrs. Wallace rubbed her hands over her jeans. “I think she’s afraid to leave her house alone. She never discussed her fears with me, but I could see she was afraid. It was a big step for her when she started the yoga classes late last year.” She hesitated and then said, “She’d been seeing a doctor. I think he was helping.”
“So, Mrs. Crowley didn’t come home,” Adler said, doubling back. “What did you do?”
“I waited an extra fifteen minutes. She likes to review the work I’ve done. But finally I had to leave. I had another job.”
“You locked up the house.”
“I did,” Mrs. Wallace said. “I am sure of that.”
“Who has keys to the house?”
“The Crowleys, of course. Me. I think there’s a neighbor who does.”
“We checked. None of them had a key.”
She shifted, looking uncomfortable. “I know I locked that door.”
“I’m not accusing you of anything. It’s just that there were no signs of forced entry.” Adler smiled. “Did Mrs. Crowley have any friends?”
“None. For the longest time she kept to herself. She told everyone she was an artist, but she never painted. Her art studio was as pristine as the day she set it up. The canvases were all blank.”
“There’s a woman in town named Kaitlin Roe who’s interviewing people related to a cold case. Do you know if she ever met with Mrs. Crowley?”
“I heard Mrs. Crowley talking to a reporter on the phone once. But I think that reporter was a man.”
“You’re sure?” Adler asked.
“Yes. She was speaking on her cell, and his voice carried.”
“Any other visitors or callers?” Quinn asked. “You work in this house every morning. You hear and see things.”
“No. It was a good job and it paid well, but every day I was glad to get out of that house.” She shook her head. “And now she’s dead.”
“Did you ever hear the name Jennifer Ralston?” Adler asked.
“Yes, she was a friend of Mrs. Crowley’s. She visited the house sometimes. I cleaned for her once a few months ago.”
Adler tensed. “You had a key to Jennifer Ralston’s house.”
“Yes.”
“Did you hear what happened to Ms. Ralston?” he asked.
“No.”
“She was murdered in her home.”
Mrs. Wallace sat back, and her face tightened with tension. “I don’t have time for much television. I didn’t know.”
“What did you do with the key to Ms. Ralston’s house?” Adler asked.
“When I receive my work assignments from the central office, they give me a key. I turn it in at the end of the day with my time sheet.”
“You do that even for regulars like the Crowleys?”
“Yes. The company is very security conscious.”
“Did you ever bring any keys home?” he asked.
“No, never. I’d get fired for that.”
“Who else lives in this house with you?” Quinn asked.
“It’s me. Sometimes my grandson comes over to play.”
“Who’s your boss?” Adler asked.
“Am I in trouble?”
“No, ma’am, you’re not in trouble. You’re actually a big help.”
“My boss is Kelly Dixon.” She supplied her number.
“Thank you,” he said.
The detectives thanked Mrs. Wallace, and once in the car, Adler called Kelly Dixon at Margie’s Maids. His call went to voicemail, and he left his name and number.
He drove directly to Café Express, a funky shop with purple walls, modern art, and beads hanging over the front window. It looked as if it belonged in the city near the university and not in the suburban West End.
Out of the car, they crossed the lot and stepped inside. The scents of coffee and cinnamon greeted them. The shop had a collection of round tables and wooden chairs all painted vibrant colors. The place was empty.
Quinn glanced at her watch. “It’s almost closing time.”
A young woman holding two clean pitchers came out from the back. She glanced up and smiled. “Can I help you?”
Adler showed his badge and introduced them. “We’re trying to retrace the last few days of a murder victim.”
Her smile fading, she set down the pitchers and dried her hands on her green apron. “I’m Dot Lawrence, and I own the shop. I’m here a good bit of each day.”
Adler pulled up Erika’s picture on his phone. “Have you seen her?”
Dot studied the picture, nodding almost immediately. “Sure. That’s Erika. Are you saying Erika is dead?”
Adler accepted his phone back and tucked it in his breast pocket. “She is. When was Erika here last?”
“My God, that’s awful.” Dot brushed a loose strand away from her flushed face with the back of her hand. “Last Wednesday. She missed Saturday.”
“When she was here, did she meet with anyone?” Adler asked.
“Yeah. A guy. Had a young face, nicely dressed. He seemed very into her when she spoke. He was always taking notes during each of their meetings.” She shrugged. “Erika looked nervous.”
“Do you know his name?”
“No, sorry. He always paid in cash. I do remember his order: black coffee, heavy cream, and a couple of sugars. I don’t suppose that helps you too much.”
“You have security cameras?”
“Can’t afford one. But there are shops around here that do. I can tell you Erika was always here at 8:15 a.m. on Wednesdays and at 6:00 a.m. on Saturdays. He came in right after.”
“Did she meet with anyone else?” Quinn asked.
“No, just that guy.”
“Ever overhear them?”
“He was after something,” Dot said.
