“Especially an insult,” Paula murmured.

“Aunt Rose said Dorothy was just trying to stir up trouble because she was still mad at Cody. Dorothy said, no, she saw Claire arguing with him behind Martin’s Hardware. The women from the cookie place were buying stuff in the store, and Cody came in, and Claire snuck out back with him, and no one saw but Dorothy. She followed them. They were arguing.”

“Did she say what it was about?”

“Aunt Rose wouldn’t let her. She said she was sick of rumors and that if Dorothy knew something that would help find Mom’s killer, then she’d damned well better tell Chief Bruyn.”

“Kayla ...” Paula said.

“She said damned.” Kayla held up her notepad. “I wrote it right here. Then Dorothy said maybe she was wrong, and that’s when they saw me and started talking about something else. But I don’t think Dorothy made it up. I’m sure she saw Cody arguing with Claire.”

fourteen

I left with Dorothy’s address, though Paula warned me that she probably wouldn’t speak to me.

I went straight to Dorothy’s house. Walked, not rode, in case she had something against motorcycles. The lights were on and a car was in the drive. I figured it was a bad idea to cut across the lawn, so I took the walkway to the porch, rang the bell, and waited very patiently for at least a minute before knocking. No one answered.

I left a card in the door, asking to meet for coffee—my treat—at her convenience. You couldn’t get any more considerate and respectful than that. At least, I couldn’t.

Next stop: the real estate agency to fax the crime-scene photos to Adam, who’d offered to check out the ritual for me. The agency operated not only as a copy shop, but as a typing, résumé-writing, and speech-writing service. They did Web site development, too. When times are tough, the weak bail and the tough get creative.

Tough definitely described the local real estate agent. While I was faxing my files, she tried to sell me on three rental properties—leased by the week, she promised. As for the murders, she said Cody was clearly the killer. If not him, then Alastair Koppel. She didn’t have any evidence to support her claims, simply that Cody was a “useless little snot” and Alastair a “dirty old perv,” which wasn’t news on either count.

* * *

AS I LEFT the real estate agency, I was plotting my next move. When I saw a baby carriage blocking the sidewalk, I stopped so quickly I nearly fell into it. The woman behind it was in her early thirties with artfully streaked blond hair and the kind of designer blouse, slacks, and pumps ensemble you couldn’t find within fifty miles of Columbus.

“My husband didn’t kill Ginny Thompson,” she said.

It took a moment before I recognized her as the distant figure I’d seen in a doorway yesterday: Tiffany Radu.

I offered my hand and said, “Savannah Levine. Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Radu.”

She gripped the carriage tighter. “He’s not a killer.”

“I’m an independent investigator. I have nothing to gain by sending your husband to jail if he’s innocent.”

“I don’t want you coming around the house.”

“I don’t intend to.”

“You already have.”

“Um, no. The closest I’ve been to your house is the police station, which is across the road. The only time I’ve spoken to your husband is this morning, when he bumped my bike with his SUV. Even then, I didn’t question him, let alone accuse him—”

“You’d better not. I won’t have my children hearing people say their father is a murderer.”

“They won’t hear it from me.” Given that I’d heard the older two were school age, I was pretty sure they’d heard already. “If you’ll excuse me ...”

I tried to sidestep, but she used her carriage as a roadblock. Now, normally, no one gets in my way like that, but I drew the line at shoving sleeping babies.

She scowled up at me. “I want you to—”

“—stay away from your house, your husband, your kids. I get it. But you know what? If you really want to protect your kids, tell your husband to stop screwing around or, if he has to and you’re okay with that, to be discreet. Because your kids are going to find out about that, and when they do, they’ll hate him for treating you like garbage, and they’ll hate you for putting up with it.”

“Who are you to be giving marital advice?” She pointedly stared at my ring-free left hand.

“Well, if you’re going to stand in my way, I have to talk about something. So you’re okay with Cody screwing his way through every girl who’s too drunk or doped up to notice what a sleaze he is?”

Her eyes narrowed, mouth opening, but nothing coming out.

“I bet you are okay with it,” I said. “At least if it means he’s knocking them around instead of you. It’s not like you’d feel threatened by women like Ginny Thompson.”

Across the road, Megan appeared, leading eight girls, the mother hen with her chicks, waving at the new girl dawdling at the back. The new girl was watching Tiffany and me, squinting nearsightedly, as if she recognized us, but couldn’t remember from where.

“But Claire was different,” I continued as the girls trooped into a store. “Claire was young, pretty, educated. She was competition.”

“My husband never even met Claire Kennedy.”

“I heard otherwise. If Claire was at that commune, she must have been as vulnerable as Ginny. Cody likes them vulnerable. Makes him feel like a man, apparently. More than you do.”

Her hand flew up to slap me. I caught her by the wrist. She yanked away, twisting to claw the underside of my arm.

“Ow,” I said, frowning at the scratches. “Are your nails clean? Because if I get infected—”

“Stay away from my family or you’ll be sorry.”

“Did you threaten Ginny like this, too? Guess I’ll have to check those autopsy photos for claw marks. Now, if you’ll excuse me ...”

I put out a hand to block the stroller and walked past.

The gossips of Columbus might be an old-fashioned bunch, pointing fingers at the guys when they had a killer on the loose. But between Tiffany and Megan, I was kinda liking the ladies for this one.