Ice Blonde E-Book

Elaine Viets

• Herausgeber: JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Angela Richman, Death Investigator
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 226

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Angela Richman prays she doesn't have another death investigation on her hands in this chilling novella from Anthony and Agatha Award-winning author Elaine Viets. The last thing Chouteau County death investigator Angela Richman wants to do during the holidays is her job. So it's with some trepidation that she agrees to help the desperate Mr. and Mrs. LaRouche when they show up on her doorstep. Their daughter Juliet is missing. She was last seen leaving a high school party just before midnight, and they'd like Angela's help getting their trusted local detectives involved. The officer assigned to the case—Chouteau newcomer Det. Jace Budewitz—is far too blunt and impolite for their liking. And with the weather murderously cold, they can't bear the thought that their little princess is in the harsh winter wilderness. Discreetly investigating Juliet's disappearance, Angela finds herself struggling to break through the silence from the rich teenagers who knew Juliet and their infuriatingly detached parents. She also discovers that their vicious bias against the local working class has cast a shadow over the case. The more she digs, the less Angela can comprehend the lengths the one percent will go to protect their own. Angela must work quickly as she searches for answers with the acute awareness that Juliet LaRouche edges closer to becoming just a memory…

Leseprobe

Ice Blonde

Copyright © Elaine Viets, 2018

All rights reserved

eISBN: 978-1-625673-47-3

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Tara O’Shea

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Epilogue

Also by Elaine Viets

About the Author

For medicolegal death investigator Mary Fran Ernst, who set the standards for this profession – and aimed high.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Ice Blonde kept me cool during a long, sweltering summer. I kept thinking back to those freezing Missouri winters. It's a peculiar humid cold that burrows into the bones, and though I live in Florida now, I've never forgotten it.

Writing a mystery is a group project, and I had a lot of help and advice for Ice Blonde.

First, thank you to my husband, Don Crinklaw, my first reader and true love, for your help and support, as well as the long discussions about life in Chouteau County. Don swears he went to college with some of its over-privileged inhabitants.

Thank you to my agent, Joshua Bilmes, president of JABberwocky Literary, for his help and guidance on this project, and his meticulous line editing of Ice Blonde. I also appreciate the efforts of the JABberwocky team, including Lisa Rodgers, literary agent and e-book manager, Patrick Disselhorst, e-book assistant, and the ever patient Susan Velazquez, agent's assistant. Tara O'Shea's ice-frosted cover gave me chills. Thanks to copyeditor Bryon Quertermous for some excellent catches.

I'm grateful to Bill Hopkins, retired Missouri judge and author of the Judge Rosswell Carew Mysteries, who helped with the legal details. Charles Hutchings, the Bollinger County, Missouri coroner, was on duty over the Christmas holidays to tell me how to defrost a frozen body. Detective R.C. White, Fort Lauderdale Police Department (retired) and licensed private eye, provided boundless help about police procedure.

Thank you to retired medicolegal death investigator Mary Fran Ernst, one of the authors of the training text, Medicolegal Death Investigator, and to death investigator Krysten Addison, as well as Harold R. Messler, retired manager-criminalistics, St. Louis Police Laboratory. Nurse and mystery writer Gregg Brickman helped with the medical information.

Many thanks to both Molly Portman and Alan Portman for their invaluable help on teen customs and tech info. Retired teacher MarySue Carl of Bothell, Washington, also gave me a window into high school students' minds.

Special thanks to Will Graham, author of Spider's Dance. Joanna Campbell Slan, bestselling mystery author and Daphne du Maurier Award winner, along with Susan Schlueter of St. Louis, Jinny Gender of Kirkwood, Missouri, and Mary Alice Gorman and Richard Goldman of revuzeit.com also helped.

I cannot write without the help of many librarians, including Anne Watts, assistant library director of the Boynton Beach City Library, Boynton Beach, Florida.

Sarah E.C. Byrne made a generous donation to charity to have her name in this novel. She's a lawyer from Canberra, Australia, and a crime fiction aficionada.

Thank you Femmes Fatales for your encouragement and advice. Read our blog at femmesfatales.typepad.com. My fellow bloggers at the award-winning Kill Zone have given useful and entertaining writing advice. Read us at killzoneblog.com.

And finally, any mistakes are mine.

Any questions or comments? Please e-mail me at [email protected].

CHAPTER 1

Tuesday, December 27, 6:30 a.m.

Midge LaRouche was the last person I expected to find on my doorstep two days after Christmas. Especially at the insane hour of six-thirty. Midge’s confident upper-crust bray was muted to a tentative peep. Her husband, Prentice, stood behind her as if he feared she’d run away.

Forty, fit, and tanned, the LaRouches were supposed to be in Telluride, Colorado, the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day. Everyone who was anyone fled Chouteau County, Missouri, to bake on a beach or swoosh down the slopes during the holidays.

“Is something wrong?” I asked. The LaRouches have never been to my house. The mere mention of my job scared the hell out of them. I’m Angela Richman, a Chouteau County death investigator. I work for the medical examiner, and I’m called to the scene of all the county’s homicides and unexplained deaths. That’s why Midge’s next words were so ominous.

“Our daughter didn’t come home last night.” Midge’s eyes filled with tears. Her nose was red, but I didn’t know if that was the extreme cold, or if she’d been crying. “Juliet’s only sixteen. She promised she’d be home from the party by midnight.” She brushed her blonde bangs out of the way, and dabbed at her eyes with her ski mittens.

“Juliet’s very reliable,” Prentice said, as if he was recommending the girl for a job. “We’ve never had a problem. When we give her a time, she’s home. The party was at Arabella Du Pres’s house – her cousin. Bella’s parents were the chaperones. That’s why we don’t understand what went wrong.

“When Juliet wasn’t home by one o’clock, our housekeeper called the Du Pres home and discovered our daughter had left more than an hour ago,” he said. “Juliet should have been home in ten minutes – fifteen at the most. Mrs. Ellis called the police and the hospitals, but Juliet hadn’t been in an accident. That’s when she called us, and we came straight home.

“Thank gawd we didn’t have to fly commercial,” Prentice drawled. “Our little plane had us home by five this morning.”

The blond couple was dressed for the slopes in ski togs and sun goggles, and they needed them. I could see Midge’s breath. I shivered and pulled my old brown robe tighter. His daughter’s missing on the coldest day of the year and he’s bragging that he flew on his private jet.

“We’ll freeze to death out here on the porch. Come inside.”

Midge burst into tears and I realized my words were tactless. “That’s why we’re so worried,” she said. I was astonished Midge remembered to wipe her feet on the mat. “I’m so afraid it’s too late for my little girl. Juliet isn’t dressed for this.”

Midge and her husband followed me to my warm kitchen, bringing their own sub-zero zone with them like a prisoner in custody.

The LaRouches sat at the table, pulling off their mittens and unzipping their jackets. As I fussed with the coffee maker, my sleep-stunned brain struggled to picture Juliet. The girl was probably blonde and pretty, like most of the local rich kids. She’d have the meticulous good grooming that passed for beauty: straight teeth, steam-cleaned skin, shiny hair. But I couldn’t remember what she looked like.

“What was Juliet wearing?” I asked.

“She left the house in a blue velvet strapless dress, high heels and a light-blue velveteen jacket,” Midge said. “She had her cell phone in a little silver purse.”

“That’s all?” The coffee maker erupted in burbles and belches, giving my kitchen the comforting aroma of fresh coffee.

“She refused to wear her boots, heavy coat, or even gloves,” Midge said. “She said it would spoil her look.”

“I remember being like that at her age.” I smiled.

“I do, too,” Midge said. “But now her vanity could… could…” I mentally finished the sentence Midge couldn’t say: could kill her. Juliet’s mother was fighting hard not to cry again, but tears spilled down her cheeks. Prentice handed her a snowy pocket handkerchief, and she dabbed her eyes. “There, there, old girl.” He patted her shoulder. “I’m sure she’s staying at a friend’s house and this is all a misunderstanding.”

“I assume you’ve called her friends,” I said.

“Of course,” Prentice said. “No one’s seen Juliet since she left the party.”

“And the police?”

“They’ve already launched their own search and they’re organizing the volunteer search parties—the scouts, school groups, churches. The search is countywide.”

Chouteau County is ten square miles of white privilege about thirty miles west of St. Louis. Our police exist to protect and serve this enchanted enclave. Chouteau Forest is the main town, surrounded by forested estates. Toonerville, the blue-collar section, is where most of the Forest workers live.

I was afraid the search was hopeless. People like the LaRouches were barricaded behind wrought-iron gates in their late nineteenth-century mansions. Their estates were sprinkled with horse barns, guest houses, pool houses, topiary mazes, sheds, and storage buildings. I lived on old Reggie Du Pres’s estate, in a former guest house that was my parents’ home. It would take a whole day to search that vast complex. Toonerville was a patchwork of modest houses with small backyards, garages and tool sheds – each one a potential hiding place.

Midge said, “We also called the Hobarts, the Du Presses, the DeMuns – no one’s seen her, but they’re organizing search parties, too.”

“I’ll get dressed and join them,” I said.

“That’s not why we’re here,” Midge said. “We wouldn’t expect you to search. Not with your health issues.” I saw her avid eyes. I hated talking about the six strokes, coma and brain surgery.

“How old were you when you had the strokes?” she asked.

“I’m forty-one. That was almost two years ago. I’m fully recovered.” I was glad the coffee maker gave a final blurp, and a satisfied sigh. I poured three mugs of coffee, then set creamer, sugar and spoons on the table. Prentice sipped his coffee black and Midge sugared hers and then warmed her hands with the mug.

“Where are the searchers starting?” I asked.

“With our area first,” Prentice said. “That’s the logical way. The people Juliet knows. Most of us have security, so we know who goes in and out and what time. That’s how we knew exactly when Juliet left the Du Pres house.”

“At 11:42,” Midge said.

“So how can I help?”

“Well, you’re a Chouteau County…” Midge stopped. “You investigate… uh, you look into… you work for…”

Midge couldn’t bring herself to say the two terrible words of my title, and Prentice didn’t try.

“I’m a death investigator. I handle –”

Prentice cut me off before I could say “homicides.”

“Yes, yes, we understand. But right now we need your contacts. You work with the Chouteau Forest detectives. The two best are Ray Foster Greiman and Butch Chetkin.”

“They’re certainly the most experienced.” I thought Butch was the best and Greiman couldn’t find sand in the Sahara, but I kept those opinions to myself.

“We need one of them to lead the search for Juliet,” Prentice said. “The chief has called in the entire force, but he says Chetkin and Greiman are not available.”

“Can’t you talk to them?” Midge asked. “This is important.” Her teary brown eyes were pleading. I was afraid she’d start crying again.

“Ray’s out of town,” I said, “and he doesn’t answer his phone for anyone – not even the chief – when he’s on vacation. Poor Butch has the flu. I doubt if he can stand up, much less lead an investigation.”

“That means we’re stuck with the new hire.” Midge was not happy.

“What’s wrong with Jason Budewitz?” I asked. “I haven’t worked with him yet, but he comes highly recommended. He worked as a detective in Chicago.”

“That’s the problem,” Midge said. “He’s used to dealing with those people, not with our kind.”

“Our kind?” I knew my kind definitely wasn’t Midge’s.

“She means Budewitz is used to dealing with a rougher element than we have here in the Forest,” Prentice said. “Toonerville has some scruffy types, but not like the people he’s encountered in Chicago.”

“Dope dealers, prostitutes, killers and worse,” Midge said.

“Then Detective Budewitz will appreciate working with nice, polite people even more,” I said.

“That detective asked if Juliet had her tongue pierced! That’s disgusting. What will people think if they find out he’s asking questions like that?” I saw real fear in Midge’s eyes, but I wasn’t sure if it was for her lost daughter or her possibly lost reputation.

“People will know you’re not asking that. They’ll understand the police have to ask difficult questions.’”

The LaRouches looked doubtful. I tried to reassure them. “Mr. and Mrs. LaRouche, the detectives don’t work for me. I work with them. We don’t have the same bosses. I answer to the medical examiner, and their boss is the police chief. I don’t have the power to influence the police or their schedules in any way. Is there anything else I can do?”

“Yes,” Midge said. “We want to know if you remembered any teenagers tearing around on the roads here around midnight.”

“No,” I said. “I went to bed about ten and didn’t hear anything. Did you check with the guard at the entrance to the estate?”

“He wasn’t on duty last night,” Prentice said, “but he said there were no reports of drag racing.”

“Old Reggie has cracked down on that since his granddaughter was killed in a drag race on the estate,” I said. “I promise I’ll keep an eye out for Juliet. But I’m not sure what she looks like. Girls grow up so fast.”

Midge pulled a photo out of her purse. “Here’s her picture, the latest one, taken at the Holly Dance.” The Holly Dance was the social event of the holiday season at the Chouteau Forest Academy.

Juliet was stunning, a rare ice blonde. Her straight, shoulder-length hair was so white it looked like moon glow. Her black velvet gown set off her pale skin and long, slender form. Her eyes were summer sky blue. Juliet stared at the camera with a hint of a smile. If Midge hadn’t said her age, I would have guessed Juliet was a sophisticated twenty-one. I wondered how her hearty, ordinary-looking parents had created this delicate creature.

“Does Juliet have a boyfriend?” I asked.

“Absolutely not,” her father said, as if that was a decree.

“Juliet told us that she’s not really dating,” Midge said. “She says dating is old school. She just hangs around with friends.”

Friends. Right. One look at that picture and I knew Juliet was no wallflower. “Any of those friends boys?”

“I’m sure they are, but there’s no one in particular,” Prentice said. His wife nodded.

Her parents had bought Juliet’s story. In my experience, teens didn’t tell their parents everything, especially about their love lives.

“We wanted Detective Budewitz to put out an Amber Alert, but he said Juliet didn’t meet the criteria because there was no proof she’d been abducted.”

“He’s right,” I said. “Missouri has strict rules for Amber Alerts.”

“Instead, he signed her up for a Missouri Endangered Persons Alert. That’s useless.” Midge’s voice was warped with pain. She was crying again. Through her tears, she said, “All an Endangered Persons Alert does is let the police and the media know Juliet’s missing. An Amber Alert has text messages that go to thousands of people, but an Endangered Persons Alert has nothing like that. What does it cost to put out a text alert for a missing girl who’s not properly dressed for the freezing weather? We don’t text much, but we know texting is how young people communicate. You know what this Budewitz advised? Posters! Posters in this day and age! How backward is that? Look at this stupid poster they did.”

Midge opened her cell phone and there was a poster notice: “MISSING! SAVE ME! ENDANGERED PERSONS ALERT. Juliet LaRouche. Last seen December 26, 2017, 11:42 P.M.”

Juliet, in her breathtaking black ball gown, smiled at the information about her last location: Chouteau Forest, Chouteau County, Missouri, her date of birth and other vital statistics, from her height to her hair color. “If you have any information on this child, call these numbers,” the poster said, then listed numbers that could be contacted twenty-four hours a day.

I didn’t know what to say. Midge was right. Posters were no match for a high-tech alert.

“We printed the posters at a twenty-four-hour copy shop,” she said. “We’re supposed to put these posters everywhere. The detective says they work.”

“They do, Midge,” I said. “They’re your best chance.”

Prentice squeezed his wife’s shoulder. “She’s right, old girl.”

“Will you retweet the link to the poster and her photo?” Midge sounded lost.

“Of course.” I gave the worried woman my contact information. Midge gave me the photo and texted me the poster, then glanced at the kitchen clock. “We should be going. It’s almost seven. Thank you for your time, Angela.”

“Would you like some coffee for the road?”

“No, no, we have a TV interview and a radio interview. Officer Budewitz thinks a personal plea from us will help, too.” Midge zipped up her ski jacket, then slipped on her mittens.

“I’ll do everything I can to help find Juliet,” I said.

The couple carefully picked their way down the snow-slick concrete stairs, then trudged through the snow to their Range Rover. They seemed to be holding each other up.

As I watched them drive away, I wondered about their information. I thought Prentice was hiding something. He knew more about his daughter’s disappearance than he was saying. He sounded defensive when he told me Juliet didn’t date. And behind his fear was a deep undercurrent of anger. What fueled that? Juliet was dazzling. I couldn’t believe the sixteen-year-old wasn’t involved with a boy. Did she run away from her overly strict parents? Did her father know she was seeing someone unsuitable? Worse, was she suicidal? Teenagers had to deal with raging hormones. A disappointment in love at that age could be catastrophic.

I prayed the LaRouches’ delicate snow princess was still alive. I had to find Juliet. I wasn’t supposed to be investigating a missing person. That was Detective Budewitz’s job. But he was new to the department, an outsider used to Chicago’s mean streets, not the sly, subtle destructive ways of the wealthy Forest dwellers.

I couldn’t imagine what it must be like to lose a child. I’d had the heart-crushing experience of losing my husband, Donegan, two years ago. If I could help find Juliet, her parents wouldn’t have to suffer that numbing, pointless grief. The last thing I wanted was to do my job – to examine Juliet’s frozen body.

CHAPTER 2

Tuesday, December 27, 7:30 a.m.

The LaRouches nearly slipped on my snow-frosted porch on the way to their car. It needed to be cleared off before someone was hurt. Rick the handyman was due sometime this morning, but I wanted to get started in case I had more visitors before Rick arrived.

People always wanted the details of my strokes and coma, but I was sick of talking about them. I wanted to forget them. That’s why I gave the LaRouches my standard line: I’ve made a full recovery after the strokes and brain surgery, but that’s not quite true. I’m still not up to full strength, but I didn’t want to sit in my kitchen jangling my nerves with more coffee. By the time I’d dressed in my warmest clothes, slipped the snow and ice grips on my boots, and dug the snow shovel out of the garage, I was sweating.

At first, stepping out into the cold felt good. The snowfall sparkled in the sun like spilled sugar, turning my white stone house into a storybook creation. But the frigid air slid down my throat and clutched my lungs. Even my nose hairs were frozen. That never happened in storybooks.

I brushed away the snow icing on the white wooden railing of my gingerbread porch and slid slightly. Gripping the railing with one hand, I pushed the snow off the flat porch. Soon my fingers were numb and so was my nose. My lungs hurt from the cold. Under the first layer of soft snow was ice, and now the porch was even slipperier. I needed rock salt. How was I going to drag a fifty-pound bag out of the garage?

Quit being such a wuss, I told myself. Pour some salt into a bucket and get on with it. I was still holding the shovel when the Forest’s hippie handyman, Rick DeMun, rumbled up my gravel drive in an ancient pickup with a snow plow attachment.

He cranked down the window, and I swore I saw clouds of pot smoke waft out. “Angela! Why didn’t you wait for me? Here, let me do that.”

He jumped out of his truck, his vintage brown suede fur-lined ranch coat flapping around his legs, its fur-lined hood and a peace sign balaclava protecting his face, and ran for the back of his truck.

“Cool coat.” My voice was muffled by the wool scarf wrapped around my mouth. “Where did you get it?”

“Etsy,” he said. “Summer of love – 1968.”

I knew he longed to return to that enchanted time. He pulled a snow shovel out of the back of his truck, along with a bucket of rock salt.

“Here,” he said, taking the shovel out of my hands and propping it against my door. “Let me finish this.” He put some muscle behind his ice-chopping, shoveling, and scraping as he cleared the porch, moving surprisingly fast for someone wearing so many layers of clothes. I watched him shovel from a sunny corner of my porch. He worked at a steady rhythm.

Rick was a renegade rich kid, a Forest insider who was a successful local contractor. In the winter, he also removed ice and snow. Rick’s hard-charging parents were puzzled that they’d raised a gentle pothead who worked at his own pace. The rest of the Forest rejoiced: he was reasonable, reliable, and resourceful when he fixed their ancient plumbing and drafty old buildings.

When he finished the porch and started on the steps, Rick was panting slightly. “I had to clear Old Man Du Pres’s drive first,” he said, “and I was slowed down by the searchers. You know Juliet LaRouche is missing?”

“Her poor parents were here at six-thirty this morning asking if I knew where she was. They’re worried sick. They think she got lost on the path to her house.”

Rick stopped for a second and looked at me. “If she’s really lost in the woods, they should be scared. How are they ever going to find her? Have you looked at this place – I mean really looked?” His arm swept the sun-dazzled scenery, where parties of searchers trudged through the snowy fields and poked at the snow-burdened brush at the edge of the woods.

“Every estate is wooded and has little creeks and streams that flood in the spring, then turn into dry gullies. There are limestone outcroppings, and so many caves, ditches and sinkholes I can’t count them. Her body could have fallen into one of them and been covered by the snow. If that happens, she won’t be found until spring.”

“Please don’t say ‘body.’ I’m on call today, Rick. I don’t want to investigate her death. I’m hoping she’s still alive.”

“My little sister Daisy thinks she is.” Rick was shoveling the top layer of snow off the steps with swift, sure strokes. Shovel, shovel, crunch. Shovel, shovel, crunch. “Daisy was at the party last night. She thinks Juliet’s hiding at somebody’s house.”

“Really?” I felt a warm surge of hope. “Your sister knows Juliet?”

“They’re buds. It’s ‘Juliet this…’ and ‘Juliet that…’”

My teeth were chattering so much I could hardly get the words out. “Will your sister talk to me?” Weird. My speech sounded slurred, like I’d been drinking.

“Angela, you’re shaking so bad you can’t even talk. That’s hypothermia. Get inside.”

“But –”

“Now! It’s seven below.” He hopped up the stairs, took my arm, and opened my front door. “Inside.” He gave me a slight push. “You’re not dressed for this weather. That wool hat isn’t warm enough. Another sign of hypothermia is clumsiness. You can’t risk a fall. Go in, warm up, and make me some hot coffee. I’ll finish the sidewalk and come in for a cup before I do your driveway.”

“But I need to know about Daisy.”

“And I’ll tell you on my coffee break. Make me coffee, woman.” Rick’s mock command made me laugh.

Once inside, I realized Rick was right – something was wrong. I was still shivering, but my heart was pounding. I felt dizzy and clumsy. I picked my way carefully across my living room and plopped down in a kitchen chair. After sitting a while, I felt a little better. If I felt like this after being outside for what – I glanced at the clock – twenty minutes – how could Juliet survive a walk home in ten below weather wearing only a light jacket, a strapless dress, and heels?

I hoped Rick’s sister was right and Juliet was hiding with her friends. But why would a girl her parents said was so good do that?

I knew that answer, too. As a death investigator, I learned the dead had many secrets: good husbands had long-running affairs and good wives had gambling habits. I remembered the Forest suicide who’d secretly maxed out her credit cards and gambled away her home’s equity on the St. Louis river boats, then killed herself when she ran out of money. And teens? They lied about everything: their boyfriends and girlfriends, drugs, money, you name it. Maybe Juliet had a Romeo she didn’t want her parents to know about, and she was sleeping in his bed while Mummy and Daddy skied at Telluride. I hoped so.

I could hear Rick shoveling my sidewalk. My heart rate had slowed to nearly normal, and I didn’t feel dizzy. I poured out the sludge I’d made for the LaRouches and made fresh coffee. Then I found a loaf of banana bread in the freezer and warmed it in the microwave. Now I could hear the dull ping of rock salt hitting concrete.

By the time Rick was stamping the snow off his boots in the mud room, I had hot coffee and warm banana bread on the table. He came into the kitchen, bringing the cold and his cannabis cologne with him. He was wearing a hairy sweater over an insulated undershirt. He sniffed the coffee-scented air, then looked at the loaf on the plate. “Is that banana bread?”

I handed him the butter. “It is. Eat up and get warm, then tell me about Daisy and Juliet.”

Rick gulped his coffee, slathered the banana bread with thick slabs of butter, and two slices later said, “How come you’re interested in Juliet? I thought you only worked on dead people.”

“I do. And I don’t want to have to investigate Juliet’s death. I’m not supposed to investigate her disappearance at all. It’s not my job, not my department. I’m sticking my nose in a police investigation. If it was another detective,” I didn’t mention Greiman’s name, “I wouldn’t trespass. He’d shut me down and report me to the ME. I’m hoping the new guy won’t mind my help. The last thing I want is a dead girl during holidays – or any time, for that matter.”

“That’s cool.” He cut himself a third slice. I poured more coffee.

“Besides, I talked with her parents,” I said. “Those poor people. They’re frantic. Once I saw their faces, I had to do something. Do you think Daisy will talk to me?”