All Lost Things
Book 3 of the Killian Kendall Mysteries
By Josh Aterovis
Copyright 2026
Chapter 8
Working in an empty office the next day felt strange. I'd been there alone before when Novak was out on a case or running errands, but realizing I'd be on my own for the rest of the week was different. On one hand, it felt good to think Novak trusted me enough to leave me in charge for that long. On the other hand, I wasn't quite sure I trusted myself.
Not that I didn't know what I was doing — answering phones and taking messages isn't exactly brain surgery — but I really wanted to get back to working on Caleb's case. Novak had given me permission to interview some people, although he'd strictly forbidden me from going to the Ease Inn without him. With him gone, however, I was suddenly nervous about going out all by myself. When we'd spoken to Paige Haynes and Nadine Tingle, Novak had done most of the talking. He said I did okay with Caleb, but Caleb was just a kid. The idea of questioning an adult intimidated me a little.
I somehow managed to stay at my desk on Wednesday, but by Thursday afternoon I was going crazy. I decided to lock up and drive out to the Cohen house.
I parked in the same place Novak had a couple of days before. I climbed out and glanced across the fallow farmland to where Mrs. Fields lived, briefly wondering why the land hadn't been cultivated, since the time for planting was well past. Then I looked at the house and remembered how neglected it was as well. No one had mentioned a Mr. Fields, so I assumed the older lady was a widow. Obviously the house and property had become too much for her to handle on her own.
While I was studying the house, I thought I saw a curtain twitch at the same window where I'd seen movement on our last visit. I watched but didn't see anything more. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching me back.
A chill ran down my spine, and I turned away. I'd come back to Mrs. Fields later. At the moment, I was a little spooked.
I couldn't see the Hayneses' house through the line of cypresses, but we'd already talked to Paige Haynes anyway. That left the barn. On a whim, I decided to explore the dilapidated building before I tried my hand with people. I hadn't gone inside on Tuesday, so an inspection seemed as good a way as any to postpone my first real solo interview.
I gently pushed against the barn door but it didn't budge so much as a fraction of an inch. I backed up and threw my whole weight against it. With an unhappy shriek of protest from the rusty metal hinges, it shuddered open about a foot, and I stumbled in amid a shower of dirt, cobwebs, and rotten wood. I used my highly refined powers of detection to deduce that no one had opened the door in quite a while. I figured I was probably wasting my time, but since I was inside, I decided to have a look around.
The comparative dimness of the interior momentarily blinded me. Although sunlight shafted through the few windows that weren't boarded up, it did little to dispel the gloom. Dust motes danced thickly through the beams, making me wish I had brought an oxygen mask. I coughed reflexively.
As my eyes slowly adjusted, I began to make out the barn's contents. An odd shape in the center of the floor resolved itself into the rusty, forgotten tractor I'd seen through the window on our last visit. It looked like a relic from a farm museum.
Propped against one wall were several old, wooden-handled tools, the kind no farm should be without — a shovel, a pitchfork, a rake, and a scythe that would have been right at home slung over the shoulder of the Grim Reaper.
A line of stalls stretched along the longest wall, while a stack of old tires and bulky metal drums were piled up in one corner. In the opposite corner, a heap of straw lay moldering, the very sight of it making my nose twitch.
Several sneezes later, I ventured down the length of the barn, peeking into each stall, only to find they held nothing but more cobwebs. I was turning to leave when I remembered that the barn had a second floor. At first glance, I didn't notice any means of reaching the hayloft. It took me a minute to spot a wooden ladder nailed to one wall, leading up to the storage space.
The ladder appeared so rickety that I spent a few seconds debating the wisdom of climbing it. Finally, I decided I wouldn't be a very good investigator if I didn't check everything, so I started up the ladder. I quickly found it to be a lot sturdier than it looked. In fact, it seemed that someone had been maintaining it. Up close, I could see that a couple of the rungs had been replaced, and while most of the nail heads were rusty, some were shiny and new.
If the door hadn't been opened in years, who had fixed the ladder and how had they gotten inside the barn? Logically, Caleb or his father could have made the repairs, but that still didn't answer the other half of my question.
Then I remembered circling the barn on Tuesday and peering in one of the windows. While weeds and briars were growing rampant around most of the building, the ground had been trampled bare in front of that particular window. Although I hadn't thought much of it at the time, someone must have been crawling in through the opening. My guess was Caleb.
When my head popped up above the level of the hayloft floor, my first impression was that no one had been up there in a long time. The only things visible were crumbling hay bales stacked about haphazardly, but it was so dark I couldn't see much. There were no windows on this level, and, as little light as there was downstairs, even less managed to filter its way up to where I was.
I pulled out my phone and turned on the flashlight. The bright beam revealed a thick layer of dust covering the floor. It didn't seem to have been disturbed recently, but Caleb had been at the group home for a little over a month. I didn't imagine it would take long for the dust to build up in this place.
I climbed the last rungs of the ladder and stepped into the loft, stirring up a cloud of dust in the process and setting off another round of sneezing. I heard something scurrying behind me and spun around in time to see a small gray mouse dart behind a mostly intact bale of hay. I had to wait for my heart to stop pounding before resuming my search.
I walked carefully, unsure of how strong the floor was. The last thing I needed was to fall through and break a leg. I'd never hear the end of it from Novak.
A quick look around uncovered nothing more than dust, rodent droppings, and decomposing hay. I was just about to give up when a final sweep of the flashlight beam caught something shiny in a far corner. I made my way over to it and found a partially shredded potato chip bag. The mice might have gotten to it, but it wasn't that old. The "sell by" date was clearly legible. My hunch that someone had been up there not too long ago was right. I doubted the mice had brought the bag up all by themselves.
A closer look around revealed that the bales had been stacked more carefully than I first thought. In one corner, they were arranged as if to create a partition. I discovered a narrow gap between the wall of hay bales and the actual barn wall. The opening was just large enough for me to slip through.
I found a makeshift room on the other side. What I had assumed to be a solid stack of bales was actually only one bale deep. The area inside formed a cozy hiding space, perfect for a teenage boy looking to hide from his abusive father. A small glass oil lamp, half filled with fuel, sat on a milk crate. Next to it was a crude bed that was really little more than an old mildewed feather mattress with a sleeping bag on top. Several more empty chip bags were strewn about. Either Caleb had set up house in the hayloft, or a hobo had taken up residence in the Cohens' barn.
My money was on Caleb.
Although I didn't really want to touch the grungy bedding, I decided if I was going to be a detective, I couldn't be that fussy. I lifted the sleeping bag and shook it out, but found nothing. Under the mattress, however, I made a few discoveries. There was a well-worn copy of a gay porn magazine, a bottle of lube, and, most surprisingly, a couple of unopened condoms. The magazine and the lube weren't so shocking — they could have been for Caleb's personal amusement. Unless they were just a teenage boy's hopeful fantasy, the condoms were a different story.
As I scanned the surrounding area, something in the deep shadows under the eaves caught my eye. I crawled back until I could identify what it was, then left it right there. Evidence or not, I wasn't about to touch someone else's used condom. I looked around a bit longer but didn't see anything else.
After climbing back down the ladder, I started sorting out what I had discovered. Caleb kept a secret hiding place in the barn, probably for when things with his dad got too intense in the house. It seemed very likely that he entertained someone there on occasion. This raised the question: who might that someone be? Was it the mysterious friend who sheltered Caleb when he ran away from the group home? I felt pretty certain it wasn't Asher. At least I didn't want to think it could be Asher. The idea of him having sex with Caleb on that dirty mattress disgusted me. I wanted to think he was better than that. Maybe the neighbors would have some ideas.
Back outside the barn, I decided to start with Paige Haynes since I had already met her. I was about to walk around by the road when I noticed a very faint path leading through an even slighter gap in the cypresses between the two yards. I pushed through the branches to find myself in the Hayneses' backyard. A man working on a riding mower a few feet away looked up in surprise.
"Can I help you?" His tone was challenging. I guess he didn't have too many visitors popping through his shrubbery. He was of average height, clean-shaven, with short, dark hair parted on one side. He had the physique of someone who might have played football in college but was slowly losing ground to middle age spread.
"Are you Travis Haynes?" I asked.
"Yes, and you are?"
"My name is Killian Kendall. I was wondering if I could talk to you for a few minutes."
"Talk about what?" He was eying me suspiciously.
"I work for a private investigator, Shane Novak."
"Is this about Ira's murder?"
"Yes, sir, it is."
"Didn't you talk to my wife a few days ago?"
"Yes, and she was very helpful. I was just next door looking around, and a few more questions came up. Actually, that's why I came through your yard the way I did. I noticed a trail leading through that gap there."
"Caleb used it sometimes when I was out here working. He'd come over and give me a hand, chat about his day, school, something he saw on TV — anything, really. I think he just needed someone to talk to. God knows, Ira was worthless." He shook his head. "You said you had questions. What kind of questions?"
"You and your wife looked after Caleb?"
He frowned. "I wouldn't say that. There wasn't much we could do. Like I said, I'd listen to him talk, and Paige would feed him every chance she got. That was about it. I wish we could've done more. He's a good kid. If he did this, what they're saying he did, he was driven to it by that asshole he called a father."
"I take it you didn't think much of Mr. Cohen?"
"The man was scum."
"Because he abused Caleb?"
"And about a million other reasons. But yeah, he liked to beat on Caleb whenever he was drunk, which was pretty much all the time. Poor kid."
"I was looking around the barn and found a hidden area in the loft that looked like Caleb spent some time up there, possibly with someone else. Any ideas who that might have been?"
He shrugged. "No idea. I never saw him with anybody besides his dad. I'm not surprised he had a hideaway somewhere, though. I kind of figured he'd found something when he stopped coming over here to get away from Ira."
"So you don't have any idea who Caleb's friends were? He never mentioned anyone?"
"He never spoke of any friends at all. The kid was a loner. What makes you think there was someone up there with him?"
It was my turn to shrug. "Just a hunch."
"Hunches are sometimes wrong."
"Maybe so. Can you think of anything else that might be helpful — anyone who might especially hate Mr. Cohen or any friends he may have had?"
"Everybody hated that son of a bitch. I don't think he had any friends. My wife told you about Nadine, right? Boy, if she isn't a piece of work."
"Yes. We went and talked to her after your wife told us where to find her."
"Did Paige tell you how they used to fight?"
"Your wife and Nadine?"
"No, Ira and Nadine. And I mean fight, not just raised voices. They'd be screaming and yelling, cursing at the top of their lungs, throwing and breaking things. Once she smashed his windshield with a baseball bat. Paige and I aren't the type to get involved in something like that, we keep to ourselves, but I think old Mrs. Fields called the sheriff a few times."
"Were they physically violent with each other?"
"I never saw either of them hit the other, but I wouldn't be surprised. God knows he hit Caleb enough. That man should never have been allowed to raise a child."
"Do you have children?" Caleb had already told me they didn't, but I just wanted to double check.
His face changed in an instant, his eyes dimming as if a switch had been thrown. I knew I had overstepped my bounds.
"No, we don't," he replied tersely.
It was obvious our conversation was over, or at least this line of questioning. I would have switched tactics if I'd had any other tactics to switch to. As it was, I couldn't think of any more questions. Something in his eyes made me uncomfortable.
"Oh, well...um... I'd better go." I started backing away, stumbling over a tool he'd left on the ground. I caught myself and gave him an uneasy smile. "Um, thanks for your help."
He nodded stonily and watched me until I was on the other side of the hedgerow. I wondered what sort of nerve I'd hit and whether it had any bearing on the case. I made a mental note to get Novak's take on it when he returned. Other than the fact that he was touchy about the subject of children, the only thing I'd learned from Mr. Haynes was that Nadine and Ira had had a volatile relationship. The interview wasn't a total loss, but it didn't help much with the mystery of Caleb's loft lover.
I looked across the empty stretch of land between the pile of rubble and Mrs. Fields' house. She had an unobstructed view of the Cohens' yard and, more importantly, the barn. Maybe she'd seen something that could be helpful. Then again, Caleb had said she didn't see well. I trudged across the yard, figuring my assignment wouldn't be complete unless I at least tried talking to her.
Before I could even knock, the door swung open, seemingly by itself. I froze in mid step and was about ready to book it back to my car when a tiny figure materialized in the doorway. She was so pale that for a moment I thought she was a spirit. It almost seemed I could see right through her. Her hair was a snowy white cloud, so thin and wispy her pink scalp showed through. Her nearly translucent skin was almost the same color as the faded pale blue of her thin cotton dress. Even her blue eyes looked washed out.
"You're the detective boy?" she asked in a voice that was as thin and brittle as she appeared.
"Yes. Mrs. Fields?" I managed to squeak.
"You'll have to speak up. I'm quite deaf these days."
I raised my voice and tried again. "Are you Mrs. Fields?"
"That's right. Are you looking into that terrible business that happened next door?"
"Yes, ma'am, I am."
"That was a horrible thing, a horrible thing. I've been here on this earth for almost eighty-five years, seventy of which I've spent in this very house, and I ain't never been so close to something so horrible. I never thought anything like this could happen here."
"It certainly was horrible. I hate to bother you, but would it be okay if I asked you some questions?"
"I don't know." She sounded uncertain. "Would I be safe?"
My heart broke at the fear in her voice. It was sad that a woman at her stage of life should have to be so afraid in her own home.
"I believe you would be safe, Mrs. Fields, but maybe it would be better if we talked inside." At the volume I had to speak, I felt I was broadcasting our conversation to the entire tri-state area.
"I guess that would be all right," she consented, "but I don't know what I'll be able to tell you that would be of any help."
She stepped back to allow me in, and I found myself standing in the kitchen. The room appeared to have been tacked on as an afterthought — which was probably the case, considering that most of the old homes in the area were built long before indoor plumbing. Although the counter was cluttered, the appliances so old I would have been surprised to find that they still worked, and the linoleum worn through in places, everything was sparkling clean.
"Would you like something to drink?" she asked. "I have some cold water in the icebox, and maybe some fruit juice. I don't get to the market as often as I used to."
"Thank you, but I'm fine."
She nodded and started off down a dark hallway. "This way. We'll talk in the living room like civilized people."
As I went deeper into the house, a stale mustiness enveloped me. It smelled as if decades of odors had built up without a proper airing out. There were the household scents of bacon, lavender perfume, and powder, but underlying everything was a hint of decay. The air was stiflingly warm and damp, and when we reached her living room I realized why: all the windows were shut tight, with heavy curtains pulled across them. She had barricaded herself inside the best she could.
I got the impression that this was the only room she used anymore. Everything she could have needed except for her bed and clothes was crammed into the crowded space. An old, yellow, floral pattern sofa, vintage 1950s, sat against one wall under a water-stained, faded, dime store print. A large console TV, easily older than I, served as the room's focal point, and she had pulled a broken down recliner up close to it. A kerosene heater sat off to one side, dusty with disuse in the summer heat.
Mrs. Fields lowered herself carefully into the chair. It seemed to be a painful process for her. I stood by helplessly, wishing there was something I could do, but knowing there wasn't.
"I don't get many visitors these days," she told me once she was settled. "Please, have a seat."
I perched gingerly on the edge of the sofa. The cushion was as hard as rock, making me wonder if it had somehow petrified.
"I'm sorry I didn't invite you right in. This whole business has me a little scared. I guess you think I'm a silly old woman."
"Not at all. I'd be scared too if something like that happened next door to my house."
She stared closely at me. "Excuse my bad manners, but you look awfully young to be a detective. Then again, everyone looks young to me these days. Are you with the police?"
"No, ma'am. I work for a private investigator. And you're right, I am young. I just turned eighteen."
She laughed a little and shook her head. "I was eighteen once. Hard to believe now. I barely remember it myself. Now I'm old enough to be your great-grandmother."
I smiled. "Do you have great-grandchildren?"
"No. I never had any children. We always wanted them, but I guess the good Lord didn't see fit to give them to us. Me and my husband, I mean. His name was Raymond. He was a good man, hard working. He never raised his voice nor his fist to me, not once in the fifty-some years we were married. He passed on years ago. I've been alone ever since. You get used to it after a while. Still, it's nice to have a visitor now and then."
I felt as if I would burst into tears at any moment. I couldn't speak around the lump in my throat. The best I could do was nod. Luckily, that was all the encouragement she needed.
"Now, I don't like to speak ill of the dead, but that Ira Cohen, he was nothing like my Raymond. That's who you're here to talk about, right?"
I nodded again.
"He was no good. Didn't treat his boy right. Didn't treat that girl right, either — yelling and cussing and carrying on."
"What girl?" I asked, finding my voice at last.
"Maybe I shouldn't say girl. At my age, they all seem like girls. I don't know her name, but she had blond hair. Not natural blonde. And she always wore tight pants or short skirts."
Nadine, I assumed. "You saw Mr. Cohen fighting with this woman?"
"Can't say I ever saw him hit her, if that's what you mean, but I heard them many a time, even with my hearing as bad as it is."
"Arguing?"
"You could call it that. Hollering and yelling, screaming the worst obscenities you ever heard. And with the boy right there."
"Caleb?"
"I believe that was his name. The lot of them kept to themselves, really. Hardly said more than a handful of words to me the whole time they lived right next door." She shook her head sadly. "Caleb. From the Bible, you know. He was a quiet boy, kept to himself mostly, never caused any trouble. I hate to think he did that horrible thing, but I heard on the news that they arrested him, so I suppose the police know best. I reckon he just snapped. People do, you know. Just snap, sometimes. Poor boy."
She was drifting off subject, so I tried to gently steer her back on track. "Did you hear Ira and the woman fight the night he died?"
She thought for a moment. "Now that you mention it, I do believe they did. Not one of their big fights, mind you, just some hollering and cussing. Then she left."
"When did you notice the fire? Was it long after she left?"
"Yes, quite a while. The fire woke me up. It must have been well after 11:30. I don't sleep too well these days, so I stay up to watch the late news. She left hours before, when Wheel of Fortune was still on."
"Did you notice anyone else around the house that night?"
"Not that I can recall, but then I wasn't exactly watching it."
"Did you ever see anyone else at the house any other time, except for Ira's lady friend?"
She sat back in her chair and studied me with her rheumy eyes. I wondered what she was thinking. Finally, she spoke. "I don't see as well as I used to. One more thing gone, along with my hearing and about a dozen other things. Every once in a while, though, I'd see the boy come sneaking out of his house and cross the backyard. He'd go around the side of the barn and climb in through the window. Now, I'm not a busybody, but I thought that was a bit odd, you understand?"
I nodded eagerly. She had my full attention.
"So I watched," she continued. "It was never very long before another somebody would come creeping across the field and climb through the very same window."
I felt my pulse speed up. "This happened often?"
"Fairly so."
"Could you see who it was?" It was too much to hope for, but I asked anyway.
"No, it was too far away. Just be glad I could tell it was a person."
"You couldn't describe him?" Of course, it could have been a girl, but I felt confident that whomever Caleb was meeting in the barn would turn out to be a male.
She shook her head. "I'm sorry."
"Can you tell me where the person came from? Was it a boy or a girl? Big or small? Anything at all?"
"Came from out back, but I can't tell you much more than that. It was usually dark or close to it. For some reason, I always thought it was a boy, something about the way he moved, but I can't say for sure. He was small, though, that I know."
My pulse was racing now. Mrs. Fields was confirming my theory. "How long had this been going on?"
"I don't know for sure. Quite some time."
"Months?"
"I think I first noticed last fall, but it could have been going on before that."
"Mrs. Fields, thank you so much for helping me."
She looked surprised. "I helped you?"
"Yes, you really did."
She seemed pleased. "Well now, it's nice to know I can still be useful."
My heart broke again. This visit had been an emotional rollercoaster. I was excited to learn so much from such an unexpected source. At the same time, I ached for this lonely old woman, alone and afraid in her own home.
"Are we all finished?" she asked.
"I believe so," I managed. "If I think of other questions, would it be okay if I came back?"
She nodded. "You're welcome anytime, questions or no." She started to struggle up from her seat, but I jumped to my feet.
"I can let myself out, Mrs. Fields. You don't have to get up."
"It's all right. I want to lock the door after you."
I stepped forward and offered her a hand, which she gratefully took. I helped her to her feet, and she squeezed my hand gently.
"Thank you," she whispered. "It's a great world if you don't weaken."
We walked to the door, where I turned to face her once more. "Thank you again, Mrs. Fields."
"I'm glad I was able to help." She paused. "I enjoyed our visit, even if the conversation wasn't all that pleasant."
I surprised us both by suddenly leaning in and giving her a hug. She felt so frail in my arms, I was almost afraid I'd break her. I stepped back awkwardly, unsure what to say. "Thanks again," I blurted clumsily, turning to escape through the door.
"No. Thank you," she said softly, closing the door behind me.
I heard the locks turning as I walked away. I didn't look back. I didn't want her to see the tears in my eyes.
I felt so emotionally drained after my visit with Mrs. Fields that I drove directly home. My body was tired but my brain refused to stop. Both Travis Haynes and Mrs. Fields had said Nadine and Ira fought violently, and Mrs. Fields recalled Nadine and Ira having an argument the night he was killed. I wanted to talk to Nadine again, but it would have to wait until the next day. I was also more curious than ever about the boy Caleb was meeting in the barn. I wasn't sure it had anything to do with the case, but it was possible that Caleb was meeting the same friend he had stayed with the night he ran away from the group home.
I went into the office the next morning long enough to check the mail, then I was on my way to To Dye For. When I opened the door, Anita was busy, and no one else acknowledged my presence. Nadine was nowhere in sight.
Anita was in mid-rant. "I told you not to try that other place," she barked from behind her client, a wrinkled old prune of a woman wearing a guilty, hangdog expression. "They might be cheaper, but you mark my words, you get what you pay for."
All the other ladies nodded and clucked in agreement, as if Anita's proclamation was some highly original statement.
Nadine appeared from behind a curtain carrying a small bowl containing a bluish-gray material and a small paintbrush. "Half those girls are just barely out of beauty school," she commented without noticing me.
"You here for a perm?" Anita asked sarcastically.
It took me a second to register that she had finally deigned to speak to me. "What? Oh, no. I'm here to talk to Ms. Tingle, if that's okay."
"Lordy, Nadine, you get more visitors these days than a rent-by-the-hour motel."
Nadine looked me over and winked in my direction. "He was here the other day with that hunky detective."
Anita eyed me as if she suspected me of eating the last doughnut at a Weight Watchers convention. "I don't remember him."
"He was hiding behind the other guy," another employee added helpfully while busily wrapping a middle-aged woman's hair around fat rollers. She was as round as she was tall and had been following the conversation with more attention than she was giving the client in her chair.
I frowned. I wanted to inform her that I wasn't hiding, and, while we were on the subject, I was standing right here so they could stop discussing me as if I wasn't present.
Nadine pointed towards a row of uncomfortable looking plastic chairs. "Have a seat over there, sugar. I gotta finish up with Betty Jean here. I'll just be a few minutes."
I took a seat and looked through the rack of magazines. It seemed my choices were limited to Southern Living, Good Housekeeping, Modern Maturity, or Woman's Day, all a minimum of two years out of date. I eschewed all of them in favor of my phone.
I'd only scrolled through a little of my feed before my nerves started getting to me. I was beginning to question the wisdom of coming here alone. What if I messed up the investigation? It had seemed such a good idea while I was lying in bed the night before, but maybe I should have waited to talk over my discoveries with Novak first. I didn't even know what to ask, and besides, Nadine just plain intimidated me.
I had plenty of time to stew in my self-doubt since Nadine's "few minutes" turned into a good half hour before she breezed past me in a cloud of cheap perfume and stale smoke. She paused at the door and waved a cigarette in my direction. "You've got until this is gone, then I gotta get back to Betty Jean."
I obediently followed her out. She lit the Marlboro between her lips, inhaled deeply, and blew the smoke in my direction. "I don't suppose you want one."
"One?"
"A cigarette."
"Oh, no. I don't smoke."
She eyed me up and down. "I didn't think so. Just as well. You don't even look old enough to buy a pack." She took another puff. "A pretty boy like you, I guess you're gay."
I almost choked. "What?"
"Guys as cute as you are always gay. Nadine's Law."
I decided to ignore that. Things were not going the way I'd hoped. I needed to assert control of this conversation, and quickly. At the rate she was sucking on that cancer stick, I didn't have long.
"I know you and Ira fought," I blurted out.
That at least seemed to catch her by surprise. She took a long drag and released the smoke slowly. "Far as I know, that ain't a crime. Course, I mighta missed something along the way. That happens to me sometimes. You got a point?"
"Witnesses say the fights were pretty violent."
"Witnesses, eh? Like that old bat next door, I'd guess. What's her name? Fields?"
"Actually, several people have told me the two of you had very loud fights."
"Hmph."
"We also have witnesses who place you at the farm the night Ira was killed."
She almost swallowed the butt of her cigarette. "Look, little boy, you'd better be damn careful where you step. I've eaten babies like you whole for breakfast and finished off with toast and jelly."
"Are you denying you were there?"
"You're the detective, you figure it out."
"That line won't work on me. I can always go to the police with what I know." I was bluffing my way out onto a very fragile limb. I just hoped like hell it wouldn't break under my weight.
She took a threatening step closer to me, and I fought the urge to retreat. Her smoke-sour breath tickled my nostrils as her sharp eyes drilled into mine. I don't know what she saw there — I would have guessed abject terror — but whatever it was, it was enough.
She backed down, but her expression let me know she wasn't happy about it. "I was there. We fought. I left. End of story. He was still in one piece when I left."
"What did you fight about?"
"Probably the same thing we always fought about — a fat lot of nothing. I don't even remember."
I didn't buy that for a second. "Why didn't you tell us you were at the house the night Ira was murdered?"
"I didn't see how it had anything to do with anything. I was gone long before he was killed."
"You could have gone back later."
"And I coulda walked on the moon, but I didn't."
"Why should I believe you?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Look, you little snot—"
"Hey, Nadine." The door swung open, and the round woman from earlier stuck her head out. "I think Betty Jean is ready for her rinse."
Nadine shot me one last dirty look before charging back inside, slamming the door behind her. My knees buckled, and I staggered to my car, barely able to believe what I'd just pulled off. I was very glad I wasn't in Betty Jean's place just about then. She might not have any hair left after Nadine got through taking her frustrations out on her client.
I sat in my car for a minute while I thought about everything I'd learned in the last few days. I couldn't wait to talk to Novak on Monday. It was going to be a very long weekend.
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