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CHAPTER THREE

“The murder victim was a murderer,” I recapped.

“Uh-huh,” Teague said.

Still not certain we weren’t talking at cross-purposes, I asked explicitly, “Derrick Dorrio, the father of Robbie, who’s Mamie’s boyfriend, was murdered—”

Speaking those words made me recognize I didn’t know when or where, much less how. And, of course, nothing about who or why. But I pushed on with the question I hadn’t finished.

“—and was also a murderer himself?”

“He had a son named Robert, yes. As for a girlfriend, I don’t know—”

“Mamie. She works at the flower shop her grandfather owns. You know, next to the yoga studio.”

“I know the shop. Have seen the owner and the girl. Don’t know anything about her romantic relationships—”

It seemed impolitic to mention that I knew about them because of a previous murder Clara and I untangled. He hadn’t been a consultant for the sheriff’s department then, but had already made clear his preference for law enforcement investigating murders over Clara and me.

“—but I’ll take your word for it.”

“Thank you,” I said meekly.

His eyes narrowed slightly, but he continued without any audible heightened suspicion, “On the other hand, I do know Derrick Dorrio was charged, tried, convicted, and sentenced for murder. Served that sentence, too — most of it.”

“Who did he kill?” That automatic question came from the small part of my brain not involved in adjusting to this new perspective on the picture in front of me, like one of those trick images where you see the young woman from another era wearing a hat elaborate enough for the Kentucky Derby, until your perception shifts and, instead, you see a crone’s profile.

“His wife.”

“But Clara said she’s devastated—”

I stopped because that wasn’t what Clara said. She said the son’s mother was devastated.

There were any number of permutations that could let Derrick Dorrio kill a wife and still have the mother of his son be devastated by his death. Most likely a second marriage.

My optical illusion image of a young woman in a Derby Day hat alternating with the old woman added a third possible image. Maybe more.

Teague waited when I fell silent, assembling a new vision.

Then he waited a couple minutes more, because a tap came at the door from the garage into the back hall — I hadn’t closed the garage door — and immediately after the knock, Clara entered.

Which started the Gracie greeting ritual all over, including a disapproving sniff for Clara not bringing her dog, Lulu, the other part of the three-dog besties circle.

When Clara could be heard over the canine greeting, she said with passable casualness, “Oh, hello, Teague.”

“Forget it,” I told her as she hung up her jacket, dusted lightly with snowflakes. “Ned must have called him as soon as you two hung up. He was here when I got home. And now he says Mamie’s boyfriend’s father was a murderer—”

“That doesn’t mean somebody gets to murder him,” she said immediately, revealing she’d already known the dead man’s convicted murderer status.

“—a fact you didn’t mention to me. Or—”

“There wasn’t time. I was going to tell you all about it as soon as I got here.”

“—that he was convicted of murdering his wife. So who—” I turned back to Teague. “—is the woman Clara described as being devastated by his death, along with his son and the son’s girlfriend?”

“He and Dova married after his first wife was killed by him.”

Clara started to say something.

I held up a hand to stop her. “Wait, let me hear the official version first.”

Teague complied. “The first Mrs. Derrick Dorrio was killed seventeen years ago in what initially appeared to be a random attack — at least that’s what the department was supposed to think.

Didn’t stand up to scrutiny for long. Still, took investigators a couple years to get Derrick Dorrio brought to trial.

He staged the whole thing to cover up that he’d killed her — his first wife.

In the interval before the trial, he married Dova. ”

“Not a good look,” I muttered.

Clara scowled, but said nothing.

“Consistent though,” Teague said. “They’d started an affair before his first wife’s murder.”

This time, Clara did protest. “He’s not the first man to have an affair. They don’t all kill their wives or the population of women would drop like a rock.”

Clearly, from the little I’d heard so far, she’d decided Derrick Dorrio was wrongfully convicted. But since that seemed to be based on the current devastation of his son and the son’s girlfriend, I didn’t necessarily fall in line with her thinking.

Pending further information.

“They don’t prosecute people for murder just for having an affair, either,” I said. “There had to be more evidence.”

“Thank you for your expression of confidence in law enforcement and the judicial system.” Teague’s wryness twisted his expression of gratitude sideways.

Clara’s disapproving sniff rivaled Gracie’s — impressive, considering she produced it from a much smaller nose. “We’ll see about that. Robbie and his mother have always said the sheriff’s department rushed to judgment in blaming Derrick.”

“Took years for him to be charged after a thorough investigation,” Teague said evenly.

“And had tunnel vision.” Clara kept her focus on me. “You know how they jump on the spouse or former spouse as a suspect right away.”

“That’s because it often is the spouse or former spouse. The statistics on people being murdered by someone close to them are overwhelming and that starts with spouses and exes.” I’d attended enough research workshops and talks on related topics with Kit to know that.

“Well, now he’s dead.” She shot a look at Teague.

A lesser woman might have added, Are you happy now? Her tone did it for her.

I shifted, prepared to defend Teague’s devotion to truth and justice, not to mention he hadn’t even been in the county when Derrick Dorrio was charged.

But he flicked me a look that said to let it go.

It was one of those moments when you abruptly recognize someone else’s reality.

He’d heard accusations like this before, veiled or not.

A lot.

He had scar tissue over it to protect him, but it didn’t provide one-hundred percent coverage. I felt anger that Clara, of all people, had inflicted the flick of pain this time.

“That’s not fair,” I said coldly.

Clara blinked and her cheeks reddened. “I know you weren’t on the case then, Teague.

It doesn’t change that it’s perfectly understandable that Robbie and his mother expect that the sheriff’s department won’t do anything — enough,” she modified, but without much enthusiasm, “to find his killer. They’re not about to talk to deputies or other representatives of the department. ”

Teague didn’t argue, which wasn’t out of character.

In the silence, my thoughts followed another path, leading to more questions.

“Clara, you said Derrick Dorrio was killed here. There’s no prison in North Bend County.”

“He wasn’t in prison,” Teague said.

“He’d served his sentence? How many years did he get?”

“Life.”

“Parole? But—?”

“He requested and received compassionate release.”

“Compassionate—?”

“He was dying.”