Page 20 of Luck of the Devil (Harper Adams Mystery #3)

I emerged from the bathroom about fifteen minutes later—my partially blow-dried hair still damp—then headed into the house wearing a pair of jeans and a white button-down shirt.

I’d spent several minutes deciding what to wear, which was unusual for me.

Dress pants and a button down would have made me look too much like a cop.

I could have worn a dress, but I didn’t have anything casual.

So, I’d decided to wear the jeans for a casual touch and dress them up a little with the button down.

I grabbed a tweed blazer I’d only worn once before and headed to the house.

When I opened the kitchen door, Malcolm stood in front of the stove, his back to me, wearing jeans and a gray thermal shirt. The smell of bacon made my stomach growl, then churn with nausea.

“You’re cooking breakfast?” I asked in disbelief.

“You think I’m incapable of frying bacon and making eggs?”

“I know you’re perfectly capable; you made me breakfast last week. I just didn’t expect you to do it today. I thought we were in a hurry.”

“I’m hungry and I found bacon and eggs in your mother’s fridge. She obviously won’t be needing them.”

My stomach dropped at the reminder. “True.”

“Besides,” he said, turning back to the stove, “you need to eat. It’ll help with your withdrawal.”

He had a point, but admitting I was going through withdrawal was a still sore subject. “How much longer until it’s ready? If it’s ten minutes or so, I could check in with a couple of neighbors.” Then I added, “That is, if you trust me to talk to them without you.”

“I trust you,” he said without turning around. “And you’ve got about ten minutes, but I’ll keep it warm if you take longer.”

I gave him one last look, unable to ignore the way his shirt stretched across his shoulders and biceps, then practically ran out of the house.

The two next-door neighbors both offered their condolences before they said they hadn’t heard or seen anything out of the ordinary other than some loud noises the week before. I thanked them and asked them to call me if they remembered anything.

I was about to head back, but my ten minutes weren’t up, so I decided to try one more house.

The neighbor across the street and slightly to the left had always held a grudge against my mother, long before Andi’s murder.

Becky Comstock was about my mother’s age and had lived in her house as long I could remember.

She’d kept track of our family’s comings and goings back when we were kids and teenagers, complaining about a multitude of things, from Andi and I being too loud when we played basketball in the driveway to my father mowing the lawn before ten a.m. For all I knew, she’d stopped after Andi’s death, but then again, maybe she’d seen it as reason to stalk us even more.

She stopped complaining to my mother, or at least, my mother didn’t mention her at our forced family dinners anymore.

When Becky opened the door, her eyes flew wide, and she cast a glance over my shoulder at the house. “Harper.” Her voice was strained. I’d interviewed enough people to know when someone didn’t want to talk to me. The question was why. Was it because of my notoriety or because of my mother?

“Hello, Mrs. Comstock,” I said politely. “I’m sorry to disturb you so early this morning.”

Her mouth puckered with disapproval. “I would hardly call nine in the morning early .”

“True,” I said, sweetly. “But some people do.”

Her scoff made it clear what she thought of those people. “What can I do for you?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest and glancing at the house again. Then I realized her gaze was focused on the car in the driveway.

Still a snoop. I hoped that would work to my advantage.

“I’m trying to piece together my mother’s whereabouts last week,” I said, attempting to sound conversational and not like a cop canvassing the neighborhood. “I was wondering if you’d noticed anything unusual.”

She gave me a pointed look. “You mean unusual like the sounds of gunshots coming from your property last Thursday night?”

I played innocent. “I’m sorry? You heard what ?”

“I know what gunshots sound like, Harper Adams,” she said in disdain, “and I know they came from your mother’s backyard.”

I gave her a serious look. “Did you call the police?”

Her brow rose with an accusatory look. “Should I have?”

“Seems to me that someone as concerned about the safety of the neighborhood as you were when we were kids would call the police.” Keeping the sarcasm out of my voice was a Herculean feat.

Her arms dropped and she looked momentarily chastised. “Well, I figured you were there, and you were a police officer and all.”

My car had been in the driveway, but it still didn’t explain why she hadn’t called 911. Maybe she’d thought I was target practicing? But who target practiced in their suburban backyard?

Her eyes narrowed again. “Why are you asking about your mother’s whereabouts? They said her car skidded off the bridge in the rain last week.”

“Well,” I said, hunching my shoulders slightly to appear as unintimidating as possible.

“We’re not sure when exactly her car went into the river.

” I gave her a sad smile. “I know it’s silly, but I’m trying to piece together her last days.

” When she didn’t comment, I pressed on.

“Do you remember the last time you saw her?”

She gave me a condescending look. “You’re presuming I gave a flip about what your mother was doing.”

“You’re right,” I said, taking a step back as though preparing to turn around and walk away. “I just remembered you were always so observant. I thought you might have picked up on something.” I took another step back. “I’m sorry for bothering you. Thank you for your time.”

I started to pivot when she called out, “Wait. I may remember something.”

“Really?” I asked with genuine enthusiasm, even if I was amping it up for her ego. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she snapped. “I’m not sure how helpful it will be.”

“Anything will help.”

She stepped onto the porch, leaning into the open door. “The last time I saw her was last Tuesday. She came out of the back of the house with a small black suitcase.”

Which meant she really did leave last Tuesday. It still killed me that I hadn’t noticed. “Do you remember what time?”

Her lips twisted as a faraway look filled her eyes and she bit her bottom lip. “I want to say it was between two and three?”

A couple of hours after her call to the burner phone? That surprised me.

“Yeah,” she continued, “it was after the black car stopped in front of her house and dropped off that woman.”

I blinked, staring at her in shock. “A woman showed up at my mother’s house?”

Was that who she’d called on the burner phone?

“Yep, she walked right up to the front door, and your mother opened it before she even had a chance to knock. Your mother let her into the house, and the black car drove off. Then a few minutes later, Sarah Jane and the woman walked out from the back of the house, your mother rolling a suitcase behind her. They got in your mother’s car and left. ”

I still couldn’t believe it. “Do you remember what this woman looked like?”

She shrugged. “I don’t remember much.”

“Anything would help. Maybe what she was wearing?”

Tapping her chin, she made a face and said, “Well, let’s see.” After two more taps, she dropped her hand. “She had on dark jeans and knee-high black boots. She was wearing a black T-shirt and a gray winter coat that hit her mid-thigh.”

That was not remembering much? “Do you happen to remember her hair color?”

“It was salt and pepper colored. Shoulder length. One of those bob cuts everyone associates with a Karla.”

Karla? I gave her a questioning look. “Do you mean a Karen?”

She waved her hand. “Karla, Karen. Whatever. Basically a bitch.”

“Are you saying the woman was a bitch?”

“Shoot no,” she said in irritation. “I never talked to her.”

“Did you recognize her? Any idea who she might be?”

She shook her head. “Nope.”

“How old do you think she was?”

“Well, she must have a great skin care routine, because her face looked like she was in her forties, but her hair made her look a little older. It was a lot more gray than dark.”

That didn’t necessarily mean anything. She could have been anywhere from thirties to sixties.

“Had you seen the woman at my mom’s house before?”

She crossed her arms over her chest and looked down at me with plenty of attitude. “You think I pay attention to the comings and goings at your mother’s house?”

That’s exactly what I thought, but I wasn’t about to admit it. I forced a smile. “Heavens, no, Mrs. Comstock, but I was hoping maybe you had noticed. You know, when you were gardening, or happened to see something when you left the house to go to the store.”

“Nope, that’s the only time I saw her, but I have to say, I was pretty surprised when I heard they pulled your mother out of the river and that woman wasn’t with her.

I mean, it was obvious Sarah Jane was leavin’ town with her suitcase and all.

I figured she and that woman were going on a trip together.

It just seems odd Sarah Jane was in that car all alone. ”

She had a very good point.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “It’s very odd.” It meant my mother hadn’t headed straight out of town and off the bridge. At some point, the woman with her had gotten out of the car. Had the woman been part of her murder?

Or had she been in the car, and someone removed her body before the police found the car? That seemed highly unlikely.

“Do you remember anything else that might help me piece together what happened in the last few weeks of my mother’s life?”

She gave me a scrutinizing look. “I thought you were trying to put together her last few days.”

“I am,” I said nonchalantly. “It’s just that I don’t know anything about the woman she left with, so I’m curious if she had any other new friends I didn’t know about.”