Chapter Thirty
CHAPTER THIRTY
Sure enough, it starts raining shortly after I leave Dev’s cottage.
But the air is still warm, and the moisture feels nice on my face.
I jog back into town and take what I think is a shortcut but which takes me to a dead end as the light rain turns into a downpour.
I dash into a shop filled with racks of North Face and Patagonia fleece pullovers.
This must be the outdoors store where Bert Lott’s daughter works.
I figure I should try to interview her, though I feel funny about going rogue.
Hopefully Amity and Wyatt won’t mind. I shake off the rain and walk toward a young woman behind the counter.
She has her hair in braids under a knit cap and a tattoo of a carabiner clip on her forearm.
“I’m looking for Claire Lott.”
“And who might you be?”
Saying that I’m investigating a murder seems unwise; what if this person is not part of the game or not even aware of it?
“I know her father and wanted to say hello.”
“You know Bert?”
“You do too?”
“Well, I should do. He’s my dad.”
“So you know what I’m up to?”
Claire Lott drains her bottle of kombucha, sets it down, and raises her chin toward me.
“You don’t look the type.”
“Meaning?”
“You’re not an ancient crone.”
A guy comes out from the back carrying a stack of shoeboxes, which he puts on the counter.
“Is there somewhere we can talk privately for a few minutes?” I ask.
Claire leads me to the tent displays. She opens the flap of an orange dome tent and crawls in. I follow.
“Okay, let’s do this!” she says, now looking like she’s up for having some fun.
I tell her what we’ve learned from Bert, which is that he has been unhappy with Tracy for a while, complaining about the way she keeps her place. “Do you know why he might be so eager to get her out of the building?”
“Out of the whole building or only the salon?”
“The salon.”
“That is interesting.” She rolls back until her spine touches the floor and bounces up again.
“It’s for me,” she says. “I told him about my dream to open a vegan café but that I couldn’t find a place with affordable rent. He said he might know a place I could definitely afford.” She breaks into a sneaky smile.
“He’d give you free rent in the space occupied by Tracy’s salon?”
“He’d do anything to make me happy, to be Daddy’s little girl again.
” Claire rocks backward again, this time until she’s flat on her back on the floor, arms and legs stretched out like a snow angel.
“Bloody hell, am I incriminating my own dad?” She closes her eyes, puts the back of her hand on her forehead. “Cue the smelling salts!”
I think I have what I need and start to crawl out of the tent. But then I remember the most important question. When was the last time Claire spoke to her father on the phone? I don’t tell her that Bert has already told us he had a long conversation with her during the time that Tracy was murdered.
“He calls me all the time,” Claire says. “But I almost never pick up. Last time I did was probably two weeks ago. If you see him, tell him I’m alive.”
Which is more than I can say for Bert’s alibi.