Chapter 6
I sat in my car outside the Twisted Vine Bistro for several minutes after Cooper left with the engine off and my hands resting on the steering wheel.
The lunch crowd had begun to thin, and a warm breeze stirred the umbrellas outside on the restaurant patio.
I couldn’t help but think about how crazy life could be and how it had a way of continuing even when, for some, it was cut short.
I leaned back against the seat and closed my eyes, replaying the conversation I’d just had with Cooper.
His grief.
His hesitation.
His … well, what I hoped was honesty.
The way his voice had softened when he spoke about Wren felt genuine, while other things he’d said felt rehearsed. The problem with people who seemed sincere was that sincerity could be practiced, making it hard to tell the difference, even for someone like me.
It seemed possible that Cooper had been the last person to see Wren alive. Yet when Foley and Whitlock interviewed him, he failed to mention that crucial detail, the kind of detail an innocent person would normally volunteer without hesitation.
I opened my eyes and reached for my phone, giving Whitlock a call. He answered on the third ring.
“Solved the murder already, have you?” he joked.
“Sorry to disappoint,” I said. “Not yet. I just finished speaking with Cooper Mayfair.”
There was a short pause.
“And?” Whitlock said. “What do you think?”
“He says their separation wasn’t meant to be permanent. And there’s more.” I shifted in my seat. “Cooper admitted he went to Mia’s house the night Wren was murdered.”
The silence on the other end of the line stretched a long few seconds.
“He … what?” Whitlock said. “That’s not something he mentioned to us.”
“No, it’s not.”
“What time did he leave?”
“He claims it was about seven thirty.”
Another pause.
“That puts him there right before the murder,” he said.
“Yep.”
“Fantastic,” he said in a sarcastic tone. “I liked the guy. You ever meet someone and think, now there’s a fellow who returns his shopping cart to the cart corral every single time. I’ll admit I thought as much of Cooper when I met him.”
“And now?”
“My first impression has undergone a drastic change. Foley’s not going to be happy when he hears about it.”
“I’d rather it came from you than me.”
“Oh, I’ll tell him,” Whitlock said. “But I might wait until he’s in a better mood first.”
“That’s thoughtful of you.”
“I try.”
A car drove past me into the parking lot, its tires crunching across the gravel before pulling into a space near the restaurant.
“What else did Cooper say about their visit?” Whitlock asked.
“He said they talked about their marriage and that Wren admitted she missed him.”
“He can say whatever he likes. Doesn’t mean it happened.”
“Cooper also said it was a pleasant conversation, with no arguing or raised voices.”
“After speaking to him, what do you think?”
“Either he’s telling the truth, or he’s the calmest liar I’ve met in some time.”
“Given he withheld important information, I’m leaning toward the latter,” Whitlock said.
“That makes two of us. When I asked why he never mentioned seeing Wren during his interview with you, he blamed it on shock.”
Whitlock snorted. “Funny how being in shock erased the most important detail of his story.”
“He did admit to being scared.”
“Doesn’t matter. He could have corrected it, and he hasn’t. It’s a bummer. I took him at face value. Suppose that makes me a chump.”
“You’re not, and hey, he didn’t have to come clean today. As far as I know, no one saw him at Mia’s house that night. He didn’t have to tell me.”
“Still, he lied, which means we’ll need to bring him back in. What’s your next move?”
“I’m heading back to Cambria to talk to Clive Simmons.”
“The guy Wren fired?”
“That’s the one,” I said. “While I have you, do you have an address for him?”
I heard the shuffling of papers in the background.
“Lives in a small place outside Cambria,” he said, giving me the address. “Couple miles inland off Santa Rosa Creek Road.”
“I appreciate it.”
I ended the call, set the phone down in the center console, and started the car. Then I pulled out of the parking lot, heading toward the highway. An hour later the vineyards gave way to winding country roads and scattered ranch houses. Clive lived down one of those roads.
I slowed as I approached a narrow gravel driveway marked by a rusted, crooked mailbox. The faded number on its side matched the address Whitlock had given me.
A small, weathered house sat at the end of the drive.
I parked and stepped out of the car.
The place looked quiet.
Almost too quiet.
I walked toward the front door and knocked.
No answer.
I knocked again.
Still nothing.
I was about to turn back toward my car when something caught my eye through the living room window. Inside the house, on the wall, was a dartboard with a photograph of Wren in the center. And that wasn’t all. Someone had drawn a thick black X across her face.