In her car, she started the engine but left the door open until the air conditioning kicked in. Bending forward, she bumped her head on the steering wheel a couple times. Hard.
Dad still didn’t know about that awful drawing.
She’d lied twice to her father. Once straight out, and once by omission. Beth was queasy with guilt when she finally backed out.
Of course, that’s when her phone rang.
* * *
DEBRA ABERNATHY HAD agreed to meet Tony after she got off work. She’d suggested Starbucks.
He’d learned that she was an insurance agent and that, coincidentally, she lived in a townhouse on Beth’s block. Had both women changed so much, they didn’t recognize each other?
Having arrived first, he sat down with a tall iced coffee with milk and watched the people in line and new customers arriving. He focused immediately on a woman who resembled the driver’s license photo of Debra Abernathy, despite hair that was an eye-popping shade of red instead of her previous blond. No, probably she hadn’t really been blonde either, he realized.
Once she had her drink, he stood so she could see his badge, and she immediately headed for his booth at the back. “Detective Navarro?”
“And you must be Ms. Abernathy.”
“That’s right.” She slid in, facing him.
Her face was unlined, making him suspect a facelift. It was harder to defeat the sagging skin on her neck. Her hands gave away her age, too, with some liver spotting and knobby knuckles. Nonetheless, she was a striking woman. He wondered what marriage she was on now or whether she was between.
“I can’t believe her kids found Christine,” she said. “That’s awful. And I know they’re adults now, but still.”
“They were pretty shaken up,” he agreed. “They probably guessed right away that the remains had to be hers.”
He let her ramble for a few minutes, interested in how much she knew.
“I called Emily after talking to you this afternoon. She was hysterical about some naked picture of Christine.”
Oh, hell. Either Matt or Beth had been sure to tell their sister about the drawing, but Tony doubted she had any discretion whatsoever. Who else had she told?
“That was one of the things I’d hoped to talk to you about,” he admitted.
“Did she pose?” Ms. Abernathy leaned forward, expression fierce. “Or did some piece of shit photograph her on the sly?”
“She posed. And it isn’t a photo. It’s a quite skillful drawing.”
The woman gaped. “A drawing?”
“One of my questions for you is—did Christine Marshall ever mention a friend of hers who was an artist? Probably not professionally,” he added, “although I can’t be sure, but certainly talented.”
“That was a long time ago.” Her eyes lost focus as she looked back. “I remember her being really flattered by a portrait,” Ms. Abernathy said after a minute, “but I took it to be one of those quick sketches artists make. You know, a few lines, smudged a little, but it really does look like you?”
“Do you recall who the artist was?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know if she told me or not. If it comes to me, I’ll call you. You think he might have killed her?”
“It’s one possibility.”
She sipped her coffee, also iced, and brooded. “I knew she had a lover. I was actually glad for her.” Her gaze held a challenge now. “I don’t suppose you can understand that.”
Oh, he understood. He just didn’t approve. Given his family’s faith, marriage was for life. A man or woman feeling trapped might be tempted into infidelity. But Christine Marshall had had the option of telling her husband she wasn’t happy and leaving him before she slept with another man. Why hadn’t she done that?
Again, he arrowed in on the same possibility: the man was also married and not ready to trade in one wife for another. When they were being targeted by a serial cheater, women often failed to recognize what he was. Pushing him for more than he intended to give could be humiliating. For Christine, it might have been dangerous.
“I understand you were close friends,” he said.
“Who told you that?”