Tuesday, June 6
“Chief Burnson, Leigh Girard. Did the forensics report on Lisette Cohen come in yet?”
I was sitting at my desk. Marge was on the other line talking to one of our distributors. Today she was a little bit country: big hair, high-waisted floral dress, and brown knee-high boots with three-inch heels.
I heard the rustle of papers. “Got ’em right here. Pretty much what we expected.” Burnson paused.
“You mean the same person who killed Stephanie Everson killed Lisette Cohen.”
“I’m not going to speculate until all the evidence is in.” His usual slick gregariousness was gone.
“What about the clothes? Were you able to determine if they were hers?”
“Can’t say.”
“Can’t say or won’t say?”
“As far as you’re concerned—same thing.”
He had every right to withhold certain details from the press, but I had every right to try and weasel those details out of him.
“Was she sexually assaulted?”
“Nope.”
Something in that nope sounded too quick and too definite. “What about sexual intercourse? Did she have sex prior to death? You can tell me that at least.”
He let out a deep sigh. “I’m not saying one way or another.”
“Okay, but if she did, you’d be able to compare the DNA from the semen with Ritter’s DNA.”
“That’s the way it usually works.”
“And if it didn’t match up, then—”
Before I could finish, he said, “Doesn’t mean he didn’t kill her.”
I hung up the phone and blew air out through my mouth. That was the second frustrating call of the day. I’d tried to pry from the ferry line’s secretary whether Andy Weathers had worked crew on May twentieth and May thirtieth—the days Stephanie and Lisette were murdered. I’d made up some bogus story about Weathers claiming he’d worked on my boat those days and I wanted to make sure he wasn’t bilking me. The woman had told me that Andy would never do that and hung up.
“Marge,” I said. “You know when Martin’s getting in?”
“Hon, staff meeting’s at nine. Rescheduled. You forget again?”
I had forgotten.
“I guess you got a lot on your mind. What with finding both those poor girls and then that phone call. Gives me the shivers. Bet you’re glad they caught the killer. What would make a person do something like that?”
Marge had lived in Door County a long time and knew how not to ask a question while asking it. There was another question under her question.
“Before you tie your tongue up in knots, I’m not convinced Ritter is the murderer, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Aren’t we touchy today? Isn’t Jake’s daughter a nice girl?”
“You know, Marge, you missed your calling. The CIA could really use your talents.”
“Now there’s no need to get like that, Leigh. Someone’s got to look out for you. God knows these men are useless.” For all her newfound freedom of self-expression, Marge still thought that women needed protecting. And that only men could provide that protection.
“Speaking of useless,” I said.
Martin had just walked into the office. Marge giggled.
He was wearing a red short-sleeve shirt that clashed with his shockingly red hair. He went to his desk, sat down, and flipped on his computer, completely ignoring me.
“Got a minute?” I asked. “I need to show you something.”
He looked over at me as if I’d just appeared out of thin air. “If it’s a body, not interested.”
“Real funny. It’s about an article you did last summer. The one on that town meeting protesting Russell Margaris’s development along the Mink.”
He made a face as if I was speaking a foreign language.
“What about it?”
I unfolded the article and held it up. “Who was at that meeting besides Margaris, Guy Connors and the board?”
Martin made a big deal out of pushing his chair back, standing up and walking over to my desk.
“Why do you want to know that?” He took the article from my hand. As he stood over me holding the article, I could smell a piney scent. Either he’d been rubbing elbows with trees this morning, or he’d overdone the cologne.
“I’m just following something up.”
“Nothing to follow up. The whole thing ended up in a so-called compromise. Which means the bad guys won. Margaris gets to develop the land if he stays upland and dedicates the breeding area in perpetuity. Problem is, it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t build along the breeding area. The fact that he’s building near it will impact it negatively. The damned thing should be left just as is. It’s the only known breeding area of the Hine’s Emerald Dragonfly in the US besides a few remote places in Illinois and Minnesota. The Hine’s is federally endangered. Not that anyone gives a damn.”
I’d heard all that from Kolinsky. But I threw in a few nods to let him think I was interested.
“Was Andy Weathers there?”
“Andy Weathers?” He craned his neck back. “Why do you want to know about him?”
“This has nothing to do with the murders. I just need to know if he was there.”
“You really do think I’m that stupid, don’t you?”
“Okay, it might have something to do with them.”
“News flash. The police caught the killer. You know different?”
“Weathers? Was he there?”
Martin put the article back on my desk and pointed to the circled person standing with his back to the camera. “That’s him. And the only reason I know it’s him is that I sat behind him. He was part of the citizens group protesting the development. Just like everyone else there, except Margaris, his lawyer and our nearsighted board.”
A thought just occurred to me. “Was Stephanie Everson there?”
“I don’t remember seeing her, but her father was there. And Kolinsky and his group. You’re not trying to connect those girls’ murders up with this?” He straightened up.
“Who shot the photo?”
“You’re whacked, Girard. You know that?”
“The photo, who shot it?”
“I did.”
“You take any others?”
“Why should I let you see them?”
“Martin, does everything between us have to be a pissing contest? I just want to see the photos. It might come to nothing. Or, like the thing with Sarah, it might come to something.”
He didn’t like it. But there was no escaping the facts. I’d saved his ex-wife’s life. “I’ll get them to you tomorrow. If I have time.” He stressed the if.
“And this one. I need it blown up.”
“Don’t push it.”
I refolded the article, grabbed my purse and put the article inside.
“Where you going? We’ve got a staff meeting,” Martin said.
I didn’t answer.
“Jake’s not going to like this,” Martin called after me.
“He’ll get over it.”