As soon as he cleared the driveway, I ran a comb through my hair and applied some tinted lip gloss. Looking at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I noticed a healthy glow to my cheeks, though I wasn’t wearing blush. As I remembered that kiss, the blushed deepened. I wondered if Bowers would give it a second thought? I wondered why I cared?
I grabbed my purse and headed into Scottsdale. My suspect list was as gaunt as a mangy dog, and my clues were so lame they couldn’t withstand the interrogation of a four-year-old. I needed something solid if I planned to impress Bowers with my aunt’s innocence. That discrepancy between Elvira’s own doctor’s name and the contact information on the business card I’d found in her memory box might mean something, and it might have been overlooked by Bowers. I planned to find out.
Dr. Margaret Shauhnessy’s practice was located in a large, white medical office building. Three floors of offices surrounded a center courtyard, with tables and benches set against a waterfall and surrounded by green foliage. It provided a relaxing atmosphere for patients as they waited for appointments, test results, and good or bad news.
I exited the elevator on the third floor, and as soon as I walked in the glass office doors, I realized I should have brought a date. The patients came in couples, and as they checked out the newcomer, their expressions all seemed to reflect incredible sadness or tenuous hope.
“Can I help you?”
The receptionist had plain features but an expression of kindness and sympathy. The name on the business card read Moira. Not Dr. Moira. Just Moira. I looked into the curious expression of the receptionist and said, “Are you Moira?”
A nurse in a white uniform had been flipping through folders in a drawer. She plucked one out, snapped the drawer shut, and approached the window. She had ebony hair and the complexion of a teenager, but I put her age around mid-thirties because of the lines around her eyes.
“I’m Moira,” she said.
“Is there somewhere private where we can speak?”
Her gaze drifted toward a hallway that I assumed led to the examination rooms. “We’re pretty busy right now. Do you have an appointment with Dr. Shaughnessy?”
“This has to do with Elvira Jenkins.”
Nurse Moira paled, clutched the back of the receptionist’s chair, and swayed.
“Are you alright?”
She handed the file to the receptionist and murmured instructions. Then she came out into the reception area and held open the front door. She didn’t speak until we made it to a corner of the walkway that was left in shadow from the awning above.
She wrapped her arms around her waist in a posture that was both defensive and self-comforting.
“Who gave you my name?”
“I didn’t mean to startle you—”
“Who-gave-you-my-name.” The words came out in a rat-a-tat, as if they were fired from a gun.
“Elvira.” That was sort of true.
“She wouldn’t do that. She swore our conversation was confidential.”
“And our conversation will be as well.” I rested a hand on her arm, but she shook it off. “I’m just trying to find her murderer, and what you talked about may have a bearing.”
“It couldn’t. I didn’t tell her anything.”
“So, she just showed up, introduced herself, and you didn’t talk about anything? I find that hard to believe. You’re awfully upset.”
“I could lose my job!”
Her hand shook as she wiped away tears. “I was young and stupid, okay? I made a mistake.”
“Malpractice?” I asked, thoroughly confused by now.
She coughed out a harsh laugh. “I guess you could call it that. I took a job at an abortion clinic.” She gripped my arm with surprising strength, and I felt uneasy, even though I outweighed her by twenty pounds.
“I was naïve. I thought I was helping people, and then I saw—” She closed her eyes and looked sick.
“And Elvira wanted to know about it? Did she plan to use you at one of her protests?”
“No. And that’s all I’m saying. I’ve paid for my mistake, and I’ll keep on paying for the rest of my life, every time I go to sleep. Nightmares.”
“Was it at a clinic around here?”
“That’s not how she found me.” Her sharp tone warned me that the discussion was over.
Nurse Moira dried her face, assumed her professional demeanor, and said, “Don’t come back here.” She headed through the clinic door without looking back.
What could Moira’s job at an abortion clinic have to do with Elvira Jenkins murder? Did Elvira threaten to hold the nurse up as an example at one of her protests? Did Moira lash out to protect her job? That might have provided her with a motive for murder.
I drove until I found myself in front of Granny Flynn’s house. Unless Granny had calmed down, I was the next to be murdered.
The police cars were gone, so I made my way to the front door. I knocked lightly, almost hoping she wouldn’t answer, and when she did, Granny Flynn seemed bigger than I remembered. Maybe it was the broom in her hand, which she raised above her head, ready to deliver a whack, as soon as she recognized me.
“Why aren’t you in jail?”
“Because I didn’t kill your granddaughter.”
I stuck my foot in the door before she slammed it on my face. “And I would really like to find out who did and bring them to justice.”
She eyed me and probably saw a wimp who never worked out, and realizing she had forty pounds on me, she held open the door.
“What do you want to know?”
She let me into the hallway, but she made no move to invite me to sit down. I didn’t blame her. The woman was in mourning. The television was off.
“Fiona recognized someone at the Baking Channel the other day. Did she mention it?”
“No.”
“She was going to open a shop in Tucson, I understand.”
She rested the broom against the wall and took a hankie out of her apron pocket to dab her teary eyes. “To make all the college girls beautiful. Yes.”
The furniture in the house was well cared for but worn. The couch cushions were depressed from the weight of too many bottoms over too many years. The doilies on the end tables couldn’t hide all the spots where the sheen of the wood had dulled. All the knick-knacks looked old, if not antique. The newest thing in the room was probably the magazine on the coffee table.
“That must cost a lot of money.”
“She was thrifty, my Fiona.”
Thrifty probably wouldn’t pay for a new shop. “She didn’t come into a large amount of cash recently?”
Granny’s eyes narrowed, and she stepped forward. “Are you accusing my sweet granddaughter of doing something wrong?”
I held up my hands. “Not a chance.” Blackmail was wrong last time I checked, so I ended that line of conversation.
“Fiona mentioned that she worked at a club before she moved to Arizona. Do you know where?”
“She lived in Nevada.”
That didn’t narrow it down, much. “Do you know who she worked for?”
“She wasn’t big on keeping in touch. The young never do. They have their own lives.”
“What type of club was it?”
“Entertainment. Probably a cabaret. She did the makeup for performers, some of them pretty famous, she told me.” She smiled and puffed out her chest.
“Did she ever mention the name of the club?”
She knit her bushy brows together, puzzled. “It was a candy bar.”
“Rolos?”
“I never liked those.”
“Reese’s?”
“No, but something like that.”
I paused, remembering Petey’s constant meow, meow, meow. “Kit Kat?”
“That’s it!”
Petey had held a clue, only it had been too obvious for me to see.