The foothills above Roscoe Canyon were a Realtor’s wet dream, with exclusive residences tucked behind ornate wrought iron security fences. Home to an eclectic mix of artists, real estate agents, and business owners, Roscoe Canyon was bounded on all sides by conservancy lands. Residents paid a premium for the mountain views, but Hollis Jones’s digs were modest. While most properties in the area went for sums in excess of $1 million, Jones lived in a stucco cabin whose gateposts were crumbling.
Natalie rang the doorbell and heard a reedy voice say, “Hello?”
“Mr. Jones? It’s Detective Lockhart.”
Wind chimes dangling from the porch overhang made discordant music in the November breeze. Natalie heard footsteps and could see a faint outline behind the rusty screen door. A pale face. Spiky dark hair. Broken capillaries on a long, thin nose. An old robe worn from repeated washings.
“Can we talk for a minute?” she asked.
Jones gazed at her through the screen door, furrows of stress forming on his face. “How am I in trouble, exactly?”
“No trouble at all, sir,” Natalie said. “I’m investigating the death of Morgan Chambers.”
“Oh.” He scowled. “I had nothing to do with that.”
“May I come in? It’s cold out here.”
He balked, then conceded. He opened the door.
The furniture was a mixed bag, chosen for comfort over style. The twinkle lights strung across the living-room ceiling glowed like shy stars, while the wooden crossbeams cast cavernous shadows. The place was untidy, cluttered with newspapers and packages from Amazon. A teak shelving unit displayed vintage collectibles, and there were authentic-looking primitive masks hanging on the walls.
“Just so you know,” he told her, “I was supposed to meet her at Blondie’s on Sunday night, but then I ditched her for another opportunity.”
“Why? What happened?” Natalie asked.
“The truth is, I met someone else.”
“You stood her up?”
He shrugged. “Ava Dixon gave this amazing fucking performance. We hit it off. I’m going to see her next weekend. We may do a gig together.”
“Did you call Morgan and let her know?”
“Nah. I acted like a complete asshole.”
“So you just let her wait for you in a bar alone, and you never showed?”
“Right. But listen. I liked her at first, until she revealed her true colors when we saw each other on Saturday night. So I decided not to waste my time on someone like that.”
“Someone like what?”
“Who thinks being a fiddle player is beneath her. She said she was looking for a gig like mine, but pretty soon she let slip what she really thought. As if playing the fiddle wasn’t a worthy occupation.”
“Did you dress up as a zombie for Halloween by any chance?”
He shook his head. “I don’t go in for that shit. I was wearing my standard uniform. T-shirt, jeans, and a hoodie. Maybe a little mascara.”
She disliked his arrogance, but he wasn’t coming across as guilty of anything other than being a complete jerk. “When did you first meet Morgan?”
“At the contest. She came up afterwards and shook my hand. She was very bold, which I liked. We talked. She wanted to talk some more. I suggested we meet at the Shady Planet the following night. Ten o’clock.”
“And you enjoyed her company enough to see her again on Sunday night?”
“She’s sexy.”
“But you stood her up.”
“I met someone even sexier,” he said.
“Where did you and Ava go?”
“I took her to Lucia’s. Then we came back here and had a nice time.”
Natalie nodded. “Can I have Ava’s contact information so I can verify this?”
“Okay. But I didn’t have anything to do with whatever happened to Morgan.” He looked at Natalie. “By the way, what did happen to her?”
“Just get the information, please.”
“Hold on.” He went to fetch his phone.
When he came back, she decided to just throw it out there. “Have you ever used GHB or Rohypnol?”
“The date rape drug?” Jones laughed. “Are you serious? Me? Women fling themselves at me every night. I have to beat them off with a stick. Do you want Ava’s number or not?”