Chapter 13

13

Rosalyn Westwood was dressed in a pair of joggers, an oversized sweater, and a Raiders ballcap when I parked in front of my mother's house. There was another car parked in front of mine, a fancy black Mercedes I didn't recognize.

Rosalyn had just locked the Pepto Bismol house door, and it looked like she was heading out to walk her dog. For a moment, I considered saving the conversation I'd planned to have with her until later. If I waited until she was out of sight, I could sneak around the property while she was away. Then again, just because she wasn't home didn't mean her husband wasn't there.

I exited the car, glanced in her direction, and noticed her eyeballing my car. She pivoted and headed in my direction, a wide grin on her face as she said, "Nice Jaguar. What year?"

"It's a '37. It belonged to my grandmother."

"Your grandmother had good taste."

"She did. The car was passed down to me when she died."

"I love classic cars. I've never owned anything else. I've seen this beauty parked here a few times, and I've always admired it. How do you know Darlene?"

"She's my mother."

"Ahh, I see. Which daughter are you?"

"I'm Georgiana, the private detective."

"Thought so. You have a private eye look about you."

I wasn't sure what the ‘look' of a private eye entailed, but in my vintage, wide-legged linen trousers, black sweater, and matching wedge shoes, it seemed I'd nailed it.

"'I'm guessing you've met my mother," I said.

She smirked at me. "You can't live on this street and not know your mother. She'd never allow it."

She laughed, and I followed suit, glad we were off to a good start.

"Your dog is adorable," I said.

"Thanks so much. He's a Morkie."

"A what?"

"A cross between a Maltese and a Yorkshire terrier. His name is Boomer, and today's his birthday. I'm going to get him one of those doggie cupcakes later. Do you have any pets?"

"I have a Samoyed named Luka."

"One of those dogs that looks like a wolf. They're beautiful."

Though I was enjoying our conversation—and the fact I'd been able to establish a rapport without putting in much effort—it was time to segue the light conversation we were having into something heavier.

"It's a shame, what happened to your neighbor," I said.

Rosalyn glanced at Cordelia's house then back at me. "I still can't believe it. She was always so nice to me."

Yeah, but were you always nice to her?

"How well did you know Cordelia?" I asked.

"We talked here and there when we saw each other, but she was on the quiet side. When we did talk, she kept the conversation brief. She seemed sad. I guess it's because her husband died."

"I heard you weren't fond of her cat."

Rosalyn cleared her throat, stunned to find out I'd heard about the conversation she'd had with Cordelia about the cat, if it was about a cat.

"How did you know about?—"

"My sister is married to the chief of police," I said. "I heard he stopped by to talk to you about an argument you had in your front yard some weeks back."

"I wasn't aware he'd told anyone about our conversation." Rosalyn blushed, fluttering her eyelids. "It wasn't a big deal. I just asked her if she could do a better job at keeping her cat from coming into my yard."

Blushing was her first strike.

Fluttering her eyelids was her second.

Both were telltale signs that she was lying to me.

I considered pointing it out to her, but given we'd just started the main topic of conversation, I decided to wait and see what more I could get out of her first.

"When the conversation between you and Cordelia ended, I hear she started crying," I said.

Rosalyn's eyes darted back and forth.

Strike three.

She was about to be called out.

"I don't … ahh, I don't remember Cordelia crying," she said. "She was a little upset, sure, but not to the point of shedding tears over it. We had a good conversation. When she left, everything was fine between us. I thought it was, at least. What makes you think she was crying?"

"During your conversation, my sister was parked right about where we're standing right now. She witnessed the entire exchange."

Rosalyn pressed a hand to her chest. "Gosh, she must have seen something I didn't then. Maybe Cordelia started crying after I went back inside the house. I had no idea what I said had upset her so much."

She had some idea.

Of that, I was certain.

"If my sister said Cordelia was crying, she must have been," I said.

"I … I don't know what to say."

It might have been the most honest thing she'd said so far. I'd backed her into a corner, something she hadn't seen coming. The only way out was for her to tell the truth, and it was clear she wasn't about to do that.

"Did you have any other conversations with Cordelia before she died?" I asked.

"A couple of small ones, I guess."

"What did you talk about?"

She paused a moment and then said, "I don't recall. Small talk, about the weather, or her garden, or the neighborhood, that kind of thing."

"Did Cordelia ever say anything to you about fearing for her life?"

"What? No. Why would she fear for her life?"

"I don't know."

"Then why did you ask the question?"

Why, indeed.

"Cordelia sent her sister a couple of letters before she died," I said. "In one, she alluded to being afraid, which makes me think she knew something was about to happen to her. And she'd been right—something did happen."

Rosalyn squeezed her eyes shut like she was trying to produce tears, though the tears didn't come. Was it an act? If so, she'd failed.

"Oh, my goodness, I can't believe it," she said. "Poor thing."

I glanced at her wrist. "That's a big greenish-yellow bruise you got there. Based on the color, I'd say it's a couple of weeks old. What happened?"

Rosalyn slapped a hand over the bruise, but it was much too late. In the time we'd been chatting, I'd also noticed a small gash over her left eye. I wondered if she had other gashes and bruises, ones I couldn't see.

"It's nothing," she said. "My shoelace came undone when I was out walking Boomer not too long ago, and I fell. What's with all the questions?"

Her tone had changed a great deal since the start of the conversation. At first, it had been light and warm. Now her tone was low, responses flat.

"What can I say," I said. "I'm a private investigator, and I'm curious about things."

I heard a rustling sound coming from a bush nearby, which didn't make sense, given there wasn't a breeze today. Rosalyn seemed to notice it too, and she turned, both of us staring in that direction.

I squinted, looking closer, but I didn't see anything, and the rustling had stopped.

Rosalyn glanced at Boomer, who was dancing around her feet like he was losing patience. "I should go. So much to do to celebrate his birthday. It was nice meeting you, Georgiana."

It may have been nice, though I expected it wasn't, and given I was sure she'd lied to my face, the feeling wasn't mutual.

"Is your husband at home?" I asked.

"Eddy? No. He's out of town for work. Why?"

"I was hoping to ask him some questions."

"What questions?"

"I'd like to know about his relationship with Cordelia," I said. "When do you expect him back?"

"I don't know."

" You don't know when your husband gets off work? Why not?"

"He'll get here when he gets here. And just so you know, he didn't have a relationship of any kind with Cordelia—I doubt they'd even spoken to each other. I don't think he'd be much help to you, but I'll tell him when I see him."

"I'll be talking to everyone in the neighborhood at some point."

"I get what you do for a living, but aren't the police investigating this one?"

"They are. I've been hired by a private individual to do the same. I'll be working alongside the police until we catch the guy … or girl responsible."

She swallowed, hard, and said, "Oh, well, I wish you the best of luck. See ya."

Forcing a smile, she tugged on her dog's leash. "Come on, Boomer. Let's go."

Beneath her smiley exterior was a woman who seemed to have a lot to hide.

The next time we talked, if she had lied to me, I'd find a way to ensure her lies came spilling out.