Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

I was standing in front of a Spanish-style home, thinking about the dream I’d had the night before, when a woman opened the door. She was hunched over, like she wasn’t capable of standing up straight, and her gray hair was filled with pink foam rollers.

“You caught me right before I was about to hop in the shower,” she said. “Who are ya, and why are you here?”

“I’m Georgiana Germaine, and I’m investigating your neighbor’s murder.”

She went quiet a moment, processing what I’d just said. Then she swished a hand through the air, gesturing for me to come in. I followed her to the front room, which had a single theme—purple. Purple floral wallpaper, purple couch, purple throw pillows, purple rug.

We sat on the sofa, and she said, “I’m Marianne. One of the neighbors told me about you taking on Owen Cooperson’s case, though I can’t imagine why you did.”

“The police haven’t proven he’s guilty … not yet.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s innocent.”

Indeed.

“I was told you overheard an argument or two while they lived next to you,” I said.

“One argument is all.”

“ One argument in the entire time they lived here?”

“Yessiree.”

“One argument seems … odd,” I said.

She raised a brow. “How so?”

“Your house is close to theirs. I would think if you’d heard one, you would have heard others.”

“My hearing is darn good for my age, though not as good as it used to be.”

“How do you know they were arguing?”

She rolled her eyes. “Their voices, they were raised. Duh.”

“Could you hear what they were saying?”

“Well, no, I don’t suppose I could.”

I ignored the sarcasm.

“Did you witness the argument, through a window or something?” I asked.

“No, I tried. Their curtains were drawn.”

“If you didn’t see them, and you didn’t hear what they were saying, how do you know the argument was between Claire and Owen? I mean, can you be 100 percent sure it was them?”

“I … well, I … hold on a minute now.”

The question seemed to throw her off, perhaps making her reconsider her statement.

“You’re right,” she said. “I didn’t see them, and I’m not sure what all the fuss was about or why they were so upset with each other. I just know it was them arguing. Gut instinct tells me I’m right.”

Gut instinct?

Not good enough.

“You don’t like Owen much, do you?” I asked.

“Nope, can’t say I do.”

“Is it possible you told the police Owen and Claire were arguing because you want him to be convicted of her murder?”

She stabbed a finger in my direction. “I heard what I heard, missy. I’ve never lied a day in my life. Not about to start now, no matter what my personal feelings are for the man.”

“Why don’t you care for him?”

“He made Claire cry. These past months, she was crying just about every time I saw her. And as I don’t know of any other logical explanation, I figured the husband was to blame. They always are, you know. My husband used to make me cry too, until the day I booted his butt right out the door.”

She was projecting, putting her personal feelings from her own past and obvious dislike of men onto Owen.

“Claire’s mother died in a car accident,” I said. “Claire struggled a lot afterward.”

“I’m aware. She died a year ago, didn’t she? Surely Claire wouldn’t have still been crying a whole year later, not all the time.”

“People grieve in different ways. It takes longer for some people to get past a loss than others.”

“Huh, I suppose you’re right. Still, the husband’s bad news. Get to know him. You’ll see.”