an unofficial time of death—between 2 and 3 a.m. A discreet call to one of the original uniforms, who reluctantly told me that the adult Pratts had been at a party, which they hadn’t left until 6 a.m.; socialites had more fun than I realized. Chloe hadn’t been home either—her best friend, two houses down, was also having a party. The only people home between 2 and 3 a.m. had been Tyrone and his nanny, both asleep.
Paulie had called around to her photographer acquaintances and ended up in possession of e-mailed photos of Dr. ap G’s blowout. These not only confirmed Pam Pratt’s prior knowledge of the doctor, but yielded another nugget—an of Cooney Pratt, drink in hand, shooting daggers at the Welshman, who was in the act of slipping some sort of wild-flower, stem first, into Pam’s cleavage.
And finally, a call from Callie, with the results of her Face-book research: JRose, who was on the “friend” lists for both Callie and Chloe Pratt.
“She says she’ll meet you at the Coffee Plantation by the Shea 14,” Callie said. “You know where that is?”
“Sure. Thanks, Callie. Have you ever met this girl in person?”
“Of course not,” she said, sounding surprised. “But she likes historical fiction and her pictures are cute.”
JRose was cute in person too. A shapely redhead with big blue eyes and a breezy manner, more than willing to help out her friend Callie’s Uncle Tom. She hadn’t been at the party on the night of the murder, but would try to find out how long Chloe had been there.
“Discreetly,” I said.
“I can do discreet,” she replied, and lowered her lashes in illustration.
“You know Chloe well?”
“Not that well, but I know her f2f. She doesn’t usually go to parties like that,” she said, twirling a straw in her caramel macchiato. “She parties, but it’s mostly at the clubs. I’ve seen her now and then, with her mom. Her mom’s a coug,” she added, scornful and amused.
“Coug—what, short for cougar?”
“Rowr,” she said, clawing one hand and showing her canines. Then laughed, her face going back to sweetness. “Older ladies, like married with kids. They go to clubs and hit on younger men. Cougs are ladies who are way too old to be wea-rin’ what they’re wearin’, and doin’ what they’re doin’.”
“What are they wearing?” I asked. My informant cupped both hands in front of her chest.
“Big fake boobs. And like miniskirts with no Underoos.”
“Yeah? You can tell?”
She rolled her big blue eyes at me. “Oh, everybody can tell! They get all drunk and fall around, and everybody’s like, ‘Oh, put it away!’”
This was beginning to sound entertaining.
“Chloe and her mom. They hang out, you said … like, what places?”
“Oh, the Devil’s North, that’s the big hangout for cougs. Or at Eli’s, down by Claimjumpers on Shea.”
“Devil’s North?” I’d heard of Eli’s, but—
“The Devil’s Martini,” she explained, and paused for a slurp of her macchiato.
“You said, ‘too old to be doing what they’re doing.’ What are they doing?”
“I told you,” she said promptly. “Hitting on younger men. There was this photo on DirtyScottsdale.com, this coug right up with this little kid celebrating his twenty-first, and the caption says, Oh, you’re twenty-one? Well, I’m twenty-seven—I don’t think that’s too much difference, do you?” She laughed.
“Only she was maybe thirty- seven! That’s just gross.”
“But there are older guys who hit on younger women in clubs, aren’t there?”
“Oh, sure.”
“Isn’t that a double standard?”
“Oh, totally,” she agreed cheerfully, and gave me a look of appraisal that was a lot older than she was. I lifted a finger for the bill, hoping 37 wasn’t flflashing on my forehead.
I’d heard of DirtyScottsdale.com, but hadn’t had occasion to look at the site before. It’s a do-it-yourself local tabloid covering the club scene; people take pictures of each other drunk, behaving badly, in unflattering or compromising positions, and send them to the site, usually anonymously, often with scurrilous captions.
Some of them were truly funny; some were embarrassing, like the shot of a young woman, very drunk, urinating in a parking lot. All of them were vulgar and most were kind of sad.
I found Chloe in the archives, leaning up against the wall next to a door that said Ladies. Her eyes were unfocused and there was a sloppy smile on her face. The tie of her halter dress had come undone—or been untied on purpose—and she was clutching the fabric to one of her breasts. The other one was left to fend for itself, and with thoughts of Callie, JRose,