information they were allowed to disclose while Josie fought back another wave of grief over the events of the day before. Then Josie and Gretchen spent some time with the two stylists who remembered Vera. Neither of them recalled her either selling drugs to clients or using drugs herself—even when asked out of Sara’s presence.
Josie and Gretchen took the list and photos back to the station house to track down as many of the former clients as they could. The list wasn’t long. There were only seven names, and they were not all complete. Sara Venuto and her staff had only been able to provide last names for some of the women and for others, only the first initial of their last name. They were names from thirty years earlier, anyway. Josie knew there was the possibility that some of the women would have changed their names now, due to marriage or divorce. She and Gretchen ordered lunch and tried to track down the women on the list. Two of them were deceased. One of them now lived in California and another in Texas. Josie spoke with both of them by telephone. Their stories were the same. They vaguely remembered Vera, spoke kindly of her, and said they hadn’t had any contact with her since she left the salon after her injury. Neither remembered her selling or using drugs.
There were three names left: one was Mayor Tara Charleston. Josie crossed her off. Then there was a woman named Marisol and another named Connie P. Marisol was a fairly uncommon name. It only took Josie about a half hour to locate Marisol Dutton, wife of city councilman and mayoral candidate, Kurt Dutton. The Duttons’ close neighbors—also residents of the original development before it became Quail Hollow—were Joseph and Constance Prather. Connie P. Josie brought up Constance Prather’s driver’s license photo and compared it to the picture of Connie P. taken at Vera’s baby shower. It was a match.
There was still no word from Colbert PD. There was plenty of daylight left. “Gretchen,” Josie said, “finish your lunch fast. I found Vera’s other clients.”
Thirty-Three
They returned to Quail Hollow with Josie at the wheel. This time there was no rain and even more protestors out front. Across from them, on the other side of the drive leading into the Estates, was a handful of people that Josie quickly surmised were Quail Hollow residents. They stood in a cluster and shouted at the protestors; “Leave us alone!” and “Go away!” One woman yelled, “These are our homes! Go back to your own!” A man in his forties hollered, “Mind your own damn business.” The protestors retaliated with indignant accusations.
Gretchen said, “Maybe we should call the Chief? Or have someone from patrol come out here to monitor this?”
Josie pulled just inside the gates and parked. “See if you can get a patrol unit,” she said. “I think I saw Connie Prather in that group. Let’s go talk to her.”
As they walked back toward the feuding groups, a slight hush came over the protestors. Josie heard her own name whispered and gave them a wave. She and Gretchen made their way over to the Quail Hollow residents. Grateful that the throbbing in her thigh had receded to a dull ache, Josie picked up her pace. She zeroed in on a woman in her late fifties wearing a charcoal-colored sweater beneath a puffy pink vest, stretchy blank pants, and Uggs. In her hand was a leash that led to a small white dog who stood idly, looking utterly unimpressed by everything going on around him.
“Constance Prather?” Josie asked.
The woman raised a brow. “I know you’re not here to arrest me. I had nothing to do with ‘diverting’ or ‘stealing’ resources. I’m just here to help get rid of these people. They won’t give us a moment of peace. Honestly, I’ve lived here thirty-five years and we’ve never had any trouble like this. You want to talk to someone about your precious emergency resources, talk to Marisol Dutton. Her husband is the one trying to iron this all out with your Chief.” Without giving Josie or Gretchen a second to speak, Prather turned slightly and looked behind her. “Marisol,” she shouted. “Mar!”
Josie recognized the woman walking toward them from the photo of her and Vera at the salon, as well as photos of her in the press in recent months standing dutifully beside her husband during campaign events. Marisol was shorter than Prather, her brown hair streaked with