To Love and to Perish - By Lisa Bork Page 0,42
even though he stood at five-three. This whole situation with Brennan had diminished him, both literally and figuratively. If Brennan knew how much Cory cared, would he be more forthcoming with the truth?
A tap on the window sent me jumping into the air. I whipped my head around. It was Elizabeth Potter’s neighbor, wearing another stylish housedress, this time in orange.
I smiled and got out. “Hello again.”
The tremble in the woman’s right arm never ceased. Her lower lip moved up and down ever so slightly today as well. She pointed toward Elizabeth’s door.
“If you’re here for her, she got home at six last night.”
Ah, the neighborhood watch. The elderly people in our neighborhood probably clocked Ray and my comings and goings, too. “Good, then I’ll wait.”
She pointed in the direction Cory had walked. “That man with you?”
“Yes.”
“Is he coming back?”
“Yes.”
She nodded. “Suit yourself.”
A Honda Accord approached and pulled into Elizabeth Potter’s driveway. The car door opened. A woman in a tight black pencil skirt, thick black tights, low-heeled black patent leather pumps, and a sexy red silk blouse slid out. She had one of those short, funky asymmetrical hairstyles, brown with blond highlights.
She waved in our direction. “Hi, Evie.”
Evie didn’t wave back. She scrunched her forehead instead.
I gestured toward our new arrival. “Would that be Elizabeth?”
Evie didn’t respond. Her gaze never left the woman, who now approached us.
She limped ever so slightly. “How are you today, Evie?”
No response.
I started to wonder if Evie had Alzheimer’s.
“What did you do to your hair?” Evie pointed at the woman, her finger shaking.
The woman fluffed her hair. “It’s new. Do you like it?”
“No.” Evie started up the sidewalk. “This woman’s been waiting for you.”
Elizabeth Potter flushed, then laughed. “She’s an honest old bird, isn’t she?”
I smiled. “I like your haircut, if that makes you feel better.”
“Thank you, it does.”
“You must be Elizabeth Potter.” I held out her hand. “I’m Jolene Parker.”
She took a step back. Her countenance changed to suspicious. “What can I do for you?”
I wished Cory would reappear, but he wasn’t anywhere in sight. For a woman who made her living talking to people, I wasn’t very good at ad-libbing. My sales presentations were well practiced, full of facts and information. Cory was the spontaneous one, used to filling in the gaps when someone else forgot their lines on stage. He and I should have discussed how we planned to approach this woman, who was scarred from the crash and not likely to welcome us.
I opted for honesty. “I’m friends with Brennan Rowe. I was hoping to ask you a few questions about him.”
“Why?”
“Brennan has been arrested on suspicion of pushing James Gleason in front of a car, killing him.”
“So I hear.” Her tone sounded like she didn’t care—about either of them.
I pressed on. “The news reports have brought up the relationship between James and his sister and the car crash that killed her. I understand you were also involved in that crash.”
“I don’t talk to reporters.” She turned and started to walk away.
I chased after her, rounding her and cutting off her path. “I’m not a reporter. I’m a personal friend of Brennan’s. I understand the two of you were once very close, too. You, Brennan, Monica, and Wayne Engle. The Four Musketeers, I believe.”
Her face softened at that. “Monica was my best friend. She dated Brennan. Wayne was Brennan’s best friend. We all hung out together.”
“And you went to your five-year class reunion together?”
“Yes.”
“Wayne Engle said he fought with Brennan that night. Do you know what the fight was about?”
She tried to get around me. I stepped back to give her some room while remaining directly in her path. I didn’t want to be accused of menacing her.
She gave up and locked eyes with me. “Look, I don’t know what you want. I can’t tell you what they fought about. I don’t want to talk about that night. I was in the car accident. I almost died. You have no right to come here, no right at all. Go away.” She lifted her arms as if to shove me. “Go away.”
I moved out of her path.
She walked quickly, her limp amplified.
I felt like crap. I called after her, “I’m sorry, Elizabeth. It’s just hard to believe Brennan would kill anyone.”
She spun around. “He killed Monica. He almost killed me. Is that so hard to believe?”
“I know that’s true. Was he driving drunk?”
“No.”
“Then how did the crash happen?”
“I don’t know. I was asleep. Ask Brennan. Just leave, and don’t come back.”
She