gray and styled in waves to her shoulders. Her pale skin was thick with make-up. She also wore a pair of black stretchy pants, as well as knee-high boots. She clutched the lapels of a lavender sweater and pulled them across her ample bosom. “What’s going on?” she asked as she joined them.
Josie opened her mouth to speak, but Prather started talking again. “These are cops. You can’t tell? They’re cops. You need to talk to them about the supplies.”
Marisol glared at Prather. “You’re kidding me right now, right, Connie?” She turned back to Josie and Gretchen and extended a hand, which they each shook. “I don’t know anything about the supplies, honestly, but you can talk to my husband. As I’m sure you know, he’s a candidate for Mayor.”
“We’re aware,” Gretchen said.
Connie put in, “He’s also a real estate developer. He’s the one who had the bright idea to expand this place and call it Quail Hollow Estates.” She waved a hand around them. “I don’t know why he would mess with a perfectly good neighborhood, but he couldn’t leave it alone. Had to make it fancier. Now look. We’ve got a moat that’s flooding the back half of the properties and protestors.”
“Jesus, Connie,” Marisol snapped. “Shut it.” Turning back to Josie and Gretchen, she said, “He’s at his office. I can give you the address if you’d like.”
Josie took out her credentials and held them out for both women to study. “We’re actually not here about that.”
The two women looked puzzled. Marisol gave a weak smile. “What, then?”
Gretchen said, “We need to talk to both of you about Vera Urban.”
Prather said, “Vera who?”
Marisol lightly slapped her shoulder. “Please, Connie. ‘Vera who?’ Don’t you remember? It was on the news last night.”
Connie said, “Oh, she was the one you found in the flood, all wrapped up in a tarp.”
“No,” Josie said. “That was her daughter, Beverly.”
“Oh, right,” said Connie.
Marisol shook her head. “I can’t believe you don’t remember! It’s so tragic.”
Josie and Gretchen looked at one another, silently agreeing to hold back the news of Vera’s murder for now. Some of the other residents had stopped engaging with the protestors and begun drifting closer to them. Connie said, “Mind if we talk about this somewhere else?”
Marisol said, “Come back to my house. It’s the closest.”
The four of them walked along the tree-lined lanes of Quail Hollow until they came to the section where the original homeowners lived. Marisol Dutton lived only a block over from Calvin Plummer in a large, stately brick home. It was silent as a tomb when they entered. Single file, they followed Marisol through a large tile foyer into her kitchen. Connie scooped up her small dog and carried it in her arms. To one side of the kitchen was a solarium that looked out onto a deck. The sliding glass doors were closed but beyond, Josie could see the Duttons’ large yard and trees beyond that. A small table sat near the doors with four chairs, one for each of them.
Wordlessly, Connie took a seat at the table. Josie and Gretchen followed. One of the panes of glass near the table had been broken. Someone had sloppily taped a plastic bag over it. Fragments of glass rested on the floor beneath it. Marisol saw them staring at it and said, “Kurt broke it. He hasn’t called to have it fixed yet.”
From the refrigerator, Marisol pulled a bottle of red wine. She poured a glass, then held out the bottle in their direction. “Anyone?”
Gretchen said, “We’re working, Mrs. Dutton.”
She shrugged. “Suit yourself. Connie?”
With a scowl, Connie replied, “You know I don’t drink, Marisol.”
Marisol rolled her eyes and sauntered over, languidly taking a seat of her own. “Oh right. Forever the addict.”
Two spots of color rose in Connie’s cheeks. “I’m an alcoholic, Mar. That’s not something that goes away.”
Marisol raised her glass and took a sip of wine. The sleeve of her sweater slid down, and Josie saw a series of purple bruises along the inside of her wrist. “Whatever. I don’t want to argue right now.” She turned to Josie and Gretchen. “Why are you here to ask us about Vera Urban?”
Josie said, “We understand that you were both clients of hers when she worked at one of the local salons. Back when it was called Bliss. We were wondering what you could tell us about her?”
Connie’s lips pressed into a thin line. “God, that was… what? Thirty years ago? Something like that? I don’t