Save Her Soul: An absolutely unputdownable crime thriller and mystery novel (Detective Josie Quinn Book 9)

by Lisa Regan

  “That was the baby shower I told you about,” Sara said. “I was only able to find a few of those.”

  Josie riffled through them. Vera in a cushioned chair, surrounded by pink balloons and large gifts, gazing at a stroller that had been pushed in front of her. Vera, holding up various gifts. In one photo, she held up a baby monitor in one hand and a card in the other. The card was spread open. Josie leaned in and saw that it said, Sorry I couldn’t be there. Love, Marisol. More photos followed. Vera in her chair of honor, surrounded by several smiling women, each of them holding up onesies that said Cutie. One of them was Tara Charleston. Clearly, Tara had lied about not attending the baby shower. Josie had the distinct feeling that Tara and Vera had been much closer than Tara let on.

  “Sara,” Josie said, as she snapped pictures of the baby shower photographs. “Was there ever any indication that Vera might be into drugs?”

  Sara laughed, “Oh no. Not Vera.”

  Gretchen said, “Maybe she wasn’t doing any drugs, but did you ever notice whether or not she gave out or sold drugs to any of the clients?”

  Sara looked stunned. She put a hand to her chest. “Do you think I would ever allow something like that?”

  “We have to ask,” Josie said. “The women who helped you with the list, do you think we could speak with them? Are they here?”

  Sara’s face had gone from smiling and helpful to stricken and pale. Quickly, Gretchen said, “We’re only asking because of the way that Beverly was killed. It had some markings of a drug-related homicide. Beverly was a minor. To our knowledge, the only significant adult in her life was Vera. We have to explore all possibilities.”

  Silently, Sara nodded, some of the color returning to her face. “I’ll go get them,” she mumbled.

  Josie and Gretchen waited till all three women were in the room before breaking the news that Vera had been killed the day before. All of them were visibly upset. Gretchen fielded their questions expertly with what scant 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 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.”

&nbs
p; “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 remember that much.”

  With a mischievous grin, Marisol swished the wine around in her glass and said, “Because she was drunk.”

  Connie’s jaw tightened. “Dammit, Marisol! This is why I never—” She stood up, pressing her little dog against her chest. “I’m leaving.”

  Marisol shook her head. “Calm down, Connie. Honestly. You’re too high-strung. Sit.” She turned to Josie. “We were Vera’s clients. But that was a long, long time ago. We were all in our twenties, married to successful, powerful men. Bored out of our skulls. Weren’t we, Connie?”

  Slowly, Connie sat back down, loosening her grip on her dog. “Speak for yourself.”

  Marisol laughed. “Please. You were just as bored as the rest of us.”

  “The rest of you?” Josie asked.

  Marisol said, “Well there was a group of us, Vera’s clients, we became friendly. It was Connie, myself, Tara—” she leaned in toward Josie and Gretchen and in a stage whisper said, “The Mayor.” Leaning back, she said, “Who else, Connie?”

  Connie’s back was ramrod straight. “I-I don’t know. How would we know Vera’s clients?”

  “I’m talking about our WORMM club.”

  “WORMM club?” Gretchen echoed.

  “That’s with two ‘m’s,” Marisol explained. “It’s an acronym. Wives of Rich Missing Men. WORMM.”

  Connie’s eyes flitted to the dog in her lap. She stroked its head. “Our husbands all traveled. That’s why we called them ‘missing men.’ You forgot Whitney.”

  Marisol snapped her fingers. “Whitney! Yes. She didn’t live around here, but she did join us for some of our parties.”

  Gretchen took out her notepad and flipped a few pages. She found the list of names they’d gotten from Sara Venuto. Whitney was one of the women on the list they’d discovered to be deceased.

  Josie said, “What kinds of parties?”

  Connie said, “Oh, they really weren’t parties.”

  Marisol said, “Sure they were.”

  “A handful of us sat around drinking and complaining about our husbands,” Connie said. “That is not a party.”

  Marisol gave a shrug as if to say “whatever.”

  Gretchen asked, “Was Vera Urban ever at any of these parties?”

  “She was,” Connie said.

  Josie looked back and forth between the two women. “Mrs. Prather,” she said. “What is it that you and your husband do?”

  “She doesn’t do anything,” Marisol teased. “Her husband is the CEO of a software company.”

  Connie bristled. “I have a job.” She turned toward Josie and Gretchen. “I’m the head of the Prather Foundation. We give out scholarships to female college students who want to major in STEAM—that’s Science, Technology, Engineering, Art, and Math.”

  “That sounds wonderful,” Josie said.

  Connie smiled, a true smile for once. “My oldest daughter is an epidemiologist, and my youngest is a computer network architect,” she said proudly.

  “You must be very proud of them,” Gretchen put in. She turned to Marisol. “We know what your husband does, but what about you?”

  She sighed and gulped down the rest of the wine. “I am Kurt Dutton’s beautiful, dutiful wife. I sit around all day looking good and coming up with inventive ways to spend his money. That’s what I do. That’s what Connie used to do before she became the alcohol police.”

  Connie glared.

  Josie tried to bring the conversation back to Vera. “The two of you as well as Mayor Charleston and this Whitney—you were all well-off, you all had busy husbands, and spent a lot of time together and you invited Vera? Your stylist?”

  Connie swallowed. “Yes. Vera was a friend.”

  Marisol slammed her wine glass onto the table, eyes flashing. “Oh for goodness’ sake, Connie. Just tell them. What does it even matter now?”

  Connie’s eyes widened but she didn’t speak.

  Marisol looked at Josie and Gretchen. Laughing, she said, “Vera was our drug dealer.”

  “Mar!” Connie exclaimed.

  “Oh please,” Marisol said. “What? You think they’re going to arrest us for buying pills from some hair stylist thirty years ago? Come on.”

  “Your husband is running for Mayor, Marisol!”

  “And if he doesn’t get elected, it will be good news for everyone,” Marisol said with a laugh. She picked up her wine glass to sip again, realized it was empty, and set it back down.

  Gretchen said, “We’ve already heard from some other sources that Vera supplied painkillers to many of her clients. We’re not here to arrest anyone or get anyone into trouble. We’re just trying to find out as much about Vera as we can. We’ve been unable to locate anyone who knew her well at the time that her daughter was killed.”

  Marisol said, “Yeah, well, after she had her daughter, we all grew apart. Stopped hanging out. Didn’t really keep in touch. Connie left first, didn’t you, Con?”

  Connie nodded. Her eyes were on the table. “I had to. My daughter—” She broke off, eyes now on Josie and Gretchen, pleading. “I started it, okay? I didn’t mean to. It wasn’t like we were all hanging out trying to score drugs. With my first daughter, they messed up the epidural. The labor was excruciating, and I had pain in my back and down my leg for months afterward. The doctors didn’t believe me. Vera said she knew someone she could get oxycodone
from.”

  “Someone like who?” Josie asked.

  Connie squeezed her dog close. “I don’t know. Like an ex or a friend or something. Anyway, she got them for me, and they helped. I was so grateful to her. She even came over a few times when my husband was out of town and helped me with my daughter. She always wanted a baby, you know. She was hoping to meet someone, get married, and then have a baby, but it just didn’t work out that way.”

  Josie said, “So you two became close, then.”

  Connie nodded. “I already knew Marisol and Tara. They both live nearby. A few times I had them over, and Vera was already here. Eventually, we just became this little group. We’d get together—sometimes at my house, sometimes here or at Tara’s—and hang out.”

  Marisol took her wine glass and walked back to the fridge to refill it. “We hung out and we drank,” she clarified. “And eventually, Vera was getting the rest of us pills, and sometimes pot, and sometimes—”

  Connie lowered her gaze. “Stop, Mar.”

  “Why? Does it matter now?”

  When Connie didn’t answer, Marisol said, “Cocaine. That was Whitney’s thing. But she had a heart condition. Those two didn’t go together. She was coked up for years before her heart gave out.”

  Josie said, “We’re aware that Whitney is deceased. It was Vera supplying her with the cocaine the entire time?”

  Marisol said, “Not the entire time. Just at first.”