D Is for Deadbeat

you? When did you see him last?"
    "I have no idea. Two years ago at least."
    "At the trial?"
    She shook her head. "I wasn't there. Wayne sat in for a day, but he couldn't take it after that. He talked to Barbara Daggett once, I think, but I'm sure there's been nothing since. I'm assuming somehow that the man was murdered. Is that what you're getting at?"
    "It's possible. The police don't seem to think so, but
    I'm hoping they'll revise their opinion if I can come up with some evidence. I get the impression a lot of people wanted Daggett dead."
    "Well, I sure did. I'm thrilled to hear the news. Somebody should have killed him at birth," she said. "Would you like to come in? I don't know what I can tell you, but we might as well be comfortable." She glanced at my business card again, double-checking the name and then tucking it in her shirt pocket.
    She held the door and I passed over the threshold, pausing to see where she meant for us to go. She led me into the living room.
    "You and your husband were home Friday night?"
    "Why? Are we suspects?"
    "There isn't even a formal investigation yet," I said.
    "I was here. Wayne was working late. He's a C.P.A."
    She indicated a chair and I sat down. She took a seat on the couch, her manner relaxed. She was wearing a thin gold bracelet on her right wrist and she began to turn that, straightening a kink in the chain. "Did you ever meet John Daggett yourself?" she asked.
    "Once. He came to my office a week ago Saturday."
    "Ah. Out on parole, no doubt. He must have served his ten minutes."
    I made no comment, so she went on.
    "What was he doing in Santa Teresa? Returning to the scene of the slaughter?"
    "He was trying to locate Tony Gahan."
    This seemed to amuse her. "To what end? It's probably none of my business, but I'm curious."
    I was discomfited by her attitude, which seemed an odd mix of the wrathful and the jocular. "I'm not really sure what his intentions were," I said carefully. "The story he told me wasn't true anyway, so it's probably not worth repeating. I gathered he wanted to make restitution."
    Her smile faded, dark eyes boring into mine with a look that chilled me. "There's no such thing as 'restitution' for what that man did. Megan died horribly. Five-and-a-half years old. Has anyone given you the details?"
    "I have the newspaper clippings in the car. I talked to Ramona Westfall too, and she filled me in," I said, lying through my teeth. I didn't want to hear about Megan's death. 1 didn't think I could bear it, whatever it was. "Have you kept in touch with the other families?"
    For a moment, I didn't think I could distract her. She was going to sit there and tell me some bloodcurdling tale that I was never going to forget. Cruel images seemed to play across her face. She faltered and her expression underwent that transformation that precedes tears-her nose reddening, mouth changing shape, lines drawing down on either side. Then her self-control descended and she looked at me with clouded eyes. "I'm sorry. What?"
    "I was wondering if you'd talked to the others recently. Mrs. Westfall or the Polokowskis."
    "I've hardly even talked to Wayne. Megan's death has just about done us in."
    "What about your other children? How are they handling it?"
    "Better than we are, certainly. People always say, 'Well, you still have the boys.' But it doesn't work that way. It's not like you can substitute one child for another." Belatedly, she took out a Kleenex and blew her nose.
    "I'm sorry I had to bring it all up again," I said. "I've never had children, but I can't imagine anything more painful than losing one."
    Her smile returned, fleeting and bitter. "I'll tell you what's worse. Knowing there's a man out there doing a few months in jail for 'vehicular manslaughter' when he murdered five people. Do you know how many times he got picked up for drunk driving before that accident? Fifteen. He paid a few fines. He got his hand smacked. Once he did thirty days, but most of the time…" She broke off, then changed her tone. "Oh hell. What difference does it make? Nothing changes anyway and it never ends. I'll tell Wayne you stopped by. Maybe he knows where Daggett was."

Chapter 12
    I sat in the car and shuddered. I couldn't think when an interview had made me feel so tense. Daggett had to have been murdered. I just didn't see how it could come down any other way. What I couldn't figure out was how to get my thinking straight. Usually the morality of homicide seems clear to me.