I threw on jeans, a pair of short boots, and a black leather jacket. The look was a little too biker chick for conducting interviews at St. Tim’s, but it was my best shot at not being totally defeated by the weather.
After a quick breakfast in the village, I was back in my car by nine fifteen. I had a few minutes to kill before showing up at St. Tim’s, and it seemed like a sane enough hour on a Sunday morning to try to reach Kayla for a follow-up conversation.
“How are you doing?” I asked when she finally answered. She sounded glum, though it didn’t seem like I’d woken her.
“How do youthink? I heard the news last night—that Amy’s definitely dead. She was murdered by a fuckingserial killer.”
“Kayla. I’m so sorry. I know this must be a hard time to talk, but I was hoping to ask you a couple more questions.”
“I’ll do whatever it takes to find the madman who did this. Shoot.”
“I went to the campground yesterday, and I saw what you meant. If Amy didn’t like the outdoors, it’s hard to imagine why she would have decided to spend two nights at that campsite. She never said anything that would explain it?”
“No, but I always assumed Page talked her into it. Page could talk her into anything.”
Interesting. Maybe Page had convinced Amy to check out Muller’s, too. And more.
“Kayla, please understand that I’m not passing any judgment with this next question. Do you think Page could have talked Amy into using drugs? Or even selling them?”
“No waywhatsoever.”
“Are you saying she wouldn’t sell them or use them or both?”
“Both. Look, Amy wasn’t a saint. She drank and she liked to party. But she hated drugs. A guy she was friends with had died from an OxyContin overdose and she steered clear of them. She never even smoked weed.”
“Okay, I hear you.” But Kayla might not have been clued in to everything there was to know about Amy. People using or dealing drugs became experts at keeping secrets from even their most intimate acquaintances.
After saying goodbye and promising to do what I could to find Amy’s killer, I drove the short distance to the church. The parking lot—at least what I could see of it through the ribbons of rain—was about half full. I backed into an open spot, providing myself with a view not only of the front of the church but also of the side entrance, in case Nolan exited that way after mass. I cracked my window an inch to prevent the car from steaming up inside.
Over the next twenty minutes I watched a steady flow of cars arrive and a number of parishioners making a mad dash to the front of the church, dodging puddles and grasping the outer edges of their umbrellas to prevent them from flipping inside out.
The last car to arrive pulled in at seven after ten. The driver, a bald, middle-aged male, rushed for the steps with a newspaper over his head, cursing loud enough for me to hear him.
For all I knew, he could be the killer. Or it might have been any one of the other men I’d seen scurrying towards the church and who was now kneeling in prayer or standing with his voice raised in song. No one I’d seen today had appeared creepy to me, but that didn’t mean anything. Serial killers often wore the so-called mask of sanity.
I was aware from the several Catholic weddings and funerals I’d attended that I had about an hour wait ahead of me, but that was fine. I’d brought a take-out cup of coffee from the café, as well as my notes to review for the video.
As I worked, the rain kept coming, at times drumming lightly on the roof of my Jeep and then suddenly accelerating,creating a frantic tattoo on the metal surface. The sound put me on edge, eager for action.
At just before eleven, the downpour abruptly stopped, as if someone had jerked a faucet closed. I peered outside. The sky was still overcast, but light was beginning to seep through the clouds, like a flashlight burning inside a paper bag. I stepped from the car, stretched my legs, and positioned myself a few yards from the church. I had to make sure that Nolan didn’t escape before I could corner him.
At five to eleven the wooden doors of the church opened and people began to emerge, stepping tentatively at first with umbrellas half-cocked and then relaxing as they saw that the rainstorm was over.
To my surprise, Kelly and Doug Claiborne were among the parishioners. Some people found it difficult to be out in public right after a death in the family, particularly such a traumatic one, but perhaps Kelly had decided that any discomfort would be outweighed by the solace that came from attending mass. I was still eager for a chance to speak to her again, though Doug would surely shoo me away like he had the last time. I watched as he leaned in, one hand on his wife’s elbow, spoke quickly to her, and then hurried down the steps alone. He must have offered to bring the car around to the front. Kelly, dressed in a black trench, stepped back against the stone wall of the church. This was my chance.
I took off like a bat, soaking my boots as I ran. As I neared the steps, a woman leaned in and murmured something to Kelly that looked to be words of comfort, and then moved on.
“Kelly, hello,” I said, reaching the top of the steps. “Do you need a ride?” She looked tense and drained.
“Please don’t tell me you came here for a quote. I’ve tried to be respectful of the press, but you guys go too far, you really do.”
“No, I’m not looking for a quote. What I’m trying to do is find out anything that could aid the police in their inquiries.”
She shook her head in dismay. Her hair, worn loose today, looked clean, as if she’d managed to summon enough stamina for a shampoo, but the only makeup she’d bothered with was a swipe of mauvy lip gloss.
“I’m sorry to be curt,” she said. “But this has been hell on earth.”
“I’m sure.”
