That was fortuitous. She wanted to talk to the sorority advisor, and now she had an appointment. Rachel Wagner’s assessment of these girls would be helpful. According to the notes that Regan had reviewed last night at Lucas’s place, Rachel had taken over as faculty advisor the fall before Candace’s murder.
Regan hoped she could convince Rachel to encourage the girls to call in to the podcast, especially those who had known Candace, but she would approach the subject carefully. She understood the need to protect the sorority, but she would not tolerate protecting it over bringing Candace’s killer to justice.
Fifteen
Taylor James lived in a run-down neighborhood not far off Highway 17 south of Flagstaff, distinguished by winding streets and tall pines. Some of the small, mostly prefab homes were caged in by sagging chain-link fencing, but most were separated from their neighbors by trees rather than fences. Several of these dilapidated houses sat right on the road, others were far back, hidden behind overgrown brush and trees—a fire hazard waiting to happen. RVs and campers proliferated, unused and sagging alongside rusted cars in front yards as well as backyards. A few homeowners kept their houses up, bright spots in a depressed neighborhood.
Taylor’s rented house was tiny with a sloping roof and peeling paint. Clearly, the landlord hadn’t put any money into the place recently. Tall pines grew out front, almost obscuring the door. No sidewalk and no lawn, just packed earth littered with pine needles. An older sedan was parked behind the house in a detached carport. Taylor’s closest neighbor had a truck up on jacks in the driveway, but based on the weeds growing underneath, it looked like it had been out of commission for a while.
Regan parked kitty-corner to Taylor’s house and crossed the quiet street. While the neighborhood might be struggling, she inhaled fresh, crisp air, reminding Regan of everything she loved about northern Arizona.
As she approached the door, she heard a television, low, indistinct. Then came the sound of a baby crying from the house to the east. From the house behind Taylor’s, a place she could barely see through the trees, a power tool squealed.
There was no doorbell. Regan rapped on the door frame. The two windows facing the street had closed blinds.
She heard footsteps. A woman swore, as if she’d kicked something. Regan was dressed comfortably: jeans, black T-shirt, her favorite boots. She’d left her wavy, shoulder-length hair down, figuring it would soften her look. She didn’t want to look like a cop, but after her long career it was a hard image to break.
“Coming, coming!” a voice called from inside.
Taylor James opened the front door, looking nothing like the vibrant woman in her Sigma Rho picture. Through the screen, she appeared ghostly—hollow features, sunken eyes, underweight. Her hair had highlights that had mostly grown out. Stale cigarette smoke filled Regan’s nose.
“You know, I work nights, so this is early for me.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. James. My name is Regan Merritt, and I’m investigating the disappearance and murder of Candace Swain some years ago. It’s my understanding that you were one of the last people to see her before she disappeared.”
“Are you a cop?”
“No, ma’am. I’m just an investigator.” She itched to say private investigator, and she could probably get away with it, but she wasn’t licensed and didn’t want to imply that she was. Her dad had brought up the subject a few months ago—that maybe she should consider private law-enforcement or investigative services. One of his buddies who’d retired early after being shot in the line of duty ran an agency in Scottsdale, mostly former law enforcement. But Regan didn’t know what she wanted to do now that she was no longer a marshal.
Though having that PI license would be a real plus right now.
“The Flagstaff police talked to me back then. I told them everything I knew. I have nothing to add.”
She was about to close the door, but Regan said, “Have you listened to the podcast about Candace’s murder? Three episodes aired over the last week and a half.”
Her face drained. “No,” she said.
Regan wasn’t sure that Taylor was being honest. She pushed, lightly. “But you’ve heard of the podcast.”
“Sigma Rho sent out an email to alumnae. No one wants to be involved with this farce.”
“I’m following up on a caller who said that you and Candace were not actually arguing about Abernathy, the homeless man who was seen at the sorority the night she first disappeared.”
“First disappeared? What does that mean?”
“You might want to listen to the podcast. There have been several revelations. For instance, four people have come forward saying they each saw Candace after Friday night. Two sightings on Sunday, another on Monday night, and one Tuesday morning.”
“Like I told the police when it happened, like everyone knows, I didn’t see Candace after she left the party.”
“You told the police that you were arguing at the party about whether to call campus police about the homeless man.”
“Exactly. He was harassing people, and he scared everyone except Candace, but maybe she should have had a little more fear because then she would still be alive.”
Through the screen door, Regan watched Taylor grab a pack of cigarettes from a small table in the entry. She pulled a lighter out from the package, shook out a Virginia Slim, and lit up. Relief crossed her face as she inhaled.
“Why do you people want to stir shit up?” Taylor said. “Candace is dead. She’s gone. Nothing is going to bring her back. All you’re going to do is create problems and get people hurt.”
“How so?” Regan asked.
“I’m not going to talk about this.”
“Are you scared of someone? I can help you. I used to be a US Marshal. I can get you protection.”
“A marshal? What the fuck? What’s going on? You said you weren’t a cop.”
“I’m not a cop anymore, but I am investigating Candace’s murder. I was a marshal, and I can help you if you’re scared.”
Taylor took another long drag on her cigarette. Blew it out through the screen at Regan. She didn’t react, not knowing if Taylor was trying to intimidate her or if she was just rude.