“Kitsy.”
“Yeah, Kitsy. She said one of ’em supposedly had money, but that they all dressed alike in baggy jeans and hoodies.”
September nodded. “We need to learn more about Lance Patten’s buddies. And Wendy Kirkendall’s murder.”
She shot a look at George, who was their heavy hitter on research, mainly because he didn’t like to do fieldwork. His phone had rung while September and Gretchen were talking and he was engaged in a conversation that was mostly listening on his end. She heard the terms “game player” and “chess” and grew curious. Gretchen, too, paused, and both of them listened in unabashedly.
Finally, George hung up and gave them a baleful look. “I’m working,” he said, as if they’d criticized him.
Gretchen raised her palms in surrender.
George pursed his lips. “That was one of the regulars from Trinidad Finch’s Pilates classes. She said a few months back a new guy joined who clearly had a thing for our vic. He didn’t talk much, but he did mention that he was a game player. This gal asked him what he meant, and he said he played chess, among other things. He was flirty and she kinda thought he was cute, though he wore a toupee. . . .” He shrugged. “Some women don’t care, I guess.”
“Did he make a pass at Finch?” Gretchen asked.
“Maybe. They got together somehow. Apparently the hormones were raging.”
“What’s his name?” September asked.
“I checked with the club. He’s listed as Robert Fisher. He’s probably the boyfriend who was supposed to see her that night. Jarrett Sellers said she was stood up, so maybe that’s when he made his play. Andrea Wren, who just happens to be Sellers’s sister, mentioned Finch was seeing someone she called Bobby.”
“The name Robert fits. We have an address?” Gretchen asked.
“Only a fake one,” George said.
“Well, that’s suspicious.” September thought foul play was definitely in the picture. “We have a photo of this guy?”
“Uh-uh.” George shook his head.
“What about cameras at the club?” September pressed.
“There’s an outside one. I’m getting a copy of the last month’s video.” He sounded less than excited and September didn’t really blame him. Going through hours of security tape was tedious work.
“So you’re leaning toward homicide now,” Gretchen said.
George nodded slowly.
“All right, well, we’ve got our own to solve: Mr. Bones’s,” Gretchen said.
September’s brows raised. She was pleased her partner finally appeared to be back on their case.
Gretchen went on, “We need to find some thirtysomethings who used to be part of a scruffy band that hung out at Aurora Lane when they were teens sometimes.”
September grabbed up her bag and jacket again. “Sounds like they really hung out at Schultz Lake.”
“Where are we going?”
“To talk to the Kirkendalls. They live in Laurelton. No phone, so we’re just going to drop in.”
“I’ll drive,” Gretchen said.
They were climbing into the department-issued Jeep when September’s cell rang. The number looked familiar, but she couldn’t place it. “Rafferty,” she answered.
“Detective, it’s Luke Denton.”
“Hello, Mr. Denton,” she said, hiding her surprise as she shot Gretchen a meaningful look. Her partner registered with a nod that she understood the message. “If this is about the cricket poisoning, Detective Thompkins is still the investigating officer on—”
“That one’s a homicide,” he cut her off. “Gut instinct and a few other things tell me that. But I’ve got some other things to say.”
“Okay.”
“Andi’s been receiving threatening notes. That’s why she hired me.”
“Andrea Wren’s been receiving threatening notes,” she repeated for Gretchen’s benefit.
“Yes.”
“And you think this has some bearing on Ms. Finch’s death.”
“Maybe. Or they’re separate issues that share a big coincidence.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Andi and Trinidad both have last names that are birds. They’re Ms. Wren and Ms. Finch respectively. The notes are a play on their names. The first one was left in Andi’s cabin, on her bed. It said Little birds need to fly. The second one was at her office and said, It’s too bad when little birds have to die. That note came the day Trinidad Finch was killed.”