“Do you think he did?” Mel asked.
“Donnie told Detective Lander he was out drinking with his pals last night,” I replied. “But at this point, I don’t have enough information on Donnie Cosgrove to think one way or the other.”
“But he isn’t home right now, is he?” Mel ascertained.
“Right,” I told her. “That’s what DeAnn said on the phone.”
We drove for a while in silence. The clearing that had happened earlier was now a thing of the past. The wind was coming in sharp gusts and it was spitting rain as we headed for the bridge. I knew I should keep my mind on the Cosgroves and what was happening there, but it kept coming back to Mel.
“What’s Anita’s deal?” I asked.
“Anita’s?” Mel returned. “What do you mean?”
“The other women you were telling us about, the ones on the board, all but one of them—you included—got involved because of something that happened to someone else—a friend or a relative. Since Anita’s the mover and shaker behind all of it, I’m just curious about what set her off. Did something happen to her? Did it happen to someone she cared about?”
“I don’t know,” Mel said. “I don’t think anyone’s ever said. Why?”
“Just curious.”
“Now that you mention it,” Mel remarked, “I am, too.”
By the time we parked in Donnie and DeAnn Cosgrove’s driveway, the sprinkles had changed into a hard rain. The porch light was on. The moment we pulled into the driveway the front door opened and DeAnn came dashing out to meet us. Her hair, hanging loose, seemed to stand on end in the blowing wind and rain.
“I’m sorry about your mother,” I said at once.
“Thank you,” she said, stepping forward to meet me. “And thank you for coming. I didn’t know what else to do or who else to call. And with the kids already asleep, I couldn’t just throw them in the car and go traipsing all over God’s creation looking for him.”
“Looking for Donnie?” I asked.
She nodded. “He left the house a little while after Detective Lander did. I was so upset about my mother that I couldn’t think straight. I really needed him here with me, but he said he had to go out, that he’d be right back. But it’s been hours now, and I have no idea where he is. I’ve tried calling his cell and his office phone, but he isn’t answering. I even tried calling his friends, the ones he said he was with last night.” She paused.
“And?” I prompted.
“They hadn’t seen him,” she said. “They hadn’t seen him today—or last night either, Detective Beaumont. What does it mean if he wasn’t where he said he was?”
Mel rounded the back corner of the car. Neither she nor I answered, but we both knew what it meant: Donnie Cosgrove’s alibi was out the window.
“I even called some of the local hospitals,” DeAnn continued distractedly. “But then, when I found the note…”
“What note?” Mel asked, speaking for the first time.
DeAnn wheeled and turned on Mel. “Who are you?” she demanded.
Obviously a good part of what we’d said on the telephone hadn’t penetrated DeAnn Cosgrove’s frantic concern.
“I’m Detective Beaumont’s partner, Melissa Soames,” Mel explained. “He asked me to come along and see if I could help. Since it’s raining so hard, maybe it would be best if we went inside.”
Nodding, a distraught DeAnn Cosgrove led us into her house. The place looked entirely different from the way it had looked on my previous visit. The living room appeared to have been cleaned within an inch of its life. There were fresh vacuum cleaner tracks on the rugs. The dining room table had been cleared of almost all paper debris, and no toys at all were anywhere in evidence.
“After Detective Lander left, he did, too,” DeAnn went on. “I mean, how could he do that, leave me here alone with my mom dead and everything? After a while I called some of my friends from church, just so I’d have someone here with me, so I wouldn’t be alone. They came over and helped with the kids. Helped get the house cleaned up. They finally left a little while ago. I knew I needed to get some rest whether Donnie came home or not. That’s when I found the note—when I was getting ready for bed.”
“What note?” Mel prompted.
DeAnn hurried over to the dining room table and picked up a single three-by-five card. On it was written: “I’m sorry. I love you. Donnie.”
“Sorry for what?” I asked.
DeAnn shrugged. “About my mother, maybe? I guess that’s what he meant.”
I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the poor woman. Her mother and stepfather had both been murdered, but at this juncture she was so concerned about her missing husband that grief for the two homicide victims had yet to gain any real traction.