Then I took out Pete’s list again and placed it on the desk. I’d been hoping to locate Susan Telford and Phyllis Joplin, the two women I hadn’t yet spoken with. Pete had also put Shirley Ann Kastle on the list, but I was willing to believe she was alive and well and living in the east. The other two I wasn’t so sure about. I started with Phyllis, Ned’s second wife, who apparently now lived in Perdido. The town itself is in the same area code as Santa Teresa, though not covered by our local phone book. I dialed directory assistance and asked the operator for a phone number for Phyllis Joplin. I didn’t expect to be successful and I was startled when the operator gave me the listing for a P. Joplin on Clementine. I made a note of the number and checked my crisscross to match the phone number with an address. I made a note of both as I tried the number.
A woman picked up and rattled off the name of a business, but she was too quick for me to catch what she was saying. I asked for Phyllis.
“You got her. Who’s this?”
I gave her my name and occupation and told her I was looking for information about Ned Lowe. “I know you were married to him at one time.”
The silence that followed was sharp and I thought she might hang up on me. Instead, she said, “What’s it to you? Are you a friend of his?”
“Not at all. I’m calling because your name appeared on a list put together by a detective named Pete Wolinsky. Did he contact you?”
Another brief silence, in which I imagined her weighing her words. “Why do you ask?”
“You’re aware that he was killed.”
“I read that in the paper. What about it?”
“We were colleagues. When he died he left unfinished business I’m hoping to settle. I wondered if you’d spoken with him.”
“He called once. I told him to leave me the hell alone. I thought he was a friend of Ned’s, or how would he even know who I was? Same goes for you.”
“How did Pete know about you?”
“He did a background check on Ned and my name came up. These days anything you do ends up in the public record.”
“Why did he call?”
“That’s what I asked him. He told me he had a theory that women who crossed paths with Ned Lowe didn’t always fare so well. He asked about my marriage. I said, ‘What business is that of yours?’ I have to give the man credit. I unloaded a lot of guff on him and he took it all in stride. He said all he wanted was to make sure I was okay. I thought that was kind of sweet.”
“Did he have reason to think you might not be okay?”
“He must have, or why would he have phrased it that way? I assured him I was fine and dandy as long as I never crossed paths with Ned again. God, I hate that man.”
“Do you mind if I ask a couple of questions?”
A flicker of silence, but in the main, she was loosening up. “I divorced Ned Lowe years ago. Good riddance to bad rubbish and that’s the end of it as far as I’m concerned.”
I gave her a brief rundown, “brief” being a relative term. I told her about Taryn Sizemore’s lawsuit, how the mailing pouch meant for April had fallen into my hands, and summed up the few facts I’d picked up in Burning Oaks. I also told her about Pete’s death, which was really the starting point of my investigation.
At the end of my summary she said, “How recently did you see April?”
“This afternoon.”
“How’s she doing?”
“She’s fine, married to an orthodontist and expecting her first child.”
“Well, tell her I said hello. I can’t tell you how often I’ve thought of her. She was nine when I left. Talk about a lost lamb.”
“Actually, she was under the impression the marriage broke up because of her.”
“Because of her? Where’d she get that idea?”
“She thought playing mother to a seven-year-old wasn’t your cup of tea.”
“Bet you that was Ned’s claim, the son of a bitch. It had nothing to do with April, which he damn well knew.”
“How long were you married?”
“Two years, which was two years too long. The man was impossible. Clinging and needy. Then he’d do a complete about-face and be suspicious, controlling, and paranoid. I’d say manic-depressive, but it was more like Jekyll and Hyde. The change wasn’t quite that literal, but I could see it come over him and I knew enough to get out of his way. I thought of it as his seasonal affective disorder because it happened in the spring, like an allergy.”
