Ice Cold Killer. Cindi Myers
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I call someone for you?” he asked. “A friend or relative?”
“No.” She grabbed a tissue and pressed it to her eyes. “I need to call Kelly’s parents. They’ll be devastated.”
“Give me their contact information and I’ll do that,” he said. “It’s part of my job. You can call and talk to them later.”
“All right.” She went to the office, grateful for something to do, and pulled up Kelly’s information on the computer. “I’ll go over to her house and get her cats,” she said. “Is it okay if I do that? I have a key.” Kelly had a key to Darcy’s place, too. The two looked after each other’s pets and were always in and out of each other’s homes.
“Yes. I already stopped by her place with an evidence team from the sheriff’s department. That’s how we found your contact information.”
She handed him a piece of paper on which she’d written the names and numbers for Kelly’s parents. He took it and gave her a business card. “I wrote my cell number on there,” he said. “Call me if you think of anything that might help us. Even something small could be the key to finding out what happened to her.”
She stared at the card, her vision blurring, then tucked it in the front pocket of her slacks. “Thank you.”
“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” he asked.
No. How could she be okay again, with her best friend dead? And not just dead—murdered. She shook her head but said, “I’ll be all right. I’m used to looking after myself.”
The intensity in his gaze unnerved her. He seemed genuinely concerned, but she wasn’t always good at reading people. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “And I’ll call you if I think of anything.”
He left and she went through the motions of closing up. The two cats and a dog in hospital cages were doing well. The dog—the porcupine victim—would be able to go home in the morning, and one of the cats, as well. The other cat, who had had surgery to remove a tumor, was also looking better and should be home by the weekend. She shut down the computer and set the alarm, then locked up behind her.
Outside it was growing dark, snow swirling over the asphalt of the parking lot, the pine trees across the street dusted with snow. The scene might have been one from a Christmas card, but Darcy felt none of the peace she would have before Ryder’s visit. Who would want to hurt Kelly? Eagle Mountain had seemed such an idyllic town—a place where a single woman could walk down the street after dark and never feel threatened, where most people didn’t bother to lock their doors, where children walked to school without fear. After only four months she knew more people here than she had in six years in Fort Collins. Kelly had made friends with almost everyone.
Was her killer one of those friends? Or a random stranger she had been unfortunate enough to cross paths with? That sort of thing was supposed to happen in cities, not way out here in the middle of nowhere. Maybe Eagle Mountain was just another ugly place in a pretty package, and the peace she had thought she had found was just a lie.
A half mile from the veterinary clinic, Ryder almost turned around and went back. Leaving Darcy Marsh alone hadn’t felt right, despite all her insisting that he go. But what was he going to do for her in her grief? He’d be better off using his time to interview Ed Nichols. Maybe he would call Darcy later and check that she was okay. She was so quiet. So self-contained. He was like that himself, but there was something else going on with her. She hadn’t been afraid of him, but he had sensed her discomfort with him. Something more than her grief was bothering her. Was it because he was law enforcement? Because he was a man? Something else?
He didn’t like unanswered questions. It was one of the things that made him a good investigator. He liked figuring people out—why they acted the way they did. If he hadn’t been a law enforcement officer, he might have gone into psychology, except that sitting in an office all day would have driven him batty. He needed to be active and doing.
Ed Nichols lived in a small, ranch-style home with dark green cedar siding and brick-red trim. Giant blue spruce trees at the corners dwarfed the dwelling, and must have cast it in perpetual shadow. In the winter twilight, lights glowed from every window as if determined to dispel the gloom. Ryder parked his Chevy Tahoe at the curb and strode up the walk. Somewhere inside the house, a dog barked. Before he could ring the bell, the door opened and a man in his midfifties, thick blond hair fading to white, answered the door. “Is something wrong?” he asked.
“Dr. Nichols?” Ryder asked.
“Yes?” The man frowned.
“I need to speak with you a moment.”
Toenails clicking on the hardwood floors announced the arrival of not one dog, but two—a small white poodle and a large, curly-haired mutt. The mutt stared at Ryder, then let out a loud woof.
“Hush, Murphy,” Dr. Nichols said. He caught the dog by the collar and held him back, the poodle cowering behind, and pushed open the storm door. “You’d better come in.”
A woman emerged from the back of the house—a trim brunette in black yoga pants and a purple sweater. She paled when she saw Ryder. “Is something wrong? Our son?”
“I’m not here about your son,” Ryder said quickly. He turned to Nichols. “I wanted to ask you some questions about Kelly Farrow.”
“Kelly?” Surprise, then suspicion, clouded Nichols’s expression. He lowered himself into the recliner and began stroking the big dog’s head while the little one settled in his lap. “What about her?”
“You might as well sit down,” Mrs. Nichols said. She perched on the edge of an adjacent love seat while Ryder took a seat on the sofa. “When was the last time you saw Kelly Farrow?” he asked.
Nichols frowned. “I don’t know. Maybe—last week? I think I passed her on the street. Why? What is this about? Is she saying I’ve done something?”
“What would she say you’ve done?”
“Nothing! I don’t have anything to do with those two.”
“Those two?”
“Kelly and that other girl, Darcy.”
“I understand you weren’t too happy about them opening a new practice in Eagle Mountain.”
“Who told you that?”
“Is it true?”
Nichols focused on the big dog, running his palm from the top of its head to the tip of its tail, over and over. “A town this small only needs one vet. But they’re free to do as they please.”
“Has your own business suffered since they opened their practice?” Ryder asked.
“What does that have to do with anything?” Mrs. Nichols spoke, leaning toward Ryder. “Are you accusing my husband of something?”
“You can’t come into my home and start asking all these questions without telling us why,” Nichols said.
“Kelly Farrow is dead. I’m trying to find out who killed her.”
Nichols stared, his mouth slightly open. “Dead?”
“Ed certainly didn’t kill her,” Mrs. Nichols protested. “Just because he might have criticized the woman doesn’t mean he’s a murderer.”
“Sharon, you’re not helping,” Nichols said.
“Where were you between nine and one today?” Ryder asked.
“I was at my office.” He nodded to his wife. “Sharon can confirm that. She’s my office manager.”
“He saw patients all morning and attended