Chapter Twenty-Five
The ride to the station had been excruciating for Jessica. No matter how many times she’d inquired about her reason for being in the back of that patrol car, the detective had refused to tell her.
Now, there she sat in a small interrogation room at the local police station, still in the proverbial dark.
The door opened, and the detective stepped inside. She pulled out a chair, taking a seat across the table from Jess.
“Why have I been brought here?” Jess demanded, nervous and more than a little confused. “Am I being arrested for something?”
Vickerson held a yellow folder in her hands, which she promptly placed on the table in front of her. “You’re not under arrest, Mrs. Nobles. We just need to ask you some questions.”
“About what?” Wrapping her arms around her waist, Jessica watched the detective open the folder and retrieve a piece of paper.
“What is your relationship with Sandy Weaver?”
The question caught Jessica off guard. Why would they be asking her about Sandy? “I don’t have a relationship with Mrs. Weaver. I barely know her.”
“You barely know her,” Vickerson repeated. “Then how do you explain your number in her cell phone? It looks as if you were the last person she spoke with by phone.”
What were the cops doing with Sandy Weaver’s phone? Jess wondered, surprised by the question. “I called Mrs. Weaver a few days ago. What is going on?”
“What did you talk about?” the detective continued, ignoring Jessica’s question.
Jess couldn’t possibly tell them the reason for her phone call to Sandy. They would think her a lunatic. So, she hedged. “My husband and I had a run in with a crazy man who shares the cul-de-sac with us. I’d heard that Mrs. Weaver used to live in our neighborhood, and I was hoping maybe she could shed some light on the relationship between him and his wife.”
“That’s it?” the detective pressed, holding the paper in one hand and propping her chin on the other. “You called her to ask her opinion on one of you neighbors? You’ve never met with her or visited her at any time?”
Jessica shook her head, unable to meet Vickerson’s gaze. “No.”
Laying the paper down on the tabletop, the detective slid it across the wooden surface, stopping it beneath Jessica’s nose. “Then how do you explain this?”
Studying the black and white markings on the page, Jessica lifted her gaze. “What’s is it?”
“Your fingerprints. Mrs. Nobles. The ones we lifted from Sandy Weaver’s living room.”
More confusion rushed in. Why would they fingerprint Sandy’s living room? “I don’t understand. Has something happened to Mrs. Weaver?”
“Her body was found last night, stabbed multiple times.”
All the blood drained from Jessica’s face. “She’s dead?”
The detective opened the folder and pulled several photos from inside. She slid them across the table as she’d done with the paper.
Jessica lowered her gaze to the gruesome images, horror slamming into her gut. Sandy’s mutilated body lay sprawled on her living room floor in a pool of her own blood.
“Oh, God.” Jessica staggered from her chair, dropped to her knees in front of a small wastebasket by the door, and heaved.
The detective showed no mercy. “I need to know your whereabouts last night, Mrs. Nobles.”
Jessica shuddered, another bout of heaves gripping her body. “I stayed at a motel in town,” she gasped.
Vickerson knocked on the glass behind her. The door opened a moment later, and a wad of paper towels were thrust beneath Jessica’s nose.
She accepted the offering, wiping at her mouth and watery eyes.
“I’ll need the name of that motel.” Vickerson demanded, suspicion lining her tone. “And why did you lie about knowing Sandy Weaver?”.
Jess slowly got to her feet and returned to her chair, careful not to look at the horrific pictures lying before her. “Because, I didn’t want you to think I was crazy.”
“What I think about your mental status should be the least of your concern, Mrs. Nobles. If I were you, I’d start talking. Sandy Weaver is dead, and the only leads we have to go on seem to involve you.”
Swallowing more bile, Jessica pushed the photos across the table out of her field of vision. “I didn’t kill her, Detective. You have to believe me.”
“Let’s start over.” Vickerson returned the pictures to the folder. “Why don’t you begin by telling me how you came to know Mrs. Weaver.”
Jessica spent the next two hours, filling the detective in on everything that had happened since her move to Sparkleberry Hills—ending with, “Sandy asked me to leave, and I did. I haven’t spoken to her since.”
Vickerson shifted in her chair, crossing her legs at the knee. “What were you doing at the motel last night?”
“My husband and I had been arguing. Things got heated up and I left. I had just come home this morning to get some of my things, when I found you guys there.”
“Were you alone at the motel?”
Jessica nodded. “Other than the couple of neighbors I’ve met, the ex-reporter who worked on the Dayton boy’s disappearance and Sandy Weaver, I don’t know anyone else here.”
“Did you tell anyone about your visit with Sandy Weaver?”
“Steven Ruckle and Melanie Dayton. That’s it.”
Vickerson jotted the two names down on a piece of paper. “And who are they?”
“Steven is the ex-reporter I mentioned, and Melanie is the mother of the missing boy, Terry Dayton.”
The door opened, and an older gentleman stuck his head inside. “We got the search warrant.”
Vickerson sent the man a curt nod before scrawling something on a small notepad. “Officers are being sent to search your house and vehicle, Mrs. Nobles. In the meantime, I need to ask you some more questions.”
Jessica fought the urge to vomit again. “The keys to the house and my car are in my purse. Please don’t let them damage the door to the house.”
“Will do.”