Morgan slowly slid a business card from the side pocket of her tote bag and introduced them. “Mr. Jackson said you could tell us more about Crystal Fox.”
The muzzle of the shotgun tipped to the ground as Abigail reached for the card and inspected it. “I heard Crystal hanged herself.”
In rural areas, gossip spread like fire through straw.
“We’re not sure what happened,” Morgan said. “Did you know her well?”
Abigail turned and headed for the rear porch of the house. “Let’s go inside.”
They followed her into the cottage. The back door opened into a mudroom. She stood her shotgun in the corner and hung her jacket on a hook by the door, then removed her gloves. Abigail led them into what Lance was sure she called the parlor. Flowers covered every surface. They filled vases, dotted the wallpaper, patterned the throw rugs. Flowers were even carved into the wood of the ornate furniture. The room was crowded with knickknacks and fancy, uncomfortable-looking furniture. Lance leaned on the wall, eyeing the fussy camelback sofa as if it would attack. The cluttered decor was claustrophobic.
“Your home is lovely.” Morgan perched on the edge of a blue velvet chair.
“I love flowers.” Abigail sat on the sofa. Her body was nearly hidden by an enormous orange arrangement on the coffee table. “Sorry about the shotgun. I’m a little paranoid since that good-for-nothing grandson of Elijah’s broke in here last month. Caught him halfway out the window with my silver candlesticks in his hand. I sent that little creep running. He was a dozen feet away from a load of birdshot in his butt.”
“That’s awful.” Morgan unbuttoned her coat, set her bag at her feet, and took out her notebook.
“It’s a damned shame. He used to be a cute little kid. You can’t trust anybody once heroin gets its claws into them.” Abigail shook her head and clucked in disgust. “Now what do you want to know about Crystal?”
“How long did she work for you?” Lance stifled a sneeze. The clashing scents of different flowers clogged this throat.
“She cleaned motel rooms for me on and off for more than twenty years.” Abigail folded her hands in her lap. “She’d get better jobs, but she couldn’t hold on to them. She always came back. It’s a dirty job. I have no illusions about my business or my clients.”
What kind of motel does Abigail own?
“Was Crystal a good worker?” Morgan plucked a leaf from her hair and discreetly tucked it into the side pocket of her bag.
Abigail laughed. “Not in the least. But she showed up more often than not. I used to pay her at the end of every day. If I gave her a full week’s pay, she’d spend the next three days in a bar.”
Warm, Lance opened his jacket. “Do you remember her daughter, Mary?”
“I do.” Abigail nodded. “Crystal tried to get her to work at the motel, but Mary wanted no part of it. She was a lazy girl, and she turned up her nose at the idea of cleaning up after other people. She preferred to work on her back.”
“I thought she was a waitress.” Morgan crossed her ankles.
“She worked part time at PJ’s,” Abigail said. “But she used the waitressing job to troll for clients in her more lucrative enterprise.”
“How do you know she was a prostitute?” Lance pulled at the neck of his shirt. With adrenaline still sliding through his veins, the heat in the cottage was suffocating him.
“She brought clients to my motel on a regular basis. I was never sure if she did it because I had the cheapest rooms in the area or to spite her mother.” Abigail pointed a slim, dainty finger at him. “Mary was a nasty girl.”
“Would you recognize one of these clients after all these years?” Lance’s chest went tight.
Will Abigail verify that my father was sleeping with Mary?
“Maybe.” She narrowed her eyes.
“Could we come back with some pictures?” Lance asked. Why didn’t I think to bring a photo of my dad?
Deep down, he didn’t want to own the possibility that the sheriff was right.
Abigail thought about his question for a few seconds. “Did Crystal really kill herself?”
“That will be for the medical examiner to determine,” Lance said.
“I heard her daughter’s body was found.” Abigail picked up a small pair of shears from the coffee table. She clipped the dead head of a flower from the arrangement in front of her. “A reporter on the news speculated that’s why she did it.”
“You sound like you don’t believe it,” Morgan said.
“Crystal wasn’t a very good mother,” Abigail said. “She never put Mary’s needs before hers. Most of the time, her child seemed like an afterthought. Mary had been gone for weeks before Crystal reported her missing. It’s not like she’s been pining away for her lost child for the last two decades.”
“Mary was murdered,” Lance said. “It’s her death we’re investigating.”
Abigail paused, pruners hovering in midair. “We all thought Mary left for greener pastures. She hated it here. All she ever talked about was getting out of town.”
“Do you know of anyone in Mary’s or Crystal’s lives back then who could have been a threat?” Lance asked.
“Crystal’s husband, Warren, comes to mind.” Abigail ferreted out another limp bloom and cut it off. “Crystal married him when Mary was about ten. I always thought he had the wrong sort of interest in that little girl, if you know what I mean.”
Lance’s gut twisted. “You think Warren Fox abused Mary?”
Warren Fox shot to the top of Lance’s mental list.
“Yes. And that’s what I told Crystal.” Abigail shook her shears at Morgan. “But that woman was too wrapped up in herself. I don’t know whether she didn’t want to believe it or if she just didn’t care all that much. Back then, Warren was a truck driver. He brought home cash, and cash made Crystal happy.”
Morgan looked up from her notes. “What makes you think Warren molested Mary?”
“The way he looked at that child made my skin crawl.” Frowning, Abigail shifted some greenery. “Mary would do anything to stay out of his reach. She started acting out shortly after the marriage, and she made sexual jokes she was entirely too young to understand. I put two and two together. It wasn’t rocket science. Besides, owning and operating a low-end motel has given me a fairly good creep detector.”
I’ll bet.
The idea turned Lance’s stomach. If it were true, maybe Mary had threatened to rat out Warren.
“What happened to Warren?” He didn’t remember seeing a man’s clothes or other personal belongings in Crystal’s house.
“A few years ago, he got fired for drinking on the job. So naturally, he started drinking more, which led to him beating Crystal. She kicked him out. At one point, she had a restraining order against him, but it expired. He works at the county recycling center now.” Abigail deadheaded another flower stalk. The wilted head fell to the table.
“Did Mary ever say anything to you to confirm Warren was molesting her?” Morgan’s pen waited poised over her notebook.
“No.” Abigail shook her head. “But it wouldn’t surprise me if Mary had tried to blackmail him. She was the scheming sort.”
Morgan made more notes. “In the weeks before she died, did Mary bring anyone in particular to the motel?”
“She had regulars.” Abigail nodded. “I worked the registration desk back then too. I might be old, but my memory is still intact.”
Lance wondered if scheming Mary could have blackmailed any other clients. “Did any of Mary’s clients seem violent? Did you ever see her with bruises afterward?”
“There was this one man. Mary said he liked it rough, and she always looked shaken when he was through with her. What was his name?” Abigail tapped her shears in her palm. “Most of Mary’s clients would use fake names. You have no idea how many men register in my hotel as Mr. Smith.”
“You don’t check driver’s licenses?” Morgan asked.
“Honey”—Abigail’s tone shifted to aren’t-you-sweet—“most people who rent rooms by the hour generally prefer anonymous cash transactions.”