Page 89 of Remember Her Name

Turner shook his head, looking at her like she was nuts. “I don’t know. Something about a neighbor putting their garbage into her bins on trash day. Who cares?”

Josie moved down the steps, stopping in front of him. “Did you look in her garbage bin?”

“You really are losing your mind.”

“Did you?”

He said nothing. The way he pursed his lips told her he was seconds away from being finished with this entire conversation.

“Turner!” Josie snapped.

“Of course I did!” He threw his hands in the air and let them fall to his sides. “I know you think every day is my first day on the job but it’s not. You think I’m careless and lazy and that I’m only here to do the least amount of work in order to get my paycheck, but?—”

“What was in it?”

“What?”

Josie put a hand on her hip. “What was in Mrs. Bonitz’s trash bin?”

“Trash, Quinn. Trash.”

The urge to throat punch him was very, very strong. He must have figured that out because he took a step back from her and said, “I don’t know. I just opened the bag and peeked inside. I didn’t go through it. There was just some old exterminator suit or something. Wait.”

Josie left him standing there, his mouth agape, and strode back to her SUV. By the time she started the ignition, Turner wasfolding himself into the passenger’s seat. “You think Bell came here to dispose of the hazmat suits he took from his wife’s work supplies and wore to murder people so he could put them into Mrs. Bonitz’s trash?”

“I don’t know,” Josie said, pulling away from the curb.

“There wasn’t any blood on the suit I saw,” Turner pointed out. “And she called us before the murders started.”

Josie swung the SUV around the corner and onto Margaret Bonitz’s street. “Before the murders in Denton started. Bud Ernst was strangled shortly before the first murder in our jurisdiction. He lived in the Poconos. Not far from here. It’s entirely possible that Bell was responsible. Maybe he wore the suit so he could avoid leaving DNA. Then he brought the suit back with him and threw it out in her garbage. No one would ever think of searching Margaret Bonitz’s garbage for evidence of a murder.”

They never had figured out what Bell did with the hazmat suits when he finished with them.

Turner eyed the house as they pulled up in front of it. “You think Margaret Bonitz is the grandmother?”

Josie threw the SUV in park and turned it off. “Let’s go find out.”

SIXTY-SIX

The Jack Russell terrier was sunning on its back in the middle of the yard. It didn’t move when Josie and Turner walked past it, but it did turn its head and give a perfunctory growl. Mrs. Bonitz took a few minutes to answer the doorbell. She greeted Josie with a smile. “So good to see you, young lady.”

Then she looked behind Josie, where Turner’s huge frame blocked all the light from the door. Scowling, she said, “You again.”

Turner didn’t respond.

“May we come in?” Josie asked.

Mrs. Bonitz looked behind her where the foyer narrowed into a hallway leading to the kitchen. Wringing her hands, she said, “Well, if you don’t mind company. An old neighbor stopped by to chat. Haven’t seen her since she was headed off to college.” The deep lines around her eyes crinkled as her expression darkened. “We were just talking about Roger since we both knew him from way back when. It’s a shock, I’ll tell you. Those poor women. I had no idea what he was up to, you know. No idea it was even him until I saw the news.”

A fluttering sensation filled Josie’s chest. Briefly, she looked over her shoulder at Turner. Surprise flickered in his eyes. Thenhis features turned stony. “Mrs. Bonitz,” he said. “We’re sorry to interrupt your reunion but we’d like you to come down to the stationhouse. There are some questions we need to ask you.”

Mrs. Bonitz swayed as she stepped backward. She rested a hand on the circular table in the center of the foyer to steady herself, sending the Tiffany-style lamp bobbling. Josie followed, catching it before it toppled to the floor. For the first time, she noticed that the molding and the wainscoting looked new. Even the pine floor looked level and freshly lacquered. In fact, all of the woodwork and flooring in the foyer as well as the stairs and entryway into the parlor looked newly restored. The last time she’d been inside, the house had been shabby and neglected, much of the woodwork warped, splintered, or rotted. Mrs. Bonitz was on a fixed income. She didn’t have the budget for major repairs.

“You want me to come to the police station? I don’t think I—well, I’m not really dressed for it, and I…I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

Turner crossed the threshold. “A misunderstanding we can discuss at the station. Why don’t you let your guest know you’re coming with us, and we’ll give you a ride?”

Mrs. Bonitz didn’t budge. Her fingers stroked the lace doily on the table nervously. It was only marginally cooler in the house than outside. A small air conditioner hummed in one of the front windows, doing little to bring the temperature down. “I told you, I didn’t know that young man was Roger Bell. I didn’t recognize him. He came and offered to do work for me. Didn’t want a cent from me. Just asked me to help him with something. I never would have helped him if I thought he was a murderer, although I never did think Roger Bell was a killer. He worked for me before the Cooks. Did you know that?”

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