thought was that Barbie Duffy did not look sixty. Her hair, which hung just past her shoulders, had been artistically streaked ash blonde and carefully coiffed to look like it hadn’t been done at all—which undoubtedly cost extra at the salon. She’d had work done, but done well—a little lift here, a little filler there, a spot of Botox, a boob job. Dressed in leggings and a yoga top, she had a figure that would have been coveted by most women in their forties.
She had worked as an ER nurse when she was married to Ted Duffy. She had traded up a few economic levels with Ted’s brother. No doubt she had plenty of time to devote herself to all the latest exercise crazes. She probably spun, Zumba’d, and Pilates’d herself that flat stomach and those skinny legs, and CrossFitted herself a pair of toned arms.
Nikki’s second thought was that Barbie Duffy was not happy to see them.
“I don’t see why we couldn’t have done this over the phone,” she said as she led them through the foyer. “I have a barre class at five. I have to be out of here by quarter to.”
It was four o’clock. She was allowing forty-five minutes for the discussion of her first husband’s unsolved murder.
“We’ll try not to take up too much of your time . . .”
. . . trying to figure out who murdered the father of your children
.
“What a beautiful home you have,” Seley said, looking around at some designer’s idea of Northwoods chic: exposed timbers, chandeliers fashioned from the antlers of a herd of elk, bronze sculptures of wild animals. “This should be in a magazine.”
“It has been,” Barbie said with the fake smile of a popular girl. “Several times.”
She showed them to a living room with furniture made for giants—huge sofas and armchairs covered in leather and textiles that might have been handwoven by native people in some far-flung corner of the world. Nikki felt like a little kid taking a seat in one of the armchairs. She had to perch on the edge of the cushion or her feet couldn’t touch the floor.
“As you know,” she began, “your husband’s case has been chosen for review by the new Cold Case unit.”
“Yes, I know that. Gene Grider called me days before you did. I don’t understand why he isn’t in charge.” Barbie Duffy sat on the edge of a leather chair, her back ramrod straight, lower legs twistedtogether elegantly. A stack of bangles rattled on her wrist as she made a gesture. Her manicure was immaculate, her nails painted a perfect fall crimson. “He’s worked on Ted’s case all these years—”
“And the case has never been solved. Why would you want a man who hasn’t solved the case in twenty-five years to be in charge of trying to solve it now?” Nikki asked with a little edge to her voice. “Do you not
want
the case closed, Mrs. Duffy?”
She expected a burst of outrage, real or manufactured. What she got was more complex.
“Honestly?” Barbie Duffy asked, chin up. “Honestly, I want it to be over. Do you know how many times we’ve been dragged through this over the years—opening and reopening the wounds? And for nothing. It’s like being victimized again and again.”
“You don’t want your husband’s murderer brought to justice?”
“Is that even possible?” she asked. “I don’t think so. Would it be worth what we have to go through? I don’t think so. Will it bring Ted back? No, it won’t,” she said, blinking back tears. “Nothing will ever bring Ted back. That’s my bottom line. So why go through all this—”
She paused for a moment to compose herself, then started again.
“Our phones have been ringing off the hook since the announcement yesterday. We’ve been deluged by our friends, and family, and all of their emotions. And reporters—literally dozens of reporters. Can they come to the house? They want to do a feature on us. Would we be willing to go back to the old house and shoot it in the backyard where Ted died?”
She
She had worked as an ER nurse when she was married to Ted Duffy. She had traded up a few economic levels with Ted’s brother. No doubt she had plenty of time to devote herself to all the latest exercise crazes. She probably spun, Zumba’d, and Pilates’d herself that flat stomach and those skinny legs, and CrossFitted herself a pair of toned arms.
Nikki’s second thought was that Barbie Duffy was not happy to see them.
“I don’t see why we couldn’t have done this over the phone,” she said as she led them through the foyer. “I have a barre class at five. I have to be out of here by quarter to.”
It was four o’clock. She was allowing forty-five minutes for the discussion of her first husband’s unsolved murder.
“We’ll try not to take up too much of your time . . .”
. . . trying to figure out who murdered the father of your children
.
“What a beautiful home you have,” Seley said, looking around at some designer’s idea of Northwoods chic: exposed timbers, chandeliers fashioned from the antlers of a herd of elk, bronze sculptures of wild animals. “This should be in a magazine.”
“It has been,” Barbie said with the fake smile of a popular girl. “Several times.”
She showed them to a living room with furniture made for giants—huge sofas and armchairs covered in leather and textiles that might have been handwoven by native people in some far-flung corner of the world. Nikki felt like a little kid taking a seat in one of the armchairs. She had to perch on the edge of the cushion or her feet couldn’t touch the floor.
“As you know,” she began, “your husband’s case has been chosen for review by the new Cold Case unit.”
“Yes, I know that. Gene Grider called me days before you did. I don’t understand why he isn’t in charge.” Barbie Duffy sat on the edge of a leather chair, her back ramrod straight, lower legs twistedtogether elegantly. A stack of bangles rattled on her wrist as she made a gesture. Her manicure was immaculate, her nails painted a perfect fall crimson. “He’s worked on Ted’s case all these years—”
“And the case has never been solved. Why would you want a man who hasn’t solved the case in twenty-five years to be in charge of trying to solve it now?” Nikki asked with a little edge to her voice. “Do you not
want
the case closed, Mrs. Duffy?”
She expected a burst of outrage, real or manufactured. What she got was more complex.
“Honestly?” Barbie Duffy asked, chin up. “Honestly, I want it to be over. Do you know how many times we’ve been dragged through this over the years—opening and reopening the wounds? And for nothing. It’s like being victimized again and again.”
“You don’t want your husband’s murderer brought to justice?”
“Is that even possible?” she asked. “I don’t think so. Would it be worth what we have to go through? I don’t think so. Will it bring Ted back? No, it won’t,” she said, blinking back tears. “Nothing will ever bring Ted back. That’s my bottom line. So why go through all this—”
She paused for a moment to compose herself, then started again.
“Our phones have been ringing off the hook since the announcement yesterday. We’ve been deluged by our friends, and family, and all of their emotions. And reporters—literally dozens of reporters. Can they come to the house? They want to do a feature on us. Would we be willing to go back to the old house and shoot it in the backyard where Ted died?”
She
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