Chilton was also, he proudly claimed, a direct descendant of one Edward Chilton, who had sailed over on the Mayflower. As though that really meant something today. And yet it would for some, Devine knew.
Chilton listed his occupation as “entrepreneur and investor.” He had a company named, what else, Mayflower Enterprises. There was a link to that on the Facebook account. Devine went there and poked around. It looked legit. They had done a ton of investments in all sorts of different business spaces. Chilton was the head guy, and he had lots of smiling faces on the website who made up the rest of his team.
Devine changed into khaki slacks, a blue short-sleeved shirt, and light brown canvas shoes, and was leaving for the play when Helen Speers approached him, frowning.
“I don’t think I can provide you an alibi, Travis. I’ve wracked my brain, but I honestly can’t remember seeing you all of Thursday night. You’re sure you were here?”
“Yeah, but that’s okay. If you don’t remember, you don’t remember. I’d never ask you to do something you’re not comfortable with.”
She drew nearer and touched his arm. “I am sorry, Travis. And if you ever need to talk? I’m here for you.”
“Thanks.”
As she walked off he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and told himself to not go there. He had too much on his plate as it was.
He eyed Jill Tapshaw’s door, and knocked, but there was no answer. She might have gone into the office. For her, Sunday was just another day to build her empire of shared love.
He left and went outside. He wasn’t taking his bike this time. He’d opt for the train.
As he walked to the station, he wondered if there was something more to Speers’s words. But that might just be wishful thinking. Sure, he had a mild crush on the woman, and she might have one on him. But he didn’t think it was that. She seemed genuinely worried about him, and he wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like they were close friends, and she probably had a dozen prospects a lot better suited for her than he was.
He broke out of these thoughts when a vehicle pulled up next to him.
“How about a ride to wherever you’re going in exchange for an interview?”
He looked into the face of the smiling but determined reporter from Channel Nosebleed who wanted to know every damn thing in the world.
CHAPTER
21
“EXCUSE ME?” said Devine, because he wanted a little time to process what she was even doing here.
“You’re Travis Devine? You work at Cowl and Comely? Where a woman was found dead?”
“And you are?”
“Rachel Potter. Channel Forty-Four, but I’m working my way up to the single-digit stations and you might just be my ticket.” She eyed her beefy cameraman, who was driving. “We have room in the front seat.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Whatever you can tell me about Sara Ewes.”
“I don’t have a lot of time. I have a train to catch.”
“Then jump in—it’s faster driving.”
Devine looked around, and then he climbed in as Potter scooched over to allow room. The cameraman took off at a sedate pace, something Devine could tell was prearranged.
She took out her phone and hit the Record button. “You’re Travis Devine, employed by Cowl and Comely?”
“I am. Look, I—”
“And you knew Sara Ewes?”
“I did. I think—”
“And do you know anything about the circumstances of her death?”
“No, I don’t.”
“What can you tell me about her?” Potter asked.
“She was nice. She worked hard. She was moving up at the firm.”
“Did you and Sara see each other, I mean other than at work?” she asked.
Devine eyed her for a moment. This question kept coming up. Hancock had already been sniffing around about it, intimating that Devine had not been entirely truthful. They knew something. They had to. And maybe this Potter woman did, too. Maybe she’d been told last night in fact. And not by the cops.
He put a hand on the door latch. “I think we’re done here.”
The driver sped up.
Devine eyed Potter. “So what are you doing here? Holding me against my will? Should I be concerned for my safety?”
She eyed him coyly. “Big, strong Army Ranger with a chest full of combat medals? You could probably kill us both with your pinkie.”
The woman was right about that, but it wouldn’t be much of a challenge. Potter was around five four and one-ten in all her clothes. The driver was in his sixties and about fifty pounds overweight, and every breath he exhaled was full of cigarette smoke. Devine probably could take him out with his pinkie.