had all the charm of a concrete block, but now and then allowed a trace of human emotion to wash over her face. It was clear that Jeanne the county clerk was very fond of Amanda Crawford.
“Where is she?” she asked. “What did he say?”
Emily felt a surge of embarrassment. “I guess I misspoke. I don’t know what she said to him. I didn’t talk to Mitch. I talked with his customer service manager.”
She knew immediately that her response sounded lame. Yet at the time, it was good enough. She followed procedure. She only swung by the Crawfords’ house as a courtesy to those who’d called in worried about Mandy not showing up for work. For all intents and purposes, Mandy was, in fact, off shopping in Spokane. That’s what her husband said. He ought to know. She wasn’t a missing person. There was nothing more to be done. Mandy Crawford hadn’t hit the twenty-four-hour mark that would mobilize law enforcement from Cherrystone to Spokane.
Jeanne stepped a little closer, not threateningly so—just close enough to let Emily know she was very, very concerned. She was a tall woman with sea-green eyes under overplucked and overarched brows. Not pretty, but swathed in stylish earth-tone Jones New York clothes, she did the best she could with what she had. She’d won the county clerk job fifteen years prior and had no intention of ever giving it up. She had a particular type of toughness that belied the kind of sweetheart she could be. This morning she was almost in tears.
“Look, Emily, I know this girl. She’s in big trouble.” As she looked around the room, each person—Gloria the dispatcher, Jason the deputy, and Emily the sheriff—had a pretty good idea of what was coming next. None would be disappointed.
“She’s dead, I’ll bet. Her husband didn’t want kids. Didn’t want Mandy once she got pregnant. It was as if she ceased to exist from the moment she came back from the doctor with what she thought was great news. Joyful news. I’ll bet the son of a bitch killed her.”
“I didn’t realize that he didn’t want kids,” Emily said. She turned to Jason. “You and I are going over there in five minutes.”
She didn’t have to say where.
Emily Kenyon parked and she and Jason went up the cobbled walkway ringed in pyramidal shrubbery to the front door of the house at 21 Larkspur. Emily hadn’t noticed on her first visit there, but there were some scratches at the base of the door. The Crawfords must have a dog, she thought, as she rang the bell and looked around. The neighborhood was serene, devoid of any activity. In fact, the whole “gated community” seemed out of whack. Why would anyone want to live in a place with a guard posted out front? Especially in Cherrystone, of all places.
Nothing. No answer. No dog barking. No Mitch.
Jason offered to circle the house, and Emily nodded.
She rang once more. Again, nothing.
“All clear back there,” Jason said coming around the south side of the house. “Nice digs. Big pool back there.”
“The inside’s not too shabby, either,” she said. “Let’s head over to the dealership.”
It was after 9:00 A.M. when they arrived, and the sharks in the form of a crew of young men were already circling the car lot, looking for the first bite of the morning. Their pasted-on smiles fell when they noticed it was the sheriff getting out of her hopelessly uncool behemoth of a car. No trade-in here. No getting a ninety-year-old into a car he doesn’t need. Christmas music piped over the car lot. It was José Feliciano signing “Feliz Navidad.” A little peppy for the hour, and certainly wrong for the reason for the visit.
“Mitch around?” Emily asked, as she and Jason approached the dealership’s snowflake-adorned glass front doors.
“Yup,” said a young man in dark green parka over a suit jacket and tie. “He’s in his office.”
A young woman’s voice went out over the loudspeaker. “Eggnog lattes for all customers on the lot right now. Come inside and shake off the chill. It’s our treat!”
Jason followed Emily inside and they walked past three cars festooned with gigantic bows of silver and gold ribbon. One arrow pointed to the manager’s office, another to the service department. A young woman in a Santa hat smiled from her desk.
“Hi, Mrs. Kenyon! I’m Darla! I went to high school with Jenna!”
Every sentence was punctuated with an overkill of enthusiasm. Emily remembered Darla had been a cheerleader.
“Oh, hi, Darla. Didn’t recognize you with your hat.” Emily smiled warmly. “Nice to see you.” She indicated the door behind her horseshoe-shaped desk. “Is he in?”
“Sure is! How’s Jenna doing?”
“She’s fine. She’s back from Tennessee for the holidays. She’s at her father’s in Seattle right now. Did you know she was working for her sorority?”
“Yeah. Cool. I heard that. I still want to go to college, but, you know, being a single mom hasn’t made the timing for that so good right now.” She pointed to a picture of a little boy on the credenza behind her.
Emily studied the little boy’s photo, and suddenly felt sorry for Darla. The timing of the pregnancy, of course, was what had been out of whack. College first. Then a job. Married next. Baby last. That’s what she told Jenna over and over, and so far, it seemed that the mantra had sunk in.
Mitch Crawford poked his head out of his office. He appeared irritated.
“Enough of the photo,” he said. “I thought you’d never get here.”
Darla looked hurt and embarrassed, and it was apparent that the man who took his father’s job was absolutely nothing like the man who’d built the dealership on brains and undeniable charm. Mitch was devoid of any of that.
Emily turned toward Mitch. “Would have been nice if you’d called us, if you’ve been waiting for us to show up.”
“I did call. Earlier.” He let out an annoyed sigh and commanded Darla—without saying a word—to sit down and get back to work. She did.
It was a peculiar conversation, and Emily made note of its strangeness. None of Mitch Crawford’s words were about his concern for Mandy, which was the reason they were there. He seemed more bothered by how he’d been inconvenienced by the sheriff and her deputy not being there earlier. But they’d come because of Jeanne Parkinson’s apprehension. Not because he called anyone.
“Look,” he said, “the end of the month is a hectic time around here. We’ve got sales goals to hit.”
“Of course. I have a goal, too,” she said measuring her words. “It involves finding your wife.”
Mitch toned down his conspicuous irritation. His eyes meandered from the sheriff to the deputy. “I understand. I’m busy. I’m sure she’ll turn up.”
Emily wanted to smack the guy and she was pretty sure, judging by the way Jason looked at him in contempt, he’d have told the review board that he’d seen nothing happen.
“I’ll try to move this along. Can we sit down?” Emily asked, taking one of two visitor’s chairs in an office that resembled more a trophy case of his father’s achievements than anything Mitch Crawford had done. Number 1 Dealership in the Northwest, Grande Champion for Auto World’s Contest of Excellence, and other over-the-top plaques that make no sense to anyone outside the auto-sales industry.
“I talked to one of your employees last night,” Emily said, removing her coat. “She said you’d talked with Mandy.”
Mitch’s eyes were alternately fastened on Emily, then on Jason. It was like a Ping-Pong match.
“No, I didn’t. Must be a misunderstanding. I told the crew I was worried about her. Wanted to see if her car ran into a patch of black ice or something. I drove the highway all the way to Spokane and nothing. Not a trace.”
Jason