does once he makes bail—because you know he would.”
“I’m sure. Camille isn’t going to let us down. Once we find Mandy, or have some physical evidence of foul play, she’ll indict.”
Jason looked squarely at Emily. She faced the darkening roadway, one hand on the steering wheel and the other fishing for a lemon drop from the tin she kept in the cruiser.
“You thought that was her at first, didn’t you?”
She let her eyes light on him for a second. “I did. I hoped it was and I hoped it wasn’t. I don’t think she’s alive, but, I guess, I’m praying something like this will come to an end.”
“Yeah. Some news is always better than no news.”
Emily didn’t agree. She hated not knowing where Mandy Crawford was, of course. But she loathed more than anything the duty that fell on her shoulders when the worst outcome in a missing person’s case came into play.
“Try telling yourself that when you have to make a death notification to a dead girl’s mother and father.”
Jason knew just what she was talking about. “Where in the world are you?” he asked, looking out at the dormant vineyards and their spiderweb rows of grapevines as they whizzed by in the speeding cruiser, the rows fading in the early evening. “Where did he put you, Mandy?”
Chapter Twenty
Gloria brought in three tins of assorted Christmas cookies—some she made and others she conceded were “filler”—as her countdown to the holiday kicked into high gear. She kept the Spokane radio station that played “holiday favorites” on low.
“Less than a week of shopping,” she said, with a good-natured smile. “Still time to get me something I can’t live without.”
“Someone here to see you, Sheriff,” she said, as Emily breezed in with latte in hand.
Emily looked down the hall, and mouthed, “Who?”
Gloria lip-synched back, “Wouldn’t say.”
The woman waiting outside of Emily’s office was a wisp; a good wind and she’d blow away. She couldn’t have been more than five feet tall, barely a hundred pounds after a full meal. She had strawberry blond hair that she wore cropped at the shoulder; bangs framed her blue eyes. It looked as if she’d been crying. Her mouth was taut, frozen in a kind of grimace that appeared to indicate that her reason for being there was a painful one.
“I’m Sheriff Kenyon,” Emily said. “Gloria says you’re here to see me.” She waited for the woman to say something, before adding, “But she didn’t say why.”
The woman stood up. She wore boot-cut jeans with heels, a stylish sweater and blouse. The sweater was jade-colored and expensive. In her arms she held a gray coat that probably weighed more than she did.
“Sheriff, I’m not a gossip,” she said.
“Good. We don’t have much use for gossip, around here. Gossip works better for the newspaper, anyway.”
It was a lighthearted comment that was meant to relax, but it fell flat. Emily noticed for the first time that the small woman in front of her was shaking. Her hand holding her car key trembled noticeably.
“Are you all right?” She waved her inside. “Come in. Sit down.”
The woman took a seat across from Emily’s desk.
“I’m fine, and thank you.”
“Who are you?”
“Tricia Wilson.” She paused and looked nervously around the room.
“I used to be Patty Crawford.”
Emily’s eyes widened a little. While the last name rang alarm bells, the first meant absolutely nothing.
“I’m sorry. Are you a relative of Mandy’s?”
Her visitor shook her head and set down her black leather satchel. Emily noticed a large envelope protruding from the silver jaws of its clasp.
“Not exactly. More like a kindred spirit, I’d say. I know what it’s like to be married to Mitch Crawford. And I know now that I’m a lot luckier girl than Mandy is. I got away from that bastard alive.”
Emily tried to keep her face from betraying her feelings. She could have kicked herself right then. How stupid they’d been not to know that Mitch had been married before.
“We didn’t know how to reach you,” she said. She felt foolish for lying, but she hated not knowing something that she should have known.
Tricia stayed expressionless. “I’m sure. If you even knew I’d existed, you’d have had a hard time finding me. I’ve changed my name, my hair, my address. I never wanted to be found by anyone from my old life as Mitch’s wife. It was a complete and utter nightmare.”
Again, Emily waited. Waiting always brought better results than peppering a person for the details. Tricia Wilson had come to Cherrystone with a reason. She was the ex-wife. Emily knew she might be there to settle the score, to get some payback for a bad marriage. Maybe she’d been dumped by Mitch. Emily didn’t know. She wanted Tricia to do the talking.
They’d fill in the gaps later.
“I married Mitch when I was eighteen. He was ten years older. He was handsome.
Without taking her eyes off Tricia, Emily unbuttoned her coat and slid out of the arms.
“What happened? It sounds like things were good.”
“Things are always good in the beginning.”
Emily nodded, thinking of David and the early days of their marriage. Things had been good once between them.
“I feel stupid for even being here,” she said, making a movement that suggested she might get up and leave.
Emily put her hand on her desk, a gesture indicating to stay.
“But what happened? You’re here because you want to tell me something. Did you know Mandy?”
“No. But I know Mitch.”
“I’m sure you do. Tell me. Have you talked to him about Mandy?”
“Not at all. I haven’t spoken to him since the day we divorced.”
Tricia stopped herself again.
“Go on.”
“Sheriff Kenyon, I was afraid he’d kill me. I really was.”
Emily felt a rush of sympathy. She’s worked terrible abuse cases in Seattle. She’d seen women who shuddered with fear even when the man in question was safely behind bars.
“Did he hurt you?” she asked.
Tricia started to cry and reached for her purse. Emily looked around for a tissue, and she’d assumed that Tricia was doing the same. Instead, she produced a large gray envelope and scooted it on top of Emily’s desk.
“Open it. I want you to see. I’ve never let anyone see this before.”
Emily undid the little brass clasp and reached inside. She found three Polaroid photographs.
