Mitch led Emily into the kitchen. Atop the black granite counter, Emily noticed a plastic bucket with soapy water. A mop was catawampus on the floor. Mitch followed her gaze, and picked it up.
“Trying to clean up, you know, baby coming soon, and the help has the day off.”
Emily surveyed the room, wondering if the help was his missing wife or a maid service with an 800 number. “Sure,” she said. She noticed a cappuccino machine that had to be commercial grade, a wine refrigerator, a walk-in Sub-Zero refrigerator, and a range with more burners than the nicest restaurant in Cherrystone.
“Nice kitchen,” she said.
He pulled his sweater sleeves up to his elbows, bunching up the fabric in soft folds.
Mitch kept his body between Emily and the rest of the house. It was clear that he’d invited her in, but only so far.
“Can I see the bedroom? You know, to be safe. I might see something that you’ve missed.”
Mitch put his hand out, a gesture that meant to push her back—though she was already at arm’s length.
“I’d rather not,” he said. “Mandy didn’t make the bed and she’d die if you saw the way we lived. She thinks so much of you.”
“She’s a nice girl. But I don’t mind.”
“But I do. I mean, Mandy would.”
With his dark brown, penetrating eyes, Mitch stared at Emily for a second, maybe two.
Finally Mitch spoke.
“I hate to do this, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” He started for the front door, and Emily followed. Past the kitchen, through the living room, down the hallway with its art gallery vibe—mostly modern, though she spotted a Thomas Kinkade painting of an English cottage dipped in pink roses and candlelight.
“Mandy likes that kind of crap,” he said. “Mall art. Jeesh.”
This guy was too much. His wife didn’t show up for work and he was throwing her taste in art under the bus. Emily figured that Mitch Crawford was all about pretension, keeping up appearances.
“What about your wife?” she asked. “Where is she?”
“What about her? I told you she was shopping in Spokane.” His tone was impatient and he tried to reel it back in. “You know, for baby things.”
“You hadn’t told me
He escorted Emily toward the door. “Riverside Mall, downtown. Better stores than the valley mall.” He held open the door.
“All right,” she said. “Tell Mandy to call the department when she gets in.”
Before Emily finished her sentence, he’d already shut the door and turned the dead bolt.
Emily parked the cruiser in the SHERIFF spot in front of the terra-cotta facade of the City and County Safety Building, and walked to her office overlooking Main Street. Each time she passed the “Wall of Fame”—portraits of the sixteen men and the lone woman who’d served as sheriff—she felt a wince of pain. It had been two years since Brian Kiplinger succumbed to a heart attack, an event that not only broke the hearts of all who worked there, but put Emily in line for the job as the sheriff. She’d never wanted to be the damn sheriff; moreover, she never wanted to work for anyone but Kip. She was appointed interim sheriff and the following year she won the election by a whopping 88 percent majority. That she ran unopposed probably did more for her landslide victory than unbridled support from a hometown electorate. A woman sheriff was a bit of a novelty, to say the least.
“How was lunch?” The voice belonged to Gloria Bergstrom, the office dispatcher and, really, the glue that held the whole place together. She was in her midsixties, had steel-gray hair that she kept short and stylish, and never showed up for work without four-inch heels. There was good reason for that: in stocking feet, Gloria was only five feet tall.
“An inch shorter and I could have been a Munchkin in another life,” she joked whenever anyone made mention of her stature.
Emily smiled at Gloria. “Lunch was fine. Lots of promises of support. You know, working together, making a difference. The word will get out that those teddy bears are important to the kids.”
“Did you track down Mandy? The women from the clerk’s office have called twice.”
Emily shook her head and pulled off an earring that hurt like hell and picked up the phone. She pushed the speed-dial code for the clerk’s office.
“Nope, her husband says she went shopping—” She cut herself off and turned her gaze from Gloria to focus on the phone call she was making. “Jeanne? Emily. I did a drive-by of the Crawford place and Mr. Personality said Mandy took the day off to go shopping for baby things in Spokane.”
“She did no such thing,” Jeanne said in her fluty voice. “She never would do that to us here. She is our best employee.”
“Maybe she left a message with someone else that she was sick or something?”
“No. There’s no way she would do that. You see, Emily, today we were having a baby shower for her. It wasn’t exactly a surprise. She even picked out the cake.”
“I see,” Emily said, her mind flashing on the house she’d just toured. There wasn’t a thing out of place. Not only was Mitch Crawford a social climber who’d rejected his middle-class roots for the accoutrements of a rich lifestyle, he was a self-absorbed ass. A lot of husbands were. She’d had one of those herself. “Was anything going on between Mandy and her husband? Was she angry at him?”
“No, not that I know of. She was focused on the baby. That’s all she wanted.”
Emily nodded. “All right. I’ll check with Mitch this evening to make sure she came home.”
“Emily, one more thing.”
“What is it?” She held her breath as if Jeanne was about to reveal some critical clue about why Mandy Crawford might skip work. Maybe she was mad at someone. Maybe Mitch had been beating her up.
“Can you send someone over here to get some of this cake? No one here feels much like celebrating.”
Emily let out a sigh. “Of course,” she said. She hung up the phone and went down the hall to find her deputy. He was at his desk surfing a Web site for ski conditions in Idaho. He clicked his mouse to close the window.
“Jason? Can you find someone to go over to the clerk’s office? Jeanne has something she wants to give us.”
“Right on it, Sheriff.”
Emily smiled as her deputy leaped to his feet and started for the door.
Jason Howard was always hoping that something would happen around Cherrystone. What no one knew just then was it already had.
It was half past six and already dark. The snow-threatening cloud cover was a snug lid over the town. Despite the elements, the Bryant-Thompsons were still out stringing lights to outline every architectural detail of their two-story Victorian across the street from Emily’s charming but more modest home. The Bryant-Thompsons —Trevor and Mason—were one of those couples who insisted that it wasn’t Christmassy if it wasn’t over-the-top.
She let herself inside and reached for her phone. The house was quiet. Jenna, home from her job consulting for a sorority’s national office, was in the shower.
Emily left her number with Mitch Crawford, but he hadn’t called back. She pressed redial and it went to his voice mail a second time. She went toward the kitchen, dropping her shoes by the back door and her purse on the stainless-steel island. She dialed the Crawford dealership next. A young woman answered.
“Mr. Crawford went home an hour ago, Sheriff Kenyon,” she said. “He didn’t say if he was stopping anywhere. You should be able to reach him there. Is everything OK?”
“We’re worried about his wife, that’s all.”
“Oh, nothing to worry about. She’s fine. I’m pretty sure she called in here and he talked to her.”
Emily felt a surge of relief. She thanked her, swung open the refrigerator, and looked at the foil-wrapped
