“Do you know the family names of Evan Barstow’s wives? Not the first wife, but the others.”
Hannah stopped. She closed her eyes and dropped her head. When she looked up at me, her mouth sank at both corners. “Clara, you’re not investigating him, are you?”
“I just need the wives’ names,” I said. “That’s all.”
Hannah put both hands on my shoulders and stared at me. “Tell me it’s not Evan Barstow you’re researching. He’s not someone you want to fool with. Believe me when I say that it would be a mistake.”
“I understand. But I need his wives’ maiden names.”
“Why do I feel I shouldn’t do this?” she asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s a simple question.”
Hannah shook her head. “I think there are three wives. The second and third are Jessica Bradshaw and Flo Jenkins.”
“Thanks.” I turned to go, and when I looked back Hannah watched me, her face a mask of worry.
Back on my laptop, I searched for information on Evan’s second and third wives. The thing with polygamy is that it’s illegal in the United States. It has been since 1862. That makes living the principle a somewhat complicated lifestyle. Over the decades, the problem has been solved by a technical maneuver: husbands only legally marry their first wives. Successive women are sealed to the men in religious ceremonies, but by no civil records filed at county courthouses. While in their day-to-day lives Jessica and Flo went by the last name Barstow, for legal matters most plural wives used their maiden names.
Half an hour later, a search of driver’s license records revealed an address shared by a Flo Jenkins and a Jessica Bradshaw, my guess the house where Evan Barstow’s family resided. When I looked up the property on Google Maps, it was a sprawling ranch near the mountains.
Mission accomplished, I turned off my laptop, just as my phone rang.
“We couldn’t find out much, Detective,” Samantha said. “There’s a boy in one of the group homes who remembers Eliza Heaton, but only from growing up with her in Alber. He hasn’t seen her in Salt Lake.”
“What about Jayme Coombs and Delilah Jefferies?”
“Nothing. But that doesn’t mean the girls didn’t go through here at some point. Like I said, our files are pretty sketchy. They may have stopped at the center, had a meal or two, picked up some materials, and moved on. If they didn’t ask for help finding shelter, we won’t have records.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Another dead end.
I shouted at Hannah on my way out the door. “Not sure when, but I’ll see you later.”
“Clara!” Hannah bellowed. I glanced back at her. “Be careful!”
Twenty-One
It was still only 9.30 a.m. when I set a course for the Barstow family residence, reasoning that with any luck Evan wouldn’t be there. It was hours before lunch, and I assumed he’d have gone to his office after our early-morning confrontation at Alber PD. I thought again about the way he glared at me as Stephanie Jonas handed me her card. One thing was clear: my presence upset him.
Why? Was he involved in Delilah’s disappearance?
On the drive, I debated what I was looking for and how to find it. I really had no idea. I was playing a hunch. Evan Barstow had caught my interest, and I needed to know more about him. Reasoning it through, I didn’t believe that if Evan had Delilah he would hide her on the farm, surrounded by his family. Evan was smarter than that. Even if he thought he had control of the women, the children might talk. Secrets known by too many are hard to keep. Still, I couldn’t be sure. The thought that my sister could be hidden somewhere in Evan’s house pricked at my nerves.
Reflecting on my situation I also considered that, in a strange twist of fate, being a regular citizen worked to my advantage.
As the sheriff and the Barstow boys had pointed out, I had no jurisdiction in Alber. I certainly had none in Hitchins. Making an official visit, I would have had to abide by the rules and identify myself as law enforcement. Under the current circumstances, I had no more status than any interested party. That meant more freedom.
Yet, I’d embarked on the ultimate fishing expedition. I had no idea what to look for. My only hope: that if there was something on the property tied to Delilah, I’d notice it. But for that to be possible, it had to stand out enough to attract my attention. Admittedly, that was a long shot. After all, I’d had no contact with my sister in a decade.
Evan Barstow’s spread, between Alber and Hitchins, looked like a typical farmhouse—peaked roof, bluish-gray siding, and a broad front porch with four rocking chairs. A circle of pines, maples, and a few oaks buffered the house from the sun creeping higher in the east.
I drove past twice, sizing up the situation and formulating a plan. I didn’t see Evan’s official car, leading me to believe that, as I’d hoped, he wasn’t home. A woman in a long dress rode a mower through the yard, cutting the grass. Children milled around, playing ball and pushing each other on swings, while a second woman watched from one of the chairs on the porch.
On my third pass, I turned my phone off and rubbed my eyes to get them a little red. Cattle and horses grazed on both sides of the long driveway. At the sound of my SUV hitting the gravel, the woman supervising the children stood. Immediately, she shouted at the little ones to rush into the house. The woman on the mower wore headphones to block the engine noise, and apparently didn’t hear my car or her sister-wife’s shouts.
I parked the car, scrambled out, and made a beeline toward the woman on the mower. At that precise moment, she made a 180-degree
