Not that they didn’t deserve to win. Emily had tried every recipe in Leah’s great-aunt Nellie’s old notebooks, experimenting as if it was a chemistry lab instead of a kitchen, learning what worked and what didn’t. Then she’d created her own unique variations of Nellie’s truffles, combining chocolate, rose, lavender, and fruit. Her attempts at decorations were a bit clumsy, but after taste-testing dozens of Emily’s throwaways, Leah could testify that her flavors were spot on. And Nate had spent hours perfecting his photography skills, at first with Luka’s help, then on his own.
“This way.” Emily pulled Leah’s hand, the goldfish bouncing in its bag. “I see all the food stuff over here.”
“But Nate’s art section is on the other side. We should go there first.” Emily had a tendency to be a bit forgetful of her manners—she wasn’t a bully, but she did enjoy being bossy, and Leah was trying to teach her to be more considerate of her friends’ feelings.
Nate, as always, was a gentleman. “It’s okay. Let’s see how Emily did, and then we can see how I did on the way out.”
Leah realized she’d lost Ruby in the crowd. It was worse than having a third child to keep track of. Then she spotted her over near the cooking section, shaking hands with one of the judges and smiling. Surely she hadn’t bribed a win for Emily? But, given Ruby’s inherent belief that no rules applied to her, she wouldn’t put it past her.
Ruby waved to Emily, who ran through the crowd toward her. Leah started forward but something caught her eye. She turned, peering through an opening in the tent.
She saw a woman’s face contorted in pain as she leaned against one of the two-by-fours supporting the tent’s rigging. She was young—in her twenties—with long dark hair that fell forward, only allowing a glimpse of one eye and her mouth.
Nate spied her as well. “She’s in trouble.”
The woman raised her hand to her mouth, biting back a cry, and turned away, heading toward the trees behind the tent.
“Go,” Leah told Nate, handing him the goldfish. “Tell Ruby and Emily where I am.”
She edged her way past the displays and families surrounding them, heading through the slit between two edges of canvas. The fairgrounds were part of Craven Peak State Forest, a rugged wilderness expanse that encompassed two mountains, a river gorge, and a multitude of waterfalls. Was the woman running from someone at the fair? Or someone from one of the many camping areas in the forest?
Leah scanned the area behind the tent. It was filled with packing containers, trash bins, a recycling sorting area, and other detritus from the fair. No sign of the woman.
Then she heard a moan of pain coming from behind a wall of stacked pallets of water bottles. She rushed over. The woman had collapsed into a squatting position, both hands cradling her very pregnant belly, blood trickling down past the hem of her loose-fitting sundress.
“Help me,” she gasped, before falling into Leah’s outstretched arms.
Seven
Luka had just convinced the lead crime scene tech to open the envelope containing Standish’s confession there on scene instead of waiting until they were back in the lab, and Maggie’s crew was wheeling the body out to the coroner’s van when a woman’s scream sounded from the driveway.
“Noooo!”
Harper was faster than Luka—although, to be honest, he was more than happy to let her be the first to greet the woman, whom he presumed was Natasha Standish. He could gain more by observing and waiting for her to calm down before asking her questions.
By the time he reached the driveway, Harper was supporting a platinum blonde in her thirties. As the widow sagged in her arms, Harper sent a pleading glance in Luka’s direction. He relented and together they helped the sobbing woman over to the bench where he’d interviewed Larry Hansen earlier. Since Luka hadn’t yet called Standish’s wife, he assumed Hansen had—despite Luka asking the man not to talk to anyone.
“Mrs. Standish?” He offered her a handkerchief, which she immediately smeared black with make-up and tears. Harper took a step back, discreetly out of the widow’s line of sight, and began to record their conversation. “I’m Detective Sergeant Luka Jericho and this is Detective Harper.”
She sniffed and nodded.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Standish.”
“Tassi.” Her voice was gravelly, deep and smoky.
“Excuse me?”
“No one calls me Mrs. Standish. My name. It’s Tassi.”
“All right, Tassi.” Luka kept his tone solemn as he prepared to deliver the news of her husband’s death.
But when he opened his mouth, she shook her head at him and said, “I went to the river.”
“Ma’am?”
“Larry called and said Spencer was dead, so I went to the river. He was meant to be at the river. Not here. Why is he here? He can’t be—this isn’t, this can’t be happening.”
Luka exchanged a glance over Tassi’s head with Harper. She shrugged, as clueless as he was about the wife’s rambling.
“Your husband, you expected him at the river?” Had Standish called Tassi and threatened to kill himself along the river? There were several bridges scattered throughout the county that were known suicide spots, spans high enough over fast-moving white water that often bodies were never recovered. “When did you last hear from him?”
“No, this can’t be happening,” she repeated as if a mantra. Then she lurched up. “I need to see him. It’s not him, it can’t be.” But before Luka could stand, she fell back onto the bench as if her body didn’t have the strength to fight gravity.
Luka gave her a moment, then asked again, “When did you last speak with your husband?”
“He had the cancer before, fought it
