Figure out where she went. Based on his aunts’ experiences, Ensley traveled to a time and place where she had a unique connection. Maybe there was a journal in her bag, or notes, or emails on her computer that would narrow the possibilities. But he already knew she was in Cambridge to meet with the author of a new Teddy Roosevelt book. Was TR’s time in North Dakota the unique connection to Ensley?
It made sense to him.
He returned to the den and fixed a drink at the wet bar while waiting for George, sipping it while he looked around. Nothing had changed in the house since they were students. Same furniture. Same books in the bookcases. The same big-screen TV hanging over the mantel. How many of Austin’s games had he and George watched on that TV? Hundreds?
JC sipped the whisky, hyper-aware of the brooch in his pocket, warming his leg. The hand on the mantle clock went around once, twice, five times, and his nerves itched like an allergic reaction to spring pollen.
JC paced the room until George returned ten minutes later.
“She’s not there, and Mrs. Taylor hasn’t seen her tonight. I called Dad, and he said to call the police.”
The last thing JC wanted was to involve the police. That meant more lying. But like Uncle Connor’s situation, the police had to be involved, at least initially. The New Orleans Police had only done a limited investigation when Aunt Penny went missing, and he doubted the Cambridge police would do any more than the detectives in NOLA.
“They’re likely to tell you she’s twenty-eight years old, in full possession of her faculties, and there aren’t any signs of a crime.”
“That’s what Dad said, but we still have to file a missing person report.”
While George dialed 9-1-1, JC returned to the kitchen and rummaged through Ensley’s computer bag. Inside were a laptop, a stack of paper-clipped pages, and a one-page itinerary.
George was penciled in for dinner, followed by a get-together at a country music bar with former classmates. First thing Friday was an eight o’clock breakfast meeting with Professor Whiteside, followed by a work session in his office until noon, then a lunch break, and another work session beginning at two. She had penciled in dinner with McKay and Roanna at eight, whoever they were. Then on Saturday, she had another work session with the professor and a reservation to take the four o’clock train back to the city.
He returned the itinerary to the bag and removed the paper-clipped pages. The top sheet was a query letter from Professor Whiteside, pitching his book covering Teddy Roosevelt’s life from 1884—when he had a ranch in North Dakota—until 1895 when he was appointed New York City Police Commissioner by Mayor William Strong. Also attached was a ten-page synopsis, which JC speed-read.
George entered the kitchen. “The police are on their way.” He looked over JC’s shoulder. “What are you reading?”
“Professor’s Whiteside’s submission package. His book focuses on Teddy Roosevelt’s life from 1884 to 1895. I see why Ensley was interested in the manuscript. TR had a ranch in North Dakota from 1884 until 1886.”
“But that doesn’t help us find her now,” George said.
JC picked up the lowball glass he’d set on the counter, gave the liquid a tentative swirl, then chugged it back.
Oh, yes, it does.
He was now ninety-eight percent sure Ensley had gone back to the Badlands to meet TR. Nothing about that possibility seemed dangerous. It would be rustic for sure, but Ensley was raised there, knew the land, and knew how to hunt for food. And while she would initially be a woman alone, she could handle herself. And according to Whiteside’s proposal, there was a woman Ensley could befriend in the town of Medora—the Marquis de Mores’s wife—the former Medora von Hoffman of New York City.
The doorbell rang. “That was quick.” George headed toward the front door, and JC followed. “Let’s hope the police can find out what happened to her.”
Two detectives entered the house. Both men were slightly under six feet, with dark hair and dark eyes, but one was in his late forties and carrying a few extra pounds, and the other one was young, probably a rookie. After introductions, JC, George, and the detectives split up.
As JC and the younger cop walked into the living room, the cop asked, “What’s with the smell?”
“We noticed it as soon as we entered the house. The odor is thicker in the bedroom, where Ensley showered and changed.”
“Have you ever noticed it before?”
JC gave him a sly smile. “Yeah, but it was in the Scottish Highlands.”
“It smells like wet grass and dirt. It could be a scented candle?”
“I’m not into candles,” JC said. “Most of the scents are too sweet for my taste, but I haven’t seen any around here. The hearth is clean, so no one’s lit a fire. She wasn’t here long enough to cook a meal, and why would she? She was meeting George for dinner.”
“I’ll include the smell in the missing person report and see if it matches any other disappearances.”
If the detective mentioned the smell, the report of Aunt Penny’s disappearance might show up in a database of missing persons. But Aunt Penny returned a few days later, unharmed. So if anything, the detectives would find it interesting but not significant.
The detective made a few notes in a pocket notebook, and for the next thirty minutes, JC walked the cop through the house, pointing out everything he’d noticed…except for finding the brooch.
Thank goodness George didn’t know anything about the brooch because he would have mentioned it. If the cops entered the brooch and the odor into a national database, it would eventually link back to MacCorp—the MacKlenna family corporation—and ultimately to JC.
He and the detective returned to the kitchen. “I went through her computer bag searching for clues, and she has an itinerary if you’re interested.”
“That’d be helpful,” the detective said.
JC pulled out the sheet of paper. “There aren’t any phone numbers, and
