by Gregg Olsen
Chris got up and put his arm on her shoulders and held her. He’d practiced what he’d say, his final plea, on the way over to Cherrystone. He’d make the dinner, help her with her case, then ask her.
He pulled a small black box from his pocket.
“Oh, Chris,” she said. “I don’t know.”
“I haven’t even asked you. But seeing you’re a detective you’ve figured me out. I love you, Emily. I always have.”
Emily could feel tears threaten to spill from her eyes. “I love you, too.”
He opened the box. It was a platinum band with a row of emeralds, Emily’s favorite stone.
“Will you be my wife?” He took the ring from the box and held it out to her.
She pushed back a little. She was surprised that she hadn’t seen it coming. Not then. Not that night. “I think so, but not now. Let’s wait until this case is over.”
Chris looked a little hurt. He’d given it his best shot. She didn’t give the answer he imagined, but she hadn’t said no yet, either.
“All right,” he said, “but I can’t wait forever.”
There were times when Emily suspected that she was the biggest fool in Cherrystone, maybe even on the planet. She studied her reflection in the mirror as she undressed for bed. It was as if by looking into her own eyes she could have some kind of a silent conversation with herself. She loved Chris.
Why can’t I just give in to what I know is right? She thought.
Her answer came as she brushed out her thick, wavy hair. She and Jenna had been alone for years, forging a life together in the town where she’d grown up. She’d dated a few locals. She’d wanted—desired—the kind of solid relationship that her own parents had enjoyed. David had been the man of her dreams when she was young. She foolishly thought that they were a team, destined for great things together.
But all he’d wanted was a pretty woman on his arm—a woman he could control.
Chris was nothing like that. He loved her for who she was. He sought a life with her because he knew that the two of them together was some kind of magic, which it was. He’d also been good with Jenna, though he had his own children and knew that he was no replacement for a Seattle doctor who’d carelessly discarded the best things he’d ever had.
Emily studied her face in the mirror. She wondered if she was looking at a woman who had built a wall around herself under the guise of protecting her child. The excuse that she didn’t want to disrupt Jenna’s life was an empty one. Jenna was grown. A college graduate. Preparing for law school. She was no longer a little girl who needed protection from the world.
Emily could not have known how wrong she was as she slipped into the bed next to her lover. Her sense of safety was a vapor. She had no idea that a malevolent force of evil had come to Cherrystone already…and that it would return.
Chapter Ten
The Cannery was Cherrystone’s stab at being hip. The restaurant occupied the entire floor of the old Fruitland Packing Company’s first processing plant, two blocks west of the Courthouse. The building had been gutted by the new owners, leaving exposed brick walls, a ceiling lattice of duct-work, and a salad bar converted out of the steel juicing unit that, in Cherrystone’s glory days, had provided apple and pear juice to moms and kids in a seven-state region. The food was mostly vegetarian and the presentation was more New York than Spokane. Everything was pretty. And pretty expensive.
At least for Cherrystone.
Camille Hazelton and Emily Kenyon met there at least once a month to visit, discuss county and city government, and any cases that were on the docket that warranted a once-over before trial or pleading. This time, however, Mandy was on the menu.
While Camille ordered a tomato basil soup with pancetta confetti, Emily went to the salad bar. She put a layer of a chiffanade of romaine on a pale yellow plate and moved her tongs toward a marinated heart of palm.
That looks interesting, she thought, with a wry smile. I’d rather be sitting under a palm tree than eating one.
“Cary, great to see you,” a voice called from the other side of the salad bar.
Her smile faded. Emily’s heart sank to the floor. There was only one Cary in town. It took an extra breath to regain her composure, although she did so without so much as flutter of an eyelash. Few names and few people brought that kind of reaction. The ones who usually did were already in prison or, in the best of all worlds, six feet under in a grave dug in the Potter’s Field section of a cemetery. But not this one.
She looked over and there he was. His eyes caught hers and locked.
“This is old home week,” Cary McConnell said, with his perfect smile in place. “Hi, Emily Kenyon, lady sheriff.”
She swallowed. “Hello, Cary.”
He was a handsome figure, in a nearly black suit cut to fit a lean, athletic frame. His dark hair showed no signs of receding. He combed it back in a tousled look that Emily was sure he considered very sexy. His blue eyes were lasers. His eyes were whiter than the dish of peeled quail eggs that were next to the heart of palm.
“Been awhile. I guess that we’ll be seeing each other more now,” he said.
Emily looked puzzled and moved on to the feta. “How so?”
He looked over in Camille’s direction. “I’m surprised your pal over there didn’t tell you.”
“Tell me what?” The feta clumped too much, so she moved on to the Kalamata olives.
“I’m going to be representing Mitch Crawford.”
Emily started to leave. “Oh that,” she said.
“Hey Emily,” Cary said. “Aren’t you going to get some sweet peppers? I remember how much you liked hot things.”
Emily didn’t turn around. She didn’t want him to see her red face, her embarrassed and angry reaction to his comments. He’d said the “hot things” in such a salacious way that she was sure he meant it to be sexual.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she said, taking her seat.
“Emily, I know you have some history there,” Camille said, pulling back to get a better view of the man who’d just accosted her lunch companion. “But you’re going to have to deal.” The prosecutor’s eyes lingered on Cary and he flashed a smile in their direction.
Camille looked at Emily. “I am as surprised as you are that Cary would be handling this case.”
“Seems a little out of his league,” said Emily, who clearly wasn’t enjoying lunch anymore.
Her remark was a dig, and none too subtle. Cary had been her divorce lawyer, and he’d been a good one at that. He’d made sure that the split with David was fair, that the custody arrangements for Jenna favored Emily’s interests. Things took an unfortunate turn, when out of loneliness or just the need to be romanced, she’d dated Cary briefly. After a few dates, Cary became too attentive. Too interested. He’d fixated on her in the way that seemed unhealthy, almost scary. He’d even followed her to Seattle when she was working a big case. If he’d pushed her one iota harder to keep things going, she’d have arrested him herself for stalking. Their relationship had been consensual, of course, but Emily knew that she’d made a mistake nearly from the first time they’d been intimate.
God, I had more sense in my twenties than I do in my thirties, she’d thought at the time.
She’d forgiven herself, but she’d never forgotten how stupid it had all been. Whenever she heard his name, saw him in Cherrystone at the market, she was reminded that age didn’t always bring wisdom.
“So when did Mitch hire Cary?” Emily asked.
Camille swirled some fake sweetener into her iced tea. “Yesterday, I guess.”
“How come I’m only finding about this now?”
“Look, Emily, probably no one wanted to be the one to tell you that the rumor mill was churning with news of Cary getting involved in the Crawford case.”
Emily looked down at her salad and stabbed at an olive. She’d just lost her appetite.
“There is no problem here,” she said. It was a bit of a white lie. She coul
dn’t stand the man. The only saving grace was that she would never have to talk to him. Camille would provide discovery if an arrest of his client was ever made. The only thing that would drag Emily into a face-to-face conversation with Cary would be when and if Emily took the witness stand.
That was a big if. No one knew for sure where Mandy was, and if she was even dead. It didn’t look good for Mitch Crawford’s wife, but Camille never silenced her mantra: We need evidence. Get evidence, Emily.
That, and the combination of a man she loathed and his client, a probable killer, fueled Emily’s desire to get at the truth all the more.
Back in her office, the sheriff glanced out the window as a city snowplow ambled back to the garage next to her office. The snow was so scant that the machine almost looked defeated. Like Emily. The news that Cary McConnell was back in her life had tied her stomach like a Nantucket knot. It was visceral. Sudden. And it bothered her. She didn’t like holding on to any negative feelings about Cary. Lurking in her consciousness was slow-burning worry that Cary and their past relationship could find its way into her investigation, knocking her off her game.
He was everything she thought she’d wanted when her marriage to David unraveled. Cary was smart, charismatic, and even kind. There had been things about him that were so appealing. For a while, she imagined that his controlling nature—about everything from the cut of his suit coat to his confident manner on a case—cloaked a kind of insecurity that came with the need to always be right, to always win.
To be the best.
She understood how people wore masks of certainty and even false arrogance to make their case, to get what they wanted. One incident gave her a little glimmer that, perhaps, there was something deeper inside that perfectly groomed man with the nice car, expensive clothes, and top-of-his-law-class pedigree. There was a heart beating there, too. After she hired him to take care of her divorce, she sat in his office and admired a silver plate that hung on the wall.
“That’s lovely,” she said.
“Some friends gave it to me.”
His words had seemed so final, that she didn’t press the point. Later she learned that Cary had made seven trips to a village in Mexico to help build homes for children who’d taken up residence in a city dump outside of Tijuana. The plate was a gift from Hands Across the Border, a nonprofit group recognizing Americans who do more to help others than merely writing a check. Cary’s brashness and bravado were counterpoints to the real man, the one she’d wanted to know.
Of course, she’d been wrong.
As another light dusting of snow fell on the streets of Cherrystone, Emily looked at the clock with the stuttering second hand that had been hung on the wall by Sheriff Kiplinger. The clock had been given to him by the Cherrystone Jaycees and Emily thought that it would stay put until the thing died. It was inscribed with: “There’s Always Time for Justice in Cherrystone.” It was so corny—and so true—that Emily had grown to love it as much as her beloved boss.
It was five minutes before the news. Emily turned on her old office TV and called over to Jason Howard, who had just come in from his routine run-through with the next shift of officers who’d be taking over the mundane traffic and minor theft cases until the graveyard shift. “Let’s see what Crawford’s lawyer has to say,” she said. “He’s on the news.” She purposely did not use Cary’s name.
“Should I bring some popcorn from the break room?” Jason said. His smile was a little sheepish. He already knew the answer.
Emily made a face. “Only if you want me to barf it up all over my desk.”
“No, thanks.” Jason parked himself on the corner of the desk. “We can definitely do without that.”
As the picture came on, Emily was glad it was only the Spokane affiliate. She knew Cary well enough to know that he’d gunned for the national media, or the Seattle TV stations at the very least, when he was looking to capture the attention of news producers. It must have been a blow to his oversized ego that all he could lure to his office for an interview was the lowest-rated affiliate from Spokane. When the news anchor led with a house fire in rural Spokane County, Emily caught herself smiling.
“Good, he didn’t even make the top story,” she said.
As the anchor breathlessly recounted the turn of events that involved a dog knocking over a candle to ignite a Spokane Valley mobile home, the crawl on the bottom of the screen teased the interview: NEXT, CHERRYSTONE LAWYER SAYS HIS CLIENT IS UNFAIR TARGET OF INVESTIGATION.
A commercial for an apartment complex offering a “move-in” bonus and a “holiday ham” was next. Another was from a florist.
Finally, the anchor, a sunny brunette who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, was back on the air announcing the story.
“And now, an exclusive interview by Anne Yakamoto with the lawyer representing the Cherrystone car dealer now under suspicion in his wife’s disappearance.”
An Asian woman with blond hair gripped the microphone like she was about to warble on a TV singing show, her fingertips doing all the work. She stood in front of Crawford’s dealership and did the news reporter bobblehead nod as she was introduced. Her hands must have been frozen, Emily thought, but apparently Anne Yakamoto wanted to show off her slender fingers and perfect nails—admittedly, her best feature.
“I’m standing here in front of the world-famous Crawford’s car dealership in downtown Cherrystone….”
Emily winced at the first sentence. World-famous? She wondered if Mitch Crawford had been the copywriter for the opener. It would be like him to insist upon that kind of a promo line to secure the interview. She rolled her eyes at Jason and he returned the gesture.
“…and as Christmas comes, this whole town is wondering where one of their own has vanished. Mandy Crawford has been missing since just after Thanksgiving. Police have investigated, but have come up empty-handed. No one wonders where Mandy has gone more than her husband, the owner of this hugely successful dealership. He’s been putting up posters and working the phone lines of the volunteers who are searching for his missing wife. I sat down with Mitch Crawford’s defense lawyer this afternoon.”
The video cut to a shot of Cary on the telephone. He looked serious as he made some notes on a legal pad.
Emily doubted Cary had made notes on anything or even that he talked to clients on the phone. He always said he had “associates” to do the jobs he didn’t like. The only thing he liked to do, apparently, was grandstand in the courtroom.
Or, apparently on subzero-rated TV.
Next, Anne Yakamoto faced the camera. “Mr. McConnell, you’re pretty upset about what’s been happening to your client.”
Cary, in a crisp white shirt, charcoal jacket, and a Tiffany blue silk tie, unfolded his arms. “You bet I am, Anne. Mitch Crawford has suffered an unbelievable tragedy here.”
“Unbelievable is right,” Jason said, his eyes fixed to the TV.
“…His wife, the mother of his child-to-be, just flat-out disappeared. Immediately the sheriff put the focus on Mitch, when she should have been looking for Mandy. We don’t even know what happened to her, but we do know that Mitch didn’t have a thing to do with her disappearance.”
The camera went back to the reporter. “Why do you think the sheriff focused on your client?”
“Lazy. Inexperience. I don’t know. It probably was convenience.”
Emily felt her blood boil, but she said nothing.
“…There isn’t one shred of evidence that ties my client to anything here. He was looking forward to the holidays with his wife and the birth of their first child. Turning him into a suspect is outrageously cruel. Leave him alone. Find Mandy. Do your job, for crying out loud.”
There was a quick cut-over to an image of Mitch Crawford, shoveling the snowy sidewalk in front of his fabulous house. Emily doubted he’d ever done that before. He struck her as the type who’d made sure that he kept plenty of “the little people” around to do that sort of thing. Bossing people around mad
e him happy.
Anne Yakamoto turned her head slightly when the news anchor asked if she’d talked with Mitch Crawford. “Mitch talked to me briefly off-camera. He’s still wrapping Christmas presents for his wife and expected new baby. He says he just wants them to come home safely.”
Jason looked over at Emily. She sat stone-faced. Even the reporter had bought into his charm; she’d referred to him by his first name.
A photograph of Mandy went up on the screen. It was fairly recent. She smiled broadly, holding up a baby quilt. There was no mistaking the joy the young woman had for her impending motherhood. If the photo was meant to tug at the heart, it succeeded.
“If you see this woman, please contact Mr. McConnell at his law offices in Cherrystone.”
Another news story came on and Emily turned off the TV.
“That was probably the most insulting bit of news reporting, if you can call it that, I’ve ever witnessed—and, believe me, I’ve seen more than my share,” Emily said.
“Yeah, looks like the reporter was on the wrong side of that story from the get-go.”
“I guess that’s Cary’s strategy. He’s going to be the mouthpiece for his client now. Letting us know how hard this has been on Mitch, how rough we’ve been on him.”
“I’d like to be rough on him,” Jason said. “The guy’s a prick.”
“That, he is. But we’ll get him. His arrogance and his lawyer’s arrogance will be their undoing. In a way, I’m relieved.”
“I’m out of here. See you in the a.m.”
“Night, Jason.”
As her young deputy departed, Emily winced at the thought of the blue tie that Cary McConnell had been wearing. It had been held in place by an antique tie tack with his initials. She wondered if it was a coincidence or a maybe even a kind of snarky sartorial wink directed at her. She’d purchased the tie and the tack—the only gifts she’d given to him.
She wished now that she’d asked for them back.
Chapter Eleven