A woman answered the door.
Abbie introduced Clarke and herself, then said, “Thank you. I’m sorry we have to intrude, but it’s better that we talk sooner rather than later, as difficult as it is.”
“Come in,” the woman said with as much friendliness as the situation permitted.
Jessica’s parents were sitting in the living room. There were a few young kids spread out on the floor reading and coloring. The woman who’d answered the door corralled them into the kitchen with the promise of baking brownies.
Abbie glanced around the room. The furniture was well taken care of, but it was neither new nor particularly well made. There was an upright piano awkwardly placed near the doorway so that you had to walk around the bench in order to enter the room. There were several hymnbooks stacked on top of the piano and a book of children’s church songs balanced against the music rack. A large framed photo of the Logan temple was hanging on the wall over a brown paisley sofa. Between the two windows overlooking the front yard was the Gary Kapp image of Joseph Smith’s First Vision, depicting a glowing Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ hovering above the ground in the woods of upstate New York where Joseph Smith had encountered the divine beings for the first time. The rest of the room looked as if it could have been a living room in any similar neighborhood in the state. Someone, probably the woman who’d answered the door, had stenciled “Families are Forever” above the doorway to the kitchen. There was a bookcase with copies of the scriptures filling the bottom two shelves, but the top shelf held much older books. Abbie stepped closer to get a better look. There were some early editions: a hymnbook, a Book of Mormon, and a copy of the fourth volume of The Journal of Discourses. Abbie had grown up with an extensive library of first and early editions of LDS books. Even though she didn’t believe these books were divinely inspired, Abbie retained a reverence for all books, especially old ones.
Once the kids had scampered into the kitchen, Abbie turned her attention to Jessica’s parents. Jessica’s father was holding a well-thumbed copy of his own brown leather Book of Mormon.
“Brother and Sister Grant, we’re so sorry for your loss. I wish we could spare you this conversation, but under the circumstances…” Abbie didn’t feel the need to finish the sentence.
Jessica’s mother, an older woman whose mostly gray hair was cut in a short bob that showed off her still tight jawline, was what many would call a “handsome woman.” Her husband, whose hair was entirely gray, wore it closely cropped in a manner that made Abbie wonder if he had served in the military before becoming a teacher.
“Do you know what happened?” Jessica’s father asked.
“We’re still waiting on results from the Office of the Medical Examiner concerning Jessica’s death. As soon as we know something, we’ll let you know,” Clarke said.
“Your son Jake lives with you?” Abbie asked.
“Yes,” the father answered.
“He said he last saw Jessica around four o’clock.”
“That makes sense. He would have gone to church and then to visit the young lady he’s dating. She lives in Logan.”
Abbie nodded to Clarke, who jotted down something in his small spiral notebook. He was going to have to confirm Jake’s whereabouts.
“This may seem like a strange question, but did you know Steve Smith?”
Jessica’s parents looked at each other.
“Well, yes,” the husband replied. “We’ve known the Smiths for a long time. Steve’s dad and I were at Weber State at the same time. It’s so sad about his death.”
Something in his tone made Abbie think that Jessica’s parents didn’t know his death was a homicide.
“Brother and Sister Grant, you may not have heard, but the medical examiner determined that Brother Smith’s death was a homicide,” Clarke announced. Evidently, he’d picked up on this misapprehension as well.
“We thought … we thought it was a heart attack,” Jessica’s mom stammered. Jessica’s father put his hand over his wife’s and squeezed it.
“We’re trying to get a full picture of Steve Smith. Did you know him well?”
Jessica’s father shook his head. “Like I said, I knew his dad. I’m sure our families had contact. The kids, I mean. I’m sure there were high school football games where our kids overlapped, but I don’t remember any of the Smith kids having been friends with our kids. Do you, dear?”
“No, different circles of friends. I think the Smiths were more liberal. Not to say they weren’t good people…”
Jessica’s mom seemed to regret having passed judgment on the Smith family. She added, “Once the Smiths moved to Pleasant View, we would see the family at stake conference. I probably did some Relief Society work with Sister Smith.”
“So, Steve Smith never visited you at your house?” Abbie asked.
“No.” Jessica’s parents answered at the same time. Then her father said, “I don’t mean to be difficult, but what does Brother Smith’s death have to do with Jessica? You don’t think they’re linked, do you?”
“At this point in time, we’re not ruling anything out,” Abbie said. “Do you remember the last time you saw Brother Smith?”
“I don’t know,” Jessica’s mother said. “It must have been at stake conference, but I’m not sure. I don’t specifically remember seeing him.” She looked at her husband. He shook his head. “No, I couldn’t say either. As I said, it’s not like we were close.”
“Do you know if Jessica was friendly with him?” Abbie asked.
“I can’t imagine she would have been,” Jessica’s father said. There was something in his tone that put Abbie on alert. Clarke had again opened his notebook and wrote something down.
“Did Jessica ever mention him? You know, like he gave a talk at a Young Adults evening? Maybe a ride home?” Clarke asked.
“I don’t remember her ever talking about him or anyone in the Smith family, for that matter. Do you, dear?” Jessica’s mom turned to her husband, who was still holding her hand.
“No, I’m quite certain I never heard her talk about him.”
Clarke closed his notebook. Abbie saw he was trying to decide whether Jessica’s parents were telling the truth. She could see in his face that something wasn’t sitting right with him.
Abbie took over. “This is just routine, but I need to confirm again where you were on Sunday before you found Jessica.”
“We were at church with our son’s family in Bountiful.” Clarke took the name and address of the son.
“And what about last Sunday morning?” Abbie asked.
The couple looked at each other. Jessica’s father said, “Most Sunday mornings we’re at home until church.”
Jessica’s mom stood up and walked to the kitchen. She returned with a dark-blue day planner. “I don’t have anything written down for last Sunday. Sometimes we have things to do. I help out an elderly sister in the ward who sometimes needs help getting ready for church. After so many years of doing these things, Sundays sometimes blur together.”
Abbie stood up, along with Clarke. She looked at the bookcase again. She was debating whether The Journal of Discourses might be a first edition.
“Ah, you recognize that?” Jessica’s dad said as he watched Abbie’s gaze.
“Yes, my father’s a historian.”
“William Taylor? I wondered, but I didn’t want to pry. You can tell him it’s a second edition of Volume Four. Heber Jeddy Grant was my grandfather.”
Heber J. Grant had been the seventh President of the Church. The name “Jeddy” stuck somewhere in Abbie’s head. If she were speaking, she would have described the feeling as having a word on the tip of her tongue. As it was, she had a thought stuck between synapses. What connection wasn’t she making?
TWENTY-EIGHT
Abbie had to stop at the grocery store on the way home. It was already dark and she was exhausted, but today was her mom’s birthday. She had to pick up some birthday candles and cake. Every year on her mom’s birthday, Abbie would
end the day by lighting a single green candle (her mom’s favorite color) and eating at least one slice of German chocolate cake washed down with a tall glass of cold milk. Over the years, it had become harder and harder to find German chocolate cake. Last year, Abbie had had to bake one herself. As she stared through the glass in the bakery section of the grocery store, all she could see were cakes iced in white or brown or depicting neon characters from the latest children’s movie.
“Sweetheart, can I help you?” Abbie looked up to see an older woman wearing a white coat with her hair pushed up into a hairnet.
“I’m looking for a German chocolate cake. You don’t by any chance have one?”
“Let me take a look in back. We do have a nice chocolate cake with vanilla frosting here.”
“Thanks, but it needs to be German chocolate.” Abbie heard herself and realized the cake didn’t “need” to be anything. In fact, she didn’t need cake at all. The fact that she knew she was being irrational did not lessen her compulsion to have a German chocolate cake. The woman had been in the back of the bakery for what seemed like an eternity. Abbie started wondering if she should check the baking aisle for cake mixes. At this hour, there was no way she could bake a cake from scratch.
“Here you go!” The woman in the hairnet emerged from the back carrying a white box. “It’s the last one. Would you like anything written on it?”
“No, that’s okay.” Abbie watched the woman begin to tape the sides of the box and then changed her mind. “Actually, could you write ‘Happy Birthday, Mom’ in green?”
“Sure thing. It’ll just take me a second. Green?”
“Yes. Thank you.” Abbie exhaled. Her unreasonable anxiety about not having her mom’s birthday cake was draining from her body. She’d be home soon. She could shower away the day and sit down to a dinner of cake, milk, and champagne. Her mother would not have partaken in the champagne, of course, but Abbie knew she wouldn’t mind. In fact, her mom would probably have pointed out that Brigham Young oversaw the production of “Dixie wine” in the southern part of the state.
Abbie followed the familiar twists up Ogden Canyon in the dark. She kept her brights on the entire drive because there was no traffic heading the other way. She had turned the Rover onto her gravel driveway and headed up toward the cabin when her stomach dropped.
Lights were on in her bedroom and downstairs in the living room and kitchen. Abbie watched as two male figures moved in and out of view. Apparently they hadn’t heard the car. She removed her foot from the brake and let gravity drag the Rover down to the road. She glided to the shoulder around the bend and parked.
It didn’t take long for her eyes to adjust to the dark. She started walking up the driveway without any light, trying her best to be as silent as was possible on gravel. There was a back door into her study if she could manage not to set off the motion-detecting lights. She crouched behind a white Mercedes parked in front and considered the best way to get into the house without being seen.
Neither man had bothered to cover his face, but she couldn’t identify either one from where she was. One was in a suit and tie; the other was wearing a flannel shirt. Flannel Shirt looked big. His hair was cropped. He had the thick neck and obvious muscular build of a man who either worked in private security or was an amateur body builder. Either way, he did not look like a guy you wanted to mess with. Suit Man looked familiar, but in a way that white men with expensive haircuts and well-tailored suits all did.
Abbie took the long way through the trees around the back of the house. She had eluded the motion detectors so far. At the moment, she was glad for that, but as she thought about it, she made a mental note that she should have the security system upgraded. If she could get past it, anyone could. She was almost certain she had set the alarm before she left that morning. She hadn’t gotten a call from the security company, and there was certainly no alarm going off right then.
Abbie watched the man in the suit disappear, and then she saw the lights in her study go on. Suit pulled out his phone and started taking pictures of the papers on her desk. He was careful. He went through the stacks of her father’s notes, but put them back as he found them.
Abbie moved a little closer to try to get a look at Suit’s face. In the process, she must have triggered one of the motion detectors. The outside lights came on suddenly, casting strange shadows in the darkness. Abbie crawled behind a juniper bush, but not before Suit looked up. She could see him say something, but she couldn’t make out the words.
The front door slammed. Heavy footsteps interrupted the nighttime quiet. Then Abbie saw Flannel Shirt walking slowly in her direction. The lights were shining out into the trees. Abbie could see the shadow of the man heading toward her, but she couldn’t see him from her hiding place behind the thick evergreen shrubbery. She didn’t move. She didn’t breathe. She was prepared to shoot, but hoped it wouldn’t end that way.
“I don’t see anything! Could it have been a deer?” Flannel Shirt was standing just in front of her juniper bush. Abbie probably could have reached out and touched him through its branches.
Suit came to the door that led from her study onto the stone patio. He opened it and stepped outside. The light attached to one of the trees hit his face. It was Bowen.
“I thought I saw a person, but I could be wrong. I’ve got what I need. Let’s go.”
“Whatever you say, sir.” Flannel Shirt looked directly at Abbie, but apparently couldn’t see her. He turned around and walked back toward the driveway. Abbie watched as the lights in her house went out. She heard car doors open and close. She waited behind the bush long after they drove away until she heard nothing but silence.
Abbie hiked down the driveway. This time she pulled her phone out of her pocket and pressed the flashlight icon. She moved the light around the Rover and across the road. Nobody was there. The turnoff to her driveway was empty.
Abbie climbed back into the Rover and drove up the dirt road. She parked in the same place where the white Mercedes had been just a few minutes earlier. She picked up the grocery bag with the cake and candles and walked up the stairs to the cabin. When she unlocked the door, the alarm started beeping. Her stomach dropped for the second time that night. She entered the code and the beeping stopped.
She set her mom’s birthday cake box on the counter. She inhaled the faintest hint of citrus and moss—Eau Sauvage. Abbie doubted Flannel Shirt was a Dior man. She then walked through the entire house and turned on every single light, even the ones in the closets. She inspected every place Bowen and his goon could have been. If she hadn’t actually seen them in her house, she would never had known they’d been there. Everything was exactly as she had left it that morning. Including the alarm.
TWENTY-NINE
Abbie lifted her head from the kitchen counter when she heard her clock beeping upstairs. The cake, a single candle with a blackened wick in its center, was on the counter along with a glass of milk. Abbie had managed a single bite last night, but her appetite had vanished in the aftermath of her unexpected guests. She was so on edge that she had simply sat in the kitchen trying to figure out what Bowen and Flannel Shirt were looking for. She couldn’t get it out of her head that they knew her alarm code. She also knew she couldn’t say a word to anyone at work. If she mentioned this to Henderson, it would confirm all the anti-Mormon conceptions he already had about her. He not only wouldn’t believe her; he’d be convinced she was on a witch-hunt to discredit LDS leaders.
A shower and a thermos of hot coffee would have to power her through the morning. Abbie caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror. There was no denying she looked the worse for wear. She opened a drawer and took out her heavy-duty concealer. She rubbed some blush along her cheeks and tried to convince herself no one would notice she looked like death warmed over.
Her phone buzzed.
It was a text from Clarke: WE CAN TALK TO JESS SIBS.
Abbie pushed last night’s events to another part of her brain.
She texted Clarke she was on her way. She looked at the screen on her phone. She had texted John last night, but it was late and he hadn’t responded.
By just after eight in the morning, Abbie was sitting in the passenger seat next to Clarke. They were going to see Jessica’s brothers. The Grant siblings had circled the wagons at Tom’s house.
The front door was open when Abbie and Clarke arrived. A young woman with three toddlers in tow was leaving.
“Thank you so much for the lasagna and salad,” said the woman Abbie now knew was Jessica’s sister-in-law, Tom’s wife.
“Of course,” the young mom said. “I’m so sorry for all of you. We all adored Jess.” The mom turned and saw Clarke. “Hi, Jim.”
Clarke greeted the woman warmly and explained he was there on official business. Jessica’s sister-in-law ushered Abbie and Clarke into the family room, where the brothers were talking about the obituary. She whispered, “Mom and Dad are napping upstairs. You won’t need to talk to them right now, will you? They’ve been having a really hard time with this. We haven’t been able to get them to rest until now.”
Abbie assured the sister-in-law she wouldn’t interrupt Jessica’s parents’ sleep. She and Clarke sat down in the large family room, which was a half-flight of carpeted stairs down from the living room where they had been the day before. The room was a mishmash of hand-me-down sofas and easy chairs that had seen better days. The walls were painted a shade of lavender that was a little too bright for Abbie’s taste. Jake motioned for Abbie and Clarke to sit on the sofa facing the window. The middle brother had been typing on his laptop. A “first draft” of the obituary, he explained. He snapped the computer shut and turned his attention to the newcomers.
“We’re trying to get a better picture of Jessica. Any detail, however unimportant you think it may be, might end up being critical. The more information you can give us, the better.”
“Of course,” Tom said.
“Do any of you know if your sister was seeing anyone?” Abbie asked. She hadn’t believed Tom and Jake’s denials the night before. She was hoping that in this setting, with all Jessica’s brothers present, they would realize that honesty was the best policy.
Blessed be the Wicked Page 19