“He did it. You know it. I know it.”
Camille Hazelton never minced words. She probably didn’t even know how. She was, without question, the single most powerful woman in the county-city building. At fifty-five, she was lean-faced and not at all unattractive—at least when she smiled, which detractors insisted wasn’t nearly often enough.
Camille and Emily had been friends since arriving in Cherrystone about the same time—Emily coming from Seattle to start over and Camille to pick up where her father had left off. Dan Hazelton had been the prosecutor for an astonishing twenty-seven years.
When he died, his lawyer daughter moved back home from a successful law practice in Chicago and did what only the prodigal daughter could do. She ran against three men and was elected. Like Emily, Camille had deep roots in Cherrystone, but she’d also lived outside the insular community. She’d learned that there were dress shops with more to offer than Delano’s on Main Street. She knew what really good ahi was and the difference between Dom Pérignon champagne and André. And yet, like Emily, she found that nothing resonated deeper in a caring person’s heart than the place called home.
Emily sat across from the prosecutor with hot spiced wines in the cozy confines of TJ’s, a downtown bar that was frequented by law enforcement—pool tables on one side, a long battered bar that had a century of scuff marks and dents from cowboy boots, and later, steel-toed boots. It wasn’t fancy. But neither was Cherrystone.
Emily looked down at her wine, a curl of steam still rising from below the rim.
“Of course we know Crawford did it. Homicide stats. His unconcerned affect. Both point to him.”
Camille motioned to the cocktail waitress that she wanted another.
“You know it. I know it. All of Cherrystone suspects it. But suspicion, as you know, is not enough. We need evidence.”
The waitress deposited a basket of peanuts, and Camille lowered her voice. “I don’t know any other way to say this.” She stopped, clearly pained at the prospect of what she was about to say. “Look, I have to ask. Do you think we need more help on this?”
Emily didn’t pounce, though if it had been anyone other than Camille asking, she might have. Instead, she took a breath. Emily thought of telling Camille that Chris was in town and that she was going to run some things by him, informally. She didn’t volunteer it because she felt somewhat awkward about it. Chris was a seasoned pro, but he was also the man she loved. She could separate the two aspects of their relationship just fine, but she doubted everyone else could. Jason, for one, had made subtle remarks about sometimes feeling like an outsider in the sheriff’s office. Besides, he’d offered to help. She didn’t see her acceptance as a sign of weakness. Why should she?
“It isn’t that, Camille,” she said. “We’ve done everything. We don’t need to contract this out to Spokane PD. We’re just a little stuck.”
Camille let the warmth melt from her face. She set down her drink. “You need to get unstuck. My office is being crucified. You can’t believe the calls we’re getting. If the election were held today, I doubt I’d get enough votes to stay on the job.”
Emily, having had her own run-ins as a publicly elected official, understood. Working as a public servant felt meaningful most of the time, but there were occasions in which the public pushed hard. Too hard.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “We’re doing our best.”
“Let’s do better.”
Emily wished she’d asked for a second drink. Just then, she could use one. She held her tongue, partly out of friendship, but also because there was no arguing Camille’s point. Mandy Crawford had to be dead. Everyone figured her husband had done it, but nothing concrete had turned up.
“If you can’t get me something in the next week, I’ll have no choice but to call in a special investigator from Olympia.”
“Fair enough,” Emily finally said.
But it wasn’t, not really. She put on her coat, told Camille good-bye, and hurried home to Chris, who was spending the night before heading back to Seattle to meet with real estate agents about selling his condo—it was do-or-die time for their relationship. Marry or move on. She’d planned a quiet evening alone with him, but Camille’s obvious challenge put an end to a much-desired romantic interlude.
Murder always had a way of messing things up.
Chris met Emily at the door with a bear hug that would have snapped a frail woman in two. He kissed her, feeling the chill of her skin from the winter air. Judging by the wonderful smells emanating from the kitchen, she knew that his promise of a delicious meal had been genuine.
“Hope you’re hungry,” he said, taking her coat and leading her to the kitchen—replete with the savory smells of roast pork with the woodsy hint of rosemary.
“Why do you keep saying you don’t cook?” she asked.
“I don’t. But, I can. There’s a difference.” He poured her a sauvignon blanc that had been chilling in the refrigerator, instead of the cabernet he’d purchased at a wine shop in Seattle. “Seems like this will be just perfect with the dish.”
She took a glass and sipped. “Perfection.”
“Tell me about your day,” he said, filling his own glass.
“Look, don’t get me wrong,” she said, watching Chris slice off a medallion of pork. “I adore Camille. But, honestly, she can be a bit aggressive.”
“Like you can’t handle aggressive, Em.”
She swirled her wine in the glass. “I didn’t say I couldn’t handle it. Cammie is pushing because she thinks, she’s sure, that Mandy’s dead and Mitch is her killer. She doesn’t have a body, and as confident and forceful as she can be, she’s not about to prosecute without one.”
Chris shrugged. “I don’t blame her. It’s a tough call.”
Aware that she’d just dove into shop talk, Emily changed the subject. “How was your day?”
Chris put his hands upward and shook. A wry smile on his face. “Thanks for asking. I’ve been cooking and cleaning all day.”
She kissed him and whispered in his ear, “Oh you have, have you?”
“Cooking a little, but no cleaning,” he said. “Not my forte. Besides, I had a lot of reading to catch up on. A good day for Cherrystone.”
“The place where nothing happens,” they both said together.
Emily was thankful that she and Camille hadn’t succumbed to the charms of the mountain o’ nachos. Everything Chris prepared was perfection for a late evening winter meal. The roast was the star of its platter. But the green beans, pan-braised in brown butter, and the Yukon gold potatoes looked fabulous, too.
“I got the photos back from the techs,” she said, indicating a cream-colored envelope she’d brought inside and placed next to her purse. “Want to look at them after dinner?”
Chris brought the steaming platter to the dinning table and grinned.
“That’s why I’m here, babe. If spending time with you means going over case notes and photos, count me in. Now, eat. OK?”
“It isn’t as if you’re forcing me. This looks wonderful.” She pierced the meat with her fork and tasted.
Handsome, and he can cook, too.
Jenna Kenyon fixed her attention to the rolling LCD departure screen at the airport. Her flight was delayed because of severe weather in the Midwest. She didn’t mind the delay, however. As much as Jenna loved a good roller-coaster, she preferred such a ride with its tracks bolted to the ground, not in the confines of an airplane at 30,000 feet. She tried to get comfortable while she went wireless on her laptop, checking her e-mail, seeing if any new comments had been made on her BZ blog. Nothing. As a diversion, she went to the stat counter tool that tracked who’d been landing on her blog.