Emily parked the Crown Vic behind Mitch’s Germanmade sedan and wondered why Cherrystone’s biggest car dealer didn’t drive a Ford like all his customers.
The leaded glass front door swung open.
“Emily,” Mitch called out. “Sorry you’ve been dragged into this.”
He was better looking than she’d remembered. He had broad shoulders, a strong, handsome jawline, and hair cut short in the way that men sometimes do when it is thinning. He was far too vain for a comb-over. He wore a Ralph Lauren sweater and slacks that looked a little too matchy-matchy, as though he’d purchased them without the help of a woman who knew what really looked good on a man. A gold chain that hearkened back to his dealership origins was nestled in his manscaped chest hair. He’d tried to leapfrog from his car dealership lineage, but the gold jewelry, the bad taste, and a whiff of Calvin Klein’s Obsession were clues that he’d not made it as far as he’d liked. Despite the grand house. Or maybe, because of it.
“Dragged? It’s my job,” she said.
“I know. Just seems silly. I’m sure Mandy just went out shopping.”
“How come you’re home?”
“Oh, just had to zip home for some stuff I need at work.”
“I see.”
He cracked the door open a little more, but still didn’t come outside or offer Emily to come in out of the cold air.
“She was supposed to be at work,” she said.
“Oh, no. She’d taken the day off. She had some things to get for the baby.”
Emily stepped a little closer, craning her neck to see what, if anything was behind him. “They were expecting her at the clerk’s office.”
Mitch looked unconcerned. “Signals crossed, I think. I’m not saying this to sound like a Neanderthal, but you know, she’s pregnant. She’s not exactly dotting all the i’s and crossing the t’s these days.”
Emily let the remark fly by. He was being a Neanderthal, but something was drawing her attention more than his words—the overpowering odor of bleach.
“Can I come in?” she asked, a calming smile on her face. “Have a look around?”
He looked at her warily.
“Sure. I was doing a little cleaning. I’m done now.”
“Smells like bleach,” she said.
Mitch offered a kind of lifeless smile that seemed more for effect than for the conveyance of any warmth or charm. “Nothing works better for cleaning.”
“I know,” she said, thinking at the same time that nothing obliterates blood and other body fluids better than bleach, too.
Mitch led Emily into the kitchen. Atop the black granite counter, Emily noticed a plastic bucket with soapy water. A mop was catawampus on the floor. Mitch followed her gaze, and picked it up.
“Trying to clean up, you know, baby coming soon, and the help has the day off.”
Emily surveyed the room, wondering if the help was his missing wife or a maid service with an 800 number. “Sure,” she said. She noticed a cappuccino machine that had to be commercial grade, a wine refrigerator, a walk-in Sub-Zero refrigerator, and a range with more burners than the nicest restaurant in Cherrystone.
“Nice kitchen,” she said.
He pulled his sweater sleeves up to his elbows, bunching up the fabric in soft folds. Cashmere. “We like nice things. Mandy and I.”
Mitch kept his body between Emily and the rest of the house. It was clear that he’d invited her in, but only so far.
“Can I see the bedroom? You know, to be safe. I might see something that you’ve missed.”
Mitch put his hand out, a gesture that meant to push her back—though she was already at arm’s length.
“I’d rather not,” he said. “Mandy didn’t make the bed and she’d die if you saw the way we lived. She thinks so much of you.”
“She’s a nice girl. But I don’t mind.”
“But I do. I mean, Mandy would.”
With his dark brown, penetrating eyes, Mitch stared at Emily for a second, maybe two.
Dead air. Emily resisted the urge to fill the empty space. Let him. Let him say something he’d regret.
Finally Mitch spoke.
“I hate to do this, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” He started for the front door, and Emily followed. Past the kitchen, through the living room, down the hallway with its art gallery vibe—mostly modern, though she spotted a Thomas Kinkade painting of an English cottage dipped in pink roses and candlelight.
“Mandy likes that kind of crap,” he said. “Mall art. Jeesh.”
This guy was too much. His wife didn’t show up for work and he was throwing her taste in art under the bus. Emily figured that Mitch Crawford was all about pretension, keeping up appearances. Control.
“What about your wife?” she asked. “Where is she?”
“What about her? I told you she was shopping in Spokane.” His tone was impatient and he tried to reel it back in. “You know, for baby things.”
“You hadn’t told me where. Where in Spokane?”
He escorted Emily toward the door. “Riverside Mall, downtown. Better stores than the valley mall.” He held open the door.
“All right,” she said. “Tell Mandy to call the department when she gets in.”
Before Emily finished her sentence, he’d already shut the door and turned the dead bolt.
Emily parked the cruiser in the SHERIFF spot in front of the terra-cotta facade of the City and County Safety Building, and walked to her office overlooking Main Street. Each time she passed the “Wall of Fame”—portraits of the sixteen men and the lone woman who’d served as sheriff—she felt a wince of pain. It had been two years since Brian Kiplinger succumbed to a heart attack, an event that not only broke the hearts of all who worked there, but put Emily in line for the job as the sheriff. She’d never wanted to be the damn sheriff; moreover, she never wanted to work for anyone but Kip. She was appointed interim sheriff and the following year she won the election by a whopping 88 percent majority. That she ran unopposed probably did more for her landslide victory than unbridled support from a hometown electorate. A woman sheriff was a bit of a novelty, to say the least.
“How was lunch?” The voice belonged to Gloria Bergstrom, the office dispatcher and, really, the glue that held the whole place together. She was in her midsixties, had steel-gray hair that she kept short and stylish, and never showed up for work without four-inch heels. There was good reason for that: in stocking feet, Gloria was only five feet tall.
“An inch shorter and I could have been a Munchkin in another life,” she joked whenever anyone made mention of her stature.
Emily smiled at Gloria. “Lunch was fine. Lots of promises of support. You know, working together, making a difference. The word will get out that those teddy bears are important to the kids.”
“Did you track down Mandy? The women from the clerk’s office have called twice.”
Emily shook her head and pulled off an earring that hurt like hell and picked up the phone. She pushed the speed-dial code for the clerk’s office.
“Nope, her husband says she went shopping—” She cut herself off and turned her gaze from Gloria to focus on the phone call she was making. “Jeanne? Emily. I did a drive-by of the Crawford place and Mr. Personality said Mandy took the day off to go shopping for baby things in Spokane.”
“She did no such thing,” Jeanne said in her fluty voice. “She never would do that to us here. She is our best employee.”
“Maybe she left a message with someone else that she was sick or something?”
“No. There’s no way she would do that. You see, Emily, today we were having a baby shower for her. It wasn’t exactly a surprise. She even picked out the cake.”