“Mrs. Kenyon—I mean Sheriff Kenyon, I can clear up the phone call thingy. I told Tracee Connors, the night receptionist, that Mr. Crawford wanted to talk to his wife. She screwed up.”
Mitch glared at Darla. “Not the first time around here, that’s for sure.”
Darla went back to her desk, her face red.
“Let’s take a moment here,” Emily said, turning back to Mitch. “We need to locate your wife. So let’s calmly review what you’ve told us to see if we’ve missed anything.”
Mitch slid into his leather office chair and swiveled toward the window. “Right. We need to find Mandy. She could be hurt. The baby could be in trouble.”
“That’s right. So, like I said, let’s go over what you remember.”
“That morning she told me she was going to take Toby out for a walk, then she was going to Spokane.”
“OK, what was she driving?”
“Her car, a silver Camry, 2003.”
It seemed odd to Emily that a car dealer had his wife driving an older car, not to mention one that was neither make nor model sold at his dealership. Jason wrote down the plate number.
“Why was she going to Spokane?”
“She said she was sure the baby was going to come early and she wanted one last chance to get some things she’d been wanting.”
“OK, good. That’s a detail we didn’t have. But what about the baby shower at work?”
Mitch stared, blank-eyed. “Maybe she screwed up the date? That would be just like her.”
The remark caught Emily by surprise. It seemed cold, harsh. He didn’t know where his wife was, and Mitch Crawford was happy to disparage her. Either Mandy was a ditz or her husband didn’t care much for her.
“Where did she shop for the baby?” Emily asked. “Do you know?”
“Baby Gap and Chelsea’s.”
Emily narrowed her brow. It was a name she hadn’t heard of, and she figured it was because she hadn’t been asked to a baby shower in three years. And, well, her own baby days were long behind her with Jenna out of college and on her own.
“It’s an overpriced boutique on the first floor of the Riverside Square,” Mitch said. “I don’t know why she wanted to buy that crap. It’s just a baby, for Christ’s sake. A baby doesn’t know what the hell it’s wearing. But Mandy knows how to spend the dough. She’s not the Walmart type.”
Jason took notes while Emily focused on getting all the information she needed.
“OK. Now, about the morning walk with Toby.” She stopped herself for a moment. She recalled the scratched door at the Crawford house and how silent the place had been when she’d come by the day before. “Where is Toby?”
“Good question. I haven’t seen him since yesterday when I left for work.”
“Doesn’t that concern you?” Jason asked, for the first time inserting himself into the conversation.
Mitch looked at the young deputy. They weren’t that far apart in age, but it was clear that Mitch regarded Jason Howard as someone well beneath his station in life.
“No, as a matter of fact, it doesn’t. The dog gets out all the time and runs up and down the street. If I had a dollar for every time I had to go out and call for him in the middle of the night, I could close this dealership and retire. Trust me, Toby will be home tonight. He’ll be hungry.”
“So what happened next?” Emily asked. “Did Mandy take Toby for a walk?”
Mitch shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess so. I wasn’t there. One of us has to work, you know.”
Emily wanted to say something about how Mandy did have a job. And about how if Mitch had been half as good a man as his father, his dealership wouldn’t be hemorrhaging customers. Instead, she smiled.
Anything to keep him talking.
“Did Mandy phone you? Text you? Contact you in any way yesterday? After you—you saw her last?”
He shook his head. “No. We’re not like those couples who have to check in with an ‘I love you’ every five minutes.”
Duly noted.
“Look, I know you’re here to find my wife, but I get the vibe from you that you don’t like me. I don’t care. You don’t have to like me to find her, now do you?”
Jason piped up. “You’re right. We don’t have to like you.”
Emily glanced at Jason. She let a slight smile break across her face. “But, yes, we will find her.”
“Good. Now, if you need me to sign some paperwork for the missing persons report or whatever, let’s do it. I made a list of her friends. Here.”
He shoved a piece of paper at Emily. It held the names of friends and family members. Many of the names were familiar to her. Three were from the county clerk’s office.
“If you turn up anything, call Darla. She knows how to find me.”
As they walked past a sullen Darla, Emily turned to Jason and, in a very low voice, said what both of them were thinking.
“This guy’s really broken up that his wife is missing, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, crying a river.”
Chapter Three
The drive from town to Spokane was monotonous under the best of circumstances. The two-lane highway was frosted with gray snow that resembled concrete in texture, color, and, if the night’s freeze was deep enough, strength. An APB had been put out by Gloria, indicating a pregnant young woman was missing from Cherrystone. The local paper and a Spokane radio station with a pretty good police-beat reporter had already called.
Every day in Cherrystone was a slow news day.
Emily Kenyon told her deputy that she wanted to check out the stores that Mitch Crawford said his wife had frequented. She wanted to do something that felt like real police work again.
“I’ve been stuck behind a desk or at a banquet table for months,” she said. “I’d like to play cop while I still remember how. You hold down the fort and start checking out where else she might have gone. Hit up her neighbors, too.”
Jason wasn’t disappointed in the least. He had a home-cooked dinner waiting after work and he figured that Mandy Crawford was ticked off at her husband and would turn up before the end of the day.
“Got it,” he said. “The guy is an ass. If he treats his wife like he treats his dealership secretary, I’d have left him, too. Pregnant or not.”
Emily started for the door. “We’re in sync. I’ll run up to Spokane and see if anyone saw her yesterday.”
The saleswoman behind the counter at Chelsea’s Natural Baby probably hadn’t eaten a full meal in five years. Her gaunt visage was a sharp contrast to the lovely photographs of pink-cheeked babies and their madonna-esque mothers in designer clothes that ran along the back wall of the boutique. She had black hair that she wore swept back, held in place with an impossibly large tortoiseshell clip. Her skin was pale, almost the color of chalk. Her nails, blood red.
Emily approached her and she snapped her cell phone shut.
“I’m Caprice. Are you shopping for a grandbaby?”
Emily shook her head and wondered how bad she looked. Not that bad.
“I’m Emily Kenyon, Cherrystone Sheriff. I’m not a grandmother, thank you. I’m here on business.”
Caprice had small