Heart of Ice. Gregg Olsen
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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.
As was typical, there were a number of hits from young women at the chapters she’d just visited, with even more coming from those who were on the schedule. With or without the “detective’s gene” from her mother, it was easy to see who’d been coming to check on her. She saw the ISP of a girl who’d asked her lawyer father to defend her in a grievance over her having sex with a frat boy under the grand piano at her chapter. Her dad’s law offices were also logged. Another who left an electronic bread crumb was Tristan Wyler, her last serious boyfriend. She liked Tristan, but with law school next year, she didn’t really want to get deeply involved.
He, apparently, was still interested.
An anomaly got her attention, too. She noticed a flurry of hits coming from Southern California. The ISP for one was coming from Garden Grove; the provider was a local phone company. The other came from a company called Human Solutions, Inc., in nearby Anaheim.
Interesting, she thought, powering down as her flight was called. One of my chapter sisters must be living down there.
After dinner, Chris and Emily cleared the dishes from the old dining table and scooted aside the candles that were all about ambience, but offered no real illumination. At least not of the kind needed to review the photos she’d brought home from the office. She turned the dimmer switch on the chandelier to full power.
“Good shots,” Chris said, “if you’re making a brochure for your house. Maybe I should use your photography for my condo brochure.”
“Smart ass,” she said, fanning the images over the glossy tabletop. “Take a look.”
Emily could almost smell the bleach as she looked over the photos of the pristine environs of the Crawford home. Chris was right, of course. Everything was in perfect order. At once, the place with its twin oversize couches studded with artfully, but casually arranged throw pillows, reminded her, too, of one of those “staged” homes on TV real estate shows. Those were the shows in which the host intoned that sellers couldn’t live as they really did when trying to unload a house. Everything had to be ridiculously perfect.
“The Crawfords, apparently, lived every day like they were expecting company,” she said.
“Or maybe after Mitch killed Mandy he did a cleanup that would have made the cover of Better Housekeeping,” Chris said.
“Good Housekeeping or Better Homes and Garden, but you’re right. If he killed her. If he killed her there.”
No appliances littered the kitchen’s gleaming, expansive stone countertops. The towels in the master bath were rolled into cream and sage pinwheels of terry cloth, casually arranged in an antique breadbasket.
She flipped the photos to a scene that depicted the master bedroom. Gleaming. Immaculate. A duvet billowed without a wrinkle over top sheets that appeared to have been pressed by a steam iron: crisp and white. Everything was perfect. Not a thing out of place. On the highboy.