same boat.”
She almost said something about the Titanic, but thought better of it. Jason Howard was her subordinate and admitting to him that they were both in dead-end jobs was counterproductive. The fact was that adrenaline junkies would die a slow death in Cherrystone. Nothing earth-shattering happened in Cherrystone. No murder in five years. There had been three rapes, twenty-eight burglaries/robberies, eighty-three assaults, and a couple hundred drug busts, mostly for meth—the scourge of small towns and rural communities across the West.
No one had to tell Emily who Mandy’s husband was. Mitch Crawford was a good eight to ten years younger than she, but the Crawford family was well known for having the region’s car dealership. Cherrystone was certainly out of the way, with Spokane being its nearest major city. Mitch’s father, Eddie, however, had shown a knack for marketing that turned the car lot into a destination. He’d fly people into Spokane from Seattle or Portland, pick them up in a limo, and make sure they returned home in one of his cars. He ran ads on TV and radio, and was inducted into the Marketing Hall of Fame in Reno, Nevada. When he died, Mitch took over.
The car lot wasn’t looking so sprightly these days. Mitch Crawford, it seemed, was no Eddie Crawford.
Mitch and Mandy lived in a hopelessly hokey development crafted for those who think showing off their money is the better part of having any. Their address was in the ridiculously named Bristol Estates—ridiculous because Cherrystone was nowhere near England, and the only thing English about the town was that most people spoke the language.
When Emily arrived, she showed her badge and a guard opened the gate. Bristol Estates was a small development with only fourteen homes on “equestrian lots” built with garish architectural embellishments. Each home had a “carriage” house for their cars and a turret that presumably fed fantasies for the would-be princes, Rapunzels, and Lancelots.
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.
