who had named it Wallace Canyon anyway? Riley wondered further, not for the first time since his self-inflicted relocation here six months earlier. There were no canyons in the Oklahoma panhandle. Wallace Flat would have been much more appropriate. Still, he’d learned almost right away that in Wallace Canyon, not a whole lot made sense. Mainly because not a whole lot happened.
“Virgil!” he called out as he unfolded his slim, six-foot frame from behind his desk. “Where the hell are my Lorna Doones?”
Riley cocked his head to listen for any incriminating sounds of cookie crunching or falling crumb, but the only thing he heard was the faint crackle of Rosario’s radio down the hall, tuned to the only country-western station—hell, the only radio station, period—within earshot of the tiny town. The soft, easy crooning of a female voice soothed him some. Patsy Cline, he realized with a fond smile when he listened harder. Wasn’t nobody singing today who could touch that woman. No, sir.
“Virgil!” he tried again, pushing the thought away.
The slow scuff of boots along the linoleum outside Riley’s office eventually found its way down the hall. Then Virgil Bybee’s head appeared in Riley’s doorway, halfway down, as if the younger man were bent at the waist and unwilling to reveal anything below the neck.
Incriminating behavior if ever there was such a thing, Riley decided, his instincts, as always, unimpeachable. He hadn’t survived almost ten years on the Tulsa PD because of his good luck and good looks alone, after all.
“You bellowed?” Virgil asked mildly.
“Where the hell are my Lorna Doones?” Riley demanded again without preamble.
“Shoot, Riley, how should I know?” But anxiously, Virgil swiped his fingers across his upper lip.
Riley reared his head back, settled one hand on a trim hip, the other on the butt of his pistol, and noticed that Virgil duly noted the stance. For one long moment, he said nothing. Then he stated with all the menace he could muster, “Virgil, I want those cookies apprehended and returned to my jurisdiction—namely this here drawer—” he pointed down at the cookies’ usual resting place “—no later than three o’clock this afternoon. You got that?”
Virgil nodded silently, his shaggy blond hair falling over his forehead with the gesture, his blue eyes widening at the warning. Then, before Riley had a chance to comment further, the deputy flung his arm out, rattling the piece of flimsy paper attached to his hand. “This came in over the fax a few minutes ago,” he announced as he straightened, fairly dancing with excitement.
Riley narrowed his dark eyes as he stepped around his desk. Not much came over the Wallace Canyon PD fax machine. Mostly things meant for other fax machines that the sender had misdialed. “What is it?”
“It looks like an APB,” Virgil said eagerly, finally moving fully into the doorway. “A regular manhunt.”
Riley took a moment to note that there was no evidence of cookie crumbs on the deputy’s uniform—identical to his own—of khaki shirt and trousers, but you never knew about some people. Although Riley’s trusting nature had gotten him into trouble on more than one occasion, he decided to give Virgil the benefit of the doubt on this one. The man’s agitation was clearly the result of the notice in his hand, and not some sugar-induced rush. Besides, Rosario, their receptionist-secretary-dispatcher was a notorious shortbread lover, herself. There was no end to the list of possible suspects.
“A manhunt?” Riley repeated, crossing the tiny office in a half-dozen long-legged strides.
Virgil nodded his head vigorously, his eyes sparkling. “Actually, it’s even better. A womanhunt. And according to Rosario, the perp is right here in Wallace Canyon.”
Riley shook his head slowly in bemusement. First cookie stealing, and now Virgil Bybee using the word perp. All in one day. Could his decrepit, thirty-two-year-old heart handle all this excitement?
He reached for the bulletin and quickly scanned it, then glanced back up at his deputy with as much patience as he could muster. “Virgil,” he said quietly.
“Yeah, Riley?”
“She’s not a perp. She’s a missing person. And this is all old news. We got a fax about her...must’ve been a few weeks ago. I faxed ’em back and asked ’em to send me some more details, because Rosario told me she saw a woman here in Wallace Canyon who fit the description, but I never heard back so I figured they found her somewhere else. Looks like the fax machine’s running a little slow. Again. This—” he waved the paper in the air again “—is evidently the details.”
Virgil gaped at him. “Old news? It’s the first I’ve heard about it. There’s been all this excitement goin’ on, and y’all didn’t even bother to tell me about it? Why am I always left in the dark this way? Why am I always the last person to know? Y’all never tell me anything around here.”
Riley rolled his eyes. “There was nothin’ to tell, Virgil.” But his deputy continued to pout, so, taking pity on him, Riley clarified, “The first time it came over the fax must’ve been back when you were in Guymon over Thanksgiving. A notice that this woman—” He glanced back down at the fax in an effort to locate her name. “Sabrina Jensen,” he said when he found it. “It said she was wanted by the Freemont Springs Police Department over there by Tulsa. But not because she’s a perp, Virge. She’s been reported as a missing person.” He rattled the paper in his hand for emphasis. “It says so right here.”
The deputy’s lower lip ceased thrusting out so much, but he was still obviously disappointed—probably because they wouldn’t be calling out the hound dogs for a search. “Oh,” he muttered. “I guess I didn’t read that far. I just saw the part about her being wanted.”
Riley continued to read the notice, uttering his observations aloud this time, so Virgil could grasp more fully the reality of the situation. “Says Miss Jensen has been missing for months and is believed to be on the run. But this here’s the part I can’t figure out, Virge. The Wentworth family is looking for her. The Wentworths. And I just can’t understand how she warrants that. I mean, they didn’t even seem to know much about her before, but suddenly, I’ve got all this information. Now how do you figure that?”
“Should I know who you’re talking about?” Virgil asked. “Who are the Wentworths?”
Riley shook his head when he remembered where he was. “They’re sort of famous-slash-infamous in that part of the state, but I can see how Wallace Canyon would have missed out on all the fuss.” Hell, he could see how Wallace Canyon would have missed out on the Cuban Missile Crisis and that whole Tickle-Me Elmo thing.
Aloud, Riley continued, “I know about them because I grew up just outside Tulsa. Big ol’ oil family in Freemont Springs whose reputation, as they say, has always preceded them. Rich. Powerful. Pampered kids. That kind of thing. In fact, I had a runin with the younger boy once, when he was drunk and disorderly at a frat party. Nothing major—just had to give him a stern warning. And I heard the older boy died—real recent, too, if memory serves—during some kind of explosion.”
“But this woman’s name is Jensen,” Virgil indicated unnecessarily.
Riley nodded knowingly. “Yeah, and like I said, they didn’t know that much about her when they sent that last fax. But suddenly, I now know that she’s—” he returned his attention to the fax and read word for word “‘—Twenty-four years old, approximately five-foot-seven, medium
