Snow Creek(57)

I think of the wires and how Regina manipulated her wife’s body, but I don’t say anything. I let Mindy wind down, punctuating her stream of information with some wows and terribles of my own.

“You’re right,” I say. “We can’t talk about that in front of Dan.”

“Nope,” she replies. “See you tonight.”





Thirty-Seven





The office is quiet. Sheriff has been away on school visits out in the county. He loves talking to young people about responsibility and the law. Lately, he told me the other day, it’s been getting tougher to reach kids. In the past couple of years, he’s felt a shift from the police are your friends to distrust and skepticism. Even in places like uber liberal Port Townsend where very little violent crime takes place and where there is no racial profiling—at least none that I’ve heard about—there is a change in the air. Fewer acknowledgments, our blues say, when walking into a store for something after a shift.

I think of incorrigible and smug Tyra and how she cut me off. I wonder now if she saw me as the “other side” or if she had something to hide herself.

I sift through the court docket and telephone messages before I write up my interview reports—one for Tyra and one for Chantelle. Sheriff will read them later tonight, and I’ll hit him up with additional details tomorrow morning.

It’s almost six.

I look like I’ve slept in my clothes.

Which I sort of did.



Out the back door and home in sixteen minutes, I turn on the noisy old shower, so it will heat up. I tear off my clothes and let the barely hot water spray over me. Old Victorians are charming only on the outside. Unless one has an endless bank account to remodel. That includes plumbing that doesn’t clang. My mind touches on the last few days and how my old life has melded with the new. The tapes. The case. I can’t stop drawing out the similarities between the Wheaton kids and my own situation at that age.

I twist the knob and towel off as quickly as I can.

That my wardrobe isn’t extensive is the understatement of the century—this or the last one. My closet and drawers look like a waiter’s supply outlet. Black and blue cotton slacks, white shirts. Blazers that complete my daily work attire hang like a rogue’s gallery of what not to wear.

I consider a dress but decide against it. Mindy will be there, and she’ll give me grief later.

I can hear her now.

Gee, I forgot you had legs, Megan.

I put on my most flattering jeans, a white top that at least gives me a tiny bit of sex appeal. Lipstick, and eye makeup and I’m out the door.



Originally called Hops Ahoy, the bar was supposed to be for the tourist trade. It was all done up with nets, ship’s wheels and enormous black and white blowups of our Victorian seaport. It turned out that the tourists who came here were looking for an authentic experience, one that didn’t try too hard to be a destination but was a worthy one on its own.

My heart sinks a little when I spy only Mindy sitting at a table in the bar. She brightens the minute she sees me, and I do the same. I know I’m mimicking her reaction right now. But it isn’t as though I’m not thrilled to see her.

It’s that Dan isn’t there.

“Am I your chaperone or your excuse to leave?” Mindy asks as she indicates for the waiter to come.

“Neither.”

I want a Scotch on the rocks, but I order a chardonnay.

“I don’t know,” I tell her. “I haven’t been interested in a guy for a long time. Dan intrigues me.”

She sips her wine. “Is it the beard?”

The question catches me off guard.

“How’d you know he has a beard?”

“Small town. I know things,” she explains.

I look toward the door, sinking a little inside.

“And no, it’s not the beard. He just seems like a nice guy. Interesting. There could be something there. Or maybe not.”

“Do you want to sleep with him?” Mindy asks, egging me on like she used to when we saw each other more regularly. Her teasing feels comfortable. I’ve missed her. I look at my phone. It’s only half past the hour. He’s late. He hasn’t texted that he couldn’t come.

I fill her in on what I found out from Tyra and Chantelle.

“Look before you tell me that it’s not our case—like Sheriff—I know there is a connection. The girls were extremely close. They had to sneak around to maintain their friendship because Ellie was practically under house arrest.”

“Wasn’t she in school?”

I make a quick scan of the door.

He’s not here.

“No,” I say. “Her mom homeschooled her at the behest of her husband, a real control freak.”

Mindy is doing what she does best. She’s processing the information like it’s a crime scene.

I love that about her.

“So, your theory is that, what? The girls plotted the murder of their parents? If that’s the case, why is Tyra’s dad still alive?”

“The plot was one sided. A game for Tyra. She was never going to get rid of her mother. She just told Ellie how she was going to do it—and then said she did.”

“How could she get away with such a ruse?”