A Long Time Gone

Cedar Creek, Nevada - Saturday, June 24, 1995 10 Days Prior . . .

Cedar Creek, Nevada

Saturday, June 24, 1995 10 Days Prior . . .

HE PULLED UP TO ANNABELLE AND PRESTON MARGOLIS’S HOUSE, A new-construction Victorian that overlooked Lake Harmony on the south end of Cedar Creek. So new, in fact, that the property was still under construction. Preston, the youngest son of Reid and Tilly Margolis, was fresh out of Stanford Law and an up-and-coming star at the Margolis Margolis law firm. That he was building an obnoxious lake house was no surprise. As a junior associate at the firm, there was no way he made an income to support the home Sandy was looking at. But Sandy knew that family money financed the home’s construction, not Preston’s income.

The house itself looked shored up, but earth-moving equipment—bulldozers and backhoes—sat in the backyard. A pool, Sandy figured, was being installed. The four-car detached garage was still under construction. An extension ladder leaned against the side of the garage where a man stood perched on the upper rungs and painted the eaves.

It was still early, just after six in the morning, and Sandy was greeted by an oxymoronic stillness as he stood from his car. The early morning offered the calm chirp of bluebirds and cardinals, the still reflection of clouds on the lake’s surface, and a gentle breeze of summer. But the calm, Sandy knew, was about to be shattered. He headed over to the garage.

“You start early,” Sandy said to the man on the ladder.

The man looked down. “Promised Mrs. Margolis I’d have the garage painted by tomorrow.”

“Sandy Stamos.”

“Lester Strange.”

He wore cargo pants and a T-shirt under an apron covered by a lifetime of paint. He couldn’t have been older than twenty.

“The Margolises home?”

Lester shrugged. “Not sure. I just got started.”

Sandy smiled. “Have a nice day.”

Lester waved his brush and went back to work.

Sandy climbed the front steps and knocked loudly on the door. He waited a full minute, noticing Lester the painter glancing his way a few times, before he knocked again. Finally, Preston Margolis appeared, peeking through the glass to the side of the front door before opening it.

“Sheriff,” Preston said. “Something the matter?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Is your wife home?”

“She’s in bed.”

“Could you let her know I need a word?”

Preston, ever the attorney, stepped onto the front porch as he pulled the door closed behind him.

“What’s going on, Sandy?”

“I just need to speak with Annabelle. Will you tell her I’m here?”

“Not if you don’t tell me why you need to speak with her.”

Sandy had no intention of getting into a legal argument with Preston Margolis, who would prop himself up as Annabelle’s attorney and deny Sandy access without taking her to the sheriff’s department for formal questioning.

“Look, Preston. There was a situation overnight. A hit-and-run up on Highway Sixty-seven. Annabelle’s car was found down the road from the body. There’s obvious damage to the front headlight.”

“A hit-and-run?”

Sandy nodded.

Preston shook his head as if trying to clear his mind. “When did this happen?”

“Early this morning. Call came in at about one in the morning. I’m just coming from the scene. I’ve been there all night. Sixty-seven is shut down and state investigators are on the scene.”

“Is the person . . . ?”

“Yeah, he’s dead.”

“She’s been here, Sandy. Annabelle’s been here the whole night.”

Sandy nodded. “I still need to talk with her.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“It doesn’t matter if I believe you, Preston. I still need to speak with Annabelle.”

“Is she . . .” Preston took a step closer. “You don’t think you’re going to arrest my wife, do you, Sandy?”

The words came out as a challenge. Reid Margolis’s sons had been raised to believe they were above the law. Sandy wasn’t about to take the bait.

“I’m not here to arrest anyone, Preston. Just to ask a few questions. Her car was found at the scene of the crime. I need to figure out how it got there.”

Sandy saw Preston look off into the distance, out at the lake, as he thought through his options. The man was either genuinely confused by the news Sandy had delivered, or he was one hell of an actor.

“Mind if I check the garage first?” Preston finally asked. “To see if Annabelle’s car is there. Maybe there’s been a mistake.”

“Sure thing,” Sandy said, following Preston down the front steps and over to the garage.

“Your crew always start this early on a weekend?”

“Lester?” Preston said. “He’s the family’s handyman, a sort of jack-of-all-trades. He’s always around. Annabelle asked him to finish the garage, so he’s been here at sunup every day this week.”

“Morning, Mr. Margolis,” Lester said as Preston and Sandy passed the base of the ladder.

Mr. Margoliswas a snot-nosed twenty-five-year-old kid just out of law school, and Sandy found it odd that someone barely his junior would address him so formally. Welcome to the life of a Margolis.

“Morning, Lester,” Preston said.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Margolis?”

“No problem.”

Preston opened the side door of the garage and flipped a wall switch. Overhead fluorescents brought the garage to life. Of the four bays, only the first held a vehicle—Preston’s BMW sedan. The second bay was empty, the third occupied by a 4x4 Gator tractor, and the fourth filled with a workbench and tools hanging neatly on the wall.

“What the hell?” Sandy heard Preston whisper to himself.

Finally, he turned to Sandy and nodded.

“I’ll wake Annabelle and we can all talk in the kitchen.”

“Thanks.”

Ten minutes later, Sandy stood in the kitchen of Preston and Annabelle Margolis’s lake house. When the couple came down, Sandy noted that Annabelle, much like Preston, looked to have just climbed from bed. Typically, this would not be surprising for a Saturday morning, but it added to Sandy’s confusion about how this woman could have mowed down a man just hours earlier, abandoned her car on the side of the road, found her way home, and then slept soundly until Sandy’s house call.

“Morning, Annabelle,” Sandy said.

“Sheriff.” Annabelle’s voice was groggy. “Preston told me about a hit-and-run, or something?”

“Yeah. It happened on Highway Sixty-seven early this morning. A man was killed and his body was found in the middle of the road. Your car was found abandoned on the side of the road about a hundred yards from the body.”

“My car?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Are you . . .” Annabelle looked from Sandy to Preston, then back to Sandy. “Are you sure it was my car?”

“Silver Audi. Plates are registered to you.”

Annabelle looked at Preston again.

“Garage is empty,” Preston whispered to her. “Your car’s not there.”

“Were you driving on Highway Sixty-Seven last night?” Sandy asked.

“No. I was here. At home.”

“Maybe you went out for something quickly?”

“No. I was with Charlotte all night. She’s got the croup, and we were keeping a close eye on her.”

“Charlotte?” Sandy asked.

“Our daughter,” Preston said. “She’s got a cough. We took turns checking on her all night.”

Sandy nodded. He’d forgotten that the newlyweds had a baby together.

“So you were both up all night, or you took shifts?”

“A little bit of both,” Preston said.

“Annabelle?” Sandy asked, trying to keep the conversation between the two of them.

“I don’t remember every minute of the night, but Preston and I were both up at times. We also took turns checking on her and sleeping in her room.”

Sandy nodded but didn’t mention that their explanation allowed times during the night when Annabelle was awake while Preston slept, which made it possible that Annabelle could have gone out without Preston’s knowledge. He’d save that theory for later, if things got that far.

“Does anybody have keys to your car other than you?”

“No. Actually,” Annabelle said, and went to a bowl that sat in the corner of the kitchen counter. She grabbed a set of keys. “These are my keys.”

“When was the last time you drove your car?”

Annabelle shrugged. “Charlotte’s been sick for a few days, so I’ve been a homebody. It’s been a couple of days since I was last out.”

“A couple of days?”

Annabelle looked up at the ceiling while she thought. “Wednesday. The last time I left the house was Wednesday. I drove into town with Charlotte. I stopped at the pharmacy to pick up medicine for her nebulizer.”

As Sandy listened to Annabelle Margolis, he noticed that something felt off about the whole scenario and, not for the first time since he’d knocked on the front door, he had doubts that Annabelle Margolis was driving the car found abandoned out on Highway 67.

“I need you to be available for the next few days as we try to get to the bottom of this. So if you have any travel plans, I need you to cancel them.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Preston said.

Sandy nodded. “I’ll be in touch. Hope your daughter feels better.”

“Thank you,” Annabelle said.

Sitting in his cruiser a few moments later, Sandy looked back to the Margolis home. Preston and Annabelle stood on the front porch. Preston’s arm was around Annabelle’s shoulder. At the sight, a sinking feeling came to Sandy that Annabelle Margolis had nothing to do with the hit-and-run. The many enemies of the Margolis family blinked through his mind, and the chances of a simple open-and-shut case evaporated like a scent in the wind.