CHAPTER THREE
Jenna had encountered a lot of strange scenes in her years of law enforcement, but there was no chapter in the Sheriff's handbook for this kind of violation.
Crime scenes had protocols—familiar, if grim, routines that guided her actions.
Murder called for careful forensics. Robbery demanded fingerprints, interviews, careful cataloging of what was missing.
But this? A life-sized doll wearing a missing woman's clothes, seated in her kitchen as if waiting for time itself to resume?
“Who would even make something like this?” she muttered.
“Sheriff, can I show you something outside?” Mike Donovan asked.
She followed Mike through the laundry room and out the back door to the yard. A high fence enclosed them, the wooden planks weathered but sturdy.
“Looks like the easiest way in,” Mike said, pointing to an open gate that led to the alley. “I’m guessing he brought it in from here, so nobody would see.”
“But how’d he get in the house?” Jenna wondered, scanning the back door for damage. It was intact, the paint not chipped, the lock not scratched.
“Doesn’t look like forced entry,” Mike said. “Maybe he had a key?”
Jenna frowned, a ripple of unease running through her. A key meant a plan—someone who knew too much.
She went back inside to the kitchen to look again at the mannequin.
She circled the table once more, careful not to disturb anything.
Under normal crime-scene circumstances, she’d have called Dr. Melissa Stark immediately—the county coroner’s analytical mind had proven invaluable on numerous cases.
But this wasn’t a body. It wasn’t biological evidence.
It was... art. Perverse, disturbing art, but art nonetheless.
Art. The thought sparked a connection in Jenna’s mind.
“I need to make a call,” she said, pulling her phone from her pocket. She scrolled through her contacts until she found the name she was looking for: Liza Sewell.
She and Liza had been friends since high school, before Piper disappeared, before life had carved its permanent furrows into both their lives.
Liza had moved to nearby Gildner years ago to pursue her art, primarily sculpture.
If anyone could make sense of how this mannequin had been created, it would be Liza.
Jenna stepped into the hall and pressed the call button. Three rings later, a familiar voice answered. “Jenna Graves, as I live and breathe. It’s been what, four months?”
Despite the circumstances, Jenna felt a small smile form. “Something like that. How are you, Liza?”
“Covered in clay and wondering why the hell I thought a life-sized commission was a good idea. Even making the model to cast from is daunting. But I’m not really complaining; it’s a good project.
What’s up? You never call during work hours unless—” Liza’s voice shifted, concern edging in. “Is everything okay?”
“I’m not sure,” Jenna admitted, her eyes drifting back toward the kitchen doorway. “I need your help on a case.”
A pause. “My help? On a case? You know I love a good crime drama as much as the next girl, but I’m not exactly qualified to—”
“It’s about art,” Jenna cut in. “Or sculpture, to be more precise. I’m at a crime scene with... well, with a mannequin. A very detailed, very specific mannequin that looks exactly like the woman who lives here—and who has gone missing.”
The line went quiet for a moment. “You’re serious.”
"Dead serious. But with this case, I don't even know where to start looking. I need someone who understands how something like this would be made. Materials, techniques, and the time it would take. I thought of you."
“My God,” Liza whispered. “That’s... morbid. And fascinating. What exactly are we talking about here? Like a department store mannequin painted to look like someone, or...?”
“No. It’s custom work. Detailed. The face is...perfect. Eerily so.”
Another pause. “I can be in Trentville in thirty minutes. Where am I going?”
Relief washed through Jenna. “1423 Maple Street. It’s a residential neighborhood off—”
“Wait,” Liza interrupted. “Did you say 1423 Maple?” Her voice, now sharp with recognition, crackled through the phone.
“That’s right,” Jenna replied, looking back toward the kitchen. “Why?”
“Well, damn. That’s Marjory and Harry Powell’s address.”
Jenna inhaled sharply. “Then you know Marjory.”
“I wouldn’t say she and I were close. But yeah, I know her. Please tell me she’s not the one missing.”
“I’m afraid so.” Liza let out a long breath.
“Jenna, I can get there in about 45 minutes.”
“Thanks, Liza.”
“See you soon,” Liza replied, her voice grim.
Jenna ended the call and returned to the kitchen, where Officer Mike Donovan was still carefully documenting the scene.
Jake had stepped out, likely coordinating with the officers who had arrived.
As if summoned by her thoughts, he appeared in the doorway, his eyes carrying that hint of concern he always had when cases took strange turns.
"Maria's back from dropping Harry at his brother's place," Jake said, keeping his voice low as if the mannequin might overhear. "Baldry just got here, too. They're ready to canvass the neighborhood like you asked."
Jenna nodded. “Good. I just called Liza Sewell—you remember her? The artist?”
“Your friend from Gildner? The one who did that metal sculpture for the town square last year?”
“That’s her. I figured if anyone could tell us how this mannequin was made, it would be someone who works with sculptural materials. She’s on her way over.”
Jake seemed to consider this, then nodded. “Smart thinking. We’re out of our depth on the technical aspects of this... thing.” He gestured vaguely toward the mannequin. “The why will be a whole other question.”
“Mike,” Jenna called over to Officer Donovan, “are you about done with the photos?”
Mike lowered his camera. “Just about, Sheriff. Got it from every angle.”
“Good. Can you send those photos to both me and Jake? We might need them.”
“Will do,” Mike confirmed.
Jenna turned back to Jake. “While we’re waiting for Liza, you and I need to head over to Evergreen Realty. I want to talk to Darla Fenwick, Marjory’s boss. She’s the one who called Harry when Marjory missed her appointment.”
“You think she might know something?”
“She was probably one of the last people to see Marjory today. At minimum, she might give us a better timeline.” Jenna glanced once more at the mannequin, its presence filling the kitchen with unspoken questions. “Let’s go.”
They left Mike to finish processing the scene and stepped outside into the late afternoon sunlight.
The normalcy of the suburban street—a child’s bicycle propped against a tree, a sprinkler lazily turning on a nearby lawn—stood in stark contrast to the wrongness of what they’d just left behind in the Powell kitchen.
Jenna led the way to her cruiser and slid behind the wheel, Jake taking the passenger seat beside her. As she pulled away from the curb, she allowed herself a sidelong glance at her deputy.
“How are you feeling, by the way?” she asked. “It’s only been a week since they released you from the hospital.”
Jake’s hand drifted briefly to his abdomen, where beneath his uniform shirt lay the healing wound from a knife attack that had left him hospitalized for three days.
The memory of it—Jake on the ground, blood seeping between his fingers as he pressed against the wound—still had the power to send ice through Jenna’s veins.
“A little sore when I twist wrong,” he admitted. “But I’m good to work. The doc said the knife missed everything important.” He offered a half-smile. “You know me. Too stubborn to stay down long.”
“You were lucky,” Jenna said, unable to keep the edge from her voice. She’d spent too many hours in that hospital waiting room, bargaining with a God she wasn’t sure she believed in. “That blade was inches from—”
“I know,” Jake cut in gently. “But it didn’t. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.” He reached over and touched her shoulder lightly.
Just before Jake had been released from the hospital, they’d had a conversation that neither had fully addressed since—acknowledgments of feelings that had grown beyond professional respect or even friendship.
Jenna had been hit with the realization that she couldn’t imagine what she’d do without having Jake nearby, and he’d admitted feeling that way for a long time.
They both wanted to keep on working together and hadn’t reached a solution to the issues that would surely arise.
But Jenna knew this wasn’t the time to revisit that conversation, not with a missing woman and a mannequin straight out of a nightmare waiting to be explained. She needed to focus.
“Evergreen Realty is on Commerce Street, right?” she asked, deliberately shifting back to the case.
“Yeah. Little brick building across from the hardware store.”
The rest of the short drive passed in professional silence, both of them settling back into the rhythm of their working partnership. Jenna parked in front of Evergreen Realty, a modest building with a freshly painted green door and a window display featuring current listings.
Inside, a woman in her fifties looked up from a reception desk, her professional smile faltering slightly at the sight of their uniforms.
“Sheriff Graves,” she acknowledged with a nod. “Deputy Hawkins. How can I help you?”
“Carol, right?” Jenna asked, recognizing the receptionist from Harry’s account.
"Yes, Carol Garrett." She straightened in her chair. "Is this about Marjory? Mr. Powell called earlier, looking for her."
“We’d like to speak with Darla Fenwick, if she’s available,” Jenna said.
Carol nodded, reaching for her desk phone. “Let me tell her you’re here.” She pressed a button, spoke briefly into the receiver, then gestured toward a hallway to the right. “Second door on the left.”
They found Darla Fenwick standing behind her desk, a tall woman with short silver hair and the sharp eyes of someone who assessed property values for a living. She extended her hand first to Jenna, then to Jake.
“Sheriff. Deputy. Please, sit down.” She gestured to two chairs opposite her desk. “This is about Marjory, I assume? Have you found her?”
Jenna settled into one of the chairs. “Ms. Fenwick, we’re conducting an investigation into Marjory Powell’s whereabouts. I understand you called her husband earlier today when she missed an appointment?”
Darla’s expression tightened. “Yes. It was strange. Her car was parked near the house she was supposed to show, but she never arrived. It’s completely unlike her to miss an appointment, especially without calling.
Marjory is—” She caught herself. “Marjory has been with us for eleven years. She’s meticulous, professional. The most reliable agent on my team.”
“When did you last see her?” Jenna asked.
“We had lunch together at the Sunflower Café around noon. We were celebrating her sale of the Thurman estate—it was a really big commission. She’d already shown two properties that morning.
” Darla leaned forward, her manicured nails pressing against the polished surface of her desk.
“After lunch, she was scheduled to show the Henderson place at one, then the Blackwell cottage at three.”
“And did she make it to the Henderson showing?” Jake asked.
“Yes, as far as I know. But at three-fifteen, I got a call from the Blackwells. They’d been waiting at the cottage for twenty minutes, and Marjory hadn’t shown up or called.
” Darla shook her head, disbelief etched across her features.
“I tried her cell immediately, but it went straight to voicemail. That’s when I called Harry to see if he’d heard from her. ”
Jenna made notes, building a mental timeline. “How did Marjory seem at lunch? Was there anything unusual about her behavior or mood?”
“Not at all. She was in great spirits.” A fond smile crossed Darla’s face.
“She’s been at the top of her game this year.
That Thurman sale? It had been on the market for over two years.
Nobody could move it. Marjory found the perfect buyers within a month of taking the listing.
The commission was substantial enough that she told me she and Harry would be close to paying off their mortgage. ”
“Did she mention any plans for the afternoon, other than the showings?” Jenna pressed. “Anyone she was meeting? Any stops she planned to make?”
Darla shook her head. “Just the two properties. She was looking forward to having dinner with Harry to properly celebrate the Thurman closing. They were going to that new place on River Street.” Her eyes clouded with concern. “Sheriff, what’s happening? Where is Marjory?”
Jenna exchanged a glance with Jake, weighing how much to share. After a moment, she reached for her phone, scrolling to find the photos Mike had sent.
“Ms. Fenwick, I need to show you something. It may be... disturbing.”
Darla’s back straightened, her face composing itself for whatever might come. “I understand.”
Jenna turned the phone toward her, displaying one of the clearest shots of the mannequin at the kitchen table. Darla’s eyes widened, her hand flying to her mouth.
“My God,” she whispered. “What is that?”
“It appears to be a mannequin designed to look like Marjory,” Jenna explained, her voice steady despite the surreal nature of the words. “Harry found it in their kitchen when he came home early from work.”
Darla stared at the image, her professional composure cracking. “That’s—that’s exactly what she was wearing today. At lunch. The navy blazer, the cream blouse. Those are her clothes, Sheriff. That’s what Marjory had on when I saw her at noon.”
The confirmation hit Jenna like a physical blow.
If the mannequin wore the exact outfit Marjory had been in at lunch, it meant she’d likely been wearing those clothes when whatever happened to her.
.. happened. The timeline narrowed: sometime between her one o’clock showing and her missed three o’clock appointment.
A cold certainty settled in Jenna’s gut. This wasn’t a prank, wasn’t a misunderstanding, wasn’t Marjory suddenly deciding to abandon her life. The mannequin in the Powell kitchen—that meticulous, grotesque facsimile—spoke of planning, of obsession, of something darker than a simple disappearance.
Marjory Powell hadn’t just gone missing. She had been taken.