CHAPTER FOUR
Jenna kept her expression neutral, but inside, alarm bells were clanging. “Ms. Fenwick,” she asked, her voice deliberately steady, “are you absolutely certain these are the same clothes Marjory was wearing at lunch today?”
Darla hadn’t taken her eyes off the photo on Jenna’s phone.
“Yes. Without question. That’s her power suit, as she calls it.
The one she wears for important clients.
” She finally looked up, her professional composure cracking further.
“Sheriff, what does this mean? Who would do something like this? Who even could … make such a thing?”
Jenna exchanged a glance with Jake before pocketing her phone. “That’s what we’re trying to determine. Can you think of anyone who might wish Marjory harm? Anyone she’s had conflicts with recently? Unhappy clients, perhaps?”
“No, absolutely not. Everyone loves Marjory.” Darla’s response came too quickly. The practiced answer of someone accustomed to protecting her business’s reputation.
Jake leaned forward slightly. “Ms. Fenwick, we need complete honesty here. Even small grievances could be important.”
Darla sighed, her shoulders dropping as she reconsidered. “Well, there was that situation with Rebecca Ashcroft a few months back.”
Jenna’s attention sharpened at the name. Rebecca Ashcroft. Owner of the Velvet Hanger boutique downtown. A woman whose name had crossed Jenna’s desk more times than she cared to count.
“What situation?” she prompted.
“Rebecca wanted to sell her house,” Darla explained, clasping her hands on the desk. “She came to Marjory specifically—said she’d heard Marjory was the best. But she insisted on listing the property for a hundred thousand dollars above market value. Said her renovations justified the price.”
“And Marjory disagreed?” Jake asked.
“Marjory refused to list it at that price. She told Rebecca she couldn’t ethically put a property on the market knowing it was grossly overvalued.” Darla’s lips thinned. “Rebecca didn’t take it well. Stormed out, slammed the door so hard the glass cracked. We had to replace the entire panel.”
Jenna noted the detail. Physical outbursts were consistent with what she knew of Rebecca Ashcroft. “Did it end there?”
“I wish.” Darla shook her head. “Rebecca’s been spreading nasty rumors about Marjory ever since. Said she’s incompetent, dishonest. Even accused her of stealing clients from other realtors. None of it true, of course. Marjory’s the most ethical agent I’ve ever worked with.”
“Has Rebecca made direct threats?” Jenna asked.
Darla hesitated. “Not threats, exactly. But she’s told people Marjory would ‘pay’ for not listing her house properly. And lately, the things she’s been saying have gotten... strange.”
“Strange how?” Jake pressed.
“She told Carol that Marjory was ‘just a shell of a person’ who ‘only cared about appearances.’“ Darla’s eyes widened as she made the connection to what they’d just shown her. “Oh God. You don’t think—”
“We’re not jumping to conclusions,” Jenna said firmly. “We’re just gathering information at this point.”
“Has Rebecca been to the office recently?” Jake asked. “Had any contact with Marjory?”
“Not that I’m aware of. But Trentville’s a small place. They could have run into each other anywhere.”
Jenna nodded, already mentally shifting gears. “Ms. Fenwick, we appreciate your time. If you think of anything else that might be relevant, please call me directly.” She slid a business card across the desk.
“Of course.” Darla took the card. “You will find her, won’t you? Marjory is...” Her voice faltered. “She’s not just my employee. She’s my friend.”
“We’re doing everything we can,” Jenna assured her, the same words she’d given to Harry Powell. “One last thing,” Jenna said, lifting her pen to a fresh page in her notebook. “Where did they find Marjory’s car?”
“On Driftwood Road. Just outside the city limits.”
Jenna wrote it down and closed the notepad. “Thank you,” she said, and she and Jake left the office, the mannequin’s empty eyes still haunting her thoughts.
Outside Evergreen Realty, Jake held out his hand for her cruiser keys.
“I’ll drive,” he said. “You look like you need a minute to think.”
Jenna didn’t argue. Her mind was already racing ahead, connecting dots, forming and discarding theories. She slid into the passenger seat as Jake started the engine. Then she called headquarters and ordered officers to go to Driftwood Road to impound and examine Marjory’s car.
“Rebecca Ashcroft,” Jake said once they were moving. “Why am I not surprised?”
"Because trouble follows that woman like stink follows a skunk," Jenna replied.
The boutique owner's file was thick with complaints—public disturbances, harassment allegations, and one DUI that she was allowed to plead down to reckless driving.
"Her estranged husband even got a restraining order against her. "
“Yeah, I heard about that.”
“I had to arrest her last spring after she threw a display rack through the window of the Cozy Cup Café. All because they changed their pumpkin spice latte recipe.”
“Right, I remember that.” Jake navigated around a delivery truck. “But mannequin-making kidnapper? That’s a hell of an escalation from temper tantrums.”
“The mannequin wearing the same clothes Marjory had on today is what worries me most,” Jenna said, staring out the window at the passing storefronts.
“It means this wasn’t just planned—it was executed with precise timing.
Whoever did this had the mannequin ready, got Marjory sometime after her one o’clock showing, and planted that thing in her kitchen before Harry came home early. ”
“Professional,” Jake agreed grimly. “And we still have no idea what happened to the real Marjory.”
The unspoken words hung between them: or if she was still alive.
Jenna pulled out her phone. “I’m calling Spelling. This is bigger and stranger than Trentville PD resources can handle.”
Colonel Chadwick “Chad” Spelling headed the Missouri State Highway Patrol.
He and Jenna had worked together on several high-profile cases over the past few years, developing a mutual respect that transcended the typical local-state law enforcement rivalry.
More importantly, Spelling had resources Jenna didn’t—forensic labs, behavioral analysts, manpower.
She dialed his number, and he answered on the second ring. “Sheriff Graves. This is an unexpected pleasure.”
“Colonel Spelling,” she replied, formality masking the urgency in her voice. “I’ve got a situation in Trentville that I believe warrants Highway Patrol involvement.”
“I’m listening.”
Jenna outlined the case—Marjory’s disappearance, the unnervingly detailed mannequin left in her place, the timeline they’d established so far. Spelling remained silent until she finished.
“My God,” he said finally. “That’s... unusual.”
“That’s one word for it.”
“You have reason to believe this Rebecca Ashcroft might be involved?”
“She had a public falling out with Marjory, has been making threats. Plus, she has a history of erratic behavior and severe mood swings. She’s also going through an extremely ugly divorce from her husband Cecil, who now lives in St. Louis. I’m checking into that right now.”
Spelling was quiet for a moment, processing. “I’ll send a team to Trentville first thing tomorrow to the Powells’ home. Keep the scene secured. Don’t let anyone touch that mannequin until our forensic team gets there. I’ll get there myself as soon as I can.”
“Thank you, Colonel.”
“One more thing, Sheriff.” His voice dropped slightly. “Any... special insights on this one yet?”
The question was laden with meaning. Jenna’s eyes flicked to Jake, who was pretending not to listen while navigating traffic.
“Not yet,” she said carefully. “But I’ll let you know if that changes.”
“I appreciate that. See you tomorrow.”
The call ended, and Jenna let out a slow breath.
“He knows, doesn’t he?” Jake asked quietly, eyes on the road. “About your dreams.”
“He suspects something,” Jenna admitted. “He’s never asked outright, but he’s made comments. After that trafficking case last year, he told me I had ‘a unique investigative approach that transcended conventional methods.’“
Jake snorted. “Diplomatic way of saying you know things you shouldn’t be able to know.”
“He thinks I have an informant network I don’t want to disclose. Some kind of underworld connection I’m protecting.” Jenna rubbed her temples. “Honestly, I guess anything would make more sense than the truth.”
“What happens if he ever does ask directly?”
“I have no idea.” She looked out the window, watching as they approached the Velvet Hanger. “That’s a bridge I’ll cross when I have to.”
The boutique stood out among the subdued businesses of downtown Trentville.
The window display featured mannequins of the standard retail variety: white, featureless, nothing like the grotesque replica of Marjory Powell.
They were dressed in what Rebecca apparently considered high fashion—a riot of patterns and colors that seemed more suited to a much larger city than their small town.
Jake parked in front of the store. “Ready to talk to Trentville’s high-fashion diva?”
“If she’s even here,” Jenna replied, stepping out of the cruiser.
The interior of the shop was smaller than the window display suggested, crowded with racks of clothing and accessories. A young woman with a pixie haircut looked up from behind the counter, her welcoming smile faltering slightly at the sight of their uniforms.
“Sheriff Graves,” she acknowledged. “Deputy Hawkins. How can I help you?”
“Betty, right?” Jenna asked, recognizing Rebecca’s sole employee.
“Betty Rosin, yes.” Her eyes darted between them. “Is there something wrong?”
“We need to speak with Rebecca,” Jake said. “Is she here?”
Betty’s expression shifted to apologetic. “I’m sorry, she left town about an hour ago. Said she had a meeting with her husband’s lawyer in St. Louis this evening.”
Jenna felt a prickle of suspicion. “Did she mention when she’ll be back?”
“Tomorrow morning, I think. She has a shipment coming in that she wants to process herself.” Betty nervously adjusted a stack of folded sweaters. “Can I help with whatever you need?”
“Do you know where Rebecca was earlier today?” Jenna asked, her tone casual but her gaze sharp. “Before she left for St. Louis?”
Betty shook her head. “I hadn’t seen her all day until she came in to grab some files before leaving. The store’s been dead quiet, so I’ve just been reorganizing the spring inventory for clearance.”
“So she didn’t come into the store at all before that?”
“No.” Betty’s forehead creased with concern. “Is something wrong? Is Rebecca in some kind of trouble?”
Jenna didn’t answer directly. “We need to get in touch with her. Can you give me her cell number?”
Betty hesitated, loyalty to her employer warring with the instinctive respect for authority. Authority won out. She scribbled a number on a boutique business card and handed it to Jenna.
“Fair warning, though—she’s terrible about answering her phone.”
Jenna tried the number immediately. After four rings, an automated voice announced that the voicemail box was full and couldn’t accept new messages.
“As expected,” Betty said with a resigned shrug. “She’s even worse about returning calls. I’ve been telling her for months to clear out her voicemail.”
“When she does contact you,” Jake said, handing her his card, “please let us know.”
“Of course, but...” Betty shifted uncomfortably. “Can I ask what this is about? Rebecca might be a bit... intense sometimes, but she’s not a bad person.”
“We’re just following up on a matter that may involve her,” Jenna said, deliberately vague. “Thank you for your help, Betty.”
Outside on the sidewalk, Jake lowered his voice. “Convenient timing for Rebecca to leave town, don’t you think?”
“Very,” Jenna agreed. “But we still don’t know what we’re dealing with here. A missing person who might be the victim of foul play. A mannequin that shouldn’t exist. A woman with a grudge who happens to own a store full of mannequins.”
“And is suddenly unavailable for questioning.”
“The question is whether Rebecca Ashcroft has the skills to create something like that mannequin of Marjory. It wasn’t a standard retail dummy with a wig. The face was detailed, customized.”
“Maybe she commissioned it from someone?”
"Possibly." Jenna started toward the cruiser. "That's why I called Liza. If anyone can tell us how that thing was made, it's her."
They climbed back into the vehicle, Jenna taking the driver’s seat this time. As she started the engine, her phone rang. Maria Delgado’s name flashed on the screen.
“Sheriff,” Maria’s voice came through when Jenna answered, “your friend Liza Sewell just arrived at the Powell residence. Should I let her in, or wait for you to get back?”
“We’re on our way,” Jenna replied. “Have her wait in her car until we arrive. I want to brief her before she sees the scene.”
“Will do.”
Jenna hung up and pulled away from the curb, accelerating perhaps a bit faster than necessary. Jake grabbed the door handle but said nothing.
“If Rebecca Ashcroft is behind this,” Jenna said, “what’s her endgame? What does she want?”
“Some people don’t need much reason,” Jake replied. “You’ve heard all about her divorce proceedings, right? Cecil Ashcroft claimed in his petition that she was diagnosed with personality disorders she refused to treat.”
“Still, there’s a big gap between having untreated mental health issues and creating a life-sized replica of someone you have a grudge against.” Jenna turned onto Maple Street. “And where is Marjory Powell right now? That’s what keeps nagging at me.”
When the Powell house came into view, Jenna could see Liza’s silver Prius parked behind the patrol cars, and a slim figure leaning against it, waiting.
“Let’s hope Liza can give us some answers,” Jenna said.