CHAPTER FIVE
As Jenna pulled her cruiser to the curb in front of the Powell residence, she watched her old friend push away from the car where she’d been leaning, arms crossed over her chest in a familiar posture Jenna had known since they were teenagers.
There was something comforting about Liza’s presence here, a bit of normalcy in the middle of this bizarre case—the missing woman, the mannequin that shouldn’t exist, the unsettling questions with no clear answers.
“Thanks for getting here so quickly,” Jenna said as she stepped out of the cruiser. The evening air had cooled, carrying the scent of someone’s barbecue from a few houses down. It seemed strange that life continued its ordinary rhythms just yards away from where they stood.
“Of course.” Liza hugged her briefly, then stepped back. Clay dust clung to her jeans, and flecks of dried plaster speckled her dark hair. “Though I’ve got to say, your call was the weirdest interruption to a workday I’ve had in ages.”
When Jake got out of the cruiser to join them, Liza’s eyes lit with recognition.
“Deputy Hawkins,” she said, extending her hand. “We met at the town square dedication last year, right? You helped install that monstrosity I created.”
Jake smiled as he shook her hand. “The ‘Spirit of Trentville’ sculpture. Still standing strong, despite what the mayor had to say about it.”
“She called it ‘aggressively modern,’“ Liza snorted. “As if that were an insult.”
The exchange was a welcome reprieve from the weight of Marjory Powell’s disappearance. She found herself remembering the Liza she’d known in high school, before Piper vanished.
Liza had been the creative prankster of their circle—the girl who once hid more than a dozen alarm clocks in the vice principal’s office, set to go off at ten-minute intervals.
The same girl who convinced half the senior class to wear pirate costumes on school picture day, complete with eye patches and stuffed parrots.
The memory of Principal Hargrove’s face—purple with rage but unable to punish fifty students at once—still had the power to make Jenna smile.
“You’ve got that look,” Liza said, tilting her head. “What are you remembering?”
“The Great Pirate Invasion of 2003,” Jenna replied.
“Ah, one of my finest moments.” Liza’s eyes crinkled at the corners.
Jake raised an eyebrow. “Do I want to know?”
“Probably not,” both women answered in unison, then exchanged quick smiles.
Liza’s expression sobered. “Before we go in, how’s Harry doing? I can’t imagine what he’s going through right now.”
“He’s staying with his brother Hosmer,” Jenna answered. “We thought it would be best while we process the scene. He was... shaken.” The word felt inadequate. Harry Powell’s face had been a study in contained horror—a man whose understanding of his life had been fundamentally violated.
“Good call,” Liza nodded.
Jenna motioned toward the house. “Speaking of which—are you ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
They walked up the neat concrete path to the front door to the ordinary suburban home—nothing in its appearance suggesting the strangeness that waited inside. A worn welcome mat, potted geraniums flanking the steps, curtains drawn against curious eyes.
Inside, Officer Mike Donovan looked up from where he’d been examining something on the living room floor. His kind eyes, typically crinkled at the corners, were serious now.
“Any developments?” Jenna asked.
“Nothing significant, Sheriff. We’ve documented everything and collected what little trace evidence we could find. We’ve taken prints from the kitchen doorknobs and table, but there seem to be just two sets. Probably the Powell’s. We’re also checking prints from entry doors just in case.”
“Where are Baldry and Delgado?”
“Still canvassing. They called in about ten minutes ago, said they’re working their way back.”
Jenna nodded toward Liza. “This is Liza Sewell. She’s going to help us understand what we’re looking at.”
Mike acknowledged Liza with a nod.
“This way,” Jenna said, leading Liza toward the kitchen. Jake followed a step behind.
When they pushed through the swinging door, Liza stopped abruptly in the threshold. Her sharp intake of breath was the only sound in the room.
The mannequin sat exactly as before—hands around the coffee mug, vacant hazel eyes fixed on the center of the table. In the dimming evening light that filtered through the window, the figure seemed even more unsettling, accentuating the uncanny valley between imitation and life.
“Holy shit,” Liza whispered. She took a tentative step forward, then another, circling the table as Jenna had done earlier. “That’s... that’s exactly what Marjory looked like when I last saw her. Right down to that little asymmetry in her smile.”
“When did you last see her?” Jake asked.
“About two months ago. At the farmer’s market.” Liza continued to study the mannequin, her artist’s eyes missing nothing. “Can I touch it?”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Jenna said. “But tell me what you can see. What are we looking at, Liza? How was this made?”
Liza leaned closer, careful not to make contact.
“This is museum-quality work,” she said after a moment.
“Not retail display mannequin material. See how the skin seems to have pores? The subtle variations in tone?” She pointed to the mannequin’s face.
“This was made from a detailed mold. Probably using alginate or silicone for the initial impression, then cast in a high-grade plastic resin.”
“Would whoever made this have needed Marjory to sit for it?” Jake repeated.
“Not necessarily.” Liza straightened up.
“You can create a reasonable facsimile from photographs, especially if you have them from multiple angles.” She shook her head.
“But for something like this, someone must have worked from lots of photos. The texture of the skin, the subtle coloration around the eyes, the precise way the lips curve—those touches are really remarkable.”
Liza stepped back from the table. “The body is less detailed than the face. That’s typical—the face is where we recognize individuality.
The hands look like standard mannequin parts, though positioned with care.
” She studied the figure’s posture. “The whole setup reminds me of museum exhibits. Historical figures positioned in recreated scenes of daily life.”
“Museum exhibits,” Jenna repeated, a connection forming. “Could you tell who manufactured it?”
“I’d bet it’s Amberson Museum Figures,” Liza said without hesitation. “They were the gold standard for museum-quality mannequins with fully articulated joints.”
Jake pulled out his notepad. “Amberson Museum Figures. Worth checking if they have records of who purchased this.”
“That might be difficult,” Liza replied. “They went out of business about ten years ago. I doubt that this was planned that far ahead.”
Jenna and Jake exchanged a look. Another potential lead evaporated before they could pursue it.
“And there’s something else,” Jake said to Liza. “Darla Fenwick confirmed that these are the exact clothes Marjory was wearing today. At lunch, around noon.”
Liza’s eyes widened. “So whoever did this... took her clothes? Put them on this thing?” She gestured at the mannequin. “That suggests—”
“That something happened to the real Marjory,” Jenna finished. “Yes.”
Liza pressed her temples, as if warding off a headache. “God, I hope she’s okay. We had our differences, but...” She trailed off, looking genuinely distressed.
“You knew Marjory well?” Jenna asked, watching her friend’s face carefully.
“We used to be closer,” Liza admitted. “Until we had a falling out about a year ago.”
Jake’s pen hovered over his notepad. “What was the disagreement about?”
Liza shifted her weight, suddenly uncomfortable. “I’d rather not say, if that’s alright. It was personal, and I’m sure it doesn’t have anything to do with... this.” She gestured at the mannequin.
Jenna studied her friend for a moment. She’d known Liza long enough to recognize when she was holding something back, but also when she was being sincere. Whatever had come between Liza and Marjory a year ago, Jenna didn’t sense it was relevant to the current situation.
“Alright,” she said finally. “But if you think of anything that might help us understand what happened to her—”
“Of course,” Liza said quickly. “I’d tell you immediately.”
She took one last look at the mannequin, a shudder passing visibly through her. “I should get back to Gildner. I have that commission deadline coming up.”
“Thanks for coming, Liza. You’ve been a huge help.”
“Anytime.” Liza’s eyes met Jenna’s, a silent acknowledgment of their shared history, the bond that had survived despite the years and diverging paths. “You’ll find her, Jenna.”
When Liza had gone, Jenna turned to Jake. “I don’t think there’s much more we can do here tonight. Colonel Spelling’s team will be here first thing tomorrow.”
Jake nodded. “I’ll have the night shift maintain the scene.”
Jenna found Mike in the living room. “We’re heading out. Keep the scene secured overnight. Nobody touches anything, especially the mannequin.”
“Yes, Sheriff,” Mike replied. “The Colonel’s people arrive at eight tomorrow?”
“That’s the plan. I’ll be here before then. Call me if anything changes.”
Outside, the streetlights had flickered on, casting pools of yellow light down the quiet residential street. As they descended the front steps, two figures approached from the sidewalk—Officers Baldry and Delgado returning from their canvassing efforts.
“Any luck?” Jake called to them.
Baldry shook his head, his broad shoulders slumping with fatigue. “Nobody saw anything unusual. A few neighbors noticed Marjory leaving in her car around noon, headed for work. That tracks with what we already knew.”
“What about security cameras?” Jenna asked. “Any of the neighbors have doorbell cams or security systems?”
“The Johannsens across the street have a doorbell camera,” Delgado replied, “but it only captures their porch and part of their front lawn. Doesn’t reach to this side of the street. And the Wilsons next door have a security system, but no exterior cameras.”
“What about the alley behind the house?” Jake asked.
“No cameras at all back there,” Baldry said. “If someone brought that mannequin in through the rear gate, they could have done it without being recorded.”
Jenna sighed. “Keep at it tomorrow. Someone must have seen something.”
Baldry and Delgado continued toward the house as Jenna and Jake walked to their separate vehicles.
“What do you think?” Jake asked, pausing beside his cruiser. “Rebecca Ashcroft is still our best lead?”
“She’s a person of interest, for sure,” Jenna replied. “But something about this feels... different. More calculated than I’d expect from her. And she’d have to hire someone with the specific skills to make a thing like that. But I guess most people would.”
“We’ll know more once Colonel Spelling’s team does their thing,” Jake said. “Forensics might give us something to work with.”
“Let’s hope so.” Jenna glanced back at the house, imagining the mannequin sitting there in the darkening kitchen, keeping its secrets. “This one has me unsettled, Jake. The planning involved, the intimate knowledge of Marjory’s appearance, the timing of it all.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Jake assured her, though his voice held a note of uncertainty. “We always do.”
They stood there a moment longer in the purple dusk, moths already beginning to circle the streetlights.
The distant wail of a train whistle carried across town, mingling with the chirp of early crickets.
Neither seemed quite ready to end the day, to separate and face the quiet of their own thoughts in empty houses.
“Get some rest,” Jake finally said, keys jingling. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long one.”
“You too.” Jenna hesitated, her eyes dropping briefly to where his shirt concealed the bandages. “Give that wound some time to finish healing.”
Jake’s hand drifted unconsciously to his abdomen, pressing lightly against what must be tender flesh beneath his shirt, then he grinned, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening. “Only hurts when I laugh.”
“Then I won’t say anything funny,” she promised, a small smile softening her words.
They parted ways, Jake to his cruiser and Jenna to hers.
As she slid behind the wheel, her phone buzzed with a call from headquarters.
“Graves,” she answered, hoping for some break in the case.
“Hey, Sheriff, it’s Officer Crowe.” His voice crackled through the line. “Just wanted to let you know, we’ve impounded Marjory’s car, and it is being examined, just as you ordered. Nothing unusual so far.”
“Any sign of a struggle where it was found?”
“No, ma’am. But we’re still going over it.”
“Alright. Keep me posted.”
“Will do, Sheriff.”
She hung up, worried about this report. Marjory’s car abandoned with no signs of trouble, a mannequin in her likeness left at home—none of it added up.
A wave of exhaustion settled over Jenna.
She should go straight home, she knew that.
The day had been nothing but dead ends and disturbing questions.
Her search for Piper had yielded nothing, and now this Powell case with its mannequin mockery.
She started the engine but sat idling, glancing at the clock.
Just past seven-thirty. Late enough to justify going home, early enough for another errand.
She started the engine and pulled away from the curb, mentally calculating the time. Just past seven-thirty. She had time for one more routine task, the one that never failed to leave her on edge.
As she drove through the quiet streets of Trentville, her mind wandered between the day's events—the mannequin with its unsettling smile, Liza's description of how it might have been made, Rebecca Ashcroft's convenient absence, and some kind of falling out between Liza and Marjory that her friend had been reluctant to discuss.
Puzzle pieces that refused to fit together.
The traffic light ahead turned yellow, then red. Jenna braked. Beyond the case, beyond the professional concerns, her thoughts turned to her upcoming errand.
Nothing to worry about, Jenna told herself.
At least she hoped so.