CHAPTER TWELVE
The winding country road cut through fields still heavy with morning dew.
Jenna gripped the steering wheel, her mind replaying the dream that had visited her in the night—Marjory Powell’s face on a mannequin body, begging to return to her human form.
Now they were driving to what Jenna already knew would be the confirmation of her worst fears.
“You’re quiet,” Jake said beside her, breaking the tense silence that had filled the cruiser since they’d left the Powell residence.
"Just thinking about what we're going to see out here," Jenna replied, eyes fixed on the road ahead. The speedometer crept past sixty-five, the urgency of the situation pushing against her usual caution. "And what does it mean if this is just the beginning?"
“If your dream is right, if Marjory wasn’t his first victim...” Jake’s voice trailed off.
“Then we need to locate the others,” Jenna finished. “Figure out the pattern, find the killer before he strikes again.”
They crested a gentle hill, and Rostow’s farm came into view.
The property sprawled across rolling pastureland, split by the now-visible dry creek bed.
A cluster of official vehicles had gathered near a dirt access road—two patrol cars, the coroner’s van, and a pickup truck that she thought must belong to the farm owner who had found the body.
Yellow crime scene tape fluttered in the morning breeze, marking off an area that stretched down into the gully.
Jenna pulled onto the shoulder and parked. In her rearview mirror, she saw Spelling’s black SUV pull in behind them.
“Looks like the colonel made good time,” Jake observed as they stepped out of the vehicle.
The morning air carried the mingled scents of damp earth, manure, and the sweet perfume of late-blooming clover.
Jenna inhaled deeply, trying to center herself before what she knew would be a difficult scene.
These moments before viewing a body were always the hardest—the anticipation of witnessing someone’s final indignity, their story cut short by another’s cruelty.
Colonel Spelling joined them. “Sheriff Graves, Deputy,” he greeted them, his usual formality unaffected by the grim circumstances.
“Let’s head down,” Jenna said, already moving toward the crime scene tape where an officer stood watch.
As they approached, Jenna spotted Officer Maria Delgado standing with a man who must be the one who’d found the body.
Even from a distance, she could see the farmer’s distress in the slope of his shoulders and his restless movements.
Maria had her notepad out, but she seemed to be allowing the man space more than actively questioning him.
“Sheriff,” Maria called when she spotted them. “This is Mr. Rostow. He found the body during his morning rounds.”
Jenna didn’t know Cody Rostow personally.
She saw that he was a weathered man in his fifties, with callused hands and deep lines around his eyes that spoke of decades spent squinting into the sun.
Those eyes now held the haunted look Jenna had seen countless times—the shock of ordinary people confronted with extraordinary horror.
“Mr. Rostow,” Jenna said, extending her hand. “I’m Sheriff Graves. Thank you for reporting this so quickly.”
His hand trembled slightly as he shook hers. “Never seen anything like it,” he said, his voice rough. “Been farming this land for twenty-seven years. Found plenty of dead things—coyotes, deer, even a neighbor’s dog once. But never—” He swallowed hard. “Never a person.”
“Can you tell me exactly what happened this morning?” Jenna asked gently.
Cody nodded, seeming grateful for the direct question.
“I was checking the cattle. Do it every morning just about sunrise. Saw something white down in the gully that shouldn’t have been there.
” His eyes drifted toward the yellow tape.
“Thought it was trash at first. People are always dumping things on my property. But it looked too... deliberate.”
“What do you mean by deliberate?” Jake asked.
“The shape of it, the way it was … covered. Too neat to be blown there by the wind.” Cody’s hands twisted together.
“It was a sheet. Laid out over her, all careful-like. Corners smooth, not bunched up or tangled.” He shook his head.
“When I pulled it back and saw her face.
.. I knew right away she was dead. She looked.
.. peaceful, I guess. Like she was sleeping, ‘cept for how still she was. Too still.”
Jenna nodded, taking in the details. The carefully arranged sheet matched what she had seen in her dream—Marjory’s body laid out as if for viewing.
“Did you see anyone else on your property this morning? Any vehicles that shouldn’t have been here?” she asked.
“No, ma’am. Not a soul.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rostow. Officer Delgado will continue taking your statement, and we may have more questions later.” Jenna turned to Maria. “Stay with him, get all the details you can.”
“Yes, Sheriff,” Maria replied.
Jenna thought for a moment, then realized that Maria was just the person to carry out a pending task.
"And when you're done here, I need you to do something, and it's not going to be easy. I need you to inform Harry Powell that we've found his wife's body. He needs to know."
“I’ll do that,” Maria said, sounding unfazed.
Jenna, Jake, and Colonel Spelling continued past the crime scene tape, following a path that had been trampled into the grass by the first responders.
The gully was shallow, more a depression in the landscape than a true ravine, but deep enough to have hidden the body from casual observation from the road.
Dr. Melissa Stark, the county coroner, was already on the scene, kneeling beside the victim as she examined the body.
The white sheet had been folded back, revealing the woman’s face and upper torso.
Even from several yards away, Jenna could see that the face was identical to that of the mannequin in the Powells’ kitchen.
Melissa looked up as they approached. “Morning, Jenna. Though there’s nothing good about it, I’m afraid.”
“It’s her,” Jenna confirmed, stopping beside the coroner. “That’s Marjory Powell.”
The woman lay naked on the damp earth, her body carefully arranged—arms crossed over her chest, legs straight and positioned side by side, hair fanned out beneath her head. Her skin bore the unnatural pallor of death, but her face appeared serene, almost as if she had simply lain down to rest.
“I heard about the mannequin from the dispatcher,” Melissa said, her gloved hands hovering over the victim’s face. “Sounds like something from a horror movie.”
“It was museum quality,” Jenna explained. “A perfect replica of her face, sitting at her kitchen table in the clothes she was wearing yesterday.”
“Good God,” Melissa muttered. “As if Trentville needed another bizarre murder case. We can’t seem to get a break from them.”
"What can you tell us about the time of death?" Spelling asked.
“Based on body temperature and lividity, I’d say she’s been dead since early yesterday afternoon. Between one and three p.m., most likely.” Melissa gestured to the body. “Rigor is well-established but not yet releasing, which supports that timeline.”
“That fits with what we know,” Jake said. “She showed a property at one o’clock, then missed her three o’clock appointment.”
“So our perpetrator abducts her after her one o’clock showing,” Jenna said, thinking aloud, “kills her, strips her, brings her body here, and somehow manages to place a mannequin duplicate in her kitchen before her husband returns home early from work.” She shook her head. “The logistics alone are impressive.”
“And disturbing,” Spelling added.
“There’s something else you should see,” Melissa said, gesturing for them to come closer.
She pointed to faint impressions on Marjory’s face—a slight redness around the nose and mouth in the shape of an oval.
“See these marks? They indicate she was wearing some kind of mask shortly before or at the time of death—looks to me like it was a medical oxygen mask.”
Jenna remembered her dream. The Marjory mannequin had pointed to her real body, which had been wearing what looked like an oxygen mask.
“What do you suppose it was for?” Jake frowned.
“For delivering death, I suspect,” Melissa replied grimly.
“Based on the lack of petechial hemorrhaging in the eyes and the absence of signs of struggle, I’m speculating she was killed by an inert gas—nitrogen or helium, possibly.
The body shows no trauma, no ligature marks, nothing to suggest physical violence. ”
“Could it have been carbon monoxide?” Jenna asked, recalling cases she’d investigated where victims appeared similarly peaceful.
Melissa shook her head. “I doubt it. CO would leave a cherry-red appearance to the lips and skin, which we don’t see here.
An inert gas would simply displace oxygen in the lungs, leading to painless asphyxiation.
The victim would feel light-headed, perhaps euphoric, then simply lose consciousness and die. ”
“But she would have fought it, tried to remove the mask,” Spelling observed.
“Not if she was already subdued,” Melissa countered. “I’ll need to run toxicology, but I suspect we’ll find evidence of a sedative or muscle relaxant in her system. Maybe administered by injection.” She lifted one of Marjory’s arms, pointing to a small mark on the inside of her elbow. “Like here.”
Jenna found herself staring at the dead woman’s face—identical to the mannequin’s yet fundamentally different. This was the real Marjory, the woman who had sold houses and celebrated commissions and loved her husband. Who had been alive yesterday morning, with no idea what the day would bring.
“I’ll know more after the autopsy,” Melissa continued. “But whoever did this knew what they were doing. This wasn’t an amateur fumbling through a murder.”
Jake’s phone rang suddenly, cutting through the grim atmosphere. He checked the display. “It’s Betty Rosin,” he said to Jenna, then answered. “Deputy Hawkins.”
Rebecca Ashcroft’s employee, Jenna remembered.
After a moment, Jake asked, "When did you receive this?
And you're at the store now?" Then Jake nodded at whatever response came through.
"Stay there. We're on our way." He ended the call and turned to Jenna.
"That was Betty from the Velvet Hanger. Rebecca Ashcroft just texted her saying she's in some kind of trouble and headed to the boutique. She said she needs Betty's help."
“Rebecca,” Jenna repeated, mentally shifting gears. “After disappearing conveniently yesterday.”
“Betty’s at the store now, waiting,” Jake added.
Jenna turned to Spelling. “Colonel, we need to follow up on this lead. Rebecca Ashcroft had a public falling out with Marjory, and she vanished right around the time Marjory disappeared.”
Spelling nodded. “Go. I’ll coordinate here with Dr. Stark. We’ll need to process this scene thoroughly.”
“Officer Baldry,” Jenna called to the officer securing the perimeter. “I want a full canvas of the area. Check for tire tracks, footprints, anything that might tell us how the body was transported here.”
“Yes, Sheriff,” Baldry replied.
“And Greg,” she added, using his first name to emphasize the importance, “if another call comes in about a mannequin, I want to know immediately.”
“You think there’s going to be another one?” Baldry asked, his expression grave.
Jenna remembered Marjory’s words from her dream: “I wasn’t the first. And I won’t be the last.” But she couldn’t explain that, not here, not now.
“A precaution,” she said instead. “This case has too many unusual elements not to consider every possibility.”
She and Jake started back up the gentle slope toward their vehicles.
The morning had warmed slightly, the dew burning off the grass, but Jenna felt cold inside.
Marjory Powell’s death had been carried out with unusual skill.
Her body had been arranged like a discarded doll, an artificial version of her placed in her own kitchen.
This killer had planned every detail carefully and executed it flawlessly.
How could they begin to guess who might be the next victim?
There was also the question about the danger to the public. Would releasing these details to the public help them protect themselves or just produce panic and wild accusations? After all, at this point, they had no reason to think a serial killer was at work—no reason except for Jenna's dream.
“What do you make of Rebecca’s text?” Jake interrupted her thoughts as they reached the cruiser. “You think it’s legitimate, or some kind of trap?”
“I don’t know,” Jenna admitted, unlocking the vehicle.
“But it’s the best lead we have right now.
Rebecca certainly has personality issues.
She also had a motive to harm Marjory, and her sudden disappearance is suspicious.
” She slid behind the wheel. “Marjory said in my dream that ‘he’ did this to her, but dreams aren’t always literal.
Maybe Rebecca hired someone. Or maybe Rebecca has nothing to do with this, and she’s in genuine trouble. ”
Jake buckled his seatbelt. “Only one way to find out.”