Chapter Thirteen
Emmy tapped her fingers on the steering wheel as they drove to Skylar Guthrie’s house. Her mind had cleared since this morning’s wallowing, but she still didn’t know how any of the pieces fit together.
She told Jude, “This feels like it’s big and it’s small at the same time.”
“In what way?”
“All that stuff at the house—the number on the back of the Wyeth print. The stack of library books. The keys. The crime scene. What does it all mean?”
“You tell me.”
Emmy was growing tired of the Socratic method.
“If we go back to yesterday, the first thing pointed to domestic violence. The next thing pointed to Woody having a relationship with Mandy. Then Talia pointed to an UnSub who could have been grooming Mandy. Then I had Reggie telling me Dad’s a bad cop who made some evidence go away and you telling me to ignore Reggie and the FBI telling you to look at me over a Giglio list that I’ve never even heard of and might not even exist.”
“All valid things.”
“You keep saying lean horse. Dad used to say make it smaller. If we rule out all the big stuff, like a conspiracy or Woody and the Rawleys and Reggie’s crooked department, my gut tells me that people always murder for personal reasons: jealousy, anger, revenge, fear, money.
I feel like I need to find that personal reason. ”
“Stop putting the cart before the horse.”
“Stop using horse metaphors.”
“Sweetheart.” Jude turned toward her. “You’re exhausted and frustrated and overthinking everything.
Follow the clues. That will lead you to the motive.
The motive will lead you to the bad guy.
You can be wrong a thousand times in an investigation.
All that matters is that you’re right at least once. ”
Emmy pushed up the blinker. “Just so you know, I prefer horses to fortune cookies.”
Jude laughed, but for once, she let it go.
Emmy turned onto Clifton Terrace. The Guthries lived four streets over from Talia and Valerie Wilkinson’s house, but North Falls was small enough that four streets made a big difference.
The well-tended ranch houses spread out across more generous lots.
The backyards gently rolled toward Coleman Creek, because if something wasn’t named after a Clifton, a Coleman had taken the honors.
Vernon Road was named after Emmy’s great-great-grandfather.
Delilah Avenue was named after her great-great-grandmother.
Hannah lived just behind Delilah on Clay Street, which was named after the first Clifton who’d stolen the land from the Creek tribe in 1822.
Emmy pulled up behind Gregg’s cruiser. He was leaning against the trunk eating a cupcake at ten in the morning. He started licking his fingers when Emmy and Jude got out of the cruiser.
By way of explanation, he said, “Missed breakfast.”
Emmy knew why. She’d had him rousing drug addicts all over Clayville to see if any of them could pinpoint Woody’s where-abouts during the shooting. “Go home and get some sleep.”
He pushed away from the car. She started toward the Guthrie house.
“Gregg.” Emmy turned back around. She might as well give this delegation thing a try. “I know you’re tired, but can you go to the Lazy Eight motel? We’ve already subpoenaed the CCTV. Maybe you can talk the manager into shaking it loose sooner.”
He looked surprised. “Sure.”
Emmy normally would’ve left it there, but she added, “See if he’ll talk about Bill Garrison.
He’s been staying there two weeks. The staff probably knows him.
This isn’t just about his alibi. Bill told me Allison visited him the night before the shooting.
It sounds like they got into it. Maybe there was a noise complaint, or you can track down some of the other guests and see if they heard a racket. ”
He started to nod his approval. “You’re going after Bill.”
“I’m going after evidence.”
The nodding stopped. “Yes, chief.”
Emmy ignored the pleased look that Jude gave her as they walked toward the house.
Pam Guthrie was waiting for them at the front door.
Her arms were crossed. She had one of those angry personalities and was always primed for a fight, which suited her career as a criminal defense attorney.
Emmy had been cross-examined by her years ago on a carjacking arrest. The interrogation had felt only slightly less uncomfortable than the time Emmy’s gynecologist had asked her how Gerald was doing during a pelvic exam.
“Sheriff.” Pam held open the door. “This is a hard time for Sky. You need to make this quick and easy.”
“Understood.” Emmy indicated Jude. “This is Dr. Archer. She’s consulting with me.”
“I’ve heard about you.” Pam’s tone implied she’d only heard the bad stuff from four decades ago. “Come in.”
Emmy felt a stifling sense of claustrophobia before she’d made it more than a few feet into the house.
The furniture in the living room was massive, better suited for a hotel lobby.
Crap was everywhere—snow globes and figurines and books and magazines and shoes and too much to catalogue in a quick glance.
Even the artwork on the walls was oversized and oppressive, like a series of Where’s Waldo puzzles, but with thousands of tiny butterflies.
Pam said, “My husband is an artist.”
Jude said, “It’s very evocative.”
Emmy wondered if she was thinking it was evocative of a serial killer. “Thank you for letting us talk to your daughter today. I know it’s difficult for your family right now. I’m doing everything I can to find out what happened.”
“Are you?” Pam asked. “It’s clear you’re focusing on Bill Garrison.
I’ve read the gossip online, and it sounds baseless to me.
His record is clean. Allison never accused him of anything.
Don’t think for a minute that a quick, flashy arrest will win you the election.
People in this town have long memories.”
“Thanks for the tip.” Emmy had the internet, too. She knew what people were saying about her. “May we talk to Skylar?”
Pam huffed out a frustrated breath. “She’s in the backyard.”
Emmy had hoped to at least see the girl’s bedroom. She wanted a sense of Skylar’s personality. Kids were more likely to open up if you understood their interests, which was why Emmy could recite practically every scene from How to Train Your Dragon.
Pam took them through to the kitchen. Emmy felt her skin go itchy at the sight of more clutter.
Dirty pots and pans over-flowing the sink.
Breakfast plates still not cleared from the table.
If Emmy was having a problem with the mess, Taybee would’ve lost her mind.
She checked on Jude. Her arms were crossed like she was afraid to touch anything.
The Clifton anxiety never skipped a generation.
The serenity of the backyard was like a balm.
The creek flowed in the distance. A breeze rustled the colorful leaves dangling from the trees.
The grass had started to lose its bright green in anticipation of fall.
Emmy assumed the large shed in the corner was used as an art studio.
The wooden swing set at the back overlooked the creek.
Skylar was too big for the monkey bars, slide and fort, but she could still fit in one of the two swings.
Emmy recognized the girl from Mandy’s socials. In all the videos, she was more guarded than Talia and Mandy. Less eager to put on a show. More sarcastic. More likely to be the one expressing disapproval. Now, her head was bent over her phone. She didn’t look up when they approached.
“Sky,” her mother said. “Sheriff Clifton is here with her sister.”
“It’s Skylar.” The girl looked up from her phone. Her tone had been as pointed as her mother’s, but Emmy could see the sadness in her eyes. The phone had tilted down. She’d been watching a video of Mandy.
“Skylar,” Emmy said, “this is Dr. Archer. She’s a psychologist, but don’t hold that against her.”
Jude smiled. “Hi.”
Skylar didn’t smile back. She looked at her mother. “You don’t have to hang around. I can do this on my own.”
“Absolutely not,” Pam said. “How many times have I told you never talk to a police officer without a lawyer present?”
“I’m not a suspect.”
“No one ever thinks they are.”
“Okay.” Emmy needed to break some of this tension. “Skylar, I’d actually like your mom to stick around. You both know Mandy. Maybe you can jog each other’s memories about some things.”
Skylar rolled her eyes, but she rested her phone in her lap, which was a small victory.
Emmy asked, “How long have you known Mandy?”
Skylar shrugged. She was still in defiant mode. “Since first grade.”
“Did you have Ms. Collier or Ms. Kellerman?”
Pam snapped, “Hannah’s last name was Dalrymple back then. Surely, you remember.”
Emmy could feel Jude making one of her therapy notations over the slip-up. “Okay, you met Mandy in Ms. Dalrymple’s class?”
Skylar nodded.
This was going great. Six more hours and Emmy would have the girl eating out of her hand. She sat down in the other swing, adjusted her gun holster so it didn’t impale her leg. “I met Ms. Dalrymple when we were both in kindergarten. She used to have a swing set like this in her backyard.”
Skylar gave her a curious glance. Most kids assumed their teachers had been grown in labs underneath their school.
“That’s the only reason I was her friend.” Emmy shrugged at Skylar’s next glance. “In the beginning, anyway. Her mom worked at the Good Dollar, so she had all the exotic snacks at home. Funyuns. Warheads. Fruit Roll-Ups with tongue tattoos.”
Skylar finally looked at her. “What kind of tattoos?”
Emmy felt a flood of relief to have the girl’s attention. “So, you know what a Fruit Roll-Up is?”
“I mean, does anybody know what it actually is?”
Emmy smiled. There was the sarcastic girl from Mandy’s videos. “Some of the Roll-Ups have patterns or cartoons on them. You press it to your tongue and the tattoo transfers. Then you stick out your tongue to show it to your friends.”
“Like a temporary tattoo.”