said.
“It’s okay. Darby and I had so much in common. My being a lesbian had nothing to do with it. My mom is a hoarder too. She sends me this shit all the time. I used to throw it away, you know . . . just clean sweep it away from my life.” She stopped and caught her breath. “I don’t do that anymore. I know my mom can’t help it. I bring it here. I give it away.”
Kendall felt a rush of sympathy. If they had been friends, she would have hugged that woman right then. She didn’t, of course.
“Please don’t say anything about my friendship with her,” Connie said. “I can assure you Darby never, ever came to my house. I never saw her not even once outside of this classroom. And yes, we spent a lot of time together. I’m worried about her, detective. You have to find her.”
Kendall believed the art teacher.
“We’re doing the best we can,” she said. She didn’t tell her about the foot, the polish, what had happened to Darby Moreau. It wasn’t something she could tell, not in the middle of the investigation. She knew that when the news broke, Connie Mitchell would be heartsick.
“Which boy?” she asked. “Do you know?”
“What?”
“Which boy was she crushing on?”
Connie shook her head and closed the cabinet.
“I don’t know. She never said.”
C HAPTER 11
I t was a perfect spring Saturday—the kind that residents of the Pacific Northwest don’t want the rest of the country to know about. Having people believe it rains all the time isn’t good for the travel industry, but it does keep people from moving to a place that’s considered gray with gloom most of the year. While snow fell like sanding sugar on Denver, and temperatures dipped on the East Coast to near freezing at night, the Seattle area was enjoying the kind of weather that invites men to go shirtless—even when a long winter of football and snacking offered more reasons to cover up.
A dirt biker named Martin Best had been riding the humps and bumps of the Limerick Trail in Banner Forest when he got off his bike to smoke a cigarette. Martin, a small but muscular guy in his mid-thirties, settled himself on a log riddled by the beak of a woodpecker to such a degree that it looked like it had been sprayed with buckshot. As he puffed away, he took in the silence of the forest.
Life was good. He’d made up with his girlfriend. His employment prospects were looking up. A second interview at a coffee roaster in Bremerton had gone well. It was a start-up company, but that was all right with him. He had turned the page on some dark times in his life. Nothing was going to stop him now. Looking up was a very good feeling.
He finished his smoke and snuffed it out with his fingertips and stuck the butt in his pants pocket. When he got up to get back on his bike, he noticed a large black plastic trash bag.
What’s with people, anyway? he thought.
The bikers had a bad enough reputation as it was. Why, he wondered, would someone give the county commissioners any more reasons to boot them out of the best trails for riding in the entire county?
Martin bent down to pick up the bag, but when he lifted it, it split in half.
Jesus! What’s that? He pulled back from the worst smell he’d ever whiffed in his entire life. It was like railroad spikes driven into each nostril with a sledgehammer. He winced hard and his eyes watered. It was sharp, acrid, and gassy. All of a sudden, the young man vomited. It was a reflex, something far beyond his control.
His eyes had mapped out what it was that was in that plastic bag.
Curled inside was the body of a girl. Long blond hair, matted with twigs, lay on the forest floor. What Martin Best saw was blood-soaked and rotten and foul as foul could be. It was gooey, disgusting, but heartbreaking at the same time. He’d read the papers. He knew the park had been searched after the school kids from Olalla Elementary discovered a severed foot on one of the trails.
Martin squatted and braced himself
“It’s okay. Darby and I had so much in common. My being a lesbian had nothing to do with it. My mom is a hoarder too. She sends me this shit all the time. I used to throw it away, you know . . . just clean sweep it away from my life.” She stopped and caught her breath. “I don’t do that anymore. I know my mom can’t help it. I bring it here. I give it away.”
Kendall felt a rush of sympathy. If they had been friends, she would have hugged that woman right then. She didn’t, of course.
“Please don’t say anything about my friendship with her,” Connie said. “I can assure you Darby never, ever came to my house. I never saw her not even once outside of this classroom. And yes, we spent a lot of time together. I’m worried about her, detective. You have to find her.”
Kendall believed the art teacher.
“We’re doing the best we can,” she said. She didn’t tell her about the foot, the polish, what had happened to Darby Moreau. It wasn’t something she could tell, not in the middle of the investigation. She knew that when the news broke, Connie Mitchell would be heartsick.
“Which boy?” she asked. “Do you know?”
“What?”
“Which boy was she crushing on?”
Connie shook her head and closed the cabinet.
“I don’t know. She never said.”
C HAPTER 11
I t was a perfect spring Saturday—the kind that residents of the Pacific Northwest don’t want the rest of the country to know about. Having people believe it rains all the time isn’t good for the travel industry, but it does keep people from moving to a place that’s considered gray with gloom most of the year. While snow fell like sanding sugar on Denver, and temperatures dipped on the East Coast to near freezing at night, the Seattle area was enjoying the kind of weather that invites men to go shirtless—even when a long winter of football and snacking offered more reasons to cover up.
A dirt biker named Martin Best had been riding the humps and bumps of the Limerick Trail in Banner Forest when he got off his bike to smoke a cigarette. Martin, a small but muscular guy in his mid-thirties, settled himself on a log riddled by the beak of a woodpecker to such a degree that it looked like it had been sprayed with buckshot. As he puffed away, he took in the silence of the forest.
Life was good. He’d made up with his girlfriend. His employment prospects were looking up. A second interview at a coffee roaster in Bremerton had gone well. It was a start-up company, but that was all right with him. He had turned the page on some dark times in his life. Nothing was going to stop him now. Looking up was a very good feeling.
He finished his smoke and snuffed it out with his fingertips and stuck the butt in his pants pocket. When he got up to get back on his bike, he noticed a large black plastic trash bag.
What’s with people, anyway? he thought.
The bikers had a bad enough reputation as it was. Why, he wondered, would someone give the county commissioners any more reasons to boot them out of the best trails for riding in the entire county?
Martin bent down to pick up the bag, but when he lifted it, it split in half.
Jesus! What’s that? He pulled back from the worst smell he’d ever whiffed in his entire life. It was like railroad spikes driven into each nostril with a sledgehammer. He winced hard and his eyes watered. It was sharp, acrid, and gassy. All of a sudden, the young man vomited. It was a reflex, something far beyond his control.
His eyes had mapped out what it was that was in that plastic bag.
Curled inside was the body of a girl. Long blond hair, matted with twigs, lay on the forest floor. What Martin Best saw was blood-soaked and rotten and foul as foul could be. It was gooey, disgusting, but heartbreaking at the same time. He’d read the papers. He knew the park had been searched after the school kids from Olalla Elementary discovered a severed foot on one of the trails.
Martin squatted and braced himself
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