Winter's Child by Margaret Maron

Author:Margaret Maron
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2007-07-31T16:00:00+00:00

The slushy mix of rain and snow had finally quit falling, but the wet streets were starting to freeze when I followed Dwight’s truck through Shaysville, which looked to be somewhere between Cotton Grove and Dobbs in size. In the residential section, streetlights on alternate corners shone through the leafless trees. Jonna’s house was a story-and-a-half bungalow, probably built in the late fifties or early sixties. The evergreen foundation plantings were precisely clipped into green balls and triangles. Two dogwoods and a maple stood in the small front yard. The porch was narrow, yet deep enough to shelter three or four people.

We parked on the street out front because a Virginia crime scene van (they call theirs an evidence truck) was parked in the side driveway in front of an unmarked cruiser with permanent Virginia plates, and it looked as if the four agents were about to leave when we arrived.

“Don’t crack wise on their names,” Dwight muttered as two of the men approached us; and yes, Lewes and Clark was an amusing combo, but I was too brain-dead from the drive to think of an original comment when he introduced me, and I was sure they’d probably heard all the dumb ones.

We made polite noises at each other, then Lewes looked at us with small sharp eyes. “You heard about the probable time of death?”

Dwight nodded. “But what about my son? Any sightings? Any calls?”

“Sorry, Bryant. Nothing substantial yet.”

“Turn up any leads in the house?”

“Not really,” they said vaguely. “What about you?”

He told them about Jonna’s bouts of depression and that her cousin suggested that she might have been taking antidepressants. “But that’s probably what her doctor told you, right?”

“Wrong,” Clark said. “He hasn’t prescribed anything like that in over five years.” He moved away toward his car.

“See you tomorrow?” asked Dwight.

“Probably,” said Lewes, following his partner. “Good night, Judge.”

“How does he know I’m a judge?” I asked as we carried our suitcases into the house. Dwight had introduced me merely as “my wife.”

“Probably the same way you figured out how to get to Shaysville,” he said wearily.

“He Googled you?”

“Quicker than going through channels.”

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