Emily Kenyon 01 - A Cold Dark Place

as her daughter transferred the pasta to a bowl and began pouring on the sauce. “I’m getting to bed early,” she said. “Sheriff’s going to be on Diane Sawyer tomorrow and I don’t want to miss it.”
    Jenna’s eyes widened and she started to laugh. “Oh wow! That would be worth seeing. I’m calling Shali. The girl will think your boss is a superstar.”
    Wednesday, 6:39 A.M.
    The bed held her like a coffin. Despite all that had gone on in Cherrystone, Emily slept more soundly that night than she had in a week. She’d laid her head on the pillow and the next moment the alarm clock beeped to wake her. The merlot, she thought. Better than knockout drops. She put on the thinning white terry robe she’d taken home from the hotel in Cabo San Lucas where she and David had honeymooned. They’d been so happy. It hadn’t all been fury and vitriol. The man that made her angrier than any other had also been the love of her life. She couldn’t bear to toss the robe, even though it was frayed at the cuffs. Her wedding ring was buried deep in her jewelry box, never to be worn again, but not the robe.
    She padded down the hall toward the kitchen. Passing her daughter’s room, she knocked once. “Jenna, get up! Kiplinger’s on TV in ten minutes or so. I’ll make coffee”
    The kitchen was still a mess, but Emily could deal with that. She turned on the burr grinder and it made its interminable racket. Fresh ground coffee never smelled so good. She imagined Kiplinger getting his big handsome face powdered by some assistant provided by the Spokane ABC affiliate, where he was going to appear via satellite.
    “Jenna!” She called once more, as she filled the filter with the dark roast that smelled heavenly at that hour. Always did. She poured distilled water in the reservoir and flipped the switch. The machine rumbled.
    Diane Sawyer, all sunny and blond, was on the tube, talking about Cherrystone and the twister that miraculously had killed no one, but now the town was the scene of a murder investigation.
    The show broke for the local Spokane weather.
    Good, it was just a tease, telling the audience what was coming after the next commercial break. She hadn’t missed the sheriff.
    Emily hurried down the hall and pushed open the door. Jenna’s room was empty. The bed made. She looked at her watch. It was almost seven. Shali must have come to get her early. It passed through her mind that earlier this week Jenna had mentioned something about posters and banners needing to be put up at school.
    “First a devastating tornado and now a small town in Washington State is reeling with a mysterious homicide.”
    It was Diane Sawyer talking.
    Emily, her robe flapping as she ran to the living room, fixed her eyes on the TV screen.
    Brian Kiplinger stared into the camera. Or stared at something. Emily couldn’t be sure what he was looking at. His eyes looked around nervously. He nodded like a doll with a spring neck as Diane coolly asked what was known about the Martin family.
    “This is a good family. The kid was troubled. We’re not sure what happened, but we think the answers will be uncovered once we find him. I have my best detective on the case”
    Nice, Emily thought, a shout out from the sheriff. Of course, I’m the only detective so that makes me the best by default.
    “What theories do you have about what might have happened?” Sawyer asked.
    “We don’t know. We don’t speculate. But we do want to find Nicholas Martin.” His eyes darted in search of a place to focus, and the camera mercifully cut to a high school yearbook picture of Nicholas. Unsmiling, with his dark locks and spooky blue eyes, Nichols did look troubled. “He’s not a suspect, but he is a person of interest.” Kiplinger’s face came back into view. Sawyer thanked him and as the camera cut away, he continued to talk, thanking her for the opportunity to be on her show, but the sound was cut off.
    Emily made a mental note to tell him he did a great joband that he could have the next biggie when it came to interviews. She didn’t need the grief.
    Emily poured her coffee and given the state of the world, the effects of the wine from the night before, and what was facing her that day with the Martin investigation, she used the steaming brew to swallow three aspirins. No cream in the coffee that morning. She still needed the buzz.
    A familiar horn beeped from the driveway. It was Shalimar Patterson’s VW bug. The girls must have forgotten