again.
“I pay the processors a dollar more an hour than minimum wage, and benefits to boot,” he said, glancing through his office window, which overlooked the women hovering over tables, sorting salal.
“Celesta and the Delgado brothers at least had the kind of entrepreneurial spirit that made this country great. You know, when it actually was great.”
When they were finished, the Every-Greens president escorted Kendall back through the work area.
A Mexican woman of no more than twenty-five handed her a single rose flanked by a fan of huckleberry.
“Celesta is a nice girl. I hope you find her,” she said.
Before Kendall could say anything, Karl Hudson shot the young woman a cold look.
“Break time isn’t for another forty-five, Carmina. Let’s get back to work, ladies.”
Chapter Seven
March 31, 10 a.m.
Port Orchard
Instinct and intuition often play an important function in police work. Those who deny their crucial roles are likely those who don’t possess that something extra that allows an interrogator to home in on the truth when the facts don’t always add up: how the flutter of an eyelash indicates a lie, the curl of an upper lip says more than the words coming from the subject. Truth, Kendall Stark knew, was more than the sum of available facts. There was nothing to really back up the belief that Celesta Delgado simply ditched her boyfriend in the middle of cutting brush in Sunnyslope. Nor did she think that the gentle man who’d come into the Sheriff’s Office was involved with her disappearance. She drove out to Kitsap West, the ramshackle mobile home park that was best known for a dead baby that had been found the previous year on the other side of the rusted eight-foot wire fence that cordoned off the single- and double-wide mobiles, along with a smattering of travel trailers and fifth wheels.
She parked her SUV in front of space 223, a single-wide Aloha with new steps and decking, and knocked.
A woman of about sixty answered. Although it was past ten, she was still wearing slippers and a bathrobe. As she spoke, the remnants of the cigarette she’d been smoking curled in the still air. And while she had a pleasant face and reasonably warm eyes, everything else about her told Kendall that she was going to be of no help. She barely opened the door, for starters.
A sure sign that the person is hiding something inside: a messy house, maybe a dead body…
“I don’t need a vacuum or aromatherapy if that’s what you’re here for,” she said.
Kendall offered a smile. “I’m a detective with the Sheriff’s Office. I’m Kendall Stark.”
“I don’t know anything about my nephew.”
Kendall suppressed a smile. She could never begin to count the times that someone misunderstood why she was on their front doorstep and offered up a relative or a neighbor as a quick means to save themselves from some hidden concern.
“Ma’am, I’m not here about your nephew. I’m here about the missing woman who lived next door.”
The woman widened the door a bit more. “You mean the Mexican?”
“I think they are Salvadoran.”
“Same to me.” She motioned for Kendall to come inside. “I liked Celesta. Nice girl. What she was doing with those rowdies, I’ll never know.”
A four-foot patch of linoleum served as the entryway to a living room that was papered in a cheery orange poppy print. A brown sofa, two small chairs, and a TV playing a shopping channel that sold only gems completed the milieu of a person of big dreams and modest means.
“I didn’t catch your name,” Kendall said, scooting a sheaf of newspapers to one side of the sofa before taking a seat.
“Sally Todd,” she said. “Coffee?”
Kendall politely declined. “No, thanks. I’m here about Celesta. You seem to think there was trouble at home. Am I getting that right?”
Sally Todd tightened the knotted belt on her robe, a pale blue flannel garment that needed laundering, and took a seat facing her
“I pay the processors a dollar more an hour than minimum wage, and benefits to boot,” he said, glancing through his office window, which overlooked the women hovering over tables, sorting salal.
“Celesta and the Delgado brothers at least had the kind of entrepreneurial spirit that made this country great. You know, when it actually was great.”
When they were finished, the Every-Greens president escorted Kendall back through the work area.
A Mexican woman of no more than twenty-five handed her a single rose flanked by a fan of huckleberry.
“Celesta is a nice girl. I hope you find her,” she said.
Before Kendall could say anything, Karl Hudson shot the young woman a cold look.
“Break time isn’t for another forty-five, Carmina. Let’s get back to work, ladies.”
Chapter Seven
March 31, 10 a.m.
Port Orchard
Instinct and intuition often play an important function in police work. Those who deny their crucial roles are likely those who don’t possess that something extra that allows an interrogator to home in on the truth when the facts don’t always add up: how the flutter of an eyelash indicates a lie, the curl of an upper lip says more than the words coming from the subject. Truth, Kendall Stark knew, was more than the sum of available facts. There was nothing to really back up the belief that Celesta Delgado simply ditched her boyfriend in the middle of cutting brush in Sunnyslope. Nor did she think that the gentle man who’d come into the Sheriff’s Office was involved with her disappearance. She drove out to Kitsap West, the ramshackle mobile home park that was best known for a dead baby that had been found the previous year on the other side of the rusted eight-foot wire fence that cordoned off the single- and double-wide mobiles, along with a smattering of travel trailers and fifth wheels.
She parked her SUV in front of space 223, a single-wide Aloha with new steps and decking, and knocked.
A woman of about sixty answered. Although it was past ten, she was still wearing slippers and a bathrobe. As she spoke, the remnants of the cigarette she’d been smoking curled in the still air. And while she had a pleasant face and reasonably warm eyes, everything else about her told Kendall that she was going to be of no help. She barely opened the door, for starters.
A sure sign that the person is hiding something inside: a messy house, maybe a dead body…
“I don’t need a vacuum or aromatherapy if that’s what you’re here for,” she said.
Kendall offered a smile. “I’m a detective with the Sheriff’s Office. I’m Kendall Stark.”
“I don’t know anything about my nephew.”
Kendall suppressed a smile. She could never begin to count the times that someone misunderstood why she was on their front doorstep and offered up a relative or a neighbor as a quick means to save themselves from some hidden concern.
“Ma’am, I’m not here about your nephew. I’m here about the missing woman who lived next door.”
The woman widened the door a bit more. “You mean the Mexican?”
“I think they are Salvadoran.”
“Same to me.” She motioned for Kendall to come inside. “I liked Celesta. Nice girl. What she was doing with those rowdies, I’ll never know.”
A four-foot patch of linoleum served as the entryway to a living room that was papered in a cheery orange poppy print. A brown sofa, two small chairs, and a TV playing a shopping channel that sold only gems completed the milieu of a person of big dreams and modest means.
“I didn’t catch your name,” Kendall said, scooting a sheaf of newspapers to one side of the sofa before taking a seat.
“Sally Todd,” she said. “Coffee?”
Kendall politely declined. “No, thanks. I’m here about Celesta. You seem to think there was trouble at home. Am I getting that right?”
Sally Todd tightened the knotted belt on her robe, a pale blue flannel garment that needed laundering, and took a seat facing her
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