Page 78 of Snow Creek

Thirty-Six

My room at the SeaTac Red Roof Inn has a view of a cemetery and traffic on the busy Pacific Highway, most notorious as the hunting ground of one of our many local serial killers. Gary Ridgway cruised the stretch of highway looking for dates. Dates that he would strangle and pitch in clusters, most notably along the nearby Green River.

I barely slept, and my face shows it. I’m too young to look this beat-up, tired. I don’tfeeltired. In fact, I’m energized by the case. I shower, brush my teeth with a courtesy toothbrush that leaves bristles in my mouth and I dress in the same clothes I wore yesterday.

It’s the walk-of-shame look, though I’m fifteen years too old for that. And unprepared. I decide to put a change of clothes in the back of the Taurus in future.

Just in case.

I don’t imagine that Chantelle Potter is a shift worker and needs to be in the office by seven. I don’t have a warrant and I need her permission to search for the missing phone. It’s 7:30 when I arrive.

The drapes are open. That means, at least to me, that she’s up.

As I park, the garage door opens and a Mercedes—of course, what else?—backs out of the driveway. It’s Mr. Potter. He’s older than his wife with a neatly trimmed gray beard and eyes that are golden brown.

I think of a goat.

When he sees me, he lowers the driver’s window.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m Megan Carpenter. The detective who talked with Chantelle last night.”

He gives me a nod. “Yeah, very sad about the Burbanks. Nice people. Terrible tragedy.”

I don’t tell him that I doubt it was a tragedy.

“Is she home?”

“She’s always home,” he says, with a touch of irritation. “She’s on her third cup of coffee.”

I thank him and go to the front door, as the sound of the garage as it rolls downward plays in the background.

Chantelle answers right away. She’s dressed to the nines in a sleeveless emerald green dress and shoes on that I know cost more than a week’s pay in Jefferson County. She smiles with recognition.

“Just like TV,” she says. “You came back for one more thing.”

“Kind of like that,” I answer.

She invites me inside and I’m almost certain that none of the midcentury modern furnishings are replicas. Leather, wood, chrome. Mixed with the old are new pieces of steel and glass, electronics too. It’s like a showroom of what people with money covet today.

We sit in one of those leather and chrome sofas that never look inviting but are very comfortable, and talk over French press coffee.

I tell her that I came back to look for Ellie’s phone.

“If that’s okay with you?”

Chantelle nods while sipping her coffee.

“No problem,” she says, setting down her cup. “I’d help you look, but I have to meet my friends this morning. It’s something we do once a week.”

She continues to prattle on about her obligations.

I continue to covet her shoes.

“I’ll get out of your way,” I say. “You have things to do.”

She lets out a sigh. “I do. I don’t know how it is that I’m able to go on, with the loss of my friend and all. I took an extra pill last night. Just so awful to think of Carrie and Ellie that way. Even Hudson. So damn sad.”

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