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Kara went into every interview with an open mind and said as much to Marcy. “It seems,” Kara added, “that you don’t like this woman. Do you know her personally?”
“No—never met her until Saturday. I know of her, though, because she and her husband are often on the island and the locals keep tabs and gossip. This island has only seven thousand people and everyone knows everyone’s business.”
Kara could relate to that. “I spent my high school years in a small town in eastern Washington.”
It was because of these small-town biases that it was a good idea that the FBI’s Mobile Response Team had been sent out. On the one hand, having local authorities who knew the people involved, who understood the local dynamics of the population, who had experience and knowledge in the area, was crucial. But having an outsider with no preconceived ideas about a person or suspect was an added benefit.
They rang the bell. Kara stepped back out of habit; Marcy looked around the area. It was quiet and remote; tall redwood trees growing close together prevented Kara from seeing any neighboring houses, north or south.
A petite older woman with no makeup, wearing jeans and a fierce expression, answered the door. “This isn’t a good time,” she said, looking specifically at Marcy.
Marcy said, “We’re following up on Mrs. Jeffries’s statement. We’re in the middle of our investigation and it’s crucial that we verify every detail. Or Mrs. Jeffries can come down to the sheriff’s office and talk to us there.”
The woman glared at her.
Kara said, “Ma’am, I’m Kara Quinn with the FBI. We are working closely with the sheriff’s office to find out who committed this horrific act. Mrs. Jeffries was understandably upset after the event, and no one wants to pressure her into reliving what happened, but it’s important for us to talk to her now, while that evening is still fresh in her mind. She may have seen or heard something that can help us find who did this.”
“Her husband isdead. She’s grieving.”
“I promise,” Kara said, “we’ll respect Mrs. Jeffries’s privacy and grief.”
“Mama.”
Madelyn Jeffries walked up behind the older woman. She was substantially taller, elegant, and beautiful, even though her pale, tearstained face made it clear that she’d been crying. She wore no makeup and her hair was pulled back into a sloppy bun. She was dressed in pressed jeans and a black blouse, wore diamond stud earrings, and played with the wedding ring on her finger.
“You don’t need this right now, Maddie.”
Madelyn motioned for Kara and Marcy to enter. She introduced her mother, Anne Cordell, and said, “My mother is looking out for me, which I appreciate.” She gave her mother a small smile, but her eyes said more—like,enough, I’ve got this. “May I get you anything?” she asked Kara and Marcy. “Coffee? Water?”
“No, thank you. Let’s sit wherever you’re comfortable.”
Kara watched Madelyn closely, without making it obvious. Kara knew con artists—she’d been raised by two of the best—and she didn’t think Madelyn’s grief was fake. Her mannerisms—the way her eyes watered when she looked at her wedding ring, her slow, deliberate movements—seemed genuine, like that of a woman processing the loss of a man she loved.
On the wall above the fireplace was a portrait—an actual painting, Kara noted—of Madelyn and Pierce Jeffries. Not a wedding portrait, but a painting of a casual depiction of them having a picnic, with huge mountains behind them. Pierce, in his fifties, was attractive for an older guy. He sort of had that debonair Sam Elliott thing going on, without the mustache. But the painting was...surprising, thought Kara. Very romantic and sweet. While she didn’t have a romantic bone in her body, she recognized the feeling.
She commented, “That’s a lovely painting. Did you sit for it?”
Madelyn stared at the painting and said nothing for a long minute. Tears leaked from her eyes. She ignored them at first, then turned to Kara and gave her an awkward smile as she wiped her cheeks. “It was Pierce’s idea. That was based on a photograph from our honeymoon in Montana. We were on a picnic and he set up his camera. I thought he was just taking scenery pictures—he was a wonderful amateur photographer. I didn’t know what he did with it until he gave me that painting on our first anniversary.”
She turned away and led them to the outside deck. “Do you mind?” she said. “I really love being outside. Pierce and I would sit out here every evening and watch the boats. Well, he’d work, and I’d watch. It’s peaceful.”
“It’s a beautiful day,” Kara said.
Marcy looked uncomfortable and Kara didn’t know why. Was she rethinking her assessment of Madelyn from the other day?
Anne brought out a box of tissues, handing her daughter two. She took them and dabbed her eyes. It was a dainty maneuver but seemed appropriate for her.
Kara wanted Madelyn relaxed, so she talked a bit about the view, the house, then asked about her honeymoon. Madelyn and Pierce had been married for just over five years. They’d returned to Montana for their five-year anniversary last month.
Kara noticed that Madelyn’s hand rested on her stomach. She kept an eye on it, curious.
“You came here to San Juan Island often?”
“Yes—several times a year. We have a house in Bellingham, which is about a three-hour trip, so we come here at least one weekend a month—except in the winter. Sometimes I come here alone; usually, when Pierce is traveling for work.”
“You didn’t travel with him?”
“Sometimes, but if it was a short trip, where he was filling his days and nights with work, I didn’t want him to be distracted, thinking he had to entertain me.”
