Holly switched to her law enforcement database and began the search for the order of protection. It had been taken out in Kentucky, by a woman named Rosemary George. Holly found the order with ease on the first try. Reading it, she wondered again about Sutton Montclair’s state of mind following the death of her son.
According to Rosemary George, Sutton had come to her house, knocked on the door, then fled, leaving a bag of canine excrement—that’s how the order parsed it, canine excrement—aflame on the porch. She then proceeded to call the complainant at her place of business, demanding that she take down the offending review. When George hung up, Sutton had called George’s boss and claimed the woman was using the computers in the office for personal activities during business hours, which got George in all sorts of trouble. George consequently went online and told the world Sutton Montclair was insane and had threatened her livelihood, which started the brouhaha up all over again.
It was petty, stupid, tit for tat, and it got them both into trouble. The reviewer lost her job, and Montclair lost her publishing contract. According to the trades, Sutton delivered a day late and the publisher terminated the contract, which was atypical, but in this situation, Holly assumed it was an easy out.
Sutton hadn’t shown in court to defend herself against the stalking charge, the order of protection had been put into place, and life continued on.
The stories had petered out in the past couple of months. Ethan Montclair was truthful there. He’d said things were calmed down, back on track.
But now Sutton Montclair was gone.
Holly sat back in the chair. To her, this was looking more and more like an unsettled young woman who’d been pushed over the edge. It was a shame, but there wasn’t a crime here. She didn’t think Ethan Montclair had hurt his wife, either, even if there was something else at play.
The phone rang. Moreno’s name on the caller ID, no preamble when she greeted him.
“Missing Persons will be sending you a report shortly. They’ve found nothing. Sutton Montclair hasn’t used her credit cards or passport. I’m afraid things aren’t pointing in a good direction for her.”
“Good morning, sir.”
“Right. Morning. Talk to the husband again. We may mount a search, but a lot will depend on what he says. Maybe he’ll crack.”
“Roger that. I’ll head there shortly, see if his story has changed at all. Has he done any media?”
“Not a lick. He’s been holed up in the house since we left him yesterday. There’s enough media to sink a ship out there, but he’s not having any of it.”
“Weird. You’d think he’d want to make a plea for her safe return, all that.”
“You’d think. People react strangely. Anything you have pointing to the husband?”
“Honestly? No. It looks like Sutton Montclair was relatively unstable. And I get it. First her kid dies, then her career implodes. She’s fighting with the husband. By all accounts, she’s a complete head case, falling apart, total self-destruction. People have offed themselves for much less.”
“Very true. I hear a but coming.”
“But...”
Moreno laughed. “You’re okay, Graham. I take it the call from last night is bugging you?”
“Yes, it is. It was so vehement. So completely convinced that Ethan hurt Sutton.”
“You’re right to be concerned. It was a burner phone. It will take more resources than we have to trace its origins. It could have been bought anywhere. Have you talked to her friends?”
“We have a coffee date late this morning. At the Starbucks they all hang out at, on the square.”
“My advice? Bump it up. Get with them now, get with them individually. See if you recognize a voice.”
“All right. I’ll do that. The online situation is really the most interesting. The blogger who did the majority of the stories on Sutton, his name is Wilde, Colin Wilde. He spends his time doing Page Six–esque reports on authors and publishers. Silly stuff, faux-scandals. I didn’t realize writers were such divas. His readership is rather large, considering, so he has enough of a platform to make trouble for people.”
“Could he have something to do with this? Maybe he’s trying to create his own news event?”
“It’s possible, though violence seems to be a big leap. He strikes me as a creep but not one who has the guts to actually do anything, if you know what I mean.”
“Keep on him.”
“I read through Sutton’s responses to the online accusations, and she doesn’t seem hysterical to me. She seems rather cold, actually. Practical, I guess that’s the word I’m looking for. Her verbiage is very precise.”
“Could a PR flack have prepared it for her?”
“Sure, I guess so. I need to find this Wilde character. So far, there’s no information on his whereabouts outside of a PO box. I was going to start digging into him this morning. And now you’re up to speed.”
“Keep me in the loop. And, Graham? Good job. If this gets any bigger, I’ll partner you up with one of my detectives, give you some more brainpower.”
She hung up half-flushed, happy for the praise, hoping she’d made a good impression, and grateful she might get a chance to work with someone who would assure she didn’t leave any stones unturned.
She grabbed her notebook and dialed the first number on her list, Ivy Brookes. Ivy answered on the first ring.
“Officer Graham? Did you find her?”
“We haven’t yet, ma’am. I know we’re scheduled to talk later in the morning, but could I come by now? I have a few questions I’d like to clear up.”
“Sure, it will be good to talk. You know how it is with a bunch of women, you’ll never get what you need. But can you give me an hour? The markets are about to open and I need to make a few calls before things get heated up.”
“Sounds good. I’ll see you soon.”
She hung up and called the next. Phyllis Woodson. Ethan had called her Filly. Phyllis was more than happy to accommodate.
“Oh, yes, please. Come over right away.”
Holly got the sense Phyllis needed to unburden herself. She promised to be there in thirty minutes. Maybe this would all break open and things would resolve themselves today.
Two of the four was a good start. It was nearly seven now. She’d reassess after the chats.
She shot the coffee, put her gun on her hip and a fresh notebook in her pocket, and headed to the car.
LIFE AS WE KNOW IT HAS ENDED
Drunk on words, on accomplishment, on the very idea of communicating the thoughts that had been logjammed in his head lo these many months, Ethan stumbled to the kitchen, made tea, and flipped on the television. A mistake. Sutton’s face stared out at him from the screen. The crawler below said Have You Seen This Woman?
He turned up the volume. He counted back, trying to ascertain what day it was. Thursday? No, it was only Wednesday.
“Local writer Sutton Montclair is missing, and the Franklin police aren’t speculating as to the reason for her disappearance, but people inside the investigation say the husband, Ethan Montclair, is a serious suspect—”
He flipped it off. He didn’t need to see what people were saying, he could practically feel it coming from all sides. Everyone thought he’d done something to his wife.