“What about church camp?”
“She attended twice.” Mark’s head swiveled toward the new voice. A stout woman entered the room balancing a loaded tray with remarkable ease. She made her way over to the pastor with a cluck of disapproval. “That mess on your table is going to end up on the floor,” she scolded the man. Setting the tray down on his desk, she proceeded to pour coffee and load cookies onto plates. “Not last summer, though. Probably not the one before that, either. Once the girls start thinking about nothing more than boys, clothes, and Godless music, we tend to lose their participation.”
“Laura,” the pastor admonished. “‘A gentle tongue is a tree of life, but perverseness in it breaks the spirit.’”
“The mouth of the righteous utters wisdom, and his tongue speaks justice,” the woman retorted. She turned with a grace belied by her girth and thrust a coffee cup balanced on a plate toward Mark.
“My wife, Laura,” Mikkelsen said belatedly. “She helps a great deal with the youth groups.”
“We established a tri-county church camp for children the year we arrived here.” Laura Mikkelsen wore her graying hair wound tightly in a bun, and her high-necked dress hit her at midcalf. “With so many small towns in the area, it’s almost impossible for each church to put on its own activities. By pooling our resources, we can serve more children and offer a greater array of services.”
“We can look up the exact dates that Whitney attended.” The pastor picked up a cookie and bit into it with relish. “Laura keeps very exact records. The partner churches send out invitations to youth events to all the families in the area with kids ages five to eighteen.”
Under Laura Mikkelsen’s gimlet stare, Mark set his notebook down and picked up the coffee. Sipped. She gave a sniff as she added, “Not that we have many camp participants as the children get older. They’re involved in sports and clubs and running around, the likes of which we never saw growing up. Time better off studying a Bible, if you ask me.”
Because it seemed expected, Mark exchanged the coffee for a cookie. “Family life has certainly gotten busier.”
“But not Godlier.”
“Thank you for the refreshments, Laura.” Although the pastor’s tone was mild enough, it also held a command. “That will be all.”
With another loud sniff, the woman headed for the door. “I’ll be back for the dishes later.”
“Before you go . . .” Laura Mikkelsen stopped at Mark’s words. Turned. He shot her a smile, one that didn’t soften her grim visage appreciably. “I’m interested in your observations about Whitney.” His gaze shifted to the pastor. “Both of you.”
“A sweet girl,” the reverend began.
“Quiet enough,” his wife added grudgingly. “But she could be impertinent when surrounded by a gaggle of her friends. And easily distracted.”
“Did you ever notice anyone hanging around her? An adult paying her more attention than the rest of the children?”
“Pastors and volunteers from other participating churches would be present on a revolving basis,” the reverend said. “We always have several different age groups to cover. And some of the older children would also help out.”
“Between the two of you, perhaps you can make a list of everyone involved with the camp the years Whitney attended.” It was a long shot, but Mark couldn’t ignore the fact that both Whitney and Kelsey Willard had attended the church and camp at some point. It was one of the few connections between the girls that he’d discovered. There was also Sims’s reference to Mikkelsen’s lack of alibi for the night Kelsey had gone missing. Mark had double-checked the case files. They corroborated Sims’s assertion.
“Oh, dear.” The pastor shrugged helplessly. “That was so long ago. I’m not sure I could recall . . .”
“Most of that information would be in my files,” Laura asserted proudly. “As well as the attendance for volunteers and other campgoers. An adult who couldn’t be counted on to show up wasn’t asked to help again.”
Interest pinged. Mark asked, “How far back would those files go?”
“Since we arrived, as I noted earlier. I’ll get them for you. They’re in the church office.” She flicked a disdainful glance around her husband’s space. “I share it with the secretary, but it’s much more organized.” Without waiting for a response, she bustled out of the door.
“Laura’s organizational skills are one of her gifts.” Polishing off the last of the cookie, the reverend wiped his hands on a napkin. “I’m so glad we’re going to be able to help you, after all.”
“Do you remember where you were on October 30, the night Whitney DeVries went missing? When did you hear about it?”
Mikkelsen thought for a moment, then leaned forward to consult a desk calendar that looked as untidy as his office. Flipping through the pages, he finally settled on one. “October 30. That was a Friday. Ah.” He tapped a bony forefinger on the page. “Yes, I received a crisis call that night at about seven thirty.”
Mark set his plate and mug on the tray before leaning back again and picking up his pen. “A crisis call?”
“The police station had responded to a domestic disturbance at the home of one of my church members. Fortunately, they allowed the couple to phone me, and I was able to go and help.”
Mark jotted down this information. “You went alone?”
“Oh, no.” Mikkelsen sent a quick look at the doorway before selecting another cookie. “Laura frequently accompanies me on home visits. The members find her such a comfort in times of need.”
Comfort? Mark schooled his features to impassivity. Somehow he couldn’t imagine the woman as a calming influence. “So you and your wife went to help one of your congregation members. Do you recall when you returned?”
The man took a bite of the cookie and contemplated as he chewed. Swallowing, he answered. “It was several hours later. But we were home before eleven thirty. Then we said some extra prayers before bed, as we always do when one of our members is in distress.” He took another bite.
Whitney DeVries’s cell phone records had indicated the last communications on her phone had been after midnight, on October 31. One number had belonged to her friend Macy Odegaard. The other presumably belonged to her kidnapper. Which meant that just like in the Willard case, the pastor had no alibi, other than his wife.
“Do you recall when you heard of Whitney’s disappearance?”
“Oh, I’m sure Laura would have told me. She has her finger on the pulse of everything that happens in the area.”