NEBRASKA
Amanda’s mother had prepared coffee and miniature pastries, treating Maggie’s visit as if it were a social call. Maggie remembered Sheriff Skylar talking about the family’s prominence, so she was not surprised to find Cynthia Griffin with full makeup, bright red lipstick, and unmovable hair on a Saturday afternoon. And despite the expensive running suit, the woman didn’t look like she was accustomed to breaking a sweat let alone jogging.
“I told Amanda you’re here,” Mrs. Griffin said. “Griff’s not here. I didn’t tell him you were coming.” She prattled on, what sounded like a nervous habit to fill silence. “He tries so hard to protect Amanda and me. He’s been on full alert since Johnny’s death. It’s just awful about Johnny, isn’t it? And now those girls. Just awful.”
She was trying to lead Maggie into the living room and directing her to take a seat. In front of the sofa a glass-topped coffee table displayed delicate coffee cups and matching dessert plates, tiny pink-and-purple flowers hand-painted on shiny white china.
Maggie didn’t follow. She stayed in the entrance and waited for Cynthia Griffin to notice. When she did, the woman’s welcoming smile twitched, but to her credit, the smile stayed as if also permanently hand-painted.
“I thought you and Amanda could chat down here. Much more comfortable than up in her room.”
Maggie didn’t budge. She was already relinquishing home-field advantage to Amanda. She hated to give her anything more.
“She hardly ever comes down from that room these days,” Mrs. Griffin said. She managed to keep the smile but there was a sadness that slipped into her tone. “All this has been so hard on her. She’s just had a lot to deal with since Griff and I got married.”
That’s when Maggie realized Amanda might feel less comfortable in the family’s formal living room than she did.
“Are any of those raspberry?” Maggie asked, pretending to be drawn in by the pastries and saving Mrs. Griffin from resorting to what Maggie dreaded might be her next step— begging.
“Oh yes. The ones with powdered sugar on top.” The woman brightened and fluttered her spandex-clad arms like excited wings. Pouring coffee before Maggie could refuse. “Cream or sugar?”
“No, thank you. Black’s fine,” Maggie answered, rather than explain that she didn’t drink coffee no matter what she put in it.
“Amanda loves this gourmet grind. Of course, she does. It’s expensive.” Mrs. Griffin laughed, a short burst of air that sounded like “hah.”
Maggie felt sorry for her, a woman surrounded by beautiful expensive things, all of them by authentic designers, genuine gold-trims, the best-quality fabrics and woods, rare collector accessories of porcelain and ceramic—nothing artificial except her personality.
Maggie strolled the room while Mrs. Griffin crimped linen napkins and teased pastries onto the plates without disturbing powdered sugar or icing. Maggie scanned the display on the fireplace mantel, almost a dozen framed photos of different sizes and shapes. Amanda as a baby. Mrs. Griffin with her extended family, all dressed up and smiling. A wedding photo of Cynthia and Mike Griffin. More of Amanda in various stages of childhood. And then one photo caught Maggie’s eye.
Three soldiers in military fatigues stood in front of a tank with a stark background that looked like miles and miles of sand. The one in the middle was a young Mike Griffin, his arms around the other two and smiling for the camera.
She almost glanced away, then realized the man on Griffin’s left was also familiar. She took a closer look but there was no mistake. The man was Frank Skylar.