Missing Persons

Table of Contents

 

A PLUME BOOK

MISSING PERSONS

CLARE O’DONOHUE is a freelance television writer and producer. She has worked worldwide on a variety of shows for the Food Network, the History Channel, and truTV, among others. She is also the author of the Someday Quilts mystery series.

ALSO BY CLARE O’DONOHUE

PLUME

Published by Penguin Group

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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 

First published by Plume, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

First Printing, June 2011

Copyright © Clare O’Donohue, 2011

All rights reserved

 

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

 

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

O’Donohue, Clare.

Missing persons : a Kate Conway mystery / Clare O’Donohue.

p. cm.

eISBN : 978-1-101-52873-0

1. Women television producers and directors—Fiction. 2. Missing persons—Investigation—Fiction. 3. Chicago (Ill.)—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3615.D665M57 2011

813’.6—dc22

 

2010044984

 

 

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PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

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T
his mystery series is based, sort of, on my years as a television producer. The frustration, annoyance, craziness, and profanity is from my actual experience, but the rest of it is pure fiction. Over my years as a producer, I had a chance to meet people from all walks of life. So many of them welcomed me into their homes, shared their stories, and, in some cases, became my friends. Thanks for your kindness, and the occasional free pie even when I made you cry. (I’m talking to you, Anise “Yam Good” Morrison.) And to all my friends in television, I hope you feel I’ve done a good job with this book. Of course, it wouldn’t even be a book without my agent, Sharon Bowers of the Miller Agency, who has talked me off a few ledges and helped me move forward as a writer. And thanks to my editor, Becky Cole, who championed this series at Plume, for letting me go where my imagination was taking me. To Nadia Kashper, Mary Pomponio, the men and women in sales and marketing, and everyone at Plume who put this together, thanks, once again, for all the hard work. To my first readers, Karen Meier, Alessandra Ascoli, Peggy McIntyre, and Tom Carroll, your feedback was invaluable. To Dr. Brian Peterson, chief medical examiner for Milwaukee County, thank you for never letting on how tired you must be of all my questions. To my mother, Sheila O’Donohue, for reading through each manuscript. To my family, V, Kevin, and my many friends, your support has meant the world to me. And to the faithful readers of the Someday Quilts mystery series, thanks for all the kind words and e-mails. Though Nell’s story continues to unfold, I hope you also enjoy spending time with Kate.

“I
want you to tell me about the day your husband was murdered.” The woman glanced toward the camera before returning her eyes to me. Then, in a quiet tone, she launched into the story. It was one she must have told a hundred times in the last three years—to police, family, friends, prosecutors, and now, to me.

Her husband had managed one of those excessively cheerful chain restaurants in the northwest suburbs of Chicago. He’d recently started putting in a lot of hours because the couple was saving for their first home and planning a family. He’d wanted, as the woman now told me, to give them a secure future. But it wasn’t to be. One night, after he’d closed the restaurant and let the rest of the employees go home, he stayed to send some e-mails to the corporate office. While he worked, two men broke into the restaurant, one of them an ex-employee. Fearing identification, the men shot the husband in the face. His last words, apparently, were, “Tell my wife I love her.” The killers were caught six hours later, having stolen only forty dollars. The rest of the day’s take had already been deposited at the bank by the assistant manager.

“Forty dollars,” the woman repeated, still struggling to believe that her husband had been murdered, and her future shattered, for so paltry a sum.

She told the story beautifully, and with remarkable composure. But as I listened, nodding my head empathetically, my eyes glistening as if on the verge of tears, all I could think was—this would be so much better if she cried.

When she finished, she leaned back and looked, as they all do, for my approval. I gave it. I was her friend, after all. Though we’d only spoken once before today and I’d met her only two hours ago, I was now her best friend. That was what I needed her to feel so that she would trust me, tell me things in confidence, forget that a cameraman and audio guy were just a few feet away, recording everything she said for the cable television show I worked for.
Caught!
was one of dozens of true-crime shows littering up television and yet we never ran out of new murders to profile.

I leaned forward in my chair. We were sitting with our knees only inches apart, but I needed to get even closer to block out everything but me.

“You did a great job with that,” I said. “It was really hard, I know, but you did better than anyone I’ve interviewed.”

I could hear the sincerity in my voice. I could imitate sincerity so well that even I believed it. I glanced toward the photo of her husband, strategically placed behind her left shoulder.

“Doug was a very special man.”