Deceptions of Chenille: Chenille Trilogy, #1

By Sally Dallas

When attorney, Chenille Conrad, mysteriously disappears her husband, Daniel, suspects the worst. She wouldn't leave him - they're deeply in love and on the fast track to successful careers, a house in the suburbs, and a family to fill it. The discovery of her bloody sweatshirt escalates the investigation from a missing person case to a homicide, with Daniel as the primary suspect. To prove his innocence, he puts the pieces of the puzzle together, yet can't overcome his need to protect his wife. Shocking clues exposing her motivations, and true persona, are revealed. Who is this stranger he married?

An intriguing romantic suspense novel that follows Chenille's evolution from a spoiled Southern California teenager, committing petty thievery, to a full blown felon, crossing paths with an international drug cartel. Realizing she's in too deep, she yearns to come home and reignite her love with Daniel, but is it too late? Chenille has propelled herself into an inescapable web of her own creation, putting her life, and that of her young son, in danger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sally Dallas
• Release date: Feb 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9781733292900

Book preview

Chapter One

the disappearance

Santa Barbara, California

Five weeks is too long to be apart from the one you love. Two more hours and I’ll be home. I can’t wait to touch my wife’s silky skin and kiss her soft lips. I’m sure she’s looking forward to salacious sex tonight as much as I am.

Maybe this unplanned separation is good for us. Chenille doesn’t argue on the phone like she does in person. I guess I should have agreed for her to visit me in New Mexico. She was too busy with cases anyway.

Jake, my coworker, pulls into my driveway at 8:35 p.m., only thirty minutes late. I jump out, grabbing my duffel and laptop bags from the back seat.

Thanks for driving, Jake.

No problem, Daniel. We rocked that job. Bonus coming our way.

Yeah, we deserve it. See you later.

I’m an environmental engineer for a solar installation company that specializes in medium-scale panel fields throughout the Southwest. Promoting clean energy is a cause I believe in.

We just wrapped up a project in Las Cruces, New Mexico. It was brutal, with twelve-hour days in the scorching heat. Completion was delayed for a myriad of technical reasons. I’m so glad to be back home in Santa Barbara.

I like my job, even though I have to work out of town often. By the time Chenille and I have kids, I’ll have seniority. Then I can focus on planning and engineering, which will keep me close to home.

Through the vertical window by the front door of our Spanish bungalow, I see dim light streaming from the master bedroom. As I fish into my pocket for the key, my left hand instinctively twists the knob. It’s unlocked. How many times have I told her to lock the door when she’s home alone?

Chenille! I’m home. I toss my bags onto the chair. Oh, butterfly? Chenille?

Silence. Her Gucci purse is hanging on the hall tree in the foyer, where she always leaves it when she comes home from the office. The living room is tidy, with the accent pillows arranged on our leather couch just the way she likes them.

I enter the kitchen, with the only sound being the echoing of my work boots as they plod on the tile floors. The countertops and stainless steel sink are spotless. I peek into the garage, finding her BMW parked next to my Ford Edge, like children tucked in for the night. This is weird. Where is she?

The lamps are on in our bedroom, our king-sized bed is made, and the dresser and end tables are dustless. Her black pumps are strewn on the floor in front of her side of the closet, as though she kicked them off in a hurry.

Raffling through her clothes, I don’t notice anything missing. Her red canvas suitcase is tucked in the corner, and her jeans are stacked on the upper shelf. She has too many clothes. Wait, I don’t see her pink sweatshirt hanging with her cardigan sweaters. That’s it, she must be jogging.

I touch her number on my phone. Amy Winehouse’s ‘Back to Black’ emanates from the foyer. Her cell is in her purse? Bizarre, she always has it with her when she’s running. She’s fanatical about it. This isn’t making sense.

Examining her phone, I see the last call was from me at 12:09 p.m.. Preceding calls show no names. Probably clients.

I scroll through the text messages. Nothing unusual, most are from me. One to her coworker, Ryan King, is random. About a month ago at 5:42 p.m. she wrote: are you ready? No response. Ready for what? They must have had to work late.

Maybe our next-door neighbor, Lisa, saw Chenille leave the house. After two rings of the bell, she opens the door.

Hello, Daniel. She greets me with a broad smile and a toddler on her hip. You’re back from your business trip! Dressed in black capris, and a leopard print tunic, with her hair in a high ponytail, she epitomizes my vision of a soccer mom. Come on in.

That’s okay. I’m just looking for Chenille. Is she here?

Umm…no. Her brows furrow.

Have you seen her today?

No, I haven’t. She taps her index finger on her lower lip, as if the motion has the power to jog her memory. I saw her yesterday, about six in the evening. She was watering the flowers by the front porch. We waved, no time to talk. I had just picked up the kids from their music lessons and had to get dinner ready.

I don’t get it. I’m only half an hour late. I thought she’d be waiting for me. The door was unlocked, and she left her purse and phone at home.

Maybe she’s out jogging?

That’s what I think too. Thanks, Lisa. Sorry to bother you.

I take a long hot shower, hoping my wife will sneak in and seduce me while I’m soaping up. No such luck.

Grabbing a beer, I plant myself on the loveseat, and turn on mindless TV, trying to relax. Two episodes of the ‘Walking Dead’ elapse. This show does not evoke relaxation. Damn it, where is Chenille?

My father-in-law might know. It’s getting late, I hope he’s still up.

She’s not here, John states. She dropped by about a week ago. It was a pleasant surprise. We watched football and ate pizza. She told me you were in New Mexico. She was disappointed the job kept getting extended.

Yeah, I was too. Two weeks became five. I’m finally home. I’ve been waiting for her for over two hours. Did she say anything about having to go out of town for work?

No, not to me. Have you talked to her today?

Yeah, about noon, when I was on my way to the airport. She’s usually home from the office by seven. I got home at eight thirty and there’s no sign of her.

Could she be on a jog?

She usually doesn’t run this late. I didn’t call to upset you, John, I just wanted to check with you.

She’ll show up, Daniel. She’d do this when she was a teenager. Stay out all night, and worry me sick. Then she’d come up with some lame story about where she had been. Did you call her friends and coworkers?

Not yet. It’s strange, she left her phone here, and her car’s in the garage. Even if she doesn’t take her purse with her running, she always has her phone.

That doesn’t sound like her. If she doesn’t show up, call me back. We’ll form a posse.

I get along with John, as long as I don’t see him too often. Chenille is a lot like him. Positive qualities like hardworking and tenacious, and negative ones like closed minded and obsessive. Or maybe she’s more similar to her mother. I wouldn’t know. I’ve never met the woman. She left when Chenille was fourteen. She doesn’t talk about her. Ever. Too painful I guess.

Analyzing Chenille’s contact list, I find her dentist, nail salon, hairdresser, and coworkers. I’ll call Ryan King, her associate at the law firm. They often work together on cases. He’ll know if she went on an unexpected business trip.

Hi Ryan, this is Daniel.

Who?

Chenille’s husband.

Oh, hey Daniel. Do you know what time it is?

Sorry, I know it’s late.

What’s up?

I got home a couple of hours ago and Chenille isn’t here. Did she go out of town to see a client on short notice, an emergency trip for a case?

Not that I’m aware of. He’s mumbling, and I strain to hear him. I didn’t talk to her today.

You mean she wasn’t at work?

I’m not sure. I was buried in my office all day preparing court filings.

Did you see her yesterday?

Yeah, briefly. We said hello in the morning. I was at the courthouse most of the day.

Thanks, Ryan. He’s no help.

A second beer, accompanied by more mindless television. It’s almost midnight. I’m pacing the floor like a chain smoker needing a nicotine fix. I pull the drapes back, staring out the window to the street. I envision Chenille running up the walk, bursting through the door, and throwing her arms around me. My wishful thinking is distracted by the intermittent fluttering of the street light, before it extinguishes completely.

Something is wrong. Terribly wrong. What am I waiting for? I’ve got to find her.

Chapter Two

the night of the disappearance

Santa Barbara, California

Ileave our neighborhood, driving five miles per hour, studying the sidewalks, desperately trying to spot Chenille with her abductor. A futile attempt.

Then I cruise around Santa Barbara, along the beach, by the zoo, by my father-in-law’s house, by her office, and then back to the harbor.

Moving at a quick pace to the end of the wharf, suddenly I’m shivering. I forgot to bring my sweatshirt. The wind is whipping me, punishment for leaving my wife alone for too long. Cabrillo Street is foreboding late at night. Tourists are replaced with trembling homeless people and drug addicts. This wandering is useless. I’m not going to be able to find her on my own.

9-1-1, what’s your emergency?

My wife’s been abducted.

Please stay calm, sir, and give me the details. Did the crime just occur? Did you see the perpetrator? Any witnesses? Weapons used?

I mean, I need to report a missing person.

Please hold. Listening to public service announcements, mixed with unpleasant elevator music, accelerates my impatience. Why are they taking so long? Will someone pick up the damn phone.

Officer Allan Litchfield here. A deep, commanding, voice.

My wife is missing. I need to file a missing person report.

He asks me her name, date of birth, our address, and how long she’s been gone.

Since eight thirty this evening.

Five hours? he asks in a smart-ass tone.

Almost six. It could be much longer, I don’t know.

So, she’s been missing for this evening? His tone turns from helpful to arrogant.

"I haven’t seen her in five weeks. I was working out of town, and when I came home she was gone. She had to have been abducted. My throat is closing, like I’m in a choke hold by the invisible man. I cough, and then again, trying to clear it. She left her purse, and her phone at home. She doesn’t go anywhere without her cell."

Tell you what, Mr. Conrad, give her some time to come home. Maybe her car broke down, or she got drunk and is sleeping it off at a friend’s house.

Her car is in the garage, she hardly ever drinks, and she has no friends.

No friends, huh?

She has friends. Coworkers mainly. But she doesn’t hang-out with them. She’s always too busy working.

Get some sleep. If she doesn’t show tomorrow, come to the station and fill out the missing person’s paperwork.

What a condescending, unhelpful asshole.

Watching infomercials until 5:00 a.m., my anxiety compounds with each passing minute. I change into clean jeans and a button down shirt, and guzzle a travel mug of coffee on my way to the police station. After a five-minute wait, the receptionist directs me to an office at the end of the hall.

Swinging open the gray metal door, I view a messy desk piled with empty Styrofoam cups and stacks of papers. The unpleasant aroma of burnt coffee mixed with Old Spice triggers a coughing episode. I cover my mouth as I look at the framed, calligraphy written certificates adorning the walls. A tall man wearing a starched navy blue uniform, with balding salt and pepper hair, stands to greet me. He’s early fifties, so must possess many years of valuable experience in law enforcement.

Are you okay? He asks.

Not really. I wipe my palm on my jeans.

I’m Officer Allan Litchfield. He extends his hand, then politely retracts it. Please, take a seat.

I’m Daniel Conrad. Are you the guy I talked to last night?

You mean early this morning? We sit down in unison. Yeah, I am."

He interviews me extensively, drilling for any shred of evidence that could reveal a clue to my wife’s abduction; her physical description, identifying marks, her daily activities, her friends, her enemies, her family, and her habits. Some questions I can’t answer; her state of mind when she went missing, what she was wearing, the last person she talked to before she disappeared.

Any sign of a struggle in the home? Ransacking, broken objects, blood stains?

No. The house looked normal. Neat and clean, like she always leaves it. Except she didn’t put her shoes back in the closet. She’s somewhat of a neat freak.

Has she stayed out all night before?

No, never.

Mr. Conrad, perhaps her absence is intentional. Any domestic issues going on?

It’s none of his fucking business. Heat flushes to my cheeks. Why is that relevant?

It’s very relevant. He scribbles a note on his yellow legal pad. Did you bring a photo of your wife?

I have lots of them on my phone.

He slides his business card across the desk. Pick one and email it to me immediately. I’ll send out an APB to find your wife sir, but truthfully, you aren’t giving us much to go on. Where does she work?

She’s an attorney at the Grinnell and Green Law firm.

An attorney. Oh, I see. He jots on his pad.

What’s that supposed to mean?

In that line of work enemies can be created.

She deals in business and estate law, not criminal. My wife is an excellent lawyer.

Okay, if you say so.

She and her abductor can’t be too far. I talked to her at noon yesterday.

You called her office?

No, it was her cell.

She could have been anywhere. His tone implies I’m an idiot. Did she sound as though she was under duress?

No. Not at all.

Okay, then.

Let me reiterate. When I got home, her purse, with her cell phone inside, was in the foyer, and her car was in the garage. This condescending interrogator is extracting defensive obnoxiousness I’m unaware I possessed.

Please, wait here a minute.

He returns with a poor quality photo of Chenille printed on photocopy paper and a long-handled Q-tip sealed in a plastic bag.

She’s quite a looker. He says, leering at the photo.

My wife is beautiful, I know. I fear some sicko has abducted her.

How old is she?

Twenty-eight.

"Abduction is a possibility, but what is more likely, statistically, is women of her age leave to find themselves."

That’s bullshit. She wouldn’t just leave. We love each other.

Then you’re going to think this is bullshit too. It’s standard procedure, in a situation like this, to collect your DNA sample.

Situation like what? So the husband is automatically a suspect?

This Dirty Harry wannabe hesitates, then says apathetically, Yeah, statistically. Will you consent to a cheek swab?

I have nothing to hide. Go ahead.

He sticks the extended Q-tip into my mouth, as I barely finish my sentence.

The officer ushers me down the hall toward the door. Thank you, Mr. Conrad. We’ll keep you updated on the progress of the case. We’ll be in touch. The supercilious policeman gave me zero assurance that he’s going to make any effort to find my wife.

Next stop, Grinnell and Green, LLP. I’m waiting to be acknowledged by the receptionist. Finally, eye contact.

Ryan King, please.

Who may I say is inquiring?

Daniel Conrad.

Daniel, I thought that was you. Switching gears from snobbery to flirtatious. You look different from when I met you at the Christmas party.

Yeah, I’m sporting bags under my eyes, and I haven’t shaved in weeks.

I just mean, I didn’t recognize you. You can go into Chenille’s office and wait for Ryan there, if you prefer. She motions to the hallway. I can message you on the intercom when he’s available.

Is she here? She looks startled by my zombie stare. I have yet to see her this morning, but sometimes she sneaks in the back door.

Before she finishes talking, I jet down the hall and burst into Chenille’s office, inspecting the room frantically, as though she could be hiding under her desk.

I don’t notice anything out of the ordinary. Wiggling the mouse, her computer lights up with a photo of us sitting on the front steps of our newly purchased home. She’s glowing, like a child who just got a pony. So gorgeous with her infectious smile and golden blonde hair. She’s equally sexy in shorts and a tank top as she is in expensive lingerie. I miss her so much. Damn it, where is she?

I’m not a detective, but I feel as though I should be searching for clues. Or the police should be. How long before they get off their asses? Patience, I just filed the report.

Leaving her office, I check the names on the doors to locate Ryan King’s. I enter cautiously, finding him leaning forward in his black leather executive chair, eyes glued to his monitor.

Sorry I called you so late last night. I say, interrupting his computer induced trance.

Hey, Daniel. Come on in.

Ryan’s office is a mirror image of Chenille’s. An L shaped desk with two monitors. Law books fill the bookcase behind him.

So, did Chenille come home after we talked last night? Sweat is rolling down his temples even though the air-conditioner is on the North Pole setting.

No, she didn’t.

You’re kidding. He nervously flips his pen between his fingers. His cheeks are bright pink and hairline perspiration is trickling to his jaw. After wiping the moisture with his sleeve, he crosses his arms across his chest.

I lean forward, placing my forearms on his desk. I came home last night, and she’s gone. Vanished. The police are being arrogant jerks. They act like it’s no big deal that she’s missing. Was she at work yesterday?

You asked me that on the phone last night, he pauses, focusing on his computer. I don’t know. We finished a big case early last week. I haven’t seen her much the last few days.

Day before yesterday. Was she at the office on Wednesday?

Yeah, I saw her that day.

What was she wearing? The police asked me that question, and I couldn’t answer.

He glares at me as if I’m speaking a foreign language. I don’t remember. She always dresses the same. Skirt and blouse I guess.

What color?

Are you serious, Daniel? I don’t know.

Did she say anything about needing to go out of town? To visit a client, or to the courthouse in LA?

Not that I’m aware of.

Did she seem upset? Did she say anything about me?

She was bummed about you being out of town so long. Other than that, she seemed fine.

I go home and tear the house apart; the kitchen, the living room, the bedroom, the closets, the bathrooms. Her pink jogging sweatshirt is missing, which I noticed last night.

Searching her car, I empty the glove box, and the center console; car registration, pens, and breath mints. Nothing out of the ordinary.

I rummage through her jewelry box. She wears the same gold hoop earrings every day, and the heart pendant necklace I bought her on our honeymoon in Mexico. Those items aren’t here. She always wears her wedding ring. What is this ugly ring? A dark red stone circled by rows of multi-colored gemstones. Where did this come from?

Dumping out her purse, I find her iPhone, lipstick, a tampon, sunglasses, restaurant receipts, a hairbrush, business cards, and a flash drive. Her credit and debit cards are in the zippered side pocket. Nothing unusual.

Lying on the bed, I stare at the ceiling, noticing every imperfection in the finish. I close my eyes, trying to catch a brief nap. Sleep is impossible. I’m too overwhelmed with anxiety. Chenille could be lying dead in a ditch somewhere. Or blindfolded and gagged in the back of a cargo van.

The vibration of my phone interrupts the racing of my negative thoughts.

Hello, Mr. Conrad. This is Officer Litchfield. The APB has been circulated, the units are on the lookout. The judge has issued a warrant to search your residence, and her office, to gather potential evidence. I’ll be at your home this afternoon at one o’clock. Please do not disturb any of your wife’s personal effects. It could impede the investigation.

I reverse my earlier ransacking by stuffing the items back into her purse, getting the closet in order, and straightening the kitchen and living rooms.

Litchfield and a rookie are at my doorstep promptly at one. Before they enter, they examine the exterior of the house, paying particular attention to the front porch landing.

What’s this? The rookie focuses his flashlight on a brownish-red splatter on the corner of the concrete step.

I don’t know. It was dark when I came home last night, I didn’t notice it.

He crouches for closer scrutiny. Could be mud, but it has a reddish tone. I’ll scrape a few flakes. He pulls a knife from his bag.

Officer Litchfield puts on his glasses to inspect the stain. Could be blood.

My heart sinks into my stomach at the thought of someone harming Chenille.

They go through each room, taking notes as they traverse. Officer Litchfield empties the contents of Chenille’s purse on the dining room table, examining each item meticulously.

I’m confiscating the cell phone, flash drive, business cards, and restaurant receipts.

Whatever you need.

We need all electronics. Does she use a laptop or tablet.

She doesn’t bring her lap top home very often. It could be at her office. She has an iPad. I’ll get it for you.

I also need some hair for DNA sampling.

You can take that brush from her purse.

Very well.