“Someone could have had a heyday in here,” Lucas remarked. “Apparently your intruder was an art lover.”
“Thank goodness. I couldn’t possibly replace the painting by the wall in time for the gala, and I had my heart set on using it.” She peered at it more closely to make sure the uninvited guest hadn’t been tempted to leave some little sign of his presence in oil paint. He hadn’t.
Slightly comforted, Adrienne headed from the studio to her own bedroom. At the doorway she stopped, her heart sinking. This room had not been treated as gently as the studio.
A small chair nearly blocked the doorway. Lucas moved it out of the way and said, “I haven’t checked this room yet. Better let me go in first.”
“No one is hiding in there.” Adrienne glanced at the sun-washed room and filmy curtains wafting in the breeze coming through an open window. “If someone was still around this morning, he would have gone out the window when the police arrived.”
She stepped into the room and looked around. All the drawers of her oak dresser had been pulled out and the contents dumped. Underwear, nightgowns, panty hose, and socks lay everywhere. The bed had been stripped of the spread and sheets, and the mattress and box spring pushed off the frame. Shoes and boxes from her closet had been flung around the room almost as if the intruder had gone into a frenzy of frustration.
“I hope you didn’t have anything valuable in here,” Lucas said.
“Luckily, my extensive collections of jewels and furs are stored in vaults,” Adrienne murmured, trying to sound light although she was more disturbed by the chaos in front of her than she cared to admit.
She walked slowly to the dresser whose top was bare. Her small jewelry box and silver-backed brush and mirror set given to her by her mother had been swept off the top. The mirror was broken and beside the pieces of glass lay more glass from her shattered cologne bottle. A strong wave of tuberose scent hit her when she drew near.
“So much for the money I spent on a new cologne this week,” she said drearily. “Money wasted, although I’m glad I didn’t spring for actual perfume.”
“The damage could have been much worse than a broken mirror and a bottle of cologne,” Lucas reminded her.
“You’re right. I should be grateful—”
At that moment, Adrienne looked up from the mess on the floor. Her expression froze and Lucas followed her gaze. On the big mirror above the dresser had been scrawled a message in red:
SEVEN
1
“Oh, my God,” Adrienne gasped. “Is that written in blood?”
Lucas walked toward it, then peered closely. She noticed he was careful not to touch the dresser top or the mirror. Finally, he said, “It’s not blood. It’s waxy.”
Adrienne crept closer to him, never removing her gaze from the message. Then she recognized the color. “It’s lipstick. Persian Red. I left it on the dresser.”
Lucas backed away from the dresser and looked around. “I don’t see the tube. Are you sure it’s your lipstick?”
“Yes. The color was too bright for me in natural light, but the case was pretty so I left it standing on the dresser.”
“The tube could be here in this mess.”
Adrienne turned to him. “Lucas, you act like the only important thing is finding the lipstick. Hasn’t the message sunk in yet?”
“’Leave or Die.’ Pretty melodramatic. I think it’s meant to scare you, not actually warn you.”
“I’m glad you can be so sanguine about it!”
“When you use words like sanguine, you’re mad,” Lucas said mildly. “I’m not taking the message lightly, Adrienne. I’m just not panicking over it. And neither should you.”
“Of course not. It’s par for the course to come home and find death threats scrawled on my mirror. What the hell am I getting so shook up about?”
Lucas put his hands on her shoulders and looked deeply into her eyes. “Do you have faith that I know what I’m doing as a cop?”
“You know I do. But—”
“No buts. This could be a threat. But my instincts tell me that if someone really wanted to harm you, they would have done a lot of damage to this house. Whoever searched the place was almost careful until they got to this room, where I figure they fell into a temper fit for not finding anything. And that message sounds like something a kid would write.”
“So you think all of this is just nothing.”
“I didn’t say that.” He glanced around, his eyes clearly focused inward, and finally said, “I think you and Skye should stay at Vicky’s for a few days. Just in case.”
“So we wouldn’t be alone just in case we’re in danger? Well, that won’t work. Philip and Vicky are leaving tomorrow morning on a campaign trip. Only Rachel would be there, and if I’m a target, I don’t think Vicky would appreciate my aiming danger her daughter’s way. Besides, their house was broken into, as well.”
“Because the alarm system wasn’t on. You don’t even have an alarm system.”
“I’ll have one installed today”
“Adrienne, you might not be able to get one today,” Lucas said. “If you’re determined to stay away from Rachel to keep her out of harm’s way, then you should just leave Point Pleasant.”
“Leave Point Pleasant? Where I have a teaching job? A job I need? A job I could lose for good if I just walk out?”
“You’re only teaching two classes in summer school.”
“Nevertheless, the classes have started. If it was just a matter of my being gone for a few days, missing each class even two times wouldn’t be so bad. But you don’t know when you’ll find Julianna’s killer. It could be weeks. I can’t be gone that long, Lucas.” He was still scowling, but she’d felt she had to dig in her heels on this issue. Her teaching position was absolutely necessary for the livelihood of her and her daughter. She took a deep breath and spoke with a pretense of confidence. “Besides, even if the murderer isn’t in the photos I took, he can’t go on thinking I saw him and have just decided not to tell on him.”
“Why can’t he?”
“Because he knows I’d be afraid of him. He’d know I’d want him locked up. After a few days of silence from me, he’ll have to realize he has nothing to fear from me.”
“And in the meantime?”
“In the meantime you’ll use your considerable influence as sheriff to insist a security company install an alarm system today. Skye and I will be extra careful. I won’t let her out of my sight, which will drive her nuts but make me feel better. Rachel will be safe in her house, Skye and I will be safe in our house, and all this trouble will die down.”
“I’m not so sure about that, Adrienne,” Lucas said slowly. “There’s something I haven’t told you.”
She stiffened, wanting to clap her hands over her ears like a child but forcing herself to listen. “What is it?”
“Claude Duncan died in a fire last night. That’s why I didn’t come to the hospital when I heard about your attack. I was at his place. It was awful. The cottage went up like a torch, Adrienne, and I’d bet my life it was no accident.”
2
The smell of charred wood hung over the rubble like a low-lying cloud, befouling the clean morning air. A shroud of ashes dulled the colors of the nearby shrubbery and flowers, and the remaining grass around the burn site lay flattened and drenched by the fire hoses that had unsuccessfully tried to quench the fire that had devoured the caretaker’s cabin.
Drew Delaney couldn’t hold his breath any longer. He drew in air that felt as if it were singeing the inside of his nose and brought tears to his eyes. Even his meager breakfast of toast and coffee rolled in his stomach as he thought of the man that had met his end in this inferno.
Claude Duncan.
One of the town’s losers. One of the town’s human jokes.
Drew remembered being seventeen and speeding away from la Belle Rivière in his uncle’s silver Corvette on a steaming summer day. He’d felt hot, he’d felt cool, he’d felt
on top of the world because that night he had a date with Adrienne, in his opinion the prettiest girl in town, and he was taking her out in the Corvette. Yeah, it had been shaping up to be one fine day.
Then he’d spotted a lanky boy with stringy hair trudging down the road. Drew recognized him instantly. Claude Duncan, the manager’s son. He was around eleven, thin, stringy, and hunch-shouldered as if drained of every bit of joy and confidence. Almost without realizing what he was doing, Drew had stopped beside him. “Hey, Claude, where’re you going?”
Claude had jumped and said nervously, “I’m not up to anything bad. Honest.”
Drew had laughed. “I didn’t say you were. I just asked where you’re going. You look like a guy in need of a ride.”
“Oh. I do? I mean, I am. I’m goin’ to the drugstore for my mom. She’s sick and Dad’s too busy to pick up the refill of her medicine.”
Drew had stared at the boy. The drugstore was four miles away. His father expected him to walk eight miles round trip in this heat? Probably. Mr. Duncan was a first-class jerk in Drew’s opinion. “How about a ride?”
“A ride?” Claude had looked at the Corvette as if it were some kind of fabulous space vehicle. “In this?”
“Sure. Hop in. I’ll get you to the drugstore in no time.”
Claude had gingerly gotten in the car and gazed around him with wide eyes. “This is the coolest car I’ve ever seen, Mr. Delaney,” he’d said in awed tones. “Is it yours?”
“No, my uncle’s. But I’ll have one like it someday soon. And my name’s Drew. I’m way too young to be called Mr. Delaney.”
“Oh. Yes, sir. Drew. I’ll remember that. But in front of my dad, I have to call you Mr. Delaney. It’s one of his rules.”
Screw his rules, Drew had almost said, but kept silent. Encouraging Claude to defy his father would only get the boy into trouble.
Drew had waited in the Corvette outside the drugstore for Claude, drawing the admiring looks of several fine-looking girls, in which he’d basked. When Claude had emerged from the store, his shoulders no longer drooped and his step was almost jaunty. To his amazement, Drew realized he couldn’t stand to whisk Claude right back to the hotel and his father. Instead, he’d taken him to the Dairy Queen, where they’d each had a chocolate sundae, then he’d roared around town a couple of times, radio booming, to show off the car. Claude had actually laughed, and Drew realized that in all the years he’d had been allowed to hang around the pool at la Belle because he was Kit Kirkwood’s friend, he’d never seen Claude even smile.
They’d returned to the hotel in a little over an hour, much quicker than Claude could have made the trip on foot. The boy had climbed from the Corvette, looking enraptured, and beamed at Drew. “Thanks, Mr. Delaney. I mean Drew.” He’d blushed. “Honest, this has been the best day of my whole life!” Then he’d bolted toward the little cottage, smiling and clutching the bag of medicine for his mother who Drew had heard was slowly dying of cancer.
When Drew had returned to Point Pleasant less than two years ago, he couldn’t believe the change in the once wide-eyed boy with so much joy bottled up inside. Clearly, his spirit had been broken, no doubt by the formidable Mr. Duncan, whom Kit Kirkwood’s mother had always tolerated because he ran la Belle so smoothly. A few times over the last couple of years, Drew had bought Claude a drink in a local bar and chatted with him for a while, but the encounters were depressing. Claude never had much to say when he wasn’t drunk, his wits dulled by emotional abuse and alcoholism. When he’d been drinking, he was alternately a depressed whiner or a ridiculous braggadocio. Drew had felt immensely sorry for the man Claude had become.
And now the poor guy was dead before he’d reached the age of thirty.
Drew had still been at the hospital with Adrienne when Claude had been brought in last night, horribly burned. A nurse Drew had once dated had told him confidentially that Claude had second- and third-degree burns over eighty percent of his body. Even if he’d been alive when he reached the hospital, he would never have stood a chance. But she’d also heard a doctor observe that the pupils of Claude’s eyes were completely constricted, indicating ingestion of drugs. She said she hoped Claude had been “out of if before the fire got to him.
Claude’s death could have been accidental, Drew thought. After all, la Belle had suffered more than its share of deaths over the years. But two in less than twenty-four hours? Even for la Belle that would be hard to imagine. Unless the deaths were connected. But Drew wondered what possible relation Julianna Brent could have had to Claude Duncan. Certainly not romantic. Certainly not business. Something they both knew? But what? The identity of Julianna’s lover? Hell, Claude couldn’t keep any information to himself for more than a day. If he’d known who was her lover, he would have blabbed the name all over town, swearing everyone he told to secrecy. Drew was convinced Claude hadn’t known the name of Julianna’s lover. So, what could have been the link in their deaths?
Drew closed his dark eyes and shook his head. Sometimes his reporter’s curiosity wore him out. His mother had called it plain old nosiness and warned that it would get him in trouble someday. But that hadn’t happened yet, nor had he learned to turn off the inquisitiveness of his mind.
Yellow police tape surrounded the remains of the cottage. A middle-aged, dumpy deputy with a perpetually red face Drew knew as Sonny Keller strode toward him. “I don’t know how you got past the roadblock on Rivière Lane, Delaney, but you’re not supposed to go near the cottage.”
“I simply walked around the roadblock through the woods, and I’m nowhere near the cottage,” Drew answered pleasantly.
“Sheriff Flynn doesn’t want a bunch of souvenir-seekers up here.”
“I didn’t intend to raid the place. Besides, it doesn’t look like there’s much left to take.”
Keller shook his head. “It was a hell of a mess. There wouldn’t be anything at all left if somebody hadn’t spotted the fire from the highway and called it in right before that second cloudburst hit. All that rain’s the only thing saved Claude.”
“For a short, agonizing time at least.” Drew shuddered inwardly. “Any idea what caused the fire?”
Keller looked at him cagily. “I know your game. You’ll run right back to your newspaper and print every word I say. Flynn said for us to keep quiet about what we know.”
“Then you do know what caused the fire.”
“I didn’t say that.”
‘Oh,” Drew said in mock disappointment. “I figured with all your experience, Keller, you of all people would probably know something.”
“Well, actually, I do.” Drew had known Sonny Keller couldn’t keep his mouth shut if someone hinted the lawman didn’t have all the answers, no matter what Lucas Flynn had ordered. “Flynn’s having an arson expert come to look at the place this afternoon,” Keller almost whispered, looking over his shoulder although no one was near. “Can you believe that? We don’t need some smart-aleck so-called expert up here messing around. It’s plain as day that idiot Claude got drunk, turned over his bottle of whiskey, passed out, and dropped a lighted cigarette in the alcohol. Voilà!” he ended triumphantly, pronouncing the word vi-o-lay.
“Hmmm.” Drew nodded solemnly as if he were thinking this over. Then he said, “But Claude could hold a lot of liquor. If he’d drunk so much he’d passed out, there couldn’t have been enough alcohol left in his bottle for a cigarette dropped into it to cause a fire big enough to wipe out this place, Keller. How do you explain that?” he asked in polite perplexity.
Sonny Keller hesitated, clearly troubled by the complication Drew had thrown into his simple explanation. Finally he drew a deep breath and said with bravado, “Well, I say a cigarette in a little alcohol could have caused it. Dozens of ways the cigarette could have ignited the liquor to cause a big fire. Yes indeed, that’s the answer.”
“Maybe so,” Drew said casually, “but I knew Claude a little bit and I see two problems with that scenario. One, Claude didn’t smoke. H
is mother died of lung cancer and he swore never to touch a cigarette. And he kept that promise. Never had a pack on him and never accepted one if someone offered. And two, the doctor who examined him before he died said his eyes showed he was pumped full of some drug. Now I happen to know that Claude was terrified of drugs. Liquor he couldn’t get enough of, but he would never have voluntarily taken anything except an aspirin or an antibiotic.” Drew looked at the increasingly glowering deputy. “And Keller, all of that says to me that someone must have helped Claude Duncan on his way last night.”
3
A shrine. That’s what this place was—a damned shrine to Julianna Brent.
Gail Brent stood in her mother Lottie’s cabin. She hated the place. Lottie had lived in it all of her life and called it “humble.” Gail called it a dump, which hurt Lottie and made Juli angry. But it was a dump, Gail thought defiantly. It was small, primitive, full of furniture bought at yard sales and some crude pieces built by her grandfather, with faded rag rugs on the cheap wooden floor no amount of varnish could make presentable. And to make matters worse for Gail, over the last sixteen years, the walls had become almost covered with photos of Julianna in fashion layouts and on magazine covers with names like Vogue, Glamour, and Cosmopolitan. None of Gail’s school papers bearing As and glowing comments earned places. They were just smiled at, vaguely commented on, then tucked away in a cheap folder. Meanwhile, every time Lottie prominently displayed another picture of Julianna, Gail had felt like a voodoo doll being stabbed with a needle.
Gail’s watch showed that it was ten till eight in the morning, but Lottie wasn’t home. Gail was certain her mother hadn’t been home for at least twenty-four hours. There were no cooking smells, no open windows, and the cat on the front porch was mewing hungrily. Why had Lottie been gone so long? Was she just out wandering? Or in light of Juli’s murder, was Lottie’s absence more significant?
Gail’s gaze fell on a particularly striking photo of her sister in a forest-green sequined gown with her auburn hair pulled high, and her golden-brown eyes innocent and coquettish at the same time. Gail hated to admit she thought her sister was beautiful, and she couldn’t stop comparing herself to Julianna. There was no contest, she thought glumly, walking over to a small mirror for a self-study.
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