*****
Darla turned off the television and tried to savor the stillness of the house. It was no use. She missed her family. Her home felt strange and unfamiliar now, with boxes filling every room, obstructing every hallway. Already-packed pictures and photos left blank walls where reassuring loved ones had once stared down at her.
She pulled her cotton cardigan around her and went into the kitchen and made a bowl of popcorn for dinner. She wondered why Gary hadn’t called yet. She had to admit she hadn’t been acting much like the loving, understanding wife a husband would want to call. She braced herself against the urge to feel sorry for her current loneliness.
Moving away from a job she liked, from a school she was satisfied with for Haley, from friends she’d known since childhood, and from family right around the corner. Moving away from a lifetime of comfort and familiarity to a land at the bottom of the world. A place that saluted a queen and drank tea—but never iced—that revered windsurfing over tennis. A place she had never expected to visit, much less live.
The sound of the bell on the microwave ripped into her mood and she jumped a little. Must be spooked. All the bowls were packed, so she opened the steaming popcorn bag and ate a handful straight from the bag while standing in the kitchen.
What in the world is my life going to be like in Auckland, New Zealand? The dark windows of the kitchen reflected her image back at her. Through them, she could see the bare branches of the trees behind her house as they swayed gently in the blackened windows.
Suddenly, she heard a different sound. Not a quiet creaking sound of the house settling down for the night, or a gentle whistling sound of the wind spinning leaves against the siding. Darla heard a crunching sound that shouldn’t be. A sound of slow furtiveness.
A sound from inside the house.
Murder in the South of France, Book 1 of the Maggie Newberry Mysteries Page 46