“I just got back from Photo Finish with the pictures you took at the Belle,” Lucas said. Adrienne’s hand tightened on the phone receiver. “There’s nothing in them we can use.”
“Nothing in them!” she burst out. “Lucas, I saw someone through the viewfinder!”
“I didn’t say there was nothing in them. I said there’s nothing we can use. There’s definitely a blurry form partially hidden by trees. But you can’t even tell if it’s a man or a woman.”
“Then use computer enhancement. I’ve seen it done on television.”
“And it always works on television, but this is real life. We’ll give it a try, of course, but I’m not optimistic.”
“Oh damn.” Adrienne stood at the kitchen window looking out at the bed of pansies beside the patio. “Lucas, I know the figure in those photos is Julianna’s killer.”
“No, you don’t know that,” Lucas said patiently. “I haven’t gotten Julianna’s autopsy report yet. We don’t know the time of death. If it was even just a half hour before you arrived, though, why would the murderer hang around in the woods?”
“I don’t know.” She paused. “Unless it had something to do with the wreck on the highway. With all that commotion and the police at the scene the killer couldn’t get down the hill and away from the Belle.”
“Then why didn’t he go on up the hill? Why keep lurking around the hotel when you and Skye came along with a dog, no less?”
“Well …”
“Well, what?”
“Give me time. I’ll come up with a reason.”
Lucas chuckled. “When you do, call me immediately. Let’s forget about the photos for now. Did you sleep well last night?”
“No. And because I couldn’t sleep, I sat in the living room and saw something that bothered me.” She told him about the dark car with the long hood and short trunk. “Short trunk? That’s called a short hatch.”
“What do you call the piece on the trunk that’s like a narrow shelf?”
“A spoiler. I don’t suppose you saw the license plate.”
“I would have given you the number before I blundered through that description.”
“You did fine with your description. But I can think of a number of car models that have a similar frame. You couldn’t tell anything about the driver?”
“No, just a blur. Just like the figure in the photos. My world is filled with blurs.”
“Frankly, I’m almost glad you didn’t get a good photo of the person up at the Belle. That kind of knowledge could be dangerous to you. That’s why after I took a look at them, I told Hal at Photo Finish where and when you’d taken the pictures but that they didn’t show us anything. Hal tells everything he knows. I’m also repeating that information to every other blabbermouth in town. If the killer is someone around here picking up information, I want him to know you didn’t see much and got nothing identifiable in the pictures.” He paused. “But I don’t like the idea of a car cruising by your house so slowly more than once last night. It did only go by twice, right?”
Adrienne felt ashamed to admit she’d fallen asleep in her chair around three o’clock. “I should have stayed awake and watched.”
“You were exhausted.”
“I’m still exhausted. And I have a stiff neck from a night in the chair.”
“Then get some rest today.”
“I can’t. I have to take my painting to the French Art Colony for the gala. I also need to go to the grocery store, and I teach a class tonight. It’s strange to think that life goes on in spite of at least one horrible murder.”
“Life goes on, but not in the same way.” Lucas’s subdued voice sounded worried. “Now more than ever you have to be careful. I mean it, Adrienne. Take absolutely no chances, both for your sake and for your daughter’s.”
“Are there any scary stories about this place?” Skye asked. “I mean, is it supposed to be haunted or anything?”
“Goodness, no.” Adrienne looked at the dignified brick front of the French Art Colony with its thick white pillars. “I don’t know of one ghost that is rumored to make its home here.”
“Phooey,” Skye muttered in disappointment. “Point Pleasant has lots of haunted places. The Art Colony is right across the river in Gallipolis. How did we manage to get all the spooky beings? Hey, maybe after the Belle is torn down, its ghosts will come over here!”
“Since when did you start believing in ghosts?” Adrienne carefully began removing the canvas-covered oil painting from the back of her car. “Even when you were little, you didn’t believe in ghosts and monsters. You were the bravest child I ever knew.”
“I’m still brave,” Skye said reassuringly. “It’s just fun to pretend places can be haunted. Is the French Art Colony as old as the Belle?”
“It’s older.”
“Well, there you go. In movies and books, ghosts always like old places. No ghost with any pride would hang out in our house. It’s too new and only has one floor. But this place would be a ghost’s dream house.”
“Skye, you should write stories about the paranormal. Maybe you’ll be the next Stephen King and I won’t have to worry about money anymore.” Adrienne banged her head on a window as she struggled to lug her painting from the car. Her lack of sleep and the heat of mid-morning added to her frustration. “Honey, please stop ruminating about ghosts and help me.”
“Skye to the rescue.” In two minutes, they’d safely removed the painting. “Success! What would you do without me?”
“I don’t ever want to find out.” Adrienne pushed her long hair behind her ears, wishing she had pulled it back in a braid and conscious of the bandage decorating her forehead. “But keep your opinions about ghosts to yourself when we get inside. I think Miss Snow is here today and she’s paranoid about anything that might tarnish the reputation of the Art Colony.”
“I think having an Art Colony ghost would be cool.”
“She wouldn’t. She doesn’t think anything that’s not in an etiquette book is cool.”
The French Art Colony had been a huge brick home in its younger days. A black wrought-iron fence surrounded the well-kept grounds. Adrienne and Skye strode toward the building on the brick sidewalk and climbed the steps of the big porch. As Adrienne had feared, the most active member of the Art Colony board, Miss Snow, was in attendance today. She opened one of the double front doors and stood waiting for them to enter, a tiny, stiff smile causing crinkles on her parchment-skinned face. The woman was tall, white-haired, cadaverously thin, had a dark flat-eyed stare, and habitually dressed in navy blue, brown, or deep purple. She’d always reminded Adrienne of the ominous housekeeper Mrs. Danvers in the novel Rebecca.
“Good morning, Mrs. Reynolds.” Miss Snow’s voice was as cold as her last name. She looked at Skye with distaste. “You’ve brought your child.”
Adrienne forced a smile. “I wish you’d call me Adrienne. And Skye is fourteen now. Hardly a child. She’s been a big help to me today.”
“Yes, well …” Miss Snow trailed off doubtfully.
Adrienne could feel Skye bristling behind her and said in a loud, overbright voice, “I’ve brought my painting for the competition before the gala!”
“So I see.” And you don’t need to state the obvious, Miss Snow’s tone said. Adrienne liked every one of the other board members, all of whom were extremely friendly, unpretentious, and insisted on being called by their first names. Adrienne realized she didn’t even know Miss Snow’s first name. She suspected the woman had been christened “Miss Snow.” FOR heaven’s sake, why did she have to be manning the helm, Adrienne thought ruefully, on a day when she certainly didn’t feel like indulging the woman’s superiority complex?
They all still stood awkwardly in the doorway. Miss Snow finally said, “The painting must be heavy. You might as well come in with it. Is it oil or watercolor?”
Adrienne had not worked in watercolors for ten years. “Oil.”
“Oh dear. Another oil. We have so many.” She sighed. “Well, I believe the chairman has chosen a nice place for it on the second floor anyway.” Miss Snow turned to a small table and riffled through papers. “Yes, second floor, the room on the right. Your painting will hang just left of the fireplace. What’s the name of it?”
“Autumn Exodus.”
Miss Snow checked her papers again. “Yes, that’s what it says here.” It’s official, Adrienne thought sourly. The title is verified. “Autumn … whatever will hang left of the fireplace.”
“Autumn Exodus” Adrienne couldn’t keep the sharp edge from her voice. “To the left, as you said. I think I can remember.”
“Mom, can I stay down here and look at the other paintings?” Skye asked.
“Sure,” Adrienne said. Miss Snow looked distressed as if envisioning Skye placing sticky fingers on every piece of art. Skye veered left into the sunny Music Room. “I think I’ll start here.”
“Don’t touch the grand piano,” Miss Snow warned harshly, trotting anxiously after Skye. “It’s an antique. And so is the chandelier!”
“Gosh, Miss Snow, I can’t very well touch the chandelier unless you’re planning to get me a ladder.” Skye laughed.
Two points for Skye, Adrienne thought with a smile. Miss Snow was the only person Adrienne knew of whom the girl purposely tried to annoy.
Adrienne got a firm grip on her painting and headed toward her favorite feature of the French Art Colony—the floating stairway. Although strongly anchored to the wall on one side, the railing side of the staircase bore no structural support, giving it the appearance of swirling through thin air all the way up to the fourth floor. Adrienne always pictured a beautiful woman in an evening gown gracefully descending the lovely stairs.
Sometimes wedding receptions were held at the Art Colony, and Adrienne had imagined someday seeing Skye posed in a glorious white dress on the staircase. But not for at least ten years, she told herself. Maybe longer. She didn’t want her little girl to grow up and throw herself into the responsibilities of marriage too soon, the way she had when she’d married Trey Reynolds at twenty-one, before either of them was really ready.
Adrienne hung her painting on the assigned spot and stood back for a look. The card the chairman had already put in place beside where the painting would hang read “Adrienne Reynolds, Autumn Exodus, oil on canvas, 22″ × 26″.” It was one of the largest pieces she had ever done and also one of the best. She’d chosen the scene late last November, when she’d seen about twenty Canadian geese floating on a large pond in an open field bordered by a line of giant blue spruce trees. As she’d watched, ten of the big geese, who mated for life, lifted gracefully from the water, wings spread, their brown feathers and the white streaks on the sides of their black heads showing clearly against the mellow gold glow of a fading autumn afternoon. In the painting, she’d used a bit of yellow for luminosity on the snow-tipped tree limbs and grayish blue in the background to indicate evening creeping onto the landscape. She thought she’d captured the agile, flowing movement of the birds along with the intricate play of tight and shadow. She smiled, proud of the painting and allowing herself a small hope of placing in the competition.
Adrienne started back down the stairs, then stopped. Something waited for her on the third floor, something that seemed to call out irresistibly. Slowly she ascended the floating staircase, running her left hand over the cool, polished wood of the railing. This is a mistake, she thought. This is going to upset me. This is going to hurt. But she couldn’t help herself.
When she reached the third floor, Adrienne turned right, paused, then stepped through a doorway. She drew in her breath. The room had an official name, but for the last four years, most people had called it “the Julianna Room” because of the life-sized portrait at the far end—a portrait of Julianna painted by the extraordinarily talented man who had been her husband, Miles Shaw.
Adrienne didn’t turn on the lights in the room. She didn’t need to. A shaft of sunlight streamed through one of the big windows and fell directly on the portrait as if nature had staged the lighting to best effect. Miles had donated the painting to the French Art Colony, never to be sold. During the last four years, it had become one of the establishment’s biggest attractions. And with good reason, Adrienne thought.
In the portrait, Julianna stood in a three-quarter turn with her face full forward. She wore a black satin dress with a black lace overlay. With masterful touches of brown, Miles had accented every filigree of the intricate ebony lace over the midnight satin. The neckline dipped low, partially exposing the curve of Juli’s breasts. Her hands were clasped loosely just below her waist, a large black Tahitian pearl ring set in platinum on her left middle finger. Her long auburn hair touched by copper highlights fell in soft waves over her left shoulder beneath a magnificent black lace-covered leghorn hat.
But the highlight of the portrait was Julianna’s face. The cool Grace Kelly perfection was tempered by the hint of an arch smile and the promise of amour in the sherry-colored eyes that seemed to follow the viewer around the room. No doubt about it, Adrienne thought. Miles Shaw had created a masterpiece. And more important, he had captured an incredible image of Julianna Brent that could last for centuries.
Miss Snow must have turned on the sound system to discourage Skye from playing the antique piano the girl had no desire to play. As Adrienne stood mesmerized by the portrait, a classic song rendered beautifully by the group Black-more’s Night flowed around her:
Alas my love, ye do me wrong to cast me out discourteously,
And I have loved you for so long delighting in your company …
Greensleeves was all my joy,
Greensleeves was my delight,
Greensleeves was my heart of gold
And who but Lady Greensleeves …
“Do you think I should have called the portrait Greensleeves instead of Julianma?”
Adrienne started, then turned to see Miles Shaw standing less than three feet behind her. From the day Julianna had introduced Miles to Adrienne, she had thought he was not the handsomest but certainly the most striking man she had ever met. His mother was Shawnee, and he had inherited her shining black hair, which he wore pulled back in a ponytail that hung halfway to his waist, beautiful light bronze skin, and high cheekbones. He was around six feet four with an aquiline nose that was slightly crooked from an old break, lips with a sensuous curve, and the only truly raven-black eyes Adrienne had ever seen. He had the broad shoulders of a bodybuilder tapering to a slender waist and long legs that moved as gracefully as a dancer’s. He wore tight jeans, and a long-sleeved black shirt. Around his neck hung a leather cord bearing a large nugget of turquoise set in oxidized silver, a gift from Julianna for his thirty-seventh birthday.
Adrienne thought he looked older than he had when she’d seen him a year ago, a new network of lines surrounding the startling eyes, and the hollows sinking deeper under his cheekbones. One expected him to have a booming voice to match his size. Instead his words were always soft, almost sonorous and insinuating, as if his listener were the only person in the world. Julianna had told Adrienne she’d first been attracted to Miles because of his voice.
“I’ve always thought ‘Greensleeves’ was about a woman who was deliberately hurtful,” Adrienne said, finally finding her own voice. “Julianna wasn’t like that.”
“It’s possible for a person to have two sides.”
“Yes, but I knew Julianna for almost thirty years—”
“Much longer than I did. Maybe much better than I did.” Miles quirked an eyebrow. “But maybe not”
Adrienne took an uncomfortable step backward away from Miles, then turned to the portrait to hide her retreat “It really is a beautiful painting,” she said lamely.
“Julianna was my inspiration. For a while.”
“I was always sorry things didn’t work out for the two of you.”
“They were working out for me. Apparently they weren’t working for her,” Miles said sardonically.
His closeness and the theme of his conversation made Adrienne increasingly nervous. She couldn’t just run from the room. She had to say something in response to Miles’s remarks. “Julianna was a restless soul, Miles. I don’t think she was cut out for marriage.”
“Really? Not to anyone?”
It wasn’t actually a question. It was a challenge. “No, I don’t think to anyone. Honestly.” The song had changed but the room seemed to be getting smaller and hotter. And Miles seemed to be getting closer, although Adrienne hadn’t seen him take a step.
Miles glanced at the portrait. “When I painted that, I thought I’d captured her soul.”
“You did.”
“I captured what she projected at that time. Sauciness, yes. But also innocence. That wasn’t necessarily the true Julianna.”
“You captured the image of a beautiful woman. She wasn’t perfect, Miles, but then no one is. She did have warmth, compassion, and joy, though. I see all of that in the portrait.”
“You’re perspiring.” Miles reached out and gently touched the bandage on her forehead. “And you’ve hurt yourself. Or more precisely, someone hurt you. A mugger. That’s what I heard.”
“Yes. Night before last. He got away with my purse, some cheap lipstick, an old comb, and all of ten dollars.” Her attempt at a lighthearted laugh came out more like a bleat of fear. “Philip is furious with me. Bad publicity and all.”
Miles’s face turned hard. “Philip Hamilton is a pompous fool who cares only about himself.”
“Oh!” Adrienne was startled by the pure hatred of his tone. “Well, I’d like to think he loves my sister and niece. I mean, I’m sure he does. He just has such a huge ego. Maybe that goes with being a politician. You’d have to have a lot of confidence to run for governor, after all, with all those speeches and people looking at you constantly and, well, everything …”
She ran out of words and breath at the same time. Miles’s fingers still touched her bandage. His intense eyes still probed hers. He leaned closer and for a wild moment she thought he was going to kiss her. A surprisingly strong swell of panic surged through her, but she stood frozen, her heart thumping like a small, trapped animal’s.
“Sorry to interrupt, but you know how pushy we newspeople are.”
Miles’s hand dropped away from her forehead. As he stepped aside and turned, Adrienne saw Drew Delaney. He almost lounged against the doorframe, but his face was taut, his dark eyes slightly narrowed. “I’d like to get a quote from each of you on the upcoming gala.”
Adrienne fought an impulse to run to Drew and let him fold her in loving arms as he’d done when they were teenagers. But that had been a long time ago. He probably hadn’t loved her then, and he certainly didn’t now. Still, she was overjoyed to see him. Her knees felt weak from her apprehension of Miles and she walked to his side.
“Sometimes I like being a reporter better than an editor.” Drew took the damp hand she’d thrust at him, shaking it as if they were meeting for the first time. It was an unnatural gesture after their long acquaintance, and Adrienne knew Drew recognized it as her way of masking uneasiness.
Miles seemed to vibrate with hostility. “I would think our little gala would be beneath your interest, considering the murders.”
“Murders?” Drew repeated innocently. “I thought Julianna Brent was the only murder victim.”
Miles flushed. “I meant Claude Duncan. Someone told me he’d probably been murdered. I don’t remember who.”
“I wish you did. I’d like to quote this source who seems to know more than the cops do.”
Adrienne knew the police suspected Claude’s death was not an accident, but Lucas had not stated so publicly. Did Miles really have a source? Or, worse, did he know firsthand that Claude had been murdered?
“Unfortunately, I don’t know any more about the death of Julianna than anyone else,” Miles said as he crossed the room and passed by Drew, heading for the floating stairs. “I’d sure as hell like to get my hands on the son of a bitch who killed my ex-wife, though. I’d kill him slowly and painfully, just like he deserves.”
Miles’s words were vicious, but his tone lacked depth. Adrienne knew that he’d once loved Julianna passionately, but none of that love resonated in his voice or his face.
“Well, sensational murders certainly boost circulation, but we don’t want the Register to became known as a tabloid,” Drew said blandly. “That’s why we want to give plenty of space to the Art Colony Gala. Lend the newspaper a little class, you know?”
“Even though the Art Colony is in Ohio, not West Virginia?” Miles asked tartly.
Drew ignored the sarcasm. “We cover more than West Virginia news.”
“But working on the Register must still seem disappointing compared to your days on the New York Times,” Miles said innocently.
“I like the slower pace.”
“Slow is right.” Miles wasn’t going to back off. “I suppose even though you left under a cloud, you still have a few connections at the Times. If you’d wanted to do her a favor, they could have gotten Julianna’s name into the gossip columns, sparked a little interest in her, maybe gotten her back into modeling.”
Drew’s jaw tightened. “I’m not sure where that idea came from, Miles. I also don’t know what makes you think Julianna would have wanted to return to modeling.”
“Julianna was Julianna. She loved attention but she hadn’t gotten much for a few years. I’m sure she was missing the hoopla that used to surround her.” Miles shrugged. “And she never turned down help from men when she could get it.”
“If I had the influence you seem to think I have, Miles, I’d get a gig for myself and you’d see me on the cover of Vanity Fair,” Drew said lightly. “Maybe your spy network needs tuning up. Try keeping surveillance on Gavin Kirkwood. He might prove more interesting.”
By now, Miss Snow had arrived at the third-floor landing with Skye in tow. Skye’s eyes were wide, Miss Snow’s narrow lips pressed nearly into invisibility although brilliant pink flared along the tops of her cheekbones. “I didn’t realize everyone was gathering up here,” she snapped. “I thought interviews would be conducted downstairs in the drawing room where we could have tea. Better yet, in the kitchen, so we won’t get anything dirty.”
“Will people at the gala get to drink tea in the drawing room?” Skye asked with feigned innocence. “Or do they have to stand in the kitchen?”
“Formal guests may eat wherever they like,” Miss Snow announced.
Drew grinned. “I sure hope you serve pigs in a blanket. I just love pigs in a blanket.”
“And sardines!” Skye jumped in. “With horseradish sauce and beer!”
Miss Snow looked appalled. “You don’t drink beer at your age, do you?”
“No more than two or three bottles a day,” Skye returned blamelessly. “Mom says it gets your creative genes perking.”
Even Miles couldn’t hide a smile although Drew had long since given up trying. Adrienne was half aghast, half admiring of her daughter’s audacity, but Miss Snow’s reaction was unmitigated insult. She glared at Skye, then turned on Drew. “I thought you had an interview to do, Mr. Delaney.”
“I really just needed a few short quotes from participants.”
“That leaves me out,” Miles said. “I’m not offering a picture for competition this year, but Adrienne is. You should get a quote from her.”
“I am on the board of directors,” Miss Snow reminded Drew. “I can tell you anything you want to know about the collection.”
“I know, Miss Snow,” Drew said smoothly. “I’ll be back for your comments. Right now I’d like to walk Adrienne and Skye to their car.”
“I don’t think Ms. Reynolds is ready to leave,” Miles stated, clearly more upset by Drew’s domination of the action than by the thought of Adrienne leaving.
“Yes I am,” Adrienne intervened. “I have a busy day.”
As they strolled down the brick walkway leading from the French Art Colony, Adrienne drew a deep breath. Drew threw her a sideways glance and asked, “Mind telling me what was going on back there with you and Miles Shaw?”
“I’m not sure, but he was weird. I wouldn’t say Miles and I were ever friends, but certainly not enemies. Today he was giving me the creeps, though.”
“He always gives me the creeps,” Drew said. “I wouldn’t be surprised at anything he did.”
Adrienne looked at him. His dark eyes were as intense as Miles’s, but without the threat and innuendo. Sunlight emphasized his deep laugh lines and the tiny, humorous quirk at the edge of his mouth. Suddenly, warmth for him flooded over Adrienne. Embarrassment at her reaction didn’t stop her from reaching out to take his arm as they strode down the brick walk away from the French Art Colony. Then she spotted an automobile parked at the curb.
“What kind of car is that?” she asked sharply.
Drew looked surprised at her tone. “It’s a Camaro.”
Adrienne scrutinized the dark blue, two-door car with its long hood, short hatch, and spoiler. It looked just like the car she’d seen cruising stealthily past her house several times last night.
“Do you like it?” Drew asked. “It’s mine.”
Lucas Flynn wanted a cigarette. He’d given them up six weeks ago and had been making do with the nicotine patches, but today they weren’t working. He felt jittery and irritable as hell, and he decided he couldn’t stand the craving anymore. As soon as he finished reading the autopsy reports that had just come in, he’d break down, sneak outside, and have a Marlboro. Maybe two. Probably three.
One of the tasks Lucas liked least about his job was wading through autopsy reports. Cold, scientific analyses of gaping wounds, blood loaded with toxins, and corpses nearly decapitated by strangulation with wires turned human beings into soulless pieces of meat, little more than hapless frogs dissected by bored high school biology students. But the reports were essential and Lucas knew the faster he read them, the quicker he could reenter the world of the living and of simple pleasures like smoking. And having a good lunch. He decided to treat himself to a midday meal at the Iron Gate Grill.
He pulled a sheaf of papers toward him, put on the reading glasses that last month the optometrist had deemed necessary and that Lucas hated passionately, and began to read about Julianna Brent, age thirty-six. She had never borne a child and appeared to have been in excellent health, except for a blow to the skull caused by a blunt object and a deep puncture wound to the carotid artery on the left side of her neck.
Lucas knew the blow to her head had come from the heavy ceramic lamp base whose pieces he’d found lying beside the hotel bed. Bruising on Julianna’s scalp had been scant both because the skin tightly stretched across bone bruised less easily than loose skin, and because death had occurred shortly after the blow. The puncture wound was not so easily analyzed. Something sharp had been thrust into the neck with tremendous force, but the edges of the wound bore no tearing, indicating the weapon had been round with a sharp point. No weapon capable of inflicting such a wound had been found at the crime scene, but judging by the depth of penetration, it must have been approximately three inches long. Possibly it could have been a bit shorter, the force behind the weapon driving it deeper into the soft tissue of the neck and leaving a longer cavity.
The massive blood loss indicated that Julianna had still been alive when the carotid was punctured. The fact that she lacked defensive wounds suggested that she’d been knocked unconscious by the lamp base, then attacked with a sharp object and allowed to bleed to death.
Lucas stopped reading and looked at the tan wall lined with file cabinets across from him. Only he didn’t see the cabinets. He saw Julianna lying on that bed, her beautiful face peaceful if almost supernaturally white, her hair spread over the deep and bloody wound in her neck, the butterfly clip sparkling with pink and blue Austrian crystals against her right temple. Someone had brutally murdered her and then posed her, even pulling the sheet and blanket over her naked body.
According to forensic psychologists, covering the body after a murder indicated the killer felt conflicted, and while his desire for someone’s death drove him to personally slaughter the person, he then felt compelled to bestow a bit of dignity by covering his victim.
But Julianna’s murderer had not felt conflicted. Lucas somehow felt sure of it. He just hoped no one else did. The fact that she’d been carefully covered to her neck with a satin sheet, and her hair had been combed, had not been released to the press. But Rachel Hamilton was a reporter. She was also related to the people who had found Julianna and could describe the loving state in which she’d been left. He trusted Adrienne to keep her mouth shut about those details. He was afraid a girl of Skye’s age would not be able to keep such knowledge from her cousin Rachel, whom she idolized.
Lucas realized he’d been staring at his file cabinets, lost in thought, for nearly five minutes. Mentally groaning, he picked up the autopsy report on Claude Duncan.
He stared at the typed page for a moment, not seeing the print, only the puffy, bleary-eyed face of Claude as he’d looked the morning he stood outside the room at la Belle Rivière, holding his ax in a ridiculous attempt to guard the room where Julianna lay dead. Ridiculous. That was a word most people would have applied to Claude. Ridiculous. Absurd. Dumb. Pitiful. A waste. And they would have been right, Lucas thought. In the great scheme of things, Claude Duncan hadn’t counted for much. But Claude was also the kind of person no one disliked enough to bother murdering. Unless he knew something. With Claude’s luck, he’d merely been in the right place at the wrong time.
The first part of the report told Lucas little that he hadn’t already guessed from viewing the remains. Over fifty percent of Claude’s body had been covered by third-degree burns, which destroy the skin and leave underlying structures exposed. Second-degree burns took care of another thirty percent. The high temperature of the fire had caused the tissues to rupture, resulting in the splitting of skin all over Claude’s body.
His skull had been fractured, but the medical examiner did not believe Claude had received a blow to the head, which would have caused the bone fragments to be localized and shoved into the skull. Instead, intracranial pressure had produced brain lesions, and the bone fragments from the skull were displaced outward. Both injuries were common phenomena resulting from intense heat and did not necessarily point to Claude being killed before the fire was set. It looked more as if the fire, not a physical assault to the head, had caused Claude’s death. Supporting this conclusion was the fact that he had a carbon monoxide level in his blood of around five percent and carbon particles had been found in his air passages, indicating that Claude had still been breathing while the fire raged.
The puzzling thing was that in most deaths by fire, the carbon monoxide blood concentration exceeded ten percent, and more carbon particles were located in the air passages than had been found in Claude’s. Therefore, it appeared that while he had been alive during the fire, he had not been breathing normally.
Lucas frowned in thought. He was certain Claude had been drunk at the time of the fire, but drunkenness doesn’t usually cut down on air intake. So, Claude’s condition had to have another explanation.
Results of the toxicology tests provided it. Aside from a high alcohol content, Claude’s blood had contained a large amount of oxymorphone hydrochloride, a semisynthetic opioid substitute for morphine.
Lucas already knew the principal effects of opioids, such as respiratory depression. They also repressed the cough reflex, which would explain why Claude had a much lower carbon monoxide blood concentration and fewer carbon particles in the air passages than would be expected. He wasn’t breathing normally and he’d had little capacity to cough up the small amount of carbon he had been able to inhale.
Lucas also knew opioids resulted in sedation.
“Sedation,” he said aloud. “Must be very convenient to have your victim sedated, unable to run or even crawl, but still breathing if you want his murder to look like an accidental burn fatality.”
“Something you need, Sheriff?”
Lucas looked up at Naomi, his perky new secretary and a part-time dispatcher, who had the bad habit of constantly interrupting his thoughts. “Nothing, thanks.”
“Well, it’s just that you were talking. I thought maybe you were talking to me. Wanting something. Coffee, maybe.”
“No, thanks.”
‘Okay.” Naomi had inched into the room as she chattered and now nearly stood on tiptoe trying to peer over the top of the papers in his hand. “Is that an autopsy report?”
“Yes,” Lucas said in irritation.
“Anything interesting in it?” she asked, blue eyes snapping with curiosity.
“A couple of very interesting things,” he returned sharply. He’d had enough of cigarette abstinence and also of her badly concealed curiosity. He rose from his chair.
“Interesting things about Julianna Brent?” Naomi continued, undaunted.
“About her and Claude Duncan.”
“Oh, him,” she said with indifference. “Nothing juicy about her, the model?”
Lucas gave her a withering look, deciding that she didn’t just annoy him. He definitely disliked her. “Sorry, nothing juicy enough to satisfy you, I’m sure.” Naomi looked bland, totally missing the insult. “If I’m needed, I’ll be outside for the next ten minutes or so.” He saw her eyes on the autopsy reports and picked them up. “I think I’ll take these with me and look at them in the light of day.”
‘Oh, okay. But I could file them for you.”
“No, thanks.”
“Well, if you’re sure.”
“I am.” And I’m also sure this will definitely be a three-cigarette break, Lucas thought as he strode past the unnerving innocent-faced girl with the rapacious eyes. Just as sure as I am that you will never get a chance to even glance at these reports if I have to lock them in a safe.
Naomi wore a sharp-edged cologne that made Lucas’s nose tingle, and she’d frozen her silver-frosted mouse-brown hair into immobility with some kind of hair spray that seemed to contain Super Glue. She did not step aside and he had to press himself against the doorframe in order not to rub against her body as he passed by. “You enjoy your smokes, Sheriff. You work so hard, you really deserve a break, even if smoking isn’t a healthy habit.” She smiled insinuatingly and nearly cooed, “Maybe someday I’ll get the chance to make you stop. Smoking, that is.”
By sheer force of will, Lucas did not shudder. He did decide, however, that Naomi would not be working here this time next week.
“Henri Toulouse-Lautrec is probably most famous for two things,” Adrienne said to her art appreciation class. “First, for being a dwarf, or to use the more politically correct term, a little person. Second, for leading what many consider a dissolute or wild life in the nightclubs and brothels of Paris.”
“He sounds like my kind of guy,” a grinning, blunt-featured boy in the back row said loudly. “The part about the nightclubs and whorehouses, not the dwarf part.”
A prim-faced young man near the front muttered, “She said brothels, not whorehouses. Also, Toulouse-Lautrec was a great artist. That’s what you should remember him for, cretin.”
“What was that, dork weed?” the brash one challenged loudly.
“He just pointed out that Toulouse-Lautrec was a great artist,” Adrienne said quickly. The two guys had been at war since the class had begun and, in her mind, acted like they belonged in the seventh grade, not college. “Toulouse-Lautrec was greatly influenced by Degas and Gauguin, but he developed his own style—that of a graphic artist. This is what makes his paintings so suited to lithography, or posters. Let’s look at a few.”
“Fantastic. Can’t wait, can you, dork weed?” came loudly from the back of the room.
Dork weed sighed in martyrdom. Adrienne gritted her teeth, dimmed the lights, and placed a slide of At the Moulin Rouge into the projector. “This really isn’t a scene of gaiety as it appears at first glance. The characters in the painting don’t look truly happy. Another interesting aspect of this piece is the figure of the short, bearded man standing next to the tall man at the back of the room. The short man is Toulouse-Lautrec. He put himself into his own painting!”
Adrienne looked around. What had she expected? Gasps of awe? Yelps of delight? The class was silent. Doric weed stared at the slide in grim concentration while cretin yawned hugely. Ignoring the lack of verbal reaction as she plowed on with what she’d thought was a fascinating slide show, Adrienne glanced at her daughter.
Adrienne slumped at the back of the room. The girl had been of two minds about coming. Attending a college class had made her feel grown-up and sophisticated. But she’d been embarrassed about being dragged to a class taught by her mother. During the first half hour, she’d looked alert and even took notes. Now, in the second hour, she had abandoned her notebook as well as her scrutiny of the other students and looked positively glassy-eyed with ennui. After all, no notes were being passed, no one was chewing the gum forbidden in secondary school, and there were no cute boys under the age of eighteen who might be interested in a fourteen-year-old girl.
To top off her misery, Skye’s favorite television show was on right now. Adrienne had set the VCR to time-tape the program, although Skye had complained that taped shows lost their “immediacy,” a term she’d picked up from Rachel. But in light of the break-in along with every other horrible thing that had happened in the last couple of days, Adrienne wasn’t going to let her daughter stay by herself this evening, even though the class ended at nine o’clock, before Skye’s bedtime. In fact, she wondered if she’d ever feel safe leaving her precious Skye unattended ever again.
• • •
“That was really a good class, Mom,” Skye said as they walked through the lighted parking lot to their car.
“Thanks, honey.” Although a few times you looked like you were going to lapse into unconsciousness from boredom, Adrienne thought. “You know, those two guys calling each other names aren’t typical college students.”
“I figured. They seemed like guys in my school. I didn’t pay any attention to them. Just you.”
“Maybe you’d like experimenting with painting soon.”
“Uh … I think I take after Daddy more than you. I want to be a writer.”
“Your dad wasn’t a writer.”
“When he was in Las Vegas, he wrote his comedy routines. He told me.”
Adrienne didn’t want to think about those mildly amusing routines Trey had created and thought were hilarious. “I thought you were more interested in writing murder mysteries.”
“Oh, I am,” Skye assured her. “I hope your feelings aren’t hurt because I don’t want to be an artist. I just don’t think I have any talent for painting.”
Adrienne put her arm around Skye’s shoulders. “My feelings aren’t hurt. My father wanted me to be a doctor, but I didn’t want to be a doctor. So, I followed my own desires. That’s always the best way to go.”
“It wasn’t for Daddy. Being a hit in Las Vegas was his big dream, but it turned out to be a disaster for him. I think it broke his heart.” Adrienne was surprised by her daughter’s mature observation. For a moment, she didn’t know what to say. Then she began slowly. “Your dad didn’t have the talent for a musical comedy act, but he had great charisma. After we came back to Point Pleasant, he was a fabulous salesman at your grandfather’s furniture store.”
“I’m glad. But I’m still sorry Daddy didn’t get to do what he really wanted to.” Skye paused. “And I’m sorry I don’t remember him as well as I used to.”
Adrienne wondered what was the correct response to that remark. She couldn’t very well say that Trey wasn’t as real to his own wife as he used to be, either. Or that she sometimes wondered if she’d loved him as much as she’d told herself she did because she thought marriage to a good-looking, charming young man would make her forget a silly teenaged infatuation with Drew Delaney, an infatuation she couldn’t let flare to life again, especially after seeing his car today had raised questions about his actions toward her.
“I didn’t mean to make you sad about Daddy,” Skye said.
“You didn’t.” Adrienne gave Skye a squeeze. “Daddy died four years ago. It’s natural for our memory of him to dim a little bit so we don’t get sad all the time. But you loved your daddy very much, and he knew it. That’s what’s important.” Skye gave her a small, relieved smile.
“Here’s the car at last,” Adrienne said. “Next time we’ll come earlier. I don’t like having to park at the back of the lot even if it’s well lighted.”
The college was only about ten minutes away from their home and Adrienne was glad. She felt unusually tired after what had been a fairly easy class to teach. But when they neared the house, she was surprised to see a small, red car sitting beneath the new dusk-to-dawn light the electric company had installed near the street that afternoon.
“That’s Rachel’s car!” Skye said excitedly.
They found the young woman sitting on the front porch steps, her chin propped on a cupped hand. “I didn’t think you two would ever get home.”
‘Is something wrong?” Adrienne asked anxiously. “Are Vicky and Philip all right?”
“Sure. Off on another campaign trip. I talked to them on the phone about three hours ago. Dad was practicing his speech. Honestly, I think he’s forgotten how to talk normally. He just booms out sentences along with all these sweeping gestures. It’s weird.” Skye giggled. “Anyway, I felt kind of lonely in that big house by myself and I thought I’d come by to visit two of my favorite people. I forgot that you had a class tonight, Aunt Adrienne.”
Adrienne caught the forlorn note in Rachel’s usually animated voice. “We’re delighted to see you, Rachel, but you shouldn’t be sitting out here by yourself after our break-in.”
“We had one, too. Besides, you’ve got this place lit up like a parking lot.”
“Yes, it’s a bit bright, but better safe than sorry.” Adrienne looked at the picture window to see Brandon peering out, his tongue lolling. He adored Rachel. “Let’s go in and get comfortable. I don’t know what possessed me to wear high heels tonight.”
“I’m so glad you’re here!” Skye took Rachel’s hand as Adrienne opened the front door and began punching numbers on the alarm system she decided she’d never get used to. “So many exciting things have happened the last few days and we didn’t get a chance to talk about them! But I thought you’d be with Bruce tonight.”
“He wanted to go to a movie, but I wasn’t in the mood. Bruce is okay, but I don’t want to spend as much time with him as he wants to spend with me.” Rachel grinned and tapped Skye’s nose. “You are much more fun than Bruce Allard.” She stooped and hugged an elated Brandon. “And you’re much more handsome!”
After Rachel double-checked Adrienne’s handiwork with the alarm system and Adrienne kicked off the hated spike heels, they all trailed into the kitchen. It was then she knew exactly how downbeat Rachel was feeling when she asked for hot chocolate. Hot chocolate had always been her greatest source of comfort. Skye promptly said she was also dying for hot chocolate, even though she’d announced on the way home she wanted lemonade because of the unusually hot June night. Adrienne was always amused by Skye’s desire to be like her beautiful, older cousin. Amused and glad. Rachel set a good example.
“How is your job going?” Adrienne asked Rachel as she poured herself a cup of chocolate she didn’t really want.
“All right, although I’m not getting to do as much with the Brent murder as I’d like.”
“I don’t have any more information from Sheriff Flynn,” Adrienne warned.
Rachel’s face reddened. “This time I didn’t come to pump you for information. I promise. The murder is just on my mind a lot.”
Adrienne sat down at the kitchen table with the girls. “Rachel, the murder of Julianna Brent is the most sensational story the Register has handled for years, and as bright and promising a reporter as you are, you haven’t even graduated from college yet. Drew probably feels you don’t have enough experience to take over the story, not to mention the resentment his giving it to you would cause among the other reporters who’ve been at the paper for years instead of a couple of months.”
Rachel took a sip of hot chocolate and, ignoring her small marshmallow mustache, said gravely, “I guess you’re right, Aunt Adrienne.”
Skye nodded. “Sometimes Mom has real good ideas.”
“Thank you, dear,” Adrienne said dryly.
“But there’s Claude Duncan’s death, too,” Rachel said. “Maybe someone deliberately set that fire.”
“Where did you hear that?” Adrienne asked sharply.
“Well, I heard that Sheriff Flynn had an arson expert look over the site. And murder makes sense if Claude saw something the morning Julianna was killed.”
“If he did, why wouldn’t he tell the police?”
“I don’t know. He wasn’t very smart. Maybe he didn’t realize the importance of what he’d seen, but the killer didn’t know that, or he thought Claude might realize it later.”
“Wow, that’s a great idea, too!” Skye looked at her mother. “I have to start taking notes if I’m gonna write murder mysteries someday. Although I’d rather not write one about Julianna’s murder.”
“I’d rather you didn’t too, honey. If you’re sure you want to write murder mysteries, I’d like for you to stick to entirely fictional characters, not one of my best friends.”
The doorbell rang. Brandon barked and all three females jumped, then stiffened. Finally Rachel quirked a smile and said, “I don’t think murderers or thieves ring the bell. It’s probably Sheriff Flynn, Aunt Adrienne.”
Of course, Adrienne thought. If she was going to stay in this house, she couldn’t fall apart every time someone came to the door or called. And she hadn’t talked to Lucas since morning. He was probably dropping by to check on them.
But it wasn’t Lucas at the door. It was Bruce Allard—tall, handsome, blond, tan, and smiling winningly. “Hello, Mrs. Reynolds. I saw Rachel’s car parked out front and I’d like to speak to her, if I’m not interrupting.”
Rachel appeared beside Adrienne. “What is it, Bruce?” she asked before Adrienne had a chance to say anything.
“You said you weren’t in the mood to go out to a movie, but you didn’t say anything about not wanting to stay in to see one, so I rented a DVD.” He held it up. “Chicago. One of your favorites.”
Rachel stared at him for a few moments before saying expressionlessly, “I’ve seen it five times.”
“I thought maybe you had, so I also got Mulholland Drive.”
“Then why don’t we watch it here?” Adrienne suggested. Rachel clearly didn’t want to spend an evening alone with Bruce or she wouldn’t have declined his earlier invitation.
Bruce’s charm-you-to-death smile wavered and Adrienne caught a flash of anger in his blue eyes, anger that vanished so fast she thought she might have imagined it until Rachel said quickly, “I don’t think that movie is really suitable for Skye.”
Skye looked stricken and burst out indignantly, “I’m not a littel girl!”
Rachel gave her a sly wink and she subsided, realizing Rachel had only been using her as an excuse not to burden them with Bruce for the evening. “Okay, Mr. Allard, you win.” Rachel’s voice sounded tired. “We’ll go back to my house to watch the movie.”
“Rachel, if you’d rather spend the evening with us and not see any movie, I’m sure Bruce would understand,” Adrienne said, her annoyance with Bruce growing.
“Rachel and I have a standing date, Mrs. Reynolds.” Bruce’s expression was pleasant, but his voice was firm. Adrienne’s annoyance flared into strong irritation. She’d always known the indulged son of one of the town’s most affluent families was self-assured, but tonight he struck her as downright arrogant. Rachel had already broken off their “standing date,” then gently tried to rebuff him at Adrienne’s door. But Bruce showed a bold determination to get his own way. It wasn’t an attractive trait.
Rachel had picked up her purse and was starting out the front door when Adrienne caught sight of Bruce’s car parked behind Rachel’s.
“I like your car, Bruce,” she said. “What kind is it?”
He nearly preened at the compliment. “It’s a GTO. They just started making them again after twenty years. It’s got 350 horsepower. I can go from zero to sixty miles an hour in five seconds.”
“Oh, stop bragging and let’s get going,” Rachel said with a forced laugh. She bent slightly and gave Adrienne a quick kiss on the cheek.
But Adrienne hardly noticed the uncustomary physical affection from her niece. All of her attention was fixed on Bruce’s GTO—black, two doors, with a long hood, a short trunk, and a spoiler. Another car like the one that had kept up surveillance on her house throughout the long hours of the previous night.