Read Online Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_04 by Death in Paradise - Free Book Online Page A

gently touched the little wooden musket. “Johnnie thought he’d been part of a joke. Her brothers were big to play jokes. And ’specially since Miss CeeCee’s birthday was April Fool’s Day. Oh, they always had big jokes going on. Johnnie might have wanted to know more about it and maybe he went somewhere late that night to see what was happening. And he would’ve just stood quiet and watched. But I know he didn’t see nothing terrible. He would’ve gone to the police if he had. Then Saturday when I come home and told him about that letter, he went back and Miss CeeCee wasn’t there. And he didn’t know what to do.”
    Somewhere nearby.
    â€œWhy didn’t he tell the police?”
    â€œHe was scared.” She pressed her hand against her lips to keep them from trembling.
    â€œWhat do you think happened, Mrs. Rodriguez?”
    She turned dark, haunted eyes toward me. “Just ten minutes. That’s all he was gone Saturday afternoon. I think he went to where he thought Miss CeeCee was—but she wasn’t there. And Johnnie was scared to death. Kidnapping!” She leaned forward, her face angry and vengeful. “That Lester Mackey, I never liked him. Talked so soft you’d think itwas a rattlesnake slithering by. Not like a man. You talk to him.”
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    The road was twisty but well-graded and the underbrush was thinned on either side. I pulled into a turnaround drive in front of the white two-story vacation home that had once belonged to Belle Ericcson.
    The drive was empty except for my rental car. The blinds were closed. Nobody home. That wasn’t surprising on a cool March weekday afternoon. It was nice for my purposes, though I couldn’t expect to learn much after all this time.
    I pictured a Mercedes curving up the drive, pulling to a stop, the door opening—
    Although the house crowned a bluff, it was well screened from the road by a tall, thick hedge. It was extremely secluded here. The stucco home had clean, spare Mediterranean lines, a red tile roof and windows, windows, windows.
    I followed a flagstone path along the east side of the house to the terrace that overlooked a private bay. Canvas covers shrouded the deck furniture. The patio umbrellas were tucked shut. A steep path led down the bluff to a boathouse and pier.
    The terrace was in shadow, the late afternoon sun blocked by cedars to the west.
    I walked across the flagstones, occasional leaves crackling underfoot. The floor-to-ceiling windows were masked by interior blinds, now closed.
    I found a space at the end of one set of blinds and peered into the huge living room. The dusky, untenanted room gave no hint of the life and death drama it had seen.
    I continued around the house and saw, on the west side, garages and separate quarters.
    Anyone wishing to wait unseen could easily park on the west side of the house. Cedars screened a large parking area from the front drive.
    Seven years ago CeeCee had arrived, opened the car door—and the kidnappers appeared.
    There was no evidence of a struggle, no blood, her purse in the passenger seat apparently untouched.
    Were the kidnappers armed?
    Either armed—or armed with a story plausible enough to persuade her to come with them.
    That was possible, of course, could account for the lack of struggle. A report of an emergency, an illness. “ Your mother’s been hurt in a car wreck. She’s in the hospital in Denison …”
    CeeCee had not—at that point—resisted.
    The Mercedes—door open, keys in the ignition—was the closest link to her, made this driveway the last certain place she’d been.
    The sun slanted through the blackjack, touched an early-blooming redbud. It was lovely and peaceful—and unutterably sinister.
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    Deputy Dexter Pierson drew in a lungful of smoke, coughed, and rasped, his voice hoarse and rough, “It stank. The whole damn thing stank. Worse than fish guts in