unhooked it from the wall. Something about the luminous colors and quiet serenity of the scene made me suspect it was valuable.
“Maybe,” she admitted with a tight smile. “But I don’t care. It’ll be on its way to Cornwall tomorrow, and I’ll be following it immediately after the funeral. He may suspect I took it, but I don’t see that he can do anything about it.”
I supposed I ought to object to aiding and abetting a thief, but I found I didn’t care. If the painting meant something to Mrs. Laughlin, I was glad she could have it. We exited through the back again and finished loading the Volvo. I told the housekeeper that I’d see her at the funeral, and watched as she backed out carefully. Then I made sure the back door was locked—I didn’t want real thieves ransacking Corinne Blakely’s house—and trotted around to the front. Clouds had drifted in, obscuring what little light the stars and new moon provided, and the wind blew in fitful gusts. I locked the front door, too, fumbling the key a bit in the dark, and was just descending the steps when headlights swept into the driveway.
Chapter 8
I froze. Turner Blakely! I was so screwed. My choices were try to brazen it out or dive into the bushes adjacent to the stoop. If I tried to run for it, he’d see me. I dived.
Stiff holly leaves pricked me and scratched my face, and crushed juniper let out a fresh piney scent. The drop was only four feet or so, and I landed on my feet but pitched forward onto my knees. Damp soil caked my hands. Concentrating on being still, I tried not to think about the spiders or other creepy crawlies that might lurk in the greenery. I couldn’t see Turner or his car from my vantage point, but I heard the motor cut off, the door slam, and footsteps. A man’s figure came into view, pausing beside my Beetle. He stopped to look into the passenger-side window, then straightened and looked around. After a moment or two, he started toward the house.
Watching him walk, I knew it wasn’t Turner. As a dancer, I’m very aware of how people move, and this man didn’t move like Turner. His stride was longer, his balance better. Besides, I noted as he mounted the stairs, this man was taller than Corinne’s grandson. Looking over his shoulder when he reached the door, he reached for the knob and jiggled it in vain. I was glad I’d locked it.
The man rattled it harder, cursed, then pulled something from his wallet and had at the door again. Lock picks, maybe? I wondered whether he was one of those opportunistic thieves who read the obituaries and burgle dead people’s homes. The skritch of his tool against the door sounded loud in the stillness. A moment later, a faint snap elicited another curse and something fell to the ground almost noiselessly. As the man bent to pick it up, a gust of wind snatched it and tossed it into the bushes, right at my feet.
Ack! I tried to shrink back without rustling the bushes. Luckily, the wind was blowing hard enough to clack the branches together, so it covered, I hoped, any sounds I made. The burglar swore loud and long this time and crossed the wide stoop with a heavy tread, coming straight toward me. There was something familiar about his voice. . . .
I didn’t have time to figure it out as I concentrated on looking small and bent my head forward so my white face wouldn’t glimmer. I held my breath, praying the man wouldn’t want whatever he’d dropped badly enough to brave the holly to look for it. Labored breaths sounded from only a couple feet away, and the man muttered to himself, “Shit . . . flashlight . . . no one . . . find it.”
When the footsteps moved away again and no beam of light shone into my face, I took that to mean he wished he’d brought a flashlight and didn’t think anyone would find whatever he’d dropped, so it wasn’t worth searching in the bushes. The tink of metal against glass moments later, followed by a shaking sound, told me he was trying to
“Maybe,” she admitted with a tight smile. “But I don’t care. It’ll be on its way to Cornwall tomorrow, and I’ll be following it immediately after the funeral. He may suspect I took it, but I don’t see that he can do anything about it.”
I supposed I ought to object to aiding and abetting a thief, but I found I didn’t care. If the painting meant something to Mrs. Laughlin, I was glad she could have it. We exited through the back again and finished loading the Volvo. I told the housekeeper that I’d see her at the funeral, and watched as she backed out carefully. Then I made sure the back door was locked—I didn’t want real thieves ransacking Corinne Blakely’s house—and trotted around to the front. Clouds had drifted in, obscuring what little light the stars and new moon provided, and the wind blew in fitful gusts. I locked the front door, too, fumbling the key a bit in the dark, and was just descending the steps when headlights swept into the driveway.
Chapter 8
I froze. Turner Blakely! I was so screwed. My choices were try to brazen it out or dive into the bushes adjacent to the stoop. If I tried to run for it, he’d see me. I dived.
Stiff holly leaves pricked me and scratched my face, and crushed juniper let out a fresh piney scent. The drop was only four feet or so, and I landed on my feet but pitched forward onto my knees. Damp soil caked my hands. Concentrating on being still, I tried not to think about the spiders or other creepy crawlies that might lurk in the greenery. I couldn’t see Turner or his car from my vantage point, but I heard the motor cut off, the door slam, and footsteps. A man’s figure came into view, pausing beside my Beetle. He stopped to look into the passenger-side window, then straightened and looked around. After a moment or two, he started toward the house.
Watching him walk, I knew it wasn’t Turner. As a dancer, I’m very aware of how people move, and this man didn’t move like Turner. His stride was longer, his balance better. Besides, I noted as he mounted the stairs, this man was taller than Corinne’s grandson. Looking over his shoulder when he reached the door, he reached for the knob and jiggled it in vain. I was glad I’d locked it.
The man rattled it harder, cursed, then pulled something from his wallet and had at the door again. Lock picks, maybe? I wondered whether he was one of those opportunistic thieves who read the obituaries and burgle dead people’s homes. The skritch of his tool against the door sounded loud in the stillness. A moment later, a faint snap elicited another curse and something fell to the ground almost noiselessly. As the man bent to pick it up, a gust of wind snatched it and tossed it into the bushes, right at my feet.
Ack! I tried to shrink back without rustling the bushes. Luckily, the wind was blowing hard enough to clack the branches together, so it covered, I hoped, any sounds I made. The burglar swore loud and long this time and crossed the wide stoop with a heavy tread, coming straight toward me. There was something familiar about his voice. . . .
I didn’t have time to figure it out as I concentrated on looking small and bent my head forward so my white face wouldn’t glimmer. I held my breath, praying the man wouldn’t want whatever he’d dropped badly enough to brave the holly to look for it. Labored breaths sounded from only a couple feet away, and the man muttered to himself, “Shit . . . flashlight . . . no one . . . find it.”
When the footsteps moved away again and no beam of light shone into my face, I took that to mean he wished he’d brought a flashlight and didn’t think anyone would find whatever he’d dropped, so it wasn’t worth searching in the bushes. The tink of metal against glass moments later, followed by a shaking sound, told me he was trying to
Similar Books
