Read Online Fortunes of the Dead by Lynn Hightower - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lynn Hightower
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randomness that smacked of feng shui. All of them were stained but drained. Bills, paid and unpaid, were filed beneath the top book in the tallest pile. The danger, and I know this from personal experience, is that this bill paying system frequently goes awry if additional books are added to the top of the pile. But the book stack method is at least as effective as the drawer toss of a more orderly soul.
Faceup next to the computer was a hot-pink class and assignment schedule. I flipped it open, wondering that the police had left it behind. No personal entriesâeverything school related. It was sobering to see the hoops Cheryl went through to get the ATF internship in the first place, all noted in a detailed list that included her adviserâs approval before she could register, an interview with a being dubbed âthe coordinator,â a formidable list of forms to fill out, and a note about a waiver. Requirements, once the internship was acquired, included a minimum forty-hour workweek and a professional work journal to be handed in to Cherylâs professor at the end of her internship. The journal would be used to determine her grade.
I wondered where the journal was. Joel hadnât mentioned it; neither had Miranda. But Joel either had it, or was looking for it. An interesting tidbit heâd held back.
The kitchen was disappointing. Cheryl survived on bee pollen, CQ 10, black cohosh, soy capsules, iron pills, and Chocks Chewable Vitamins. I would bet her mother gave her Chocks when she was a little girl. I had grown up on Flintstones vitamins, and my favorite were the purple ones shaped like Dino the Dinosaur.
A cloud of energetic gnats circled three deflated and blackened bananas that were beginning to make a puddle on the countertop; the trash can had the vintage odor of garbage that has gone beyond ripe. The sink was clean save a coffee cup and juice glass. I counted enough knives in the drawers to assume none were missing. The fridge had catsup, mayonnaise, one open can of Dr Pepper, and a pizza box from Papa Johns. The crisper held a packet of soy, several spongy-looking apples, and an unopened container of limp, dispirited bean sprouts. The small freezer held Lean Cuisines, banana Popsicles, and two empty ice-cube trays. Wheat germ, Cheerios, and a small pillow of blue mold that looked to have once been multigrain brown bread were all that occupied a sparse pantry. I wanted to throw the bananas away, but it seemed pointless, as the trash can wasnât going to be emptied anytime soon.
The bed was neatly made, which surprised me. The bedspread was inexpensive white chenille with pink rosebuds. In the corner was a small pressboard desk that had been turned into a vanity table by nailing tacks along the edges to hold a ruffled pink skirt. I pictured Cheryl and her mother sewing the skirt and nailing it to the desk, years and years ago. My sister had something very like it that she and my mother put together when Whitney was eight. Whitney was the froufrou member of the family. I still feel strange buying clothes without her approval.
I sat down on the bed. A bamboo bedside table held two pictures, one framed and holding pride of place: a candid shot of Cheryl and a woman who was surely her mother. Cheryl got her good looks from Mom, both of them auburn-haired and slender, their faces attractive and catlike. A loose photograph of a blond male, college-age, in a green polo shirt and beige Dockers, had been torn in half and then taped back together. I turned it over and saw that Cheryl had drawn two hearts on the back, framing the name Rob. I vaguely remembered Joel mentioning an ex-boyfriend, also at EKU. The ex had been out of town attending a forensics workshop at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville when Cheryl first disappeared. He had been seen constantly by numerous people while there and Joel had crossed him off the suspect list early on.
I got up off the bed and opened the vinyl bi-fold
Faceup next to the computer was a hot-pink class and assignment schedule. I flipped it open, wondering that the police had left it behind. No personal entriesâeverything school related. It was sobering to see the hoops Cheryl went through to get the ATF internship in the first place, all noted in a detailed list that included her adviserâs approval before she could register, an interview with a being dubbed âthe coordinator,â a formidable list of forms to fill out, and a note about a waiver. Requirements, once the internship was acquired, included a minimum forty-hour workweek and a professional work journal to be handed in to Cherylâs professor at the end of her internship. The journal would be used to determine her grade.
I wondered where the journal was. Joel hadnât mentioned it; neither had Miranda. But Joel either had it, or was looking for it. An interesting tidbit heâd held back.
The kitchen was disappointing. Cheryl survived on bee pollen, CQ 10, black cohosh, soy capsules, iron pills, and Chocks Chewable Vitamins. I would bet her mother gave her Chocks when she was a little girl. I had grown up on Flintstones vitamins, and my favorite were the purple ones shaped like Dino the Dinosaur.
A cloud of energetic gnats circled three deflated and blackened bananas that were beginning to make a puddle on the countertop; the trash can had the vintage odor of garbage that has gone beyond ripe. The sink was clean save a coffee cup and juice glass. I counted enough knives in the drawers to assume none were missing. The fridge had catsup, mayonnaise, one open can of Dr Pepper, and a pizza box from Papa Johns. The crisper held a packet of soy, several spongy-looking apples, and an unopened container of limp, dispirited bean sprouts. The small freezer held Lean Cuisines, banana Popsicles, and two empty ice-cube trays. Wheat germ, Cheerios, and a small pillow of blue mold that looked to have once been multigrain brown bread were all that occupied a sparse pantry. I wanted to throw the bananas away, but it seemed pointless, as the trash can wasnât going to be emptied anytime soon.
The bed was neatly made, which surprised me. The bedspread was inexpensive white chenille with pink rosebuds. In the corner was a small pressboard desk that had been turned into a vanity table by nailing tacks along the edges to hold a ruffled pink skirt. I pictured Cheryl and her mother sewing the skirt and nailing it to the desk, years and years ago. My sister had something very like it that she and my mother put together when Whitney was eight. Whitney was the froufrou member of the family. I still feel strange buying clothes without her approval.
I sat down on the bed. A bamboo bedside table held two pictures, one framed and holding pride of place: a candid shot of Cheryl and a woman who was surely her mother. Cheryl got her good looks from Mom, both of them auburn-haired and slender, their faces attractive and catlike. A loose photograph of a blond male, college-age, in a green polo shirt and beige Dockers, had been torn in half and then taped back together. I turned it over and saw that Cheryl had drawn two hearts on the back, framing the name Rob. I vaguely remembered Joel mentioning an ex-boyfriend, also at EKU. The ex had been out of town attending a forensics workshop at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville when Cheryl first disappeared. He had been seen constantly by numerous people while there and Joel had crossed him off the suspect list early on.
I got up off the bed and opened the vinyl bi-fold
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