Read Online Grave Doubts (A Paranormal Mystery Novel) by LYNN BOHART - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: LYNN BOHART
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light and then
stood in the entryway, wondering if she might somehow smell the scent of death.
But all she detected was the faint aroma of the rose potpourri that sat on a
small antique table by the front door.
Lee ignored her
impulse to turn around and leave and moved into the living room. She turned on
the brass lamp that flanked Diane’s dark green Queen Anne sofa and threw her
purse onto a wing-back chair. She stood back to survey the room.
Carey had been
there. A few boxes filled with books and loose paper sat next to Diane’s
fourteenth-century writing table. Another empty box sat next to the bookcase on
the far wall. An antique trunk stood open in the corner, revealing Diane’s
neatly folded quilts. Lee couldn’t help but stare at the middle of the floor,
just in front of the fireplace. There was no indication of the body. The police
hadn’t drawn a chalk outline like they do in the movies, and of course there
was no blood. There was just the oval braided carpet Diane had purchased at a
discount warehouse, surrounded by the newly finished hardwood floor.
Lee forced
herself to shift her gaze to the fireplace mantel where Diane’s old 35mm
Olympus camera sat tucked in amongst some family photos. Since Carey had
offered it to her, Lee stepped over to pick it up, thinking about the many
times she’d teased Diane about not moving up to a digital camera. When she
lifted up the camera, the back dropped open exposing an empty interior. This
made Lee pause. Diane had taken a picture of Lee the night she died. So where
was the film? Lee stared at the inside of the camera until she had to rub her
eyes. She was tired. Too tired. And she wasn’t here to worry about the camera. She
was here to find the Italian vase.
She set the
camera on the chair next to her purse, and then turned to the coffee table where
a cut glass bowl sat right where the urn used to be, looking quite small and
anemic in comparison. A quick look around the living room confirmed the urn was
nowhere in sight. For the next fifteen minutes, Lee conducted an intense
search, opening cupboards and drawers. She even looked behind furniture, but
everything was in perfect order, not a dust mote or a single spec of dirt in
sight. And no urn.
She climbed the
stairs to the second floor, but Diane’s bedroom and closet were studies in
perfection. Hanging clothes were organized by color and season. Plastic shoe
bins, labeled by type and color of the shoes inside, were stacked on the floor
in strict alignment. Large plastic bins were stacked on the upper shelf, each
labeled by their contents. The closet alone was enough to indicate that an
obsessive-compulsive person lived here.
The bathroom didn’t
offer any clues, either. The counter was bare except for a small porcelain cup.
Her toothbrush, hairbrush, and hair gel were all put away. In fact, the only indications
that a living, breathing person had once lived there was a full trash basket
and a small piece of paper sticking out of a hastily closed drawer. Lee pulled
out the sheet of paper and read the heading. It was from the hospital. Some
kind of lab report. Feeling intrusive, she carefully replaced it and headed
back downstairs.
She stopped in
frustration when she got to the kitchen. “C’mon, Diane, help me,” she mumbled
to herself. “Where’s the vase?”
Diane’s kitchen
floor was cleaner than most of the dishes in Lee’s cupboards, and the counters
looked downright lonely for company. Lee had never realized how sparse the
condo was before. It made Lee think of her own home where she had trouble
understanding the need for empty space. Every counter and wall was filled to
capacity.
“ I don’t
believe in clutter,” Diane had once said. Lee couldn’t help smiling,
remembering her response. “You can’t believe or disbelieve in clutter, Diane.
Clutter isn’t a religion!”
Diane had
merely raised an eyebrow before putting a pair of scissors in a drawer where
they belonged.
Lee
stood in the entryway, wondering if she might somehow smell the scent of death.
But all she detected was the faint aroma of the rose potpourri that sat on a
small antique table by the front door.
Lee ignored her
impulse to turn around and leave and moved into the living room. She turned on
the brass lamp that flanked Diane’s dark green Queen Anne sofa and threw her
purse onto a wing-back chair. She stood back to survey the room.
Carey had been
there. A few boxes filled with books and loose paper sat next to Diane’s
fourteenth-century writing table. Another empty box sat next to the bookcase on
the far wall. An antique trunk stood open in the corner, revealing Diane’s
neatly folded quilts. Lee couldn’t help but stare at the middle of the floor,
just in front of the fireplace. There was no indication of the body. The police
hadn’t drawn a chalk outline like they do in the movies, and of course there
was no blood. There was just the oval braided carpet Diane had purchased at a
discount warehouse, surrounded by the newly finished hardwood floor.
Lee forced
herself to shift her gaze to the fireplace mantel where Diane’s old 35mm
Olympus camera sat tucked in amongst some family photos. Since Carey had
offered it to her, Lee stepped over to pick it up, thinking about the many
times she’d teased Diane about not moving up to a digital camera. When she
lifted up the camera, the back dropped open exposing an empty interior. This
made Lee pause. Diane had taken a picture of Lee the night she died. So where
was the film? Lee stared at the inside of the camera until she had to rub her
eyes. She was tired. Too tired. And she wasn’t here to worry about the camera. She
was here to find the Italian vase.
She set the
camera on the chair next to her purse, and then turned to the coffee table where
a cut glass bowl sat right where the urn used to be, looking quite small and
anemic in comparison. A quick look around the living room confirmed the urn was
nowhere in sight. For the next fifteen minutes, Lee conducted an intense
search, opening cupboards and drawers. She even looked behind furniture, but
everything was in perfect order, not a dust mote or a single spec of dirt in
sight. And no urn.
She climbed the
stairs to the second floor, but Diane’s bedroom and closet were studies in
perfection. Hanging clothes were organized by color and season. Plastic shoe
bins, labeled by type and color of the shoes inside, were stacked on the floor
in strict alignment. Large plastic bins were stacked on the upper shelf, each
labeled by their contents. The closet alone was enough to indicate that an
obsessive-compulsive person lived here.
The bathroom didn’t
offer any clues, either. The counter was bare except for a small porcelain cup.
Her toothbrush, hairbrush, and hair gel were all put away. In fact, the only indications
that a living, breathing person had once lived there was a full trash basket
and a small piece of paper sticking out of a hastily closed drawer. Lee pulled
out the sheet of paper and read the heading. It was from the hospital. Some
kind of lab report. Feeling intrusive, she carefully replaced it and headed
back downstairs.
She stopped in
frustration when she got to the kitchen. “C’mon, Diane, help me,” she mumbled
to herself. “Where’s the vase?”
Diane’s kitchen
floor was cleaner than most of the dishes in Lee’s cupboards, and the counters
looked downright lonely for company. Lee had never realized how sparse the
condo was before. It made Lee think of her own home where she had trouble
understanding the need for empty space. Every counter and wall was filled to
capacity.
“ I don’t
believe in clutter,” Diane had once said. Lee couldn’t help smiling,
remembering her response. “You can’t believe or disbelieve in clutter, Diane.
Clutter isn’t a religion!”
Diane had
merely raised an eyebrow before putting a pair of scissors in a drawer where
they belonged.
Lee
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