Read Online Maria Hudgins - Lacy Glass 01 - Scorpion House by Maria Hudgins - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Maria Hudgins
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to one side. “No you’re not. You aren’t naïve, you just choose to keep it simple, don’t you? We’re all just friends, aren’t we? Partners, buddies and pals.”
“Have it your way.”
“Seriously, Lacy. When you were going out with that guy, Bart, Joel was unbelievably pissed. He talked to me about it a couple of times.”
“What did he say?”
“He said the guy was a jerk. Not good enough for his sweet Lacy.”
“The guy
was
a jerk. The fact that Joel was smart enough to see it when I couldn’t doesn’t mean he had the hots for me. It only means he was smart.”
Lacy left the porch, went straight to Joel’s bedroom, and stole the top sheet.
* * *
Lacy lay on her own bed trying to figure out how Lanier’s wrinkle concoction could have wound up smeared on the selvage edge of Joel Friedman’s top sheet. She had examined the smudge again, smelled it and compared it to the scent of the cream in the bowl still sitting on the table in the antika room. Same grassy smell. Tucking the soiled sheet into the bottom drawer of her dresser, she recalled the blob she’d seen on the outside of Joel’s elbow the evening before. On his left arm. Joel had used his right hand to turn Lacy’s chin, and, looking downward, she had glimpsed Joel’s left arm.
The smear, a translucent greasy spot, was on the side of the sheet that had been facing up. About a foot from the margin and halfway between the top and bottom edges. As Joel had lain on top of the sheets, that spot would have been down between the bed and the wall. Had he gone to bed on top of both sheets, or had he slipped between them and decided it was too hot? Face up or down? Either way, the outside of his left elbow wouldn’t contact that part of the sheet. It would have had to be pulled up and over him. And he would have had to be facing down.
Could someone have wrapped the sheet around him, pinning his arms to his sides, then sat on him and smothered him with his own pillow? That would explain why Joel hadn’t cried out.
She experimented. She turned and twisted every direction in her own bed, pulling her top sheet this way and that. She scrambled through her makeup bag until she found a tube of aloe gel and smeared some on her left arm. She found she could get smudges on the center of the sheet, the pillow, or the top margin, but not on the left edge. No way. Pulling Joel’s sheet out again, she held it up to the light slanting through her window. The spot where the unguent had contacted the sheet had turned translucent. She shook it out preparing to fold it up again, then stopped. There was another spot—lighter but almost the same size and shape as the first. Laying the sheet out flat, Lacy folded the two sides over until they coincided, and a small cry slipped from her throat. Now the sheet formed a sort of burrito-shaped envelope just large enough to accommodate a man’s body. It was so obvious it made her sick to her stomach. Someone had wrapped Joel in the sheet, face down, his arms trapped by his sides, and held him there until the pillow took his life. No scream. No noise.
Slipping back into Joel’s room, she looked around one more time. Was anything else out of place? Strange? A suitcase lay open on the floor beside the dresser, not completely unpacked. On the writing table, a manila folder. The same one he’d brought to the greenhouse on Friday? On the outside, Joel had written “Selim Hamdy,” and “Jody Myers.” Who was that? She opened the folder and found Joel’s itinerary, flight insurance forms, a photocopy of his passport photo page and a page, in Joel’s own handwriting, of addresses and phone numbers, mostly folks back home. For postcards probably. She spied a red smear on the back and recalled the tomato juice spill on the plane. Lacy closed the folder, took it across the hall to her own room and stuck it in her bottom drawer on top of the sheet.
As crazy as it sounded, Lacy couldn’t think of a more likely scenario
“Have it your way.”
“Seriously, Lacy. When you were going out with that guy, Bart, Joel was unbelievably pissed. He talked to me about it a couple of times.”
“What did he say?”
“He said the guy was a jerk. Not good enough for his sweet Lacy.”
“The guy
was
a jerk. The fact that Joel was smart enough to see it when I couldn’t doesn’t mean he had the hots for me. It only means he was smart.”
Lacy left the porch, went straight to Joel’s bedroom, and stole the top sheet.
* * *
Lacy lay on her own bed trying to figure out how Lanier’s wrinkle concoction could have wound up smeared on the selvage edge of Joel Friedman’s top sheet. She had examined the smudge again, smelled it and compared it to the scent of the cream in the bowl still sitting on the table in the antika room. Same grassy smell. Tucking the soiled sheet into the bottom drawer of her dresser, she recalled the blob she’d seen on the outside of Joel’s elbow the evening before. On his left arm. Joel had used his right hand to turn Lacy’s chin, and, looking downward, she had glimpsed Joel’s left arm.
The smear, a translucent greasy spot, was on the side of the sheet that had been facing up. About a foot from the margin and halfway between the top and bottom edges. As Joel had lain on top of the sheets, that spot would have been down between the bed and the wall. Had he gone to bed on top of both sheets, or had he slipped between them and decided it was too hot? Face up or down? Either way, the outside of his left elbow wouldn’t contact that part of the sheet. It would have had to be pulled up and over him. And he would have had to be facing down.
Could someone have wrapped the sheet around him, pinning his arms to his sides, then sat on him and smothered him with his own pillow? That would explain why Joel hadn’t cried out.
She experimented. She turned and twisted every direction in her own bed, pulling her top sheet this way and that. She scrambled through her makeup bag until she found a tube of aloe gel and smeared some on her left arm. She found she could get smudges on the center of the sheet, the pillow, or the top margin, but not on the left edge. No way. Pulling Joel’s sheet out again, she held it up to the light slanting through her window. The spot where the unguent had contacted the sheet had turned translucent. She shook it out preparing to fold it up again, then stopped. There was another spot—lighter but almost the same size and shape as the first. Laying the sheet out flat, Lacy folded the two sides over until they coincided, and a small cry slipped from her throat. Now the sheet formed a sort of burrito-shaped envelope just large enough to accommodate a man’s body. It was so obvious it made her sick to her stomach. Someone had wrapped Joel in the sheet, face down, his arms trapped by his sides, and held him there until the pillow took his life. No scream. No noise.
Slipping back into Joel’s room, she looked around one more time. Was anything else out of place? Strange? A suitcase lay open on the floor beside the dresser, not completely unpacked. On the writing table, a manila folder. The same one he’d brought to the greenhouse on Friday? On the outside, Joel had written “Selim Hamdy,” and “Jody Myers.” Who was that? She opened the folder and found Joel’s itinerary, flight insurance forms, a photocopy of his passport photo page and a page, in Joel’s own handwriting, of addresses and phone numbers, mostly folks back home. For postcards probably. She spied a red smear on the back and recalled the tomato juice spill on the plane. Lacy closed the folder, took it across the hall to her own room and stuck it in her bottom drawer on top of the sheet.
As crazy as it sounded, Lacy couldn’t think of a more likely scenario
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