Read Online Stalker (9780307823557) by Joan Lowery Nixon - Free Book Online
Authors: Joan Lowery Nixon
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though she didn’t know where to start.
“When you came to see Bobbie, which door did you usually use?”
“The back door.”
“Then carefully walk to the back door—this way, around the edge of the room.” Lucas waited until she was standing at the closed door, then said, “All right. Turn around and look at the room again. See anything that doesn’t belong? Anything out of place? Take your time. People tend to remember only the most obvious details. I expect better from you.”
Jennifer took a long breath and began to study the room from left to right. Nothing different. Nothing. But something bothered her, and her glance swept back and up. “Some of the pictures are gone,” she said.
Edging the room again, she went to the wall by the front door. The framed snapshots were like a bunch of grapes with a few juicy ones plucked from the middle. “Yes,” she said. “There was a picture here, and here, and over here. See—where the wall is a lighter color.”
“Who was in the pictures?” Lucas was beside her.
Jennifer shrugged. “I have no idea. Mrs. Trax, of course, but I don’t know who else. I guess these must be a collection of snapshots of her with her friends. This looks like a picnic at the beach. And here’s one taken in a nightclub.” She poked at one of them in the top row.
“Husband? Boyfriends?”
“Maybe. I guess. Bobbie might know. I’ve never paid much attention to the pictures, because I didn’t know any of the people in them.”
Lucas was writing in his black-covered notebook. “Okay,” he said. “That was a good start. Anything else?”
She studied the room again, and this time she shook her head.
Lucas had opened a drawer of the table against the wall.
“I thought you said we couldn’t touch anything,” she told him; then she saw the pencil he had used to hook the plastic drawer pull. He didn’t answer. He used the end of the pencil to poke through some of the papers in the drawer.
“How did the killer get in?” Jennifer asked.
“There was no sign of forced entry,” he said. “Both doors were locked.”
“What about the window with the broken lock?”
Lucas stood and looked at her sharply. “What window?”
Jennifer pointed to the window behind the sofa, the window opening to the backyard. “The window doesn’t lock. The catch has always been broken. Bobbie sometimes used to slide it up and climb through when she forgot her key.”
“Did anyone besides Bobbie know about the broken catch?”
“I guess. Her brothers must have known.”
He was already at the window, bending, stooping, staring.
“Are you looking for fingerprints?”
“The window hasn’t been dusted for prints,” he said. “I’ll get someone to do that.”
“Will they let you know what they find?”
“We’re not playing a game,” he said. “We’re not seeing who are the winners or the losers. We’re all working for one thing—to gather as many facts as we can to help solve this case.”
“Well, in detective shows on TV—”
“Forget what you’ve seen on television. It has nothing to do with life.”
“Could we turn on a light?” Jennifer asked. “It’s getting dim in here.”
“We’re almost through.” He was bent nearly double, one hand pressing against the small of his back, as he studied the upholstery directly under the window.
Jennifer glanced down at the open drawer of the desk, at the jumble of letters and papers it contained. There were grocery receipts, old shopping lists, one of Bobbie’s report cards, but a paper sticking out of the pile near the front of the drawer drew her attention. The scrawly handwriting looked vaguely familiar. It wasn’t Bobbie’s or Stella’s. Why did she feel as though she ought to be able to identify it? The few words she could read made no sense. They came at the end of what seemed to be a short mailer about a sale at Dillard’s Department Store. It wasn’t signed. She picked up the paper and folded it in half,
“When you came to see Bobbie, which door did you usually use?”
“The back door.”
“Then carefully walk to the back door—this way, around the edge of the room.” Lucas waited until she was standing at the closed door, then said, “All right. Turn around and look at the room again. See anything that doesn’t belong? Anything out of place? Take your time. People tend to remember only the most obvious details. I expect better from you.”
Jennifer took a long breath and began to study the room from left to right. Nothing different. Nothing. But something bothered her, and her glance swept back and up. “Some of the pictures are gone,” she said.
Edging the room again, she went to the wall by the front door. The framed snapshots were like a bunch of grapes with a few juicy ones plucked from the middle. “Yes,” she said. “There was a picture here, and here, and over here. See—where the wall is a lighter color.”
“Who was in the pictures?” Lucas was beside her.
Jennifer shrugged. “I have no idea. Mrs. Trax, of course, but I don’t know who else. I guess these must be a collection of snapshots of her with her friends. This looks like a picnic at the beach. And here’s one taken in a nightclub.” She poked at one of them in the top row.
“Husband? Boyfriends?”
“Maybe. I guess. Bobbie might know. I’ve never paid much attention to the pictures, because I didn’t know any of the people in them.”
Lucas was writing in his black-covered notebook. “Okay,” he said. “That was a good start. Anything else?”
She studied the room again, and this time she shook her head.
Lucas had opened a drawer of the table against the wall.
“I thought you said we couldn’t touch anything,” she told him; then she saw the pencil he had used to hook the plastic drawer pull. He didn’t answer. He used the end of the pencil to poke through some of the papers in the drawer.
“How did the killer get in?” Jennifer asked.
“There was no sign of forced entry,” he said. “Both doors were locked.”
“What about the window with the broken lock?”
Lucas stood and looked at her sharply. “What window?”
Jennifer pointed to the window behind the sofa, the window opening to the backyard. “The window doesn’t lock. The catch has always been broken. Bobbie sometimes used to slide it up and climb through when she forgot her key.”
“Did anyone besides Bobbie know about the broken catch?”
“I guess. Her brothers must have known.”
He was already at the window, bending, stooping, staring.
“Are you looking for fingerprints?”
“The window hasn’t been dusted for prints,” he said. “I’ll get someone to do that.”
“Will they let you know what they find?”
“We’re not playing a game,” he said. “We’re not seeing who are the winners or the losers. We’re all working for one thing—to gather as many facts as we can to help solve this case.”
“Well, in detective shows on TV—”
“Forget what you’ve seen on television. It has nothing to do with life.”
“Could we turn on a light?” Jennifer asked. “It’s getting dim in here.”
“We’re almost through.” He was bent nearly double, one hand pressing against the small of his back, as he studied the upholstery directly under the window.
Jennifer glanced down at the open drawer of the desk, at the jumble of letters and papers it contained. There were grocery receipts, old shopping lists, one of Bobbie’s report cards, but a paper sticking out of the pile near the front of the drawer drew her attention. The scrawly handwriting looked vaguely familiar. It wasn’t Bobbie’s or Stella’s. Why did she feel as though she ought to be able to identify it? The few words she could read made no sense. They came at the end of what seemed to be a short mailer about a sale at Dillard’s Department Store. It wasn’t signed. She picked up the paper and folded it in half,
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