“Take mine.” Bentley thrust a set of keys in my face. “She lives in Dunston, on Persimmon Avenue, number eighteen. Hurry!”
Caught up in Bentley’s urgency, I scampered down the stairs and to the parking lot before I realized I didn’t know what car Bentley drove. One of the keys had the BMW logo on it, so I scanned the cars and found the lone Beemer on the lot—a silver Z4. Climbing into the driver’s seat, I wondered what Trey would think of his mother sitting behind the wheel of this sleek machine.
My mind didn’t stay on Trey for long. As I drove to Dunston, I kept going over the reasons I believed Luella might be guilty of murdering Marlette. I wondered why she hadn’t returned to work, knowing she wasn’t really sick when she rushed out of the office this morning. I was both afraid and determined to meet her face-to-face.
Driving on Dunston’s main street felt so familiar, yet it seemed so long since I’d been there. Life had changed for me, and this town had become a part of my past, not my future.
I knew how to find Persimmon Avenue because Trey had attended a playgroup in the area when he was a toddler. I found number eighteen without any problem and sat in the car staring at the cream-colored clapboard Victorian house. Its wide front porch had wild rose vines climbing over the railings all the way up to the gingerbread trim. A flagstone walkway led to the porch steps, and at one end of the spacious porch, a large oak cast a cool shadow on the house.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped out of the car.
My knock echoed inside the house, and I tried to still my nerves. No one else involved in the investigation knew Luella’s true identity, and if something happened to me…I backed down the stairs and took my cell phone out of my bag. Sean’s voicemail answered after four interminable rings, and I whispered a harried message, indicating where I was and for him to please call me. Hoping I didn’t sound too hysterical, I added, “I might be in a dangerous situation here.” I then snapped the phone shut and climbed back up the stairs.
Knocking a second time generated no response. Steeling myself, I turned the knob and was surprised to find it unlocked.
“Luella?” I stuck my head inside and called out, louder this time, “Luella? Are you home?”
The house was silent. I stepped inside, leaving the door open behind me, just in case I should need to make a hasty retreat. In the closed hallway, I was glad for the daylight streaming inside.
My first impression was that of polished wood. Yellow pine with a rich patina formed the floor, trimmed the doorways, and made up the wainscoting in the hall. The living room was furnished just like Luella’s office at Novel Idea, with beautiful antique furniture, a Persian carpet, and flowery upholstered chairs and sofa.
The kitchen featured bright red appliances, yellow cabinets, and a blue granite countertop, splashing the room with color. Everything sparkled, and nothing seemed out of place.
I continued along the hall. The first door revealed a study with a desk and book-filled shelves. The second room, a bathroom, was decorated in retro colors, with black-and-white tiles and green fixtures. A guest room was calming in sedate blues and grays. All the rooms were clean and tidy, as if they had recently been cleaned. I found it difficult to reconcile the woman who owned this neat, comfortable home with the monster Luella had become in my mind.
At the last door I paused, for no reason that I could fathom; I just knew that I would find something amiss. I opened the door and looked inside.
A scream escaped from my throat, sounding too loud and strangely foreign as it reverberated down the empty hall. I leaned against the doorframe and struggled to breathe. My mind did not want to accept what my eyes were seeing.
There was Luella, laid out on the bed like Sleeping Beauty, her dress tidily arranged, her hands crossed over her breast. Her abundant hair was fanned out almost lovingly, draping across the plump pillow. And on the pillow was a large red bloodstain.
Slowly, I approached and picked up her cold hand. I could find no pulse at her wrist.
Luella was dead.
As I struggled to take the phone out of my purse with shaking hands, a movement outside the window caught my eye. I turned and looked. There, on a branch of the large oak tree, sat a crow. He cocked his head and cast his beady eyes at me as I stood there, frozen in shock.
I stared back at him, reluctant to return my gaze to Luella’s waxen face. As if to mock my helplessness, he spread his wings and took flight, leaving me alone with the dead.
Chapter 12
I DON’T REMEMBER CALLING THE POLICE.
I vaguely recall the sound of sirens, but they seemed to remain at a distance, never coming close enough to break through the fog enveloping my senses.