Bones of a Feather - Carolyn Haines [77]
The sun beat down on my head and back, but a cold sweat popped out along my hairline. Surely this couldn’t be real. It had to be some kind of fake. I stepped into the shade for a clearer view of the screen, and the horror tripled. It wasn’t a fake.
Millicent Gentry lay in the underbrush, her neck twisted at a grotesque angle. And someone had gone to the trouble to dress her as a Shopping Barbie. She even held a Macy’s bag filled with rhinestone tiaras.
The sensation of being watched made me lower the camera and look around. Sweetie gave a low, dangerous growl, as if she, too, suddenly sniffed danger. Around me birds sang, the wind whispered through the trees, and in the distance there was the mournful horn of a tug on the river. Nothing had changed—except I knew someone was watching me.
Quickly scanning the underbrush, I searched for Millicent’s body. It had to be nearby. In the photo she was partially leaned against the base of a big oak. The grounds of Briarcliff contained hundreds of old oaks.
After half an hour of searching, I had to admit the body was nowhere in evidence. Whoever had taken the picture had either removed the body or returned the camera to a spot where it would easily be found by someone on the path to Jerome’s cottage. The killer wanted us to know he’d taken a life. This wasn’t just about ransom money now. This was about murder.
The rules of the game had taken a drastic turn for the worse.
17
With the camera in hand and Sweetie right at my side, I jogged back to Briarcliff. Stepping into the shadow of the house I felt the temperature drop ten degrees. The place cast an impressive shadow uncomfortably reminiscent of a mausoleum.
Ignoring the sensation of lingering evil, I pushed open the front door and went straight to the telephone.
Tinkie answered her cell phone on the first ring.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“At the bank. What’s wrong? You sound like someone shrank your panty hose.”
“Come back to Briarcliff. Now.” The phone wasn’t to be trusted. I couldn’t be certain who might be listening—the pervasive sense of being watched had followed me from the woods into the house. Someone knew every move we made.
My first instinct had been to call Gunny, but instead I waited for Tinkie and Eleanor to return. The police had to be called. No more fooling around. To put the best face possible on an ugly situation, Eleanor should be the person to contact the police.
“What on earth is wrong with you?” Tinkie was more concerned than annoyed.
“No questions. Come quickly.”
“It must be bad if you won’t say. Is it Moni—”
“Don’t say anything else,” I interrupted, paranoia alive and gnawing at my gut. “Trust me and just get Eleanor and bring her here.”
“We’re on the way.” She was confused by my request, but she knew me well enough to know I had good reasons for my cryptic conduct.
I collapsed into a wingback chair in the parlor and put my face in my hands. Things had escalated so fast. Millicent was dead and probably still somewhere on the grounds. The idea of a corpse left under a tree was distressing enough, but Jerome was also missing, maybe dead. Monica was a hostage. In a matter of hours, the carnage in a supposedly simple insurance investigation had climbed to a level I could never have imagined.
I was about to curl up in a fetal position and wait for Tinkie when a fist pounded on the front door. My first impulse was to run out the back and hide in the woods, but I braced myself against irrational fear.
“Nevermore!” I whispered as I got up wearily to answer the knocking.
The one person I would never have anticipated stood at the front entrance. Helena Banks Gorenflo held the tether of a small, blond-spotted, beagle-type dog with the most bizarre goatee of frizzy white hair. The dog looked completely demented, as did Helena. She glared at me. The spotted beagle hiked his leg and peed on Helena’s bejeweled black flat.
“Tell Millicent she’s finished in Natchez society.” Helena thrust the leash toward my hand. “She will pay for this. She will pay.”
I didn’t answer and I