Bones of a Feather - Carolyn Haines [87]
Barclay’s eyes narrowed. “What do you think Millicent knew that cost her her life?”
“Depends on who killed her,” I said. “It wasn’t Monica or Eleanor.”
“We need to search Millicent’s house and talk to Hightower,” I said.
“I have dibs on Hightower,” Tinkie said.
“And I’m going with you.” Barclay pointed at Tinkie.
“No problem.” She reached up and chunked him under the chin. “As cute as you are, you can shadow me wherever I go.”
And with that, she successfully transformed the brooding lord of Briarcliff into a lap dog. I had to give it to Tinkie, she could perform magic.
19
By default, I was left with Millicent’s house. I put Hightower and his antics out of my mind as I walked down the sidewalk to the pink confection of a Victorian house.
The over-the-top lawn decorations now seemed sad. When she was alive, Millicent created an energy that gave her peculiarities a certain vitality. Death had stolen that. Now I feared Millicent would be remembered for her eccentricities and nothing else. It made me wonder what my legacy would be if I died suddenly. Not exactly a thought to warm the cockles of my heart. Or my empty womb, as Jitty would be quick to point out.
If the yard décor could be ignored, Millicent’s home was actually elegant and a fine example of Southern architecture. One thing about old Barthelme—he knew how to build structures that withstood the test of time. Combining history, grace, and a sense of endless summer, the house sported gingerbread trim and green shutters. Hummingbird vines with bright orange blossoms twined around the porch balustrade. Millicent had created a place that was stamped with her personality yet also included a nod at a time past when folks visited on front porches. The wide, shady gallery was an invitation to “sit a spell and talk.”
Which I might have done if one of the seven dwarves holding a sledge hammer hadn’t jumped to life and begun tapping the porch. The evil little gnome almost scared me to death. I snatched it up and discovered the thing was battery operated. Apparently my footsteps had jarred the on switch. Or else Millicent remained on the premises, still enjoying a practical joke. I knew plenty about prankish ghosts.
“Jitty?” It could be that Dahlia House’s haint had come to keep me company. But there was no answer. “Jitty?” I moved forward carefully.
With the happy pink paint, the house was like a birthday cake. What would happen to it now? I tried, unsuccessfully, to block the photograph of Millicent’s dead body from my mind as I knocked on the leaded-glass door. No one answered, of course. I twisted the knob, which wouldn’t turn. It would have been so much easier if she’d merely left her house unlocked, but Millicent had never been about making life less bumpy for others.
No prying neighbors watched, so I slipped into the high shrubbery and crept to the back. It took nothing to jiggle a screen off a back window and ease the pane up. Like Briarcliff, the house was old—built in a time when home invasions were virtually nonexistent. And since the house had belonged to Barthelme, the head robber and gangster in town, he had little to fear from others. Security wasn’t a priority, and Millicent hadn’t felt the need for burglar systems and bars. While those living in large cities might find the lack of protection odd, I didn’t. I had no security measures at Dahlia House, to speak of. Other than Sweetie, who was pretty much as effective as a team of Pinkerton agents.
As I hoisted myself into the window, I wished for the company of my hound. I’d left Sweetie and Roscoe in Eleanor’s care. She remained at Briarcliff to answer the phone. The call from the kidnappers could come at any moment. Their normal routine was to wait until late in the evening, but this was the night designated for the drop. They could call at any hour.
With that thought in mind, I hurried through the library and parlor and stopped in the doll room only long enough to scan the life-sized replicas of Millicent, each one adorned in a costume