Dead Certain - Mariah Stewart [71]
“Yes.”
“Enough to make a drawing?”
“I can try, but I’m afraid I’m not much of an artist. And I may not remember all of the details. I only saw it once close up.”
“Maybe you can sketch out what you remember, then we’ll pass it on to Dana and maybe she can work something up. She’s a pretty fair artist. Would you have time to sit with her for a while today?”
“Sure. I have all the time in the world.”
She looked across the cobblestone walk to where her own shop sat, locked up and dark. She had no desire to so much as unlock the door.
“Ready, then?” Sean stood near the door.
“Sure,” she sighed. “Why not?”
Her two best friends were gone, her business—once her sanctuary—now a sad and silent reminder of all she’d lost over the past few weeks.
She might as well spend the rest of the day at the police station. She had nowhere else to go.
Now, where was the bitch? Honest to God, you turn your back on a woman for twenty-four hours and she disappears.
Vince had tramped through the woods that bordered the open field behind Amanda’s house, climbed a tree he’d used for this exact purpose several times before, and, binoculars in hand, studied the house for the past three hours. There’d been no movement. No lights on at dawn, no music, no TV chatter, as was her usual routine.
Maybe she’s in mourning, he thought wryly, then glanced at his watch.
Till nine-thirty in the morning? Not likely. Not her. She was the original early to bed, early to rise girl.
He should know.
So far this morning, he’d watched the neighbors on either side of the little Victorian house leave for work. Amanda should have followed them by now.
“Oh, what the hell . . .”
He swung his legs over the branch below and dropped effortlessly to the ground. Cautious, just in case someone in the neighborhood was still at home, he approached the house along the shrub line, bent over at an angle so that his head never rose above the shortest of the shrubs. When he got to the back of her garage, he straightened up and stealthily inched along the wooden structure until he had an unobstructed view of the driveway.
Her car wasn’t there.
Well, well, well. Wonder where Missy Amanda slept last night?
He crept along the drive, then made a dash for the back of the house. Once near the porch, he knew he was safe. The steps blocked off the view from the neighbors on the left, even if anyone had been home at that hour. He dropped to his knees and ever so carefully pushed out a pane of glass in one of the basement windows. He placed it on the grass, out of harm’s way, and pushed in the sash. He lowered himself through the opening and dropped quietly into the basement, as he’d done so many times before.
“Let’s see what Miss Amanda has been up to,” he muttered.
He went directly to the far end of the basement and into the small room where a washer and dryer stood on a raised pedestal of concrete. He opened the washer and looked in. Empty. He peeked in the dryer. Empty as well. No laundry yet this week, Amanda?
Disappointed, he went up the stairs. Last time he’d lifted a pretty thong made out of a pale pink fabric and stuck it in his pocket. No such prize today.
He wondered if she’d even noticed it was gone.
Maybe she thought she’d left it someplace else, he snorted as he used a credit card to unlock the basement door.
The house lay still. Even the air seemed to be undisturbed until he made his way through it. He looked through the refrigerator and helped himself to a handful of strawberries, which he munched while he rifled through her mail and selected a magazine. He popped the tab on a beer and took it with him up the steps to her bedroom. Pausing in the doorway, he looked around the room.
Nothing had changed since his last visit a few days earlier.
He placed the beer bottle on the magazine on the bedside table, then lay down on the bed and stretched out. Catching her scent, he followed his nose, then buried his face in the pillow. It smelled clean, slightly lemony. It turned him on. He’d have to check