A Line To Murder (A Puget Sound Mystery) Read Free Page B

towels hung on the bars. The soap dishes were dry. The clothes hamper had some underwear but no towels. Nothing wet or mildewy. In the seemingly empty house, a faucet dripped slowly, breaking the creepy silence. Andy pushed open Isca’s bedroom door and looked around. “I always hated this room.”
    “Huh?”
    “How Isca decorated it, I mean. I felt like I lived in a rain forest or something.”
    The room was unusual. One wall had a large stencil of something resembling bamboo trees, or perhaps tall fronds of kelp. Very subtle, just hinted at in the muted shades of beige, green and dusty gray. A metal semicircle hung from the center of the ceiling. From it dangled pot after pot of plants—strange succulents, ferns and ivy. Currents of air from no noticeable source moved the smaller pots in an uncanny way.
    “Come on. There’s nothing here. Something probably died under the house and Isca can take care of it when she gets back.” Andy crossed the hall to Dominic’s room and pushed the door open, almost angrily. It recoiled off the wall and swung back. The heavy wood hit him on the shoulder. He froze in his tracks. I looked over his shoulder.
    Isca lay in the middle of the bed. Her head, lolling slightly to one side, was propped up against the headboard. The bed covers were pulled up modestly over her chest. Dried black blood tattooed her arms. Around her neck, tied with a looping, tuxedo bow was a black phone cord. She clutched a Barbie doll with a broken neck in one hand. The other hand lay palm up by her side, as if in supplication.
    There was too much horror to take in at once. It seemed obvious no small struggle had taken place. Furniture was knocked over. Toys lay broken and scattered on the hardwood floor as if swept off the shelves by an angry arm, or flung at something. Throw rugs were in wads, where feet had stumbled and kicked them. The window shades were drawn, but even in the dim light, splashes of color marred the pale-green walls—rusty-colored splats with tear-like runnels. Worst of all was Isca. A black, sticky-looking spot on her head indicated she had been hit at least once. Her eyes were bruised and had sunk back in her head. Her mouth hung open, showing her blackened tongue. Parasites had already moved in and started their families. The sight of roiling maggots was almost more than I could bear. Isca’s rotting body was obviously the source of the odor. The fetid smell was so powerful Andy and I gagged.
    Andy grabbed my arm and practically dragged me down the hall. We made it to the porch and half fell over the railing, hurling into a bed of heather. Even after I had nothing left to bring up, the smell, caught in my nose hairs, made me retch repeatedly.
    A car went down the street. A lawn mower started. A sweaty, red-faced jogger ran by. The sights and sounds rolled around in my brain like chips in a kaleidoscope. I started to shake.
    I looked at Andy. “One of us is going to have to call the police.”
    “Not from here. I’m not going back in there. Come on. Sit in the car. I’ll go across the street to the Janes’ house and call nine-one-one.”
    “No!” I clutched his shirt. “No. I’m going with you. He could be here. He could be watching.”
    “Don’t be an ass.” Andy’s shirt and breath reeked of vomit. I drew back. Mine probably did too. I couldn’t stop shaking.
    “All right then.” Unexpectedly, Andy’s voice was gentle, and his eyes, behind his glasses, were kind. “We’ll go together, but do you have some gum or something? God.” Before I could check my purse he took my hand in a warm, comforting grip. “Come on.”
    In the driveway of an older, ranch-style house, a youngish-looking man in shorts and a tank top shot baskets with three boys. At our approach, he bounced the ball toward one of them and came to meet us with an outstretched hand. “Hey, Andy. Long time no see. How’s it going?”
    “Okay, Rick, and you guys?”
    “Hanging in there.” He paused and