His Partner's Wife Read Free

thought.
"That he must be a burglar or something."
    "Very likely." John didn't sound satisfied.
"Two of them may have had a quarrel."
    "But why my house?" Was she asking them, or the Fates?
"Stuart's stereo is nice, I guess, and a burglar could have that
big-screen TV with my compliments, but they're both still there. I don't know
if anything was touched."
    "The scumbag might have panicked after bashing in his
partner's head and fled. Or run when he heard you opening the front door."
    "But how did he get in? And out?"
    "The side door into the garage was unlocked."
    "But…" Disturbed, she looked from face to face.
"I always keep it locked. The one from the garage into the house, too.
I've hardly set foot into the garage in weeks!"
    "Neither door had very good locks." A frown
furrowed John's forehead. "I should have replaced them for you."
    "You couldn't possibly have predicted that anything
like this would happen. Or that anybody would want to break into my house at
all. Beyond his stereo system, about all Stuart had was the house and,
gosh—" she waved her hand vaguely "—treasures like ten years of Field & Stream and Sports Illustrated packed
in boxes. Totally intact, no issues missing." Stuart had made a point of
telling her that when he caught her about to recycle a copy of SI. He'd
looked at her as if she were an idiot when she ventured to ask why he was
keeping them all. "Heaven knows the house doesn't exactly shout
money," she added now.
    John grunted. "It's a decent place in a decent
neighborhood. These days, everybody has electronic equipment. Our Port Dare
criminals specialize in stuff that's easily turned over. None of them would
know a piece of genuine artwork from a reproduction if it was labeled. Jewelry
is always good, and I'm sure they would have hunted in your bedroom if
everything had gone according to plan."
    "But the den?" Why was she arguing? She wanted murderer
and victim to be common burglars, having nothing to do with her. Still…
"Stuart's computer is dated."
    "You might have had a laptop tucked away in there, a
pager, an expensive calculator." He shrugged.
    "Yes. I suppose." Now she was the
one to feel dissatisfied, but it took her a moment to analyze her unhappiness
with the scenario.
    Why wouldn't two burglars have immediately unplugged and
taken the obviously expensive television and stereo equipment before exploring
further? Her sewing machine was a fancy, electronic model that did everything
but wash the dishes. Wouldn't they have considered it worth taking? Besides… Now
the discontent stirred anew.
    "The cat had been napping in there."
    "What?"
    She saw that she'd startled both men.
    "It must not have just happened," Natalie
explained, thinking it through as she went. "I shut the door to my sewing
room last night. When I got home today, that door had been open long enough for
the cat to have taken a nap on the fabric I'd laid out in there. And Sasha
wouldn't have relaxed enough to take a nap in the open unless strangers were
long gone. Which means I didn't scare him away."
    Geoff Baxter looked doubtful at her logic.
    John frowned thoughtfully. "The coroner hasn't arrived
yet. She'll be able to give us a time frame."
    "I suppose it doesn't matter what time he was
killed."
    The two men stirred.
    "I know it does to you," Natalie conceded.
"To your investigation. But to me… Actually, I'd rather think he wasn't still
in the house when I got home. The idea that he was standing behind one of the
doors, listening to me, maybe even watching…"
    John half rose to his feet, then seemed to force himself to
sit back down. His face was grim.
    Natalie hunched inside the afghan. "That gives
me the creeps," she concluded simply.
    John made a gritty sound and slapped shut his notebook.
"Damn it, you're coming home with me tonight."
    She wanted nothing more, but her pride, so important to her,
insisted she protest. "I have friends I can stay with."
    "Yeah, and I'm one of 'em." He stood. "I'll
see if I can