More Deaths Than One Read Free

center of the room and
pivoted slowly.
    His gaze fell on the still-drying painting
propped on a chair. He sucked in his breath and stared. Someone or
something hidden in the fetid jungle looked out at him. He shifted
position, thinking it a trick of the light, but the eyes still
followed him. Unable to bear the feeling of those eyes on him, he
thrust the painting behind the chair with all the others, and
crawled into bed.
    But not to sleep.
    ***
    At seven-fifteen in the morning, Bob heard a
knock. He hurriedly rinsed off the shaving cream he’d lathered on
his face, pulled on a shirt, and went to answer the door.
    Kerry smiled at him, looking as bright-eyed
as if she’d spent the night sleeping instead of working. She’d
changed out of her pink uniform into a white oxford-style shirt
over blue jeans.
    “You’re early,” Bob said.
    “I know. I got my side-work done before my
shift ended, so I came to look around. I’ve never seen a
boardinghouse before. Can I come in? Of course I can.”
    Bob waited a beat, then stepped aside.
    Kerry prowled around his spacious room,
stopping to test the easy chair and hassock upholstered in a blue
and yellow floral fabric that matched the drapes and bedspread.
    She nodded her head. “Nice. Too feminine for
my taste, but nice. I especially like the way the French doors lead
right out to that big yard.”
    Bob glanced outside. The tree-shaded yard,
with its manicured lawn, pruned rosebushes, neatly trimmed hedges,
and tubs overflowing with pink and purple petunias, contrasted
sharply with the untamed exuberance of his garden in Bangkok, but
it had a sedate serenity he found appealing.
    “I like it, too,” he said. “It’s the main
reason I took this place.”
    Jiggling her keys, she moved toward the door.
“I’ve seen enough. Ready to go?”
    “I haven’t finished getting cleaned up.”
    She made shooing motions with her hands. “Go
on. Hurry.”
    When Bob came out of the bathroom, face
tingling from his after-shave lotion, he found Kerry sorting
through the paintings he had stashed behind the chair.
    “What are you doing?”
    She glanced up with a saucy smile, apparently
not at all put off by his curt tone. “Looking at these paintings.
They’re very good. Why aren’t they hanging on the walls where you
can enjoy them?” She pulled out a two-by-three-foot canvas and
propped it on the chair where last night the jungle scene had
lurked.
    Bob peeked at the canvas. The painting
depicted a pond with no ripples, surrounded by forest.
    “This is lovely.” Kerry swayed as she focused
on the picture. “Very serene.”
    All of a sudden, she stiffened and stepped
back. She blinked rapidly, then bent forward and peered at the
painting. A visible shudder went through her.
    “Jeez,” she said. “Whoever painted this is
either an artistic genius or a very disturbed individual.” She
reached out as if to touch the painting, but jerked her hand away
before it made contact. “You can almost see the monstrous thing
that lives in the slime deep at the bottom of the pool.”
    Bob studied the forest scene. Feeling
disquiet creep over him, he averted his gaze.
    “Who painted it?” Kerry asked.
    He hesitated. “I did.”
    She whipped her head around and stared at
him. “Jeez, Bob. What the hell were you thinking?”
    Stealing a look at his creation, Bob
shivered.
    “I tried to paint what’s in here,” he said,
tapping his chest with a fist. He gestured to the picture. “I don’t
know how that happened.”
    “Are you a famous artist or something? I
think I’ve seen a picture like this before. In a magazine,
maybe.”
    Bob shrugged.
    “Well, are you?” she asked.
    “I don’t know.”
    Putting her hands on her hips, she narrowed
her eyes at him.
    “It’s the truth.” He strode to the bedside
table, retrieved a letter he had received before he left Thailand,
and read aloud. “‘Dear Mr. Stark: Mr. Ling Hsiang-li has informed
us he will no longer be acting as your agent