The Plot Read Free Page A

that they wouldn't search the attic too well, as she listened to the soft sound of footsteps traversing the house, doors opening and shutting, muffled voices checking in with one another. She leaned her elbows on the table, cradling her forehead in her hands. The image of her father lying in the morgue waiting for the coroner to dissect him merged with the image of his defiled study. The words of this morning's eulogies mingled in her imagination with the sound of breaking glass, splintering wood. She clenched her teeth and opened her eyes.
    The small, plain box holding her father's remains lay mute just a few inches away, and Cassie wrapped her hands around it. There was nothing warm or human in the feel of the thick, white cardboard against her fingertips, but it was all she had to hold onto. It was a beautiful service, Daddy. Everyone was there. They sang your favorite songs, and ... She paused. No, that wasn't true. Everyone had not been there. Someone had been here instead. Someone who probably knew-or wanted to know-what you were writing about. But who? You hadn't even confided in me yet.
    "Miss Hart?"
    "Yes?” She blinked and raised her eyes toward the voice. A tall, lanky man with short, chestnut colored hair and a scar across the bridge of his nose stood beside Officer Gatlin a few feet away.
    "I'm Chief Investigator Max Henshaw, Miss Hart. You may remember that I spoke with you after your father's ... accident."
    She nodded. Oh, yeah. I remember. You're the one who told me there'd be an autopsy. Tell me, Officer-It's-Only-Routine, did the coroner find Daddy's sense of humor? His talent? His courage, maybe? I could use a little of that right now.
    "It looks like the burglars left just moments before you got home,” he continued. There was a trace of the south in his speech. “And it appears that your father's study was their prime target. As far as we can tell, the rest of the house is undisturbed, but while I'm tied up with the Crime Scene folks, I'd like you to personally check through the house to see if any valuables are missing. Williams, go with her."
    What's the point? She felt like asking. What could be more valuable than his life? But as Henshaw and Gatlin disappeared back into the study, Cassie forced herself to stand and walk to the dining room with Officer Williams close at her heels.
    The policeman gave her a pair of opaque, one-size-fits-all latex gloves that were too large for her small hands. She put them on anyway, feeling like a bad actor in some made-for-television cop movie. The silver was still in its drawer; the china her mother had received as a gift from the governor of Hong Kong was still arranged carefully on the shelves. If I were a burglar, these are the things I'd be after, she thought, closing the doors of the big mahogany cabinet to see her frowning reflection in its glass panes. There wasn't a journalist in the world who didn't covet the Pulitzer Prize. But who knows anything about the story Daddy was working on? Or that it could be Pulitzer material? She chewed on her lower lip. Someone does. Someone who might be concerned about more than just the Pulitzer. Suddenly aware of Williams’ eyes on her, she forced herself to smile. “Sorry-just wool-gathering-been doing that a lot these past few days."
    He returned her smile. “Ready to check upstairs?” he asked, leading the way toward the foyer and up the tall staircase.
    Except for the chair and reading lamp that had been moved away from the corner and placed by the window to make room for the new bookcase, her parents’ bedroom looked like it always had. The “wedding ring” quilt, a wedding gift from Grandma Hart, still covered the large four-poster bed where Mother had finally surrendered to cancer. The blue drapes hung open, letting the sunlight fall onto the cologne bottles standing like expectant little dancers next to Mother's jewelry box atop the cherry dresser. Her father's suitcase and the large manila envelope filled