“Interesting by its absence, maybe. And obsessively neat.”
“So I noticed.” Gemma gestured towards the coffee table, where a few upscale design magazines were precisely stacked. “There’s no sign of anything in progress—no half-read books or magazines, no newspapers left open, no basket of knitting or needlework.” Turning back to the shelves, she touched the CDs stacked beside the stereo system. “She liked music, though, and her taste was a bit more eclectic. There’s jazz and classical here, as well as pop.”
His hands in his pockets, Kincaid resumed his wandering about the room, stopping to peer in the small kitchen alcove at the back. It was as neat and neutral as the sitting room, with a few expensive appliances that looked unused. The refrigerator contained a pint of milk, some orange juice, butter, a bottle of wine, and some olives. It reminded Kincaid of his own.
“She must have eaten all her meals out, or had take-away,” he said. Gemma didn’t answer, and when he stepped back into the sitting room, he saw that she was still standing before the bookshelves, staring at the single photograph in its ornate brass frame.
It was of Annabelle, alone. She stood in a meadow, wearing a barley-colored dress. She was laughing into the camera, and her hair shimmered like molten gold in the sun.
“You know,” Gemma said slowly, “I don’t think this room is about being peaceful at all. I think it’s about not competing with Annabelle.” She turned to him. “It’s a stage. Can you imagine how she would have stood out in here, against this neutral background? You wouldn’t have been able to take your eyes from her—not that I imagine that was easy to do under any circumstances.”
One could see bone structure in the dead, but not the shape of a smile, or the sparkle in a glance, and the photograph gave animation to the face they had experienced as beautifully formed but without personality. Kincaid lifted it for a closer look. “She was truly lovely. And you might be right.”
“I wonder who took the photo,” Gemma said as he returned it to the shelf. “I’d say that either she felt a connection with that person, or she was a marvelous actress.”
“There’s a sense of mischief, of daring, even, in this photo that’s not evident here.” Kincaid gestured round the room. “I don’t think this was where she lived—emotionally, I mean.”
“So where did Annabelle Hammond express herself?” Gemma mused. “Let’s have a look at the rest of the flat.”
In the bedroom, Annabelle had incorporated soft, sea blues into the sand-colored scheme, but it was as tidy as the sitting room. No clothing lay draped over chairs or dropped hurriedly on the floor, but a look in the wardrobe caused Gemma to whistle through her teeth. “We can certainly guess where she spent a good deal of her money,” she said, fingering the fabrics.
Kincaid glanced into the adjoining bath. Towels were draped over the radiator, a silk dressing gown hung from a hook on the back of the door. “I’ve a feeling she made the bed as soon as she got out of it. She might have even dried the bath.”
Next they tried the middle door in the hallway. The room was a small office with a built-in desk, filing cabinets, and work area. A printer stood on the desk, alongside a lead and connector. “She must have kept her computer at the office,” Kincaid said as he opened drawers, poking about for anything that looked interesting.
“Look at this.” Gemma stood before a corkboard that had been mounted on the wall. “Seems Annabelle had a personal life, after all.” Gently, she lifted layers and shifted drawing pins.
There were photographs, many of which Kincaid recognized as Jo Lowell and her children. In one Annabelle sat in a garden, a red-haired baby in her lap, an older couple standing behind her. The man was tall and silver-haired, the woman had a faded beauty that might once have equaled Annabelle’s. “Her parents?” Kincaid guessed, touching the photo. “And her nephew, Harry?”
“The children’s christening invitations are here, too,” Gemma said. “But there’s something odd. Look. There are several pictures of little Sarah as a baby, then nothing. It looks as though Annabelle was a most devoted aunt, yet there are no recent photos of either of the children.”
Kincaid sifted carefully through the items. There were birthday cards and restaurant menus, bits of ribbon, a dried rose, a postcard of a Rossetti angel that bore a remarkable resemblance to Annabelle, and a flyer for a musical program in Island Gardens. He caught a glimpse of a red-haired child, but on closer inspection the photo bore the subtle signs of age. The child was Annabelle herself, he felt sure, a sunburned sprite with a mop of red- gold curls and a butter-wouldn’t-melt expression. On one side stood a thin boy with Reg Mortimer’s recognizable, guileless smile; on the other, Jo Lowell frowned into the camera. “The Three Musketeers, it seems,” he said softly. But Gemma was right—in the last few years, her niece and nephew seemed to have disappeared from Annabelle’s life.
“Look at this one.” Gemma handed him a page torn from the
He glanced at Gemma. “What is it, love? Not envious of their social accomplishments, are you?”
She shook her head. “It’s just that she seemed more than ordinarily alive—charmed, even. How could someone snuff out such beauty?”
“Perhaps she was killed
“Reg Mortimer doesn’t strike me as the type to fly into a jealous rage, but I suppose anything is possible.” Moving to the desk, Gemma reached for the answering machine beside the telephone. “Let’s see if Mortimer rang as often as he says he did.” She hit
After that there were two calls without messages. “Mortimer again?” Kincaid speculated, but before Gemma could respond, a new message began.
