“Good point.”
I glanced around trying to figure out where Annabelle would hide something incriminating. “I’m guessing she would keep anything sensitive either in her computer or tucked away somewhere like her bedroom or the flour canister. You’re better with computers, so why don’t you check her laptop?” I pointed at the machine on the dining room table.
“Am I looking for anything specific?”
I shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, but I’m betting it’ll have something to do with the museum.”
Cheryl nodded and sat down, flipping open the laptop. The sound of tapping filled the room as she got lost inside the computer.
I made my way first to the bedroom. With a small child in the house, it seemed the most likely place to hide something important.
Annabelle’s bedroom was surprisingly...purple. Purple walls, purple and pink Persian rug at the foot of a bed with a purple, ruffled bedspread. Everywhere I looked there was so much...purple. Now, I like purple, but it was a bit much.
Next to the purple bed was a nightstand that had probably had its heyday in the seventies. At some point it had been refurbished with a white, shabby-chic paint job and fancy, purple glass drawer pulls. On top it was a lamp (purple shade, naturally), an alarm clock/docking station (ordinary black), and an e-reader (with purple cover). There was also a glass with about an inch of water in the bottom, a bottle of painkillers, and lip balm in a round tin.
Inside the single drawer was all the detritus people usually kept by their beds: phone charger, random change, throat lozenges, hairpins, and a pack of tissues. I swung open the door beneath it to reveals stacks of books, mostly romances.
I had no more luck under the bed. She had one of those long, plastic tubs on wheels stuffed full of winter clothes. Other than that, the area was a breeding ground for dust bunnies. A quick look through her chest of drawers was no more fruitful.
The final hiding place was the closet. It had one of those double fan-folding slatted doors. I kind of liked the dramatic effect of whipping them open at the same time.
I stared in shock. Annabelle’s closet was a hot mess. The rest of her place might be neat as a pin, but it looked like a tornado had ripped through the small space, clothes and shoes shoved willy-nilly in every available space until it looked as if they might explode out into the room in a blazing attempt to escape.
I grinned. This was it. If Annabelle had a dirty secret, it would be here.
I pawed through inexpensive dresses, faux-leather handbags, and boxes full of cheap jewelry. Nothing looked out of place. I gave a grunt of frustration and dove in, digging deeper all the way to the back of the shelves until I felt something cold and metallic. I carefully pulled it out, narrowly avoiding an avalanche.
I stared at the thing in horror. It was an antique bookend, and it was spattered in a reddish-brown substance.
“Oh, my word what is that?” Cheryl gasped. I glanced up to find her standing in the bedroom doorway, hand on her heart.
“I think it’s blood.”
Before either of us could say another word, the sound of police sirens echoed outside. A little too close for comfort.
Cheryl let out an expletive. “What now? Bat is going to be furious.”
“Not if he doesn’t know we’ve been here.”
“And how are we going to manage that, Viola?” she snapped.
I glanced around. Annabelle’s bedroom window faced the front, which meant we’d be easily spotted from the parking lot. We couldn’t go back to the living room for the same reason.
I poked my head into the bathroom. A small window above the toilet led to the back of the building, totally out of sight. “We go out there,” I said, pointing at the window.
“Are you kidding me?”
“Not even a little.”
With a huff, Cheryl stomped into the bathroom, climbed up on the toilet, and slid the window open. A screen stood between us and freedom, and she gave it a good push. It went clattering to the ground.
“Hurry it up,” I hissed. I could hear the police cars screech to a halt outside. Cheryl pulled herself up and wiggled through the window with ease. My turn.
I dumped the bookend on the bed where Bat would be sure to see it, then I jogged into the bathroom and climbed up on the toilet. It wasn’t easy hoisting myself onto the window ledge. The frame cut into my belly and ribs rather painfully. I managed to wiggle my shoulders through, but then my hips got caught in the narrow window.
“Cheryl,” I hissed. “Help.”
She looked up at me. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m stuck.”
She sighed. “What do you want me to do about it?”
“Grab my hands and pull.”
She did what I asked, but I didn’t budge. My hips were firmly wedged in the window with my head poking outside and my backside in full view of anyone who walked in the bathroom. Maybe the police wouldn’t notice. Maybe they’d walk right by the bathroom without looking...
“Well, well. What have we got here?” Bat’s voice came through muffled behind me.
I closed my eyes and let out a string of words that would have had my mother reaching for the soap.
Chapter 19It’s Not Like I’m Dead
“I SHOULD ARREST YOU.” Detective Battersea was not amused. Not that I blamed him.
We were sitting in Annabelle’s living room. Bat and one of his officers had managed to get me unstuck and dragged me back through the window. It had been embarrassing to say the least. Cheryl hadn’t even made an attempt to get away and was sitting primly beside me on the couch with an “I told you so” expression on her face.
“Hey, the landlady let us in. Nothing illegal here,” I said stubbornly.
Detective Battersea glanced heavenward as if angelic beings might flit down to save
