Mercy (Atlee Pine #4)(44)

She slipped over to the rear of the house and walked up a flight of wooden steps that led to a deck, built onto the back, which held some old patio furniture. The door there was locked as well. She used her light to see inside the rear door and check for an alarm panel.

Shit.

There was one, and she could see that it was armed. Why have one here and not one at her business?

She stepped back and looked around.

Okay, that might be a way.

Pine hustled to the toolshed and used her knife to force back the lock. She ducked inside and came back out a moment later with the ladder. The grade of the property dictated that the home had a high foundation in the rear covered by a brick veneer. She stepped back up on the raised deck, set the ladder next to the back door, and climbed the ladder to the spot that all the warning labels implored should never be touched by a human foot. She gripped the edge of the gutter and did a chin-up, praying that the gutter would hold her weight. It did, and she swung her legs up onto the roof. She gripped the edge of an asphalt shingle and used that to pull herself fully on top of the roof. She walked across it to the upper-level section of the house where two dormer windows presented her with possible entry points.

Most home alarm systems did not arm upper-level windows. She was about to find out if this place broke that norm. She inserted her knife between the sash to pry back the clasp. If the window was armed, this far out in the country she figured she’d have time to search the place, make and drink a cup of coffee, and get away long before the cops showed up.

Fortunately, no alarm went off. She slipped through the window and closed it behind her. She shone her light around the bedroom she found herself in. It was meticulously neat and furnished sparingly. She checked the closet and found that all the pieces of clothing would fit someone of Desiree’s age and petite stature. She inspected the bathroom situated in the hall next to the bedroom, then looked into the other bedroom on the other side of the bathroom. This space was empty except for two boxes stacked on top of each other. She looked through them, but they just contained some old clothes and other odds and ends.

It seemed clear that Desiree lived here alone.

Pine walked back into the bedroom. She had never seen a place so neat and organized. The bed was made up with decorative pillows arranged just so and military-level tight corners. She poked her head back in the closet. It looked to be one of those California Closets jobs, with two tiers of hanging rods, glass-fronted cabinets, deep drawers running on smooth slides, and open shelves for all the footwear. It held stacks of sweaters so neatly arranged they could qualify as store displays, and pants and shirts and dresses and skirts on hangers that seemed to be arranged by type and style. Scarves, shoes, underwear, and socks were all scrupulously sorted and organized. In the bathroom, toiletries and other items were in perfect order. The bathtub/shower was sparkling clean, the floors and countertops scrubbed and smelling of disinfectant. Towels were arranged in order of size and color in the linen closet.

She made her way downstairs to find that it was laid out simply but was, if it was possible, even more organized and clean than the upstairs. The wooden furniture in the main room was highly polished, the cushions plumped without a stain or smudge visible. The tracks in the rugs laid over oak hardwood floors showed they had been recently vacuumed. The knickknacks on the shelves were dusted, and the windows held not a streak of dirt.

She started searching the other rooms down here. Each one she got to was model-home organized. There was one door that was locked, but when she put her ear to the door she could hear the rumbling of the air handler. Probably just the furnace room.

The small powder room across from the foyer looked like one you would find in a high-end hotel, right down to the decorative tissue box holder and copper soap dispenser and framed artwork, plus a fancy toilet paper holder in the shape of a cat’s long tail.

The kitchen was small but it sparkled. The travertine tile floor looked clean enough to have a picnic on without the blanket or even dishes. The counters were wiped down, the table set with a plate, cup, and cutlery in a rolled napkin. Canisters on the counters were arranged by height. The stove top’s six burners glistened with not a speck of grease on their surfaces.

Pine opened some of the cabinets and drawers and found everything so organized she felt like she truly was in a model house where everything was on display, no one actually lived there to do any damage, and thus all was perfect. The contents of the refrigerator were so carefully arranged that it made her own fridge back in Arizona look like a dumpster. But that really wasn’t a high bar, Pine conceded.

The thing that was bothering her was that she could understand Desiree being a neatnik, maybe even OCD. But then why was her shop so messy? Normally, a person with that condition didn’t let their desire for organization stop at the front door of their home.

Off the kitchen was a small laundry room. A basket on top of the dryer held scrupulously folded clothes. She glanced at the items and then looked away, but only for a moment. Then her gaze swung back to the stack of clothes. She took a pair of jeans off the top of the pile and held them up.

Desiree had been described to her as being very short, under five feet, and her driver’s license had confirmed this. Pine held the jeans against her own legs. They would have been too short for her, but they were also far longer than someone Desiree’s height could have worn, even if she had on heels.

And the style and narrow hip cut of the pants were for someone a lot younger than Desiree.