Trespassing(54)

Papa Hemingway leaps up onto the cushion next to me and nuzzles in for some attention. I massage the top of his head. He paws at me and cuddles on my lap.

Huh. He has six toes on his left front paw. The irony makes me chuckle; this cat proves nothing is right with the world anymore.

But maybe it can be made right. I stare across the room at the blank canvas I created the moment I cleared the shelves. Gray and unassuming, the built-ins blend into the rest of the room. Linear and simple. I don’t like the color. And, come to think of it, I don’t like the drab taupe walls surrounding me, either.

I abandon the cat and cross the room. The paint is chipping from the edges of the shelves, and the back panel in the cabinet all the way to the left is a little askew, as if installed just a touch out of square, but otherwise, the cabinetry seems to be in decent shape. Sturdy. Might I like this room better if I painted the cabinetry a bright white? If I painted the walls a cheery blue or green?

I open the cabinets and begin to pull out everything inside: issues of home decor magazines, crayons, scissors, art supplies.

Another cabinet holds a wicker basket of what appears to be yellow slipcovers that fit the rattan sectional in this room.

Another houses DVDs of old Disney movies, although a quick glance around the room proves there’s nothing to watch it on. I’ll head back to the mainland tomorrow to buy a television. I’m going to need something to occupy Bella; I’m going to be busy.

Job one: pack all the personal effects in the house. I won’t throw anything away, but I don’t want her clothing in the closets. I don’t want her blankets tossed over the beds. Come to think of it, I don’t want her beds, either.

Once the family room cabinets are empty, I tuck the yellow sofa slipcovers under an arm and take them down the hall to the laundry room. Eventually, I’ll purchase a new sofa, but for now, I’ll settle for sitting on clean cushion covers. There’s only a bit of detergent left—enough for a load or two—so I mentally add it to the list of things to buy.

That and cat food. I spy a nearly empty automatic feeder in the corner of the laundry room.

The cat jumps through an access panel at the bottom of a louvered door. I open it, assuming it leads to a closet, only to be taken aback by the odor of soiled cat litter.

Once I adjust to the smell, however, I flip the light switch at the door, and the space illuminates. I see the litter box is situated in a sort of studio . . . and a generously sized one at that. It’s about seven feet wide and at least twice as deep, with three square-shaped windows spaced at equal intervals along the left wall. A good-size pine table occupies the center of the space. An enormous appliance of some sort stares at me from the far end. At first I think it’s an extra oven. But then I realize it’s an industrial kiln.

A kiln.

Natasha Markham is not an artist. She was a finance major. Any half-artsy classes she took as an undergrad, she dreaded.

And she just isn’t the type to use, let alone purchase, a potter’s wheel, but there’s one of those in this room, too.

Maybe I don’t know my college roommate as well as I thought. I certainly couldn’t know less about my husband; why should I know anything about the woman who took him away from me?

I wonder if she’s heard the news, that Micah’s been declared dead. Tomorrow I’m going to ask Christian if he knows how to get ahold of her. I think the former resident of this house and I need to have a talk. If not about Micah’s dying, about the life he’d been living with Natasha.

Where did she and her children go?

A fleeting thought: maybe she goes north to Chicago every summer. It’s the best time to be in the Windy City . . . all the festivals and fairs . . .

Or maybe the whole clan spends summers on Plum Lake.

Micah could pull that off. I’ve never been to the house on Plum Lake.

And Mick and Shell have been in Europe for six weeks, so maybe Natasha and the kids stayed longer than usual.

Micah’s car was at C-Way. Maybe he was paying a visit to the mysterious Tasha and the kids before his trip to New York.

And my daughter recognizes the little girl in the pictures we found in this house, and that little girl just happens to share the name of Bella’s imaginary friend. If Bella hasn’t been to Key West before, she may have met Nini up north at Plum Lake.

I should call Detective Guidry. I will. First thing in the morning.

A glowing orange light blinks on in the shadows of the garden on the side of the house.

At first, I assume it’s a firefly—strange, seeing one in November, as they appear in early summer in Chicago and stay for only a few weeks—but a breath later, I realize it’s a cigarette.

Instantly, I turn off the studio light and back away from the windows, ducking into the laundry room.

Someone is smoking in my garden.

Someone is looking into the house.

And the coincidence is too great to ignore. It has to be the same person who was smoking on the fairway back at the Shadowlands.

I was certain no one had followed us.

But apparently, I was wrong.





Chapter 26

I spring toward the back door—it’s locked—and flip switches until a light on the porch turns on. I do the same with the front door and at the side entrance, where double doors lead to a patio.

The entire yard is illuminated now, but I don’t see a single thing out of place. Just a gate at the back, leading to the alleyway, an empty swimming pool, and Florida foliage. No mysterious smoking man.