Page 14 of Memory of Murder
With a careful step onto the first tread and then the next, Jack tested the steps. When he reached the porch, he gave her a nod. “So far, so good.”
She followed the path he’d taken. The porch itself was missing a board or two, but the section that led to the front door felt sound enough. No creaking or bouncing. At the door he gave the knob a twist, but it was locked. Anne’s hopes deflated.
“Wait.” She thought of the key in the box of personal items. “What was the house number?”
He met her gaze, grinned as if the same thought had just occurred to him as well. “168. I’ll get that key.”
She’d brought the box along, not wanting to leave it in the hotel room. As foolish as it might’ve sounded considering there really was nothing of true value inside, she hadn’t wanted to risk it disappearing.
Maybe it was a little paranoid to be afraid to leave it, but now she was glad she’d made the decision. She was also very grateful that Jack Brenner was such a gentleman.
Jack returned with the key, the steps creaking this time. “Here goes nothing.” He inserted it into the lock. The door opened.
Anne gave a nod. “We didn’t have to do any breaking and entering after all.”
“Feels like an arguable point if we’re caught.”
She liked this man more all the time.
Inside was dark considering that trees and bushes surrounded the place as if preparing to swallow it up. Any sunlight that might have been afforded by the windows was effectively blocked. Anne tried a switch, but no light came on.
“And—” there was a clicking sound followed by a beam of light “—I grabbed the flashlight from the glove box.”
“I’m glad one of us came prepared.” Anne hadn’t even considered the possibilities of what they would find, much less what they would need at this house. Based on how many houses requiring rehab she’d been inside, she, of all people, should have thought of a flashlight if nothing else. The flashlight apps on phones were great in a pinch but not quite as good as the original thing.
The front door entered directly into the living room. An old sofa still remained in the middle of the room, along with an end table and coffee table. There was an old-fashioned cabinet-style television. No rug or other pieces.
Anne stared at the floor in the center of the room, her heart pounding once more. That spot was where Neil Reed had fallen…had died. The rug she’d seen in the one photo of the place was, she supposed, why there was no blood soaked into the wood. The rug had been amid the photos of the crime scene in one or more articles she’d read. Now the only thing on the wood floor was decades of dust. She blinked and turned away.
The smell of grime and that closed-up odor assaulted her senses as if she’d just awakened from a deep sleep and found herself in this unknown place.
Wood floors…white walls adorned with cobwebs in every corner. No crown molding. Dark-stained wood baseboards, door and window trim. A number of framed photographs hung on the wall. The one that drew Anne was an eight-by-ten of Mary Morton and Neil Reed. Their smiling faces and the way they embraced each other while staring at the camera made Anne’s breath catch. They looked so young. And very much in love. Anne wondered when the photograph had been taken. Compared to the ones she had seen of the two in the newspaper clippings and online, this was likely taken months or perhaps a year before the murder.
But none of those details were responsible for her pulse suddenly racing faster with each breath. It was the realization of how very much she looked like Mary. They had the same color hair and eyes. But the online and newspaper images had not shown so shockingly clear how closely Anne’s facial features resembled Mary’s. They were like twins.
Anne drew in a steadying breath and moved on.
To the left of the front door was a short hallway with three doors lining it. To the right was the living room and the kitchen. No separate dining room. She decided on the hallway to the left and that first door, which led into a bedroom. She tried theswitch. Same as in the living room—no light. The power had likely long ago been disconnected.
There was a bed, covers straightened, pillows arranged at the headboard as if someone had just made the bed and hurried away to work. Except the covers were laden with dust and what appeared to be rat feces. She stood in the middle of the room, took out her phone and turned on the flashlight app so she wasn’t tethered to Jack. She could follow her instincts rather than just tagging along after him. Dust and swags of cobwebs layered the once-white walls and bare-wood floors just as in the living room. Wherever she stepped, a shoeprint was left behind in the thick dust. The bed was a double, small by today’s standards for a couple.
There was a dresser with a mirror, both covered with dust as well. Anne wandered in that direction. An empty bottle of perfume stood amid the grime, its label worn by time and use. Anne picked it up and sniffed the pump-sprayer head. Had Mary worn this perfume daily or just on special occasions? The idea that she had touched this perfume bottle shivered through Anne. She set the bottle aside and checked the drawers. All but one was empty save for more dust and a mud-dauber nest. The one drawer contained men’s socks and underwear.
The only thing hanging on the wall besides cobwebs was a floral painting above the bed. The closet was empty of female belongings, but there was a suit and a few men’s shirts hanging on one end. Neil Reed’s, Anne imagined. She slid her fingers along the sleeve. A pair of men’s loafers sat on the floor. Like everywhere else, years of disuse and neglect covered the items like a layer of fine, brownish snow.
Why had these things been left here and others taken away? It was almost like a shrine to the murder victim. Then she understood. This was the last place the owner’s—supposedly her grandfather’s—son had lived, and Mr. Reed couldn’t bringhimself to change or do away with his belongings. Of course, that was assuming he was a nice and sentimental person.
Anne had her doubts considering he never bothered to check on her.
Jack caught up with her, and they moved on to the next door in the narrow little hall. It was a second, even smaller bedroom that held a desk and bookcases. Ungraded school papers lay on top of the desk. Jack went through the three drawers in the desk while Anne checked the tiny closet. The door had been turned into a makeshift bulletin board complete with corkboard. A couple of school notices were posted there, the pages yellowed and the corners curled. A business card from a local law firm had been pinned near the top. If Anne recalled correctly it was the firm where Neil had interned during his final year of law school.
Jack reached down and closed the final drawer of the desk. “Nothing beyond more school papers and supplies in here. I didn’t see anything that belonged to Neil.”
Anne scanned the books on the shelves. “Apparently Mary was fond of romance novels.” One entire shelf was lined with the paperbacks. Another held books on education and teachers’ manuals.
Jack joined her. “My mother is a huge fan of romance novels.” He sent her a sideways glance. “How about you?”
“Sadly, there is never enough time in the day for me to indulge in reading.”
