by Blake Pierce
Adele glanced at her phone, scrolling to the file on Schmidt. “Fifty-five,” she replied.
“Wealthy,” Paige said, waving a hand in the direction of the mansion.
“Same as the first two. But not single.”
“No, I suppose not. The husband isn’t speaking?”
Adele shook her head, nodding toward the German officer. “Says he’s too distraught by the death. Can’t blame him. The sister-in-law is on her way…” At that moment, a sudden sound of voices and motion caught Adele’s attention. She turned, frowning. “Speak of the devil,” Adele said, trailing off.
Confronting the relatives of a murder victim was never fun to begin with. But from first impressions alone, this new arrival seemed the sort to make a difficult task nearly impossible.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Adele watched as another police officer escorted a small, plump woman through the black gate surrounding the swimming pool. The woman looked to be in her sixties and walked with slow, shuffling steps, with one hand holding her large flowery hat in place, and the other carrying a small purse. The woman muttered darkly as she stepped daintily along the trail, trying not to sink into the soft grass and dirt with her high heel shoes. At last, she seemed to give up, and clicked her fingers toward the officer, as if demanding he take her arm. The German policeman looked mildly amused, but hid his smile while reaching out, aiding the older woman across the grass toward the barn.
Her cheeks were red, and she was huffing as she drew nearer, and Adele could hear her saying, “Don’t rip my arm out, you big brute. Careful, careful.”
The officer’s amusement faded somewhat at the abuse, but he still helped steady the oddly dressed woman and guided her toward where Adele and Agent Paige waited next to the shattered mug.
“Well?” the approaching woman said, in a demanding voice. “Where is she? Where is my baby sister?”
Adele swallowed, feeling her stomach twist, but she held out a placating hand, and in German, replied, “I’m very sorry Mrs.…” She trailed off, allowing the woman to fill in the blank.
“Schmidt. I’m also Schmidt.”
Adele’s brow furrowed in surprise.
The woman adjusted her purse, pushing back the brim of her hat. “My sister didn’t take her husband’s name. This isn’t the dark ages anymore, young lady.”
Adele blinked, but nodded slowly. The older Mrs. Schmidt glanced toward the snickering police officer behind Adele, and her red features turned even more crimson. “What are you gawking at? Go do something useful.”
The officer behind Adele blinked in surprise, stuttering, but Agent Paige just waved at him, and the man turned, hurrying back behind the barn to rejoin the rest of the investigators.
“Well? Where is my sister?”
“You know why you were called here?” Adele said, hesitantly, and feeling a sudden surge of horror.
“Yes. She’s dead. So I was told. Where?”
The woman was small, round, red-faced, and old, but she barked like a military sergeant. Adele had flashbacks of her own home in Germany, thinking of her father and his gruff nature. If he was a pit bull, this woman was a pit bull crossed with a Doberman. Her eyes were narrowed, and she looked ready to bite.
“Yes, of course,” Adele said, quietly. “We’ll take you to her. It’s not a pleasant sight. But we do need help identifying the body.”
“Identifying? You’re telling me you don’t even know it’s my sister?”
Adele shook her head. “Your brother-in-law provided pictures. It’s her. We just need someone in person to confirm. Protocol and all.”
“Protocol?” The woman scoffed. “That’s why I’m here?”
“We had hoped you would also be able to answer a couple of questions for us, Mrs. Schmidt.”
“What sort of questions?”
“We’re trying to find the man who did this.”
“Man.” She scoffed. “Of course it was a man.”
“Do you mind answering some questions?”
“Well? What are they?”
Adele cleared her throat. “Did your sister have any enemies? Anyone who might want her—”
“Dead? Strangled to death? Violently? In her own backyard?”
“I suppose so, yes.”
“No, my sister was a kind woman. Gentle. She was the nice one in the family.”
Adele kept her expression placid.
For a moment, Mrs. Schmidt’s eyes narrowed even more, if such a thing were possible, but then she shook her head at Adele. “No one hated my sister. No one. That husband of hers didn’t have enemies either. He’s as soft as a jelly doughnut. The perfect sort of man for my sister. He couldn’t have strangled a pillow, no less Elke.”
“All right. Do you have any idea who might’ve done this?”
“A sexual pervert.”
Adele blinked.
The older Mrs. Schmidt bobbed her head, brimming with certainty.
“That’s who it always is,” she said, insistently. “Don’t think I don’t see the news. A man. Definitely a man. A sexual pervert. That’s what they do. They like strangling women. Mark my words, it was a pervert.”
“You know this?”
Mrs. Schmidt just shrugged. “Who else would it have been?”
Adele decided to change tack. “I had one other question. Your sister, was she religious in any way?”
“Bah. Nominally, maybe. Easters, sometimes. The Good Lord doesn’t much like lukewarm believers. Is that what you’re saying?” She scowled. “Do you think the Lord did this—because I’ll tell you right now I’ve never heard such a stupid—”
“That’s not what I’m saying at all. So you’re saying she wasn’t very religious.”
“No, she wasn’t. Neither was that doughboy of a husband. Weak, that’s what he is.”
Adele sighed, trailing off and fidgeting uncomfortably. She glanced toward Agent Paige, reflexively, and then looked back toward the victim’s sister. “Final thing; did your sister own a second home in Southern France?”
She could practically hear Agent Paige’s eyeballs scraping their sockets, likely catching the word for France and piecing it together.
But the rolling of her eyes went stiff as Mrs. Schmidt nodded her head bluntly. “Yes. A second house in France. They had one in Italy too. What of it?”
Adele shook her head quickly, feeling her pulse quicken and a slow prickle spread along her spine. She had known it. Another home in France.
“Do you know if the home was in the Aquitaine region?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
Mrs. Schmidt narrowed her eyes, frowning at Adele. “Yes,” she said, slowly. “Is that important?”
Adele just waved a hand, trying to keep her own excitement in check. Nerves be damned, she still had it. The homes in France were the key. They had to be. The only connecting point. But how so? What did vacation homes in Southern France have to do with it?
She swallowed and gestured toward Agent Paige, saying, “We actually have to be going. The officers over there will help take you to your sister. Mrs. Schmidt, I’m very sorry for your loss.”
The older woman just ignored Adele, grunting, as, in her high heels, trying to walk on mud and grass, she hobbled over toward the barn with the help of the officer who’d aided her through the gates.
Adele and Paige stood next to each other over the shattered fragments of the ceramic coffee mug, frowning in the direction of the stumbling older woman.
Agent Paige said, softly, “Coincidence, has to be.”
“She had a vacation home in France. Just like the other two victims.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s the key to the case. What are the odds that all three—”
“I know what you’re going to say. Low odds. But they’re also wealthy. Wealthy people own many homes. It’s not that unusual. Plus, Churchville also had a home in Italy and Germany. On top of this, the homes were nearly never used.”
&nb
sp; “Come on,” Adele said, feeling her frustration rising now. She looked away from the barn, staring at Agent Paige.
“I know what you’re thinking, but we can’t keep hopping around Europe. There are no victims in France. How’s that supposed to help us?”
Adele narrowed her eyes. “Paige, this is the best lead we have.”
“And I say we should stay here, go through more financials. Maybe it really is a sexual pervert. We should talk to the neighbors.”
Adele felt like yelling now. Briefly, she wondered if Paige was simply trying to avoid another plane flight. She supposed that accusing her partner of unprofessionalism wouldn’t go far though. So instead, she just shrugged, turned, and began stalking back in the direction of the driveway and their waiting car. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” she said over her shoulder. “But I’m going. Alone if I have to.”
She stalked through the trees, moving toward the gray asphalt drive. Behind her, coming from the victim’s sister now, Adele could hear a series of curses, followed by a growl like from a wounded animal.
Adele could have stayed, perhaps, to try and comfort Mrs. Schmidt. She could have come alongside, helping her, trying to console her. But what was the point? Adele had seen what it was to shatter a soul. She didn’t need to see it again. Mrs. Schmidt seemed tough. But even the toughest sorts had to face the mortality of those they loved. Adele was too tired, too exhausted, too preoccupied to witness another human’s descent into grief. Such a strange pit, grief. So easy to enter, and so difficult to escape.
Adele could hear more cursing, and another sound like shouting. Some people sobbed, or wept. Others just got angry. And still others became determined.
Adele quickened, marching now, striding between the trees toward the driveway and back to the waiting car. With Paige or without, she was heading to Southern France.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
His closest friend in the entire world was back in Germany. His friends had told him the beautiful, talented, wonderful agent Adele Sharp had returned.
The painter smiled, stroking the back of his knuckles and tracing them with a soft finger, circling, circling.
He reclined in the nude, his feet on the armrest of the long couch, his head not quite reaching the opposite armrest. He stared at the ceiling, still circling his finger over his knuckles.
He couldn’t help but smile. The poetry of it all. The beauty. His naked flesh was speckled with greens and browns of acrylic paint.
He glanced over toward the large canvas, where he’d been working. Some of the paints had dried slower than he would’ve liked. And yet, despite the slightly oily and wet veneer, he had to say the scenic vista was one of his best works yet.
He always did his best work after a kill.
Robert Henry had been one of his masterpieces. He had shared it with his closest friend. She had been the first to find the work of art. Poetry in motion. Fate.
The painter smiled, shifting about and wiggling like a small puppy in the warm folds of a blanket.
Giddy, excited, delighted. She was in Germany. The beauty of it all, of course, was that was his next destination too.
His contacts with the German police hadn’t realized just how valuable their information would prove. He still had his camera facing Adele’s apartment, but she hadn’t been there in a while. Which meant he needed more information. He had other plans, more delightful plans.
He got to his feet, pushing off the couch, struck by a sudden bout of inspiration. He tottered over to the canvas, stepping onto the plastic sheet. He looked toward his collection of paints, and then his eyes settled on the small glass jar. He dipped his brush in the jar, whistling to himself and still smiling, swaying with the soft music pulsing from his own lips. He danced slowly in front of the canvas, beneath the lights of the small studio. He poked with the paint brush toward the glass jar, flicking the last droplets off the end, and then added a streak of sheer red onto the canvas. A piece of Henry. A swirling, circling pattern, just over the painted trees and flowing river. He liked to include his friends in his paintings. He’d done so for the last twenty years. And soon, very soon, he felt near certain, his best friend in the world would help him paint the final masterpiece.
Not yet, though.
He frowned, reaching up and gently prodding at a slight streak, clearing it from the pale canvas. He lifted his finger to his lips, suckling on the digit and licking away the blood.
No, not yet. Adele would wait.
He already had his next masterpiece planned.
“A soldier is what I am,” he whispered softly. “Look at my chest and look at it puff,” he said, “look at me frown, and look at me growl.” He giggled. “Look at how I am. So tough. So brave. They call him Joseph Sharp. They call him Joseph Sharp,” he said, singing softly with the tune in his head.
He nodded slowly. Yes, Adele was back in Germany. And that was where he was heading next. Where his next masterpiece would take place. Adele’s father would be a truly beautiful spectacle. First her mother, then her father, and eventually, his best friend in the world. Yes, it would be a trinity of masterpieces. The most beautiful craft imaginable.
“Because that is what I am,” he sang softly. “That is what I am.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It had felt like pulling teeth, but Agent Paige had finally relented. Now, Adele settled in the back of the taxi. Adele had taken the spot behind the driver and Paige sat front passenger side. They’d left the airport, and now were moving through the smaller side streets of the Aquitaine region in Southern France.
“Where is this damn house?” Paige snapped. “We’ve been driving for an hour.”
Adele glanced at her watch, and then toward the small GPS with the thin purple line beneath the taxi driver’s mirror. The man in front had learned not to answer Paige. Instead, he contented himself with staring out the window and leaning toward one of the vents.
For her part, Adele sighed, glancing at the passing trees of the French countryside and the distant gray and blue where the horizon met the ocean. The coastal portion of Aquitaine extended to meet the waters, witnessing the distant, expansive blue.
“Not much further,” Adele said, softly, staring through the window and refusing to glance toward Paige. “The property manager’s going to meet us there.”
Agent Paige grunted. “Ah, the property manager. We’ve solved the case.”
Adele refused to be goaded. They would be stopping at the first victim’s vacation home, and Adele could only hope this would be the first domino to fall into place. For now, the killer still remained a step ahead. He’d been a step ahead the entire time. She shivered. That would change; it had to. Soon.
“Here,” the driver declared suddenly, and Adele couldn’t help but notice a slight tinge of relief to his tone.
Adele stared through the windshield as they trundled up a small road, toward the waiting beach house. It was much smaller than the mansions had been.
No hedges, or statuary here. Nor gates. Rather, the house seemed to be mostly wooden trim and stone arches. Bits and portions resembled a villa, but other parts seemed older, especially on the first floor. Adele frowned toward an archway, with slabs of gray stone circling the door.
“Think you can wait for us?” Adele said, softly, glancing toward the driver.
He looked at her in the mirror, his eyes narrowing. Adele sighed, pulling a fifty-euro note from her wallet and slipping it over the seat, patting her hand against the gearshift and then leaving the note wedged against the plastic. “Please?” she said, insistently.
The driver glanced at the fifty-euro note, glanced at Agent Paige, glanced back at the note. He looked in the mirror again, his eyes narrowing. Adele sighed, and pulled out another fifty-euro note. The last of her funds for the day. Out here, it would take some time to wait for another taxi. Time they simply couldn’t afford.
She slid this next to the gearshift as well. The taxi driver flashed a smile now, al
l crooked teeth and cigarette-stained molars. “Happy to wait,” he said, grinning in a way that wrinkled his face like a prune.
Adele nodded her gratitude, trying not to roll her eyes as she slid out of the taxi and followed Agent Paige out toward the waiting summerhouse facing the distant ocean.
The sun beamed down on them, and the late afternoon illumination dawned over the back of the home, casting its shadow across the sand in the backyard.
“We’ve solved it,” Agent Paige declared, hands on her hip facing the house.
“We haven’t even gotten inside yet,” Adele said, testily. “We’re here. How about we make the best of it.”
As the two agents neared, the door opened suddenly, and a small woman with a bandana around her head waited for them, glancing suspiciously from one to the other.
“DGSI,” Adele said. “Are you the property manager?”
“Sara Cote,” the woman with the bandana said, crossing her arms over a blue maintenance uniform. A grease patch covered the sleeve, and she had a toolbelt around her hips, with a variety of hammers and screwdrivers and wrenches. She frowned from Adele to Agent Paige. “I got the call to meet you here. May I ask what this is about?”
“Investigation,” Paige said, stiffly. “We just need you to let us in. It shouldn’t take long.” She frowned. “Shouldn’t take long at all.”
Adele followed the older woman through the door and into the summer home. As she did, she passed under another strange stone archway. Parts of the home look pristine and new. Varnished woods, and fresh beams with new coats of paint. Some parts, like the kitchen which she could see from the entryway, had modern marble counters, and cherry wood cabinets.
Other portions of the house, though, seemed out of place. The stone archway above was matched by the entryway itself—a strange patchwork of wooden tiles and slabs of stone. She frowned, stepping over the stoop and entering further into the house, flashing her credentials to the watchful eye of the property manager.
