by Blake Pierce
“When you called, I thought something might have happened to Mrs. Churchville.”
Adele just shook her head. “We can’t discuss an ongoing investigation.”
Sophie Paige moved further into the house, glancing through the rooms.
“Is there anything?” Adele said, hesitantly, then trailed off. She thought for a moment, unsure where to start. She needed to know what to ask, to unlock the key to the investigation. But the clues wouldn’t come. She didn’t know where to start. All three of the victims had summer homes in Aquitaine. But what did that mean? She regarded the property manager. “Do you take care of any of the other homes in the area?” she said on a whim.
The manager shrugged. “Not really. Mostly I work for one of the local hotels. Why?”
Adele just shook her head. “Is there anything you can tell me about this place?”
“What would you like to know?”
I don’t know, Adele thought to herself. Out loud, she said, “I’m not entirely sure. Just anything.”
The property manager frowned, adjusting her bandana. “Anything? Well, I’ve been working here for about three years. The previous property manager was my uncle. He passed away a couple years ago.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
She shrugged. “He was old and happy. Surrounded by family when he went. Not much more you can ask. Do you want to know about the house itself? I’m afraid I don’t know why you’re here, Agent—”
“Sharp.”
“Agent Sharp.”
Adele sighed, wishing she could say more. But what else was there to add? She didn’t know why she was here.
She was an investigator. Perhaps the questions were best left until after she did a little looking. And so she moved down the hall, after Paige. She turned to face a dining room with a large glass window looking out at the ocean. The table looked like it had been made in the shed, with plank wood screwed together haphazardly. A family project? A joke? The walls were painted green, and the floor, strangely, was tiled like the entryway. Strange slats of wood and old stone. Seemingly out of place compared to the rest of the modern architecture.
She frowned and moved to the next room, this time stepping in and pushing against the door. She was confronted by a small bathroom. A normal shower and sink, this time tiled with blue marble. But then her eyes darted toward a small window in the top right of the room. The window was off-center, as if wedged in the corner, and instead of glass, it reflected back reds and blues and greens.
Adele poked her head back out into the hall. “Is this a stained-glass window?”
The property manager frowned, approached, and glanced over Adele’s shoulder toward the window. She shrugged. “Guess so. I don’t really ask much about the homeowners’ taste.”
Adele stepped out of the bathroom now, crossing her arms and glancing toward the dining room and then again toward the bathroom. A strange array of modern architecture and what looked like old stone and windows. But what did that mean?
“Nothing,” she murmured softly.
“Excuse me?”
“Look, is there anything else you can tell me about this place? Do you know when it was built?”
The manager shrugged apologetically, shaking her head and scratching at the back of her bandana. “I don’t know. That’s way before my time. But,” she added, “I can probably find out. My uncle used to keep notes on these places. It was more of a hobby of his than anything.” She shrugged. One hand tapped at her tool belt. “I just like fixing things, to be honest.”
“Here’s my card. If you find anything, please call…” Adele trailed off. “Is there a basement?”
The property manager shook her head. “No basements.”
Adele began to move back toward the front of the house, frowning to herself. The rest of the home was small, with a few bedrooms, kitchen, and a lounging area. Again and again, she was confronted by the strange hybrid of modern architecture and old, historic hints. The fireplace looked like it was made of cobblestones. A couple more windows in the lounge reminded her of stained glass. Even one of the walls in the bedrooms was old stone. What did any of that mean?
And what did that have to do with the three murders?
Adele sighed, finally leaving down the hall again and rejoining Agent Paige on the doorstep. The property manager waited outside, tapping her foot impatiently, her arms crossed.
“Anything?” Paige asked, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.
Adele frowned. “Hold your horses. We still have to check out the second place.”
“Because I didn’t find anything,” Paige said, innocently. “No death letters written in bottles. No confessions from murderers. No hidden weapons in the fireplace.”
“Did you check?”
“I did, in fact. And there was nothing. Agent Sharp, I respect you thought this was a good lead. And I give you, it might not be a coincidence. But I think, at this point, we’re just wasting precious time.”
For a moment, Adele paused. Was Agent Paige right? Was she simply wasting time?
If Foucault heard about this, would he pull her from the case?
She was second-guessing herself again. She felt a flash of frustration—not at Paige, but at herself. She couldn’t afford to think negatively. She had to focus, to double down. She had to trust her instincts.
Robert is dead, a soft voice whispered in her head. Your instincts died with him.
She gritted her teeth, one hand curling into a fist as she brushed past Agent Paige and marched down the steps toward the waiting taxi.
“Shut up,” she said to herself. “Just shut up.”
She could feel the curious glance of the property manager on her back, but she ignored it, moving toward the taxi.
The summer home of the second victim could have the clue she needed. She was right—about what, she wasn’t sure. How it tied to the murders, again, uncertain. But still, she was right. She needed to be. There was no other option. She couldn’t second-guess herself.
She flung open the front door this time, sliding in next to the taxi driver and ignoring Agent Paige’s pointed look. This time, the older agent could sit in the back. She hadn’t wanted to come here, after all. Besides, if the second house didn’t turn up anything, Adele would have more than Paige to answer to.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
As they pulled into the driveway of the second home, Adele’s heart plummeted. She stared at the modern house, with white painted walls and ceramic shingles. Her eyes traced the wired fence and the vibrant, pink patio steps, seemingly cut from cotton candy.
She stared through the window of the taxi, blinking and trying to make sense of it. The house didn’t resemble the first one at all.
“Is this what you wanted?” Agent Paige grumbled, staring through the windshield as well.
Adele took her phone from her pocket, quickly scrolling to the real estate listing as she pushed out of the back of the car. She stepped toward the summer home, facing the windows glinting in the late afternoon sun.
Nothing about it resembled the first house. This home was smaller, but closer to the ocean. Now, Adele could detect the salty, waterside air. Instead of sand, this house had stone slabs amidst grass, and a tasteful arrangement around the small Jacuzzi within the metal fence. She even spotted a mini fridge next to a garage, covered by an aluminum roof.
She approached the house, frowning as she did and taking the carved steps up to the patio. As she fiddled with her phone, she pulled up the website that had sold the home. Not listed. Below the warning, she spotted an estimate of the price and whistled. Even if she saved every penny she had for the next ten years, she wouldn’t be able to afford it.
She scroll down, toward the title year built.
Only fifteen years ago. She frowned, scratching at her head and muttering to herself. What had she expected? What was the connection?
She strolled along the patio, the wood creaking beneath her footsteps as she moved toward the nearest window
and peered into the house. Again, everything modern, everything as she might expect from a home built in the last couple of decades. No sign of old architecture or stone archways. No sign of stained glass.
She shook her head in rising frustration.
“Well?” Agent Paige called out from where she remained by the taxi.
Adele held up a finger, not daring to speak. She circled around the house, moving past the windows and the lower window wells. All three of the victims had homes in this area. The property managers were different, though. The owners were different. The real estate agents behind the sales also different. She’d double-checked that part.
The homes were all within a twenty-minute drive of each other. What was the connection, then?
She puffed a breath, closing her eyes as if against a sudden, surging headache.
What was she missing? Something obvious, no doubt. But what?
She wanted to yell at the sky, to shake her fist. She felt so close, but she had stumbled onto something. Like she had finally seized back some of her instincts. But again, it felt like she was butting against an immovable object with her skull.
Maybe Paige was right. Maybe the houses were just a coincidence.
“Come on,” she murmured to herself. “Think. Think, dammit.”
She strolled around the back of the house, noting no lights were on inside. Some of the windows were dusty, suggesting no one had lived in it for a while. She trailed her hand along the white siding, pausing for a moment to peer through a window into a bedroom. One of the curtains had been pulled completely shut, but the other left a gap for her to peer into a small, blue bedroom with a rocket ship bed frame.
Adele sighed. She’d missed it.
“Have we wasted enough time?” Paige called out behind her. Adele turned, frowning to acknowledge the glowering agent waiting impatiently by the gate, her arms crossed. Behind her, the taxi driver seemed relieved to have the car to himself again. His fingers rolled nervously on the steering wheel, waiting.
“I-I thought,” Adele stammered, “I felt certain that…” she tried, trailing off.
“You tried and you missed,” Agent Paige said with a sniff. She stared at Adele for a moment, and briefly, for an instant, it almost seemed like her eyes flashed with something akin to sympathy. She shook her head hesitantly and said, “It’s been a rough month, I understand. But you’re not going to help anyone this way. It’s a dead end. We need to go back to the scene of the first crime and ask better questions.”
“What questions? No one knows anything. The killer’s been jumping from country to country, targeting wealthy women. There’s no rhyme or reason. Two of them were irreligious, one of them a devout believer. Two of them were single, one of them married.”
“All of them wealthy. All of them killed the same way.”
“And,” Adele said, insistently, more for her own benefit than Agent Paige’s, “three of them owned homes in Aquitaine.”
Sophie snorted, waving a hand toward the house. “All right, look, a summer home in France. We’re here—so what? What’s this doing for us? You read the same things I did. Different real estate agents. Different property owners. Different property managers. Different gardening services. Different housecleaning services. No common guests. No common family.” Agent Paige listed off the information with a bite to her tone, her frown deepening with each second. As she spoke, Adele felt her stomach churn. Paige had always been the sort to catalog information quickly and meticulously. And now, as she revealed what she’d paid attention to, it felt like she was slapping Adele with each subsequent word.
“There are no connections. Houses don’t murder people. Is that what you’re thinking? Some sort of ghost? Some sort of evil house, hunting them down in other countries? I’m not sure how one of these structures would have gotten onto a plane. But then again,” she waved a hand toward the ocean. “Maybe it swam.”
“That’s not what I’m saying. Obviously. There has to be something else. Something we’re missing.”
“You’re impossible. You don’t see sense. Just listen for a change. You’ve missed this one. There’s no shame in it, and I don’t blame you.”
Adele blinked. From Agent Paige, these words were nearly akin to encouragement.
The older, silver-haired women crossed her arms, breathing slowly. “My oldest daughter, she’s only a few years younger than you, you know?”
Adele winced. She knew that Agent Paige’s daughter was a sore subject. After the incident ten years ago, when Adele had reported missing evidence, Agent Paige’s daughter had given her mother the cold shoulder. Adele hadn’t found out until Paige had told her the previous year, but it had caused no small amount of pain for the Paige family. Still, it didn’t seem like Sophie was trying to press this point again. Instead, she said, “So I know how important it is to stick to what you believe. We live in a world where a young woman’s opinion might not be minded. We have to be strong. I get it. I’ve done it myself. But there’s also a strength in being able to say when you’re wrong. Can you do that, Agent Sharp? Can you let it go?”
Adele swallowed, staring at Paige. For a moment, she wondered what it would have been like to have her own mother here, speaking to her. She wondered what it might have been like to have someone who understood, who could put themselves in Adele’s shoes.
Her stomach twisted again, but also an ache formed in her chest. A longing, and a grief.
To her surprise, Adele found her eyes misting, and she glanced off angrily, trying not to let Paige see. She was too exhausted for all this. She needed sleep. She needed to regroup. Maybe Sophie was right. Maybe they needed to return to London and question witnesses more thoroughly. But maybe the real clue would be found in Germany. They’d never even spoken to the husband, and they hadn’t gone through the financials. But what about Italy? The foul-mouthed board room member was worth another look as well, wasn’t he?”
And yet, even as she contemplated these thoughts, Adele couldn’t shake the small niggling worry in her gut. It was becoming more and more difficult to focus. More difficult to make a choice.
“Well?” Paige insisted, and her tone had softened somewhat. If anything, she seemed gentle. “Are you ready to let this go?”
Adele closed her eyes for a moment. Then she glanced back toward her phone, scrolling to the final address she’d been given. It was close. Only ten minutes away. Would it be worth it? Would it be worth risking Agent Paige’s anger once more?
“I,” Adele said, hesitantly, trailing off. “I guess maybe…” she began, but then biting back the words.
Paige just stood there, her arms crossed, her expression as severe as ever, but her eyes holding a strange, unusual compassion.
Adele didn’t want to disappoint the older agent. The first home had been strange, but this one was normal, just another house. Yes, in the same region, but far enough away that did it even matter? Still, she glanced back down at her phone, at the third address. The final victim’s house.
They’d come so far…
She nodded, convincing herself first, before, in a shaky tone, saying, “I’d like to look at the last place.”
Paige went stiff, her eyes hardening like flint.
“It’s only ten minutes away. I’d like to just check it out.”
Paige breathed slowly through her nose, shaking her head.
“I know you think I’m wasting my time.”
Paige growled, “No, I think you are wasting our time. More importantly, I think you’re wasting the time of whoever the next victim will be. He’s going to kill again. And we’ll be over here, with our fingers up our noses, staring at houses.”
Adele winced but pressed, “I just want to check it out.”
“Adele, let me put it this way. You either come with me, return to the airport, or you go on your own. I’m done with this foolishness. I flew here with you, and you need to know when it’s time to say quit.”
Adele winced. Maybe she was being too stub
born. Maybe…
No. She couldn’t back out now. She’d already made up her mind. Besides, Paige would never be her friend. She wasn’t here to make connections. The less Paige liked her, the safer the older woman was. The fewer people who spent time with her, the safer they all were. The Spade Killer was looking for more victims, no doubt. The closer she got to people the more danger they were in.
So instead of protesting, Adele just shrugged. “Leave if you have to. But I’m going to check out the final house.”
Paige snorted, staring at Adele one final time as if searching for a glimmer of doubt, but then grunting in disgust, turning on her heel and marching back toward the sidewalk. “I’ll call my own taxi,” she snapped. “This one smells like fish.”
Adele felt a slight chill along her back, and with nerves still flitting about her stomach, like a rookie on the job, she turned around and began moving through the gate past the Jacuzzi and to the waiting taxi. The driver seemed relieved when Adele was the only one who slid into his car and gave instructions for the next house.
Paige stared through the tinted windows, glaring at both the occupants.
Adele refused to look back. She’d come too far to back out now. Undoubtedly, Paige would call Foucault to complain, to try and get Adele thrown from the case. The third house had to hold the answer for when that call inevitably came.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The trip to the final vacation home was a lonely one. Adele lodged in the backseat, and no sooner had the car scraped to a halt against the curb than she launched out the back, calling a quick, “I’ll be right back,” over her shoulder.
This final house was the largest of the three. The third victim had only passed away in the last thirty-six hours, and yet, as she approached the house, she spotted a man standing out front with a mallet and a yard sign.
The man was pounding the sign into the ground, whistling as he did.
Adele frowned in the direction of the fellow. Behind him, the house was the strangest of the three. It looked like the renovated portion of some castle. A courtyard angled off where a newer looking garage had been built, using a similar stonework to match the stony façade of the castle itself. Not a castle in size, so much as build. Stone turrets flanked either side of the main hub. Stone walls encircled thick windows. Most of the glass on the second floor was stained. The house seemed odd, archaic, like something off a postcard or out of a history book.
