Left to Lapse (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Seven) by Blake Pierce (a book to read .txt) 📕

bout of despair. Itwas getting worse as the days progressed, harder to think straight. To thinklike himself.

Hemissed Adele. Missed her dearly. But where he was now going, she couldn’tfollow. Not yet. Hopefully not for a long time.

Whichbrought him back to the letter.

Hepaused, picking up the pen and pushing it against the bottom of the paper, andthen, with careful, smooth strokes, he signed the letter, nodding and smilingto himself as he did. He folded the paper, placing it in an envelope upon whichhe wrote, again in cursive, To My Dearest Adele Sharp. Then he lickedthe envelope, sealed it, and placed it, with a trembling hand, between thepages of the small yellow-papered journal.

***

Thepainter went still, frowning, glancing over his shoulder and through the backwindow.

Twobright lights flashed in his rearview mirror, and he gritted his teeth. Aneighbor? A delivery driver?

Afigure got out of the car and began to move up the sidewalk.

Thepainter hesitated, his frown deepening. He turned his head, following the progressof the figure up the sidewalk. Hot air streamed from the vents against his chinand the side of his neck. The man in question was solidly built, wearing asingle white T-shirt despite the cool air. He also had a thick, droopingmustache.

Herecognized the man… not just because of Elise, his masterpiece, or evenAdele—his dearest friend. Not even because of the grainy image from thesecurity footage earlier that morning. But they’d met, once, nearly five yearsago.

Thepainter frowned at the memory. He’d gotten close then, very close.

Whatwas he doing here, though?

Thepainter watched as Sergeant Sharp moved through the black gate, past thestatuary in the garden and up the steps to the manor. A deep booming soundechoed out from where he knocked on the door.

Asecond later, from his vantage point, the man watched as Robert readjustedhimself, pulling a bathrobe across his dwindling form and limping through thestudy toward a side door that led to the hall.

Robert’sfront door swung open a moment later, washing the garden and the front stepswith bright orange light. Sergeant Sharp said something, which the paintercouldn’t hear, and Robert smiled, gesturing for him to enter. A moment later,the door closed, leaving the painter out in the dark.

Hisfriend was inside, entertaining another guest.

Couldhe have two friends tonight?

Hedabbed thoughtfully at one of his shaved eyebrows. Then he shook his head. No…Two was too many. Especially if one of them was a man like Sergeant Sharp. Hecarried his physique like someone who knew how to take care of himself.

Nota problem, given proper preparations. The painter had spent his fair share oftime creating art with the muscle-bound and mademoiselles alike. But he didn’thave the proper sedatives for Sergeant Sharp. No… not tonight then.

Thepainter sighed in frustration. He’d gotten rid of the cafeteria worker he’dpicked up as she’d finally faded earlier in the evening. That particular piecehadn’t turned out how he’d imagined. Now, though, he had nothing to play withtonight. No canvas, no paints, nothing…

Grumblingto himself, he twisted the key and pulled away from the curb, swerving back upthe road and leaving Robert Henry’s house behind. For now.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Niceplace,” Joseph Sharp said, glancing around the entrance to the mansion. Thecarpet alone looked like it might cost more than his mortgage. “So you’reRobert?” he said, finally, his eyes landing on the small man in a silkbathrobe.

Thefellow in question had immaculate hair, as if he’d only just combed it intoplace, an effect betrayed only by the glossy sheen, suggesting a copious amountof product. The man before him had a small, perfectly maintained mustache andeyes that carried a hidden weight of kindness.

“Iam,” said the man and then he winced, coughing into his fist and holding out anapologetic hand.

“Soundsbad,” said the Sergeant.

“Hitmy lungs about a week ago,” said Robert. “Not much longer now.”

Josephnodded curtly. “I’ll keep you in my prayers.”

“I’dlike that.”

Theystood awkwardly in the entryway for a moment, the Sergeant glancing around atsome of the paintings tastefully lining the hall. He didn’t have much patiencefor paintings. A whole lot of money just for pieces of colored paper as far ashe saw it.

Heglanced toward the open door to their left, which seemed to lead into a study,with books on shelves and two red leather chairs facing a fireplace.

“Wouldyou like to come sit?” said Robert.

TheSergeant shook his head. “Can’t stay long. I’m leaving to return to Germanyearly tomorrow.”

“Ah,of course. No worries. Well, then, I of course recognize you, Mr. Sharp. Howcan I be of service?”

“Well…I don’t know much about service. I heard from my daughter your health wasdeclining. Sorry.”

“It’squite all right. I’ve made my peace.” He smiled again. “It’s funny how manythings used to worry me that now seem so silly.”

“Iknow what you mean,” said the Sergeant, his tone unwavering, his eyes fixed andgaze firm. He felt a flutter of emotion in his chest, but didn’t quite knowwhat to do with it, so he returned his attention to the small Frenchman. “YourEnglish is really good,” he said.

 “Thankyou. So is yours.”

“I…I just wanted to stop by… And—” The Sergeant scratched the back of his head,glancing toward the two red leather chairs in the study.

Robertwaited patiently, his small arms folded over his chest, the silk of hisbathrobe crinkling in folds, suggesting it was a few sizes too large now.

“Elisewill make good company, you know,” the Sergeant said gruffly, clearing histhroat. “When… well, when you kick it.”

“Kickit?” Henry said, raising an amused eyebrow.

“Youknow. When you…”

“Die?”

“Yeah.Put in a good word with Elise, could you?” the Sergeant said, reaching out andpatting Henry awkwardly on the arm, then withdrawing his hand.

“Ah,the afterlife?”

“Yes,”said the Sergeant entirely unapologetically. “Heaven. If you make it, I’m sureshe’ll show you around. Elise was nice like that.”

“Yourdaughter must have picked up that trait from her.”

TheSergeant hesitated. For a moment, he wondered if Robert was taking a passive-aggressiveshot, but the small man was still smiling, and he didn’t seem the sort at firstblush. At last, the Sergeant sighed and said, “You’ve been good to my daughter…I just wanted to come by and say… well, that. Since, well, I might not be ableto again. I’ve always meant to thank you.”

“Thankme for what?”

TheSergeant felt a spurt of anger,