Left to Vanish (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Eight) by Blake Pierce (best adventure books to read txt) 📕

“Bah. Nominally, maybe. Easters, sometimes. The Good Lorddoesn’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 neverheard such a stupid—”

“That’s not what I’m saying at all. So you’re saying shewasn’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. Sheglanced toward Agent Paige, reflexively, and then looked back toward the victim’ssister. “Final thing; did your sister own a second home in Southern France?”

She could practically hear Agent Paige’s eyeballs scraping theirsockets, likely catching the word for France and piecing it together.

But the rolling of her eyes went stiff as Mrs. Schmidtnodded her head bluntly. “Yes. A second house in France. They had one in Italytoo. What of it?”

Adele shook her head quickly, feeling her pulse quicken anda slow prickle spread along her spine. She had known it. Another home inFrance.

“Do you know if the home was in the Aquitaine region?” sheasked, 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 excitementin 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 homesin Southern France have to do with it?

She swallowed and gestured toward Agent Paige, saying, “Weactually have to be going. The officers over there will help take you to yoursister. Mrs. Schmidt, I’m very sorry for your loss.”

The older woman just ignored Adele, grunting, as, in herhigh heels, trying to walk on mud and grass, she hobbled over toward the barnwith the help of the officer who’d aided her through the gates.

Adele and Paige stood next to each other over the shatteredfragments of the ceramic coffee mug, frowning in the direction of the stumblingolder woman.

Agent Paige said, softly, “Coincidence, has to be.”

“She had a vacation home in France. Just like the other twovictims.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Maybe. Or maybe it’s the key to the case. What are theodds that all three—”

“I know what you’re going to say. Low odds. But they’realso 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 homeswere nearly never used.”

“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 hoppingaround Europe. There are no victims in France. How’s that supposed to help us?”

Adele narrowed her eyes. “Paige, this is the best lead wehave.”

“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 Paigewas simply trying to avoid another plane flight. She supposed that accusing herpartner of unprofessionalism wouldn’t go far though. So instead, she justshrugged, turned, and began stalking back in the direction of the driveway andtheir waiting car. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” she said overher shoulder. “But I’m going. Alone if I have to.”

She stalked through the trees, moving toward the gray asphaltdrive. Behind her, coming from the victim’s sister now, Adele could hear a seriesof 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. Butwhat was the point? Adele had seen what it was to shatter a soul. She didn’tneed to see it again. Mrs. Schmidt seemed tough. But even the toughest sortshad 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 strangepit, 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 becamedetermined.

Adele quickened, marching now, striding between the trees towardthe driveway and back to the waiting car. With Paige or without, she washeading 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 Sharphad returned.

The painter smiled, stroking the back of his knuckles andtracing them with a soft finger, circling, circling.

He reclined in the nude, his feet on the armrest of thelong couch, his head not quite reaching the opposite armrest. He stared at theceiling, still circling his finger over his knuckles.

He couldn’t help but smile. The poetry of it all. Thebeauty. His naked flesh was speckled with greens and browns of acrylic paint.

He glanced over toward the large canvas, where he’d beenworking. 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 wasone of his best works yet.

He always did his best work after a kill.

Robert Henry had been one of his masterpieces. He hadshared 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 asmall puppy in the warm folds of a blanket.

Giddy, excited, delighted. She was in Germany. The beautyof it all, of course, was that was his next destination too.

His contacts with the German police hadn’t realized justhow valuable their information would prove. He still had his camera facing Adele’sapartment, but she hadn’t been there in a while. Which meant he needed moreinformation. He had other plans, more delightful plans.

He got to his feet, pushing off the couch, struck by asudden bout of inspiration. He tottered over to the canvas, stepping onto theplastic sheet. He looked toward his collection of paints, and then his eyessettled on the small glass jar. He dipped his brush in the jar, whistling tohimself and still smiling, swaying with the soft music pulsing from his ownlips. He danced slowly in