Close Enough to Kill by Beverly Barton Page A

romantic man.
    A gift from Brandon?
    She laid the box and the note on the passenger seat, then retrieved the manila envelope and tossed the bag alongside the box.
    What could this be?
    After opening the sealed envelope, she removed the contents. A single page from an artist’s sketch pad. Her heart skipped a beat. Brandon was the art director at the junior college. She turned the paper over and gasped aloud. It was a charcoal sketch of her face. This was the work of a true artist.
    Brandon Kelley was that true artist. He was her secret admirer. But why was he courting her in such an old-fashioned, secretive manner? Why didn’t he just come right out and ask her for a date?
    Because Brandon isn’t like other men, she told herself. He’s older, more experienced, worldly wise and undoubtedly one of the last of a dying breed—a romantic gentleman.
    She reached over, lifted the pearls from the box and fingered them lovingly. She would wear them to school on Monday to show him that she liked his gift.
    Bubbling with excitement and giddy with expectations, Thomasina attached her seatbelt, shifted into reverse and began humming to herself as she backed up and headed out to the street.
     
    Bernie handled the items very carefully, taking her time to study the details as Charlie Patterson gave the pieces to her, one at a time. First were notes written in heavy black ink on white note cards, the kind you could buy just about any place that sold stationery. Each note was succinct, flattering to the receiver and eerily romantic.
    “Kyle Preston told me that one of Stephanie’s old boyfriends sent her some notes and gifts. These must be the notes.” But something wasn’t quite right about these things. The notes were unsigned, and the wording didn’t seem to be something a former lover would write. No, her guess would be the messages were sent from a would-be lover.
    “Why didn’t he mention these notes before?” Jim asked.
    “He’d forgotten about them, didn’t think they were important.”
    “I can’t believe a husband could have forgotten about these things,” Charlie said. “Especially not the sketches.”
    “What sketches?” Bernie asked. “Kyle didn’t say anything about sketches.”
    “Then either he’s lying or Stephanie didn’t share all her little gifts with her husband.” Jim pointed to the thin stack of papers Charlie held in his glove-covered hand.
    “Let me see those.” Bernie held out her hand and accepted the items Charlie gave her.
    The first item was a sketch of Stephanie, done in charcoal. Just her face, with a hint of naked shoulder. It was a remarkably accurate sketch; the artist clearly was talented. Bernie shuffled through several photographs of Stephanie, obviously taken at a distance, and it was apparent that she had not been aware she was being caught on film. One photo was of her on her front porch. Another was of her coming out of the grocery store wheeling a cart filled with sacks. There were six photos in all, each taken at a different location and apparently on different days.
    “He was stalking her,” Bernie said.
    “Yeah,” Jim replied. “Keep going. It gets worse.”
    She handed the first sketch and the photos back to Charlie and took a look at the remaining sketches, probably a dozen or so. Bernie did a double take after looking at the first rendering. This was an ink sketch of Stephanie, partially undressed, with one naked breast showing, the nipple tightly puckered. She had one hand slipped suggestively between her upper thighs and her right index finger was stuck in her mouth, pressing her lips apart.
    Dear God, had Stephanie posed for this or had the artist drawn it from memory? “We definitely need to question the old boyfriend.”
    Bernie flipped that sketch and went on to the next. In this one, Stephanie was completely nude, except for a strand of pearls around her neck, and the expression on her face was downright unnerving. She looked like a woman in the throes