Even In Darkness--An American Murder Mystery Thriller by Lynn Hightower Page B
Authors: Lynn Hightower
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thickly in the window boxes. The yard is shaded by old trees, their roots like veins just below the surface, the grass so thin beneath that you can see the sandy soil, the pine needles.
The door is blocked with crime scene tape, an embarrassment in this gentle neighborhood. I have a key Caro sent me three years ago for a visit I never made.
The porch creaks when I walk across the warped wood planks. The beautifully arched front door is painted grey. There is a scratched brass mailbox hanging on the door and it looks empty. I wonder if someone is picking up the mail.
My key works just fine. I break the crime scene tape and walk in slowly, almost on tiptoe, absorbing the silence. There is a brass umbrella stand on the left, just behind the front door. The great room is cavernous, with high ceilings and worn wood floors. The furniture is simple, antique store bargains.
There is mud smeared on the staircase. Left by the intruder, I think.
The great room opens on to an octagonal dining nook, directly off the kitchen. There is a bank of windows, and a drop-leaf cherry table. This is the one she told me about, bought at the bargain rate of one hundred eighty-seven dollars. The surface needs refinishing. It is scratched and cloudy with abuse. A square of lace in the center covers the worst of the wear, and on top of that is an oversized rattan basket with old mail.
I sort through what is there. A car insurance bill, a flier from Loweâs, a bank statement from Arvest Bank. A newspaper lies folded next to the basket, the rubber band that held it tossed to one side. The
Arkansas Democrat
â dated the day Caro and Andee disappeared. I look through the back window and see where Burton Stafford took the privacy fence down between their backyards, giving Caroline and Andee access to the in-ground pool. Since then he had put up a gazebo and a swing set, and re-cemented the basketball hoop and tetherball pole the Stafford kids had used growing up.
The sound of a car horn makes me jump. It sounds very much like my Jeep. I go to the front door and look outside. Leo has scrambled to the driverâs side and his front paws are propped on the steering wheel. He sees me looking and plasters himself against the window and whines.
I let him out and he races up and down the front yard, sniffing, moving in random patterns that no doubt make sense to him. A pudgy yellow-tailed squirrel chatters at him from its perch on the fence and he thunders across the yard. I head up the sidewalk to the porch. Leo appears instantly beside me, trying to crowd ahead. I block him until he sits, then I push the door open. Leo follows me in. He is full of curiosity and without inhibition. He circles the couch, runs into the dining nook, stops long enough to prop his front paws on the table and sniff Carolineâs boots, then hops down and tears into the kitchen.
Rubyâs doggie bowls sit neatly on a small braided rug by the refrigerator. Leo sticks his head in the water and laps loudly. He dives into the stale kibble with rapture.
I walk softly. I would love to have a kitchen like this. The wood floors are in beautiful shape, the walls freshly painted, vanilla cream, and there are white plantation shutters on the windows. The counter tops are tiled, cobalt blue, and the stove is a Jenn-Air gas with a grill. Thereâs a built-in pantry with glass doors, a deep red teapot on the stove, and the cabinets are white and spotless. A wood-burning stove is perched on a small brick hearth. The ceiling is bead board, painted white.
There is a wine bottle on the counter top. Australian Cabernet, Yellow Tail, three quarters full, the cork jammed into the throttle, a dried smear of wine on the tile.
The kitchen table is a small, perfect square. Itâs old wood, painted yellow, with three matching yellow chairs. A small pot in the center holds brown, crispy irises. I picture myself there, with Caro and Andee, eating toast and jam and eggs.
I have
The door is blocked with crime scene tape, an embarrassment in this gentle neighborhood. I have a key Caro sent me three years ago for a visit I never made.
The porch creaks when I walk across the warped wood planks. The beautifully arched front door is painted grey. There is a scratched brass mailbox hanging on the door and it looks empty. I wonder if someone is picking up the mail.
My key works just fine. I break the crime scene tape and walk in slowly, almost on tiptoe, absorbing the silence. There is a brass umbrella stand on the left, just behind the front door. The great room is cavernous, with high ceilings and worn wood floors. The furniture is simple, antique store bargains.
There is mud smeared on the staircase. Left by the intruder, I think.
The great room opens on to an octagonal dining nook, directly off the kitchen. There is a bank of windows, and a drop-leaf cherry table. This is the one she told me about, bought at the bargain rate of one hundred eighty-seven dollars. The surface needs refinishing. It is scratched and cloudy with abuse. A square of lace in the center covers the worst of the wear, and on top of that is an oversized rattan basket with old mail.
I sort through what is there. A car insurance bill, a flier from Loweâs, a bank statement from Arvest Bank. A newspaper lies folded next to the basket, the rubber band that held it tossed to one side. The
Arkansas Democrat
â dated the day Caro and Andee disappeared. I look through the back window and see where Burton Stafford took the privacy fence down between their backyards, giving Caroline and Andee access to the in-ground pool. Since then he had put up a gazebo and a swing set, and re-cemented the basketball hoop and tetherball pole the Stafford kids had used growing up.
The sound of a car horn makes me jump. It sounds very much like my Jeep. I go to the front door and look outside. Leo has scrambled to the driverâs side and his front paws are propped on the steering wheel. He sees me looking and plasters himself against the window and whines.
I let him out and he races up and down the front yard, sniffing, moving in random patterns that no doubt make sense to him. A pudgy yellow-tailed squirrel chatters at him from its perch on the fence and he thunders across the yard. I head up the sidewalk to the porch. Leo appears instantly beside me, trying to crowd ahead. I block him until he sits, then I push the door open. Leo follows me in. He is full of curiosity and without inhibition. He circles the couch, runs into the dining nook, stops long enough to prop his front paws on the table and sniff Carolineâs boots, then hops down and tears into the kitchen.
Rubyâs doggie bowls sit neatly on a small braided rug by the refrigerator. Leo sticks his head in the water and laps loudly. He dives into the stale kibble with rapture.
I walk softly. I would love to have a kitchen like this. The wood floors are in beautiful shape, the walls freshly painted, vanilla cream, and there are white plantation shutters on the windows. The counter tops are tiled, cobalt blue, and the stove is a Jenn-Air gas with a grill. Thereâs a built-in pantry with glass doors, a deep red teapot on the stove, and the cabinets are white and spotless. A wood-burning stove is perched on a small brick hearth. The ceiling is bead board, painted white.
There is a wine bottle on the counter top. Australian Cabernet, Yellow Tail, three quarters full, the cork jammed into the throttle, a dried smear of wine on the tile.
The kitchen table is a small, perfect square. Itâs old wood, painted yellow, with three matching yellow chairs. A small pot in the center holds brown, crispy irises. I picture myself there, with Caro and Andee, eating toast and jam and eggs.
I have
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