Light from Her Mirror (Mirrors Don't Lie Book 3) (31 page)

His fingers touched something beneath the chair, something
wet, and his wayward thoughts immediately snapped to attention. “I think I
found it,” he announced.

“What is it?” She scooted closer to him as he turned over
his palm and offered the object for inspection.

 “A goldfish!” she cried in relief, having expected
something much more sinister.

Then, as confusion set in, she repeated, “A goldfish?”

“A goldfish. A practically dead goldfish.”

“What does it mean?” she asked in utter vulnerability.

She looked at him with big blue eyes rimmed by unbidden
tears, and he knew then that he would do anything in his power to keep those
tears from falling. He thought of several things a dead goldfish could mean; a
stupid prank, an ill-chosen joke, a subtle warning from a slick and twisted
mind. He reminded himself not to overreact as the last thought sent a chill of
fear to his heart.

“I don’t know what it means,” he told her honestly, getting
to his feet. “But I need to dispose of it. Where’s your bathroom?”

“Corner, beside the stairs.”

As Lange went into the small powder room and disposed of the
goldfish, Ashli continued to crawl around on the floor, collecting her
scattered mail. She was unaware that her dress had inched its way up as she
moved, until he came out of the bathroom and stopped with a sudden intake of
breath.

He saw two flashes of pink, one in the form of silky nylon,
the other in her cheeks. Ashli hurried to her feet, painfully aware that the
man had just seen her underwear. Covering her embarrassment with a sudden flare
of indignation, she whirled on him and demanded, “
Now
do you believe
that someone is watching me?”

“I wouldn’t be here now if I hadn’t already believed you,”
he told her quietly.

“Why on earth would someone send me a half-dead goldfish?”

“Maybe it was supposed to be a completely dead goldfish. Are
you earlier than usual getting home?”

“No, a little later, actually.”

“Is that the envelope it was in?” He nodded to the one she
held in her hand. When she offered it to him, he inspected its blank front and
empty contents, finding nothing whatsoever to even suggest a clue. “Was it on
your door?”

“My mailbox.”

He shrugged his broad shoulders, dismissing the goldfish for
the time being. He was more interested in the balcony, where the Peeping Tom
had been. A wall of French doors opened onto the outdoor space, offering plenty
of light and extended living space, and, perhaps, very little privacy. Typical
for homes of its day, the veranda was long and wide, projecting out at least
fifteen feet.

“The balcony runs the length of the house?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“So it’s all connected, giving anyone access?”

“More or less. We each have our own space. Mine runs the
length of my apartment and is accessible from these doors only. Same for the
other back unit.  The two front units each have a smaller space in the
center, accessible from the French doors in the hall, which are electronically
coded. Each space is divided with a lattice panel.” She nodded, indicating the
white lattice wall. Hers was covered in potted plants, strategically placed
decorative tin panels, and clinging vines.  Though not completely covered,
the arrangement offered adequate privacy from her neighbors.

“So basically anyone with a sense of adventure could swing
out around the panel, or shimmy up a rope from the ground floor,” he surmised.

“Basically. Assuming they had access to the other balconies
or to the grounds.”

“Privacy fence?” he asked, jotting notes into his little
notebook.

“No,” she admitted.

“Where’s your bedroom?”

“Upstairs.”

Not bothering to ask for permission to see it, Lange started
for the stairs. Ashli followed behind, reluctant to let a stranger see the core
of her privacy without being there to somehow defend it.

Twisting and turning its way up to the third floor of the
grand old mansion, the staircase opened directly into her bedroom. The
oversized room was spacious and light, but as she tried to look at it through
someone else’s eyes, it seemed such a lonely room. Only one body slept in the
bed meant for two, only one night stand stood by its side. The room’s soft
colors of pink and green were intended to make it appear cool and refreshing,
but suddenly to Ashli it just felt cold.

Lange walked past her bed, headed for the set of doors
leading outside. This balcony was much smaller, by both length and width, and
was exclusive to her apartment.  With no center balcony, just its twin on
the far end of the house, there was no need for a privacy panel up here. A
wrought iron chair and side table nestled into one corner of the balcony, a
cushioned chaise lounge stretched out in the other. He noted the singular
chair, meaning she probably did not make a habit of bringing men to her
bedroom.

“Do you keep these windows covered?” he asked.

“If I’m up here during the day, I might open the blinds. At
night I pull the curtains shut.”

From where he stood, he surveyed the room, all visible from
the balcony. Opposite the wall with the bed, a comfortable reading chair and
cluttered side table created a cozy scene around the fireplace. One corner
housed an entertainment center filled with a flat screen television and a
collection of digital movies; the other held a bookshelf, overflowing with
books and magazines and assorted trinkets. Ashli was glad he did not survey the
titles too closely, else he would know her weakness for romance novels. She
rather doubted Lange Sterling would appreciate a tender love story.

Lange glanced through the opened bathroom door, spying a
lacy bra on the granite counter. “Keep those curtains drawn at all times,” was
all he said as he turned curtly and left the room.

Ashli followed him back down the staircase. She descended
two steps behind, but she was practically level with his dark hair, which was
still slightly damp from a recent shower. It left him with a fresh, clean,
totally masculine scent. She was acutely aware of the knit sports shirt he
wore, and the way it clung to his broad shoulders.

The stairway, just to the right of the front door, emptied
into what was originally a sitting room in its former life. It now served as
the entry/dining room, and was occupied by a small antique oak dining set and
china cabinet. Sectioned off by wide pocket doors, the sitting room flowed into
the bedroom-turned- living room, which boasted an elaborate old fireplace at
its far end. Built-in bookcases surrounded it, housing everything from a
television and photographs to dried flowers and a stack of patchwork quilts.
The floors were hardwood, covered by a large red and cream wool carpet with an
intricate pattern. The room was uncrowded but somehow cozy, inhabited only by
an antique sofa, wingback chair, an odd table with a lamp, and an old trunk
that served as a coffee table. Against buttery yellow walls, all the woodwork
was painted white, including the louvered wooden blinds over the French doors.

Lange roamed about freely, concluding his tour in the
kitchen, which was separated from the living room by a granite-topped island.

Seeing the space, he let out a surprised whistle.

“There’s not a kitchen like this in any apartment I’ve ever
seen,” he said.

Read more now,
He
Kills Me, He Kills Me Not
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00GUNU45W

Finding
a dead body was not a good way to start a new job. Finding the dead body of your
newest client was decidedly worse.

Ten
minutes after making the horrendous discovery, Madison Reynolds sat outside the
commercial chicken houses, waiting for the police to arrive. She was still
trembling, but the shiver working its own down her spine had nothing to do with
the wind whipping around her. Never mind that she had spent the entire morning
sweating profusely; thermostat-controlled heaters kept the inside of the houses
at a balmy eighty degrees. The cold seeping into her bones now had less to do
with temperature, and more to do with shock. She could still see his face, so
gruesome and distorted in death. And with that chicken perched upon it so
proudly, as if staking its claim…

Madison
shivered again and forced the image from her mind. She considered calling her
best friend for some much-needed support, but the wail of an approaching siren
drew her attention. She struggled to her feet, found that her knees were too
weak to support her, and fell sharply back onto her rumpus.

Less
than a minute later, a fire truck arrived on the farm amid a swirl of white
dust and red lights. Madison was thankful to the driver for turning off the
siren and strobe lights as he approached where she sat in front of House 4.

The
truck barely stopped before the driver opened the door and jumped out.

“Are
you all right?” the man demanded immediately, his eyes already probing the area
for potential danger.

Madison
opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. With eyes that were large and
swimming with sudden tears, she merely nodded.

The
firefighter seemed to recognize her distress. The quality of his voice changed,
as if he were speaking to a frightened child. He even crouched down in front of
her to be at the same eye level. “You’re Miss Bert’s granddaughter, aren’t
you?” he asked.

Again,
she could only nod. She thought she recognized the young man as one of Tug
Montgomery’s boys, even though his slim frame bore no resemblance to his
father’s famous ‘tug-boat’ build, the one from which Texas football legends
were made. But he had Mary Alice’s eyes and was certainly handsome enough to be
the former beauty queen’s son. She thought she recalled her grandmother saying
something about one of their sons being on the fire department. Her guess was
that this was little Cutter Montgomery, all grown up and setting women’s hearts
aflutter, with or without the uniform.

He
confirmed her suspicions with a smile. “Cutter Montgomery.” He extended a hand
that was large and calloused.

Madison
tugged off her filthy leather glove and placed her trembling hand into his. He immediately
cocooned her icy fingers within the warmth of both his palms, his brows
puckered in concern. “Are you sure you’re all right, ma’am? I don’t want you
going into shock.”

It
took two attempts, but she finally found her voice. “I’m- I’m okay. It’s not
every day I find a … dead body.” In spite of herself, she shivered at the mere
words.

“Would
you like to sit in the fire truck, ma’am, until the police arrive? You might be
more comfortable.”

Madison
shook her head. She looked over her shoulder, toward the long metal building
that housed the body. “I feel like we should do something. The chickens are-
are pecking at him.” Again she shivered, this time in revulsion.

Cutter
Montgomery rocked back on his heels and deliberated for less than a minute. “We
need to preserve the scene,” he acknowledged. “I don’t want to disturb
anything, but you’re right, we need to stop the chickens from doing even more
damage.” With one smooth movement, he shot to his full height of just under six
feet.

Madison’s
attempt was much less graceful. As she lumbered to her feet, she wavered for a
moment like a leaf in the breeze. Squaring her shoulders and digging in her
heels, she took on a battle stance as she made a brave offer. “I’ll help.”

“Are
you sure?”

No,
she was not at all certain, but she felt obligated to see the mission through.
“It’s the least I can do.”

“What
were you doing out here, anyway?” Despite his friendly tone, the first
responder’s eyes were speculative.

“Mr.
Gleason hired me to walk his chicken houses for him this week while he was out
of town.”

Cutter
Montgomery looked down at her with obvious surprise. His gaze flickered over
her, as if noticing her attire for the first time. Hazel eyes took in the
raggedy t-shirt streaked with dust and perspiration, the filthy jeans smeared
with Heaven-only-knows-what, the plastic sleeves over muck boots at least a
size too large, and the disposable respirator dangling from her neck. He bit
back the smile, but amusement still sparked in his eyes as he questioned his hearing.
“You?”

Madison
lifted her chin defiantly. “Yes, me,” she fairly snapped.

“Sorry,
ma’am, I meant no disrespect,” the younger man apologized. He reached around to
open and hold the door for her. “I’m just surprised, is all. I didn’t realize
Ronny had hired anyone to work for him.”

“He
didn’t, not exactly. I own In a Pinch Temporary Services,” she explained. With
a brave gulp, she stepped over the threshold and into the chicken house.

She
immediately regretted the deep breath without interference from the respirator.
The stench of twenty-five thousand chickens and high levels of ammonia burned
her lungs and assaulted her nostrils. As her eyes adjusted to the dim interior,
she quickly put the breathing apparatus back in place.

Cutter
Montgomery murmured something as he backed out of the doorway and disappeared
into the adjacent control room. Madison had a moment of panic at the thought of
being alone with the body, but when the long barn brightened, she realized the
firefighter was merely adjusting the lighting. Seconds later he was back beside
her and asking which way to go.

Madison
motioned to the fan end of the five-hundred-foot building. When he waited for
her to take the lead, she reluctantly pushed forward, wading through the dense
maze of white birds.

Less
than one week ago, she joined Ronny Gleason on rounds through the houses where
he grew commercial broilers for Barbour Foods. Although the houses were fully
automated and run by a computer program, some things still needed personal
inspections. He taught her how to ‘walk’ the houses, which entailed looking for
trouble spots and picking up dead or inferior chickens. Water lines needed adjusting
every few days as the chickens grew, and feed lines had to be free and flowing.
The list of potential problems was overwhelming —everything from broken fan
belts and stalled motors to leaking water nipples and disease among the
chickens— but surprisingly enough, the massive process was generally smooth and
trouble-free. The crash course in chicken growing taught Madison more than she
ever intended to know about the feathered fowl, but at this point in her life,
a job was a job. She needed the meager amount Ronny Gleason was paying her to
tend his houses for the week.

To
her chagrin, a sudden thought crossed Madison’s mind.
Who will pay me now?
Do I even still have the job?
She knew it was in poor taste to be thinking
of a paycheck when a man lay dead just a few dozen feet away, but she had a lot
riding on this job. It was her first ‘real’ service. Walking Glitter Thompson’s
dogs while she was out of town, carrying Leroy Huddleston back and forth to
physical therapy in Bryan, and running small errands for some of her
grandmother’s friends were such meager jobs they hardly qualified; unless, of
course, she was putting together a resume. In that case, her agency had
experience in transportation needs, personal shopper assistance, and pet care.

Even
though the odd jobs brought in a small amount of income, they were more like
kid work than actual temporary services. She had not been blind to the evil
looks ten-year-old Trey Hadley gave her at church last Sunday; after all, he
usually walked the Thompson poodles when their owner was away. Madison found no
pleasure in stealing jobs from the local youth, but she was just desperate
enough to do it anyway.

That
was why this job was so important to her. If Ronny Gleason gave her a good
recommendation, other chicken growers in the community might call her when they
needed help, and her agency would finally get off to a solid start.

The
sickening sweet, rancid smell of death permeated the respirator as she
approached the end of the house, reminding Madison that there would be no
recommendation from poor Ronny Gleason. She stared at the mound of chickens
that now roosted atop his prone body and was ashamed of herself for worrying
about her own plight at a time like this. When her feet stalled, unwilling to
carry her closer, Cutter Montgomery bumped into her from behind.

The
first responder stepped around her and plodded forward. He shooed the birds
away with sweeping movements of his arms. The action set off a flurry of noisy
activity as chickens squawked and flapped and scurried away, but it cleared a
direct path to the body. Stopping within a couple of feet of the dead man, the
young fireman assessed the situation without touching any evidence.

He
said something, but the words drowned under the noisy cluck of the disturbed
chickens. Madison reluctantly stepped forward so that she could catch his next
statement. “Looks like he’s been dead several hours. In this kind of heat,
though, it’s hard to tell.”

A
shiver of repulsion shimmed through Madison. She had only been in the chicken
business for one day, but she knew exactly what he was talking about. Even she
had no trouble telling which chickens had died within the day and which ones
had been missed on the last walk-through. The chickens could quickly
deteriorate into a gooey, disgusting mess when left in these conditions; she
supposed a human body would be no different.

As
Madison bit back a gag reflex, Cutter looked around the huge building and
continued to speak. “We need to section off this area to keep the chickens
away. If you’ll stay here, I’ll move those divider fences this way.”

“I’ll
help!” she said frantically. She wasn’t about to stand there with the body.

“I
know it’s not pleasant, ma’am,” he said, his voice gentle, “but you’d be more
help standing here and keeping the chickens away.”

“Oh.”
The flap of nearby wings swept the small word away.

Madison
turned her back to the body as she shooed away the curious birds. She fought
back a wave of panic as she watched Cutter move away from her, leaving her
alone with the dead man. She was almost thankful when one feisty rooster pecked
at her calf; the brief sting of pain gave her something else to think about,
other than the fact that she stood two feet away from a grotesquely mutilated
body, swollen by heat and ravished by a flock of chickens.

Low-to-the-ground
grid panels were used as fences within the house to create distinct sections
down the five-hundred foot corridor. The fences helped distribute bird density
for more equal access to feed pans and water lines, while still being low
enough for the growers to step over. With no heed now to unbalanced sections,
Cutter Montgomery jerked holding stakes from the ground and began maneuvering the
long panels amid the feathered sea of white.

He
dutifully made his way back toward Madison, who was careful to keep her back to
the dead man as she circled his prone form, flapping her arms to chase away
chickens. If the situation had not been so dire, she might have laughed at the
crazy sight she must make. When she made a round and saw Cutter just a few feet
away, a sound that was half-sob, half-laughter escaped her scorched throat and
she almost tripped on her own clumsy feet.

“We
need to push all the birds forward,” he advised. “Go to the back wall and start
herding them this way.”

Madison
soon learned that herding several hundred chickens was about as easy as
convincing a pair of petulant toddlers into doing something they refused to do.
Every time she thought she was making progress in moving the mass forward, a
half dozen birds slipped behind her. While she chased those birds down, another
dozen or so decided to backtrack.

“This
isn’t working,” Cutter announced after several minutes. Madison would have
agreed, but she was too busy trying to get a deep breath, horrid odor and all.
The combination of physical exertion and excessive heat zapped her energy and
robbed her of air. Bent at the waist to catch her breath, she barely heard him
as he planned their next course of action. “We’ll just make a section here
around the body. That will have to be good enough, at least until the police
gets here.”

Madison
nodded incoherently. In retrospect, maybe getting her unruly twins into the
bathtub hadn’t been as difficult as she remembered; it was certainly easier
than getting all these feathered fowl to move. Maybe she should take chicken
houses off her list of offered services…

As
Cutter Montgomery went to work erecting a triangular fence around the dead
chicken grower, Madison shooed birds away and followed simple instructions. She
held the panels as Cutter drove stakes into the ground to make them stay
upright, careful to keep her eyes averted from the body. Bending to hold the
low fences brought her closer to the cloying smell that permeated the air and
turned her stomach, but Madison held her breath as much as possible. Even
without the noxious fetor of death, the odor in the chicken houses was already
so overpowering it was enough to make any sane woman run the other way.