Page 23 of Trick of Light
She tiptoed across the room to the countertop shadowed by a set of overhead cupboards. The kitchen’s color scheme was made up of various shades of brown, from the café latte walls to the glossy brown countertop tiles, which might be considered “retro” if you were very kind. The cupboards were another shade of brown, maybe umber or sienna if you were into crayons. But the view from the window over the kitchen sink made up for any lack of ambiance. From here you could see right into the Highgroves’ extensive gardens, bursting with summer delphiniums and zinnias and roses.
Gabby took a quick peek, laughing to herself at the thought that if she lived here, she’d be low-key spying on the Highgrove backyard non-stop. Maybe that explained the lack of a TV in Amelia Burnhauser’s house, although her massive record collection and pristine Steinway probably did a better job of that.
Back to what had caught her eye the last time. One of the cupboard doors was a few inches open, and a book pulled partway out. She had no idea if it was significant, but the direction of Amelia’s body had pointed directly toward that cupboard.
As she got closer, she saw that the cupboard shelf was filled with cookbooks. That was a disappointment. Maybe Amelia had been looking for a recipe when she died. But as she tugged at the one slim volume that was askew, she saw that it was no cookbook. It was a leather-bound notebook with the words, “Piano Students,” written in elaborate cursive script on the first page, along with the dates, “2005 to 2008.” It was just one of a collection of similar volumes, but the others were tucked into a different cupboard.
Had she been reaching for this book, then fallen before she could retrieve it completely? Or had she nudged it back into place, then fallen? Had she deliberately put it on the wrong shelf? Or was it sheer coincidence that the notebook happened to be dislodged at the time of Amelia’s death?
Gabby took out her phone and quickly took images of all the pages of the notebook. Each page was devoted to one student, with their name written at the top, and included a few rough notes about their progress.
She could well imagine what her own piano teacher would have written about her. Gabby shows no interest in learning the piano whatsoever.
Once she was done with that, she slid the book back into place exactly how it had been, wiped it with her sleeve, adjusted the cupboard door to exactly the way she’d found it, wiped that as well, and tiptoed out of the kitchen.
Did it count as tampering with a crime scene if you left it the same as it was? Maybe she should run that question by her brother, the family favorite Atlanta cop.
When she finally crossed paths with the golf cart driven by the two Harbortown police officers, she was biking the opposite direction, as if her only care in the world was getting to the swim cove while the tide was still high.
She waved at them cheerfully. Not at all fooled, Detective Chen made the classic “I’m watching you” gesture, two fingers pointing at her own eyes, then at Gabby.
Uh oh.
She shuddered at the thought of her mother getting word that she’d possibly broken the law while pursuing a story. The nuclear explosion that would occur…
They couldn’t prove anything. She’d been in and out so quickly, and only touched that one little book. Unless Amelia had security cameras, there was no way—oh shit. Did she have security cameras?
She picked up the pace, legs pumping as she raced down the road to the Bloodshot Eyeball.
“What happened?” Heather exclaimed as Gabby zoomed to a stop next to the sawhorses, which were now loaded with a new front door in need of priming.
“If I get arrested, will you bail me out?”
“Of course, no questions asked. And just so you know, Luke keeps the lockup clean and comfortable. Just ask my mom. What’s going on?”
“I have some leads for us to chase, and since I possibly broke the law to get them, we’d better make them count.”
11
Barnaby hadn’t seen much of his father lately, since he’d been in and out of neurologist appointments, as well as sleeping more than usual. Even when John Carmichael was around and awake, his acuity was hard to predict. So the next chance he had to talk to his father was when a team of lawyers arrived on the island for an in-person meeting.
The Carmichael family kept one of the most expensive law firms on the East Coast on retainer, and lately, they’d been earning their money and then some. For this convo, the lawyers arrived in a private helicopter because they were so busy they didn’t want to waste time on a boat.
Barnaby chose the library as the best meeting location since his father felt most comfortable there. The library, with its high ceilings and leather armchairs, glass display cases and antique sailing paraphernalia, had always been his inner sanctum. Barnaby hoped he’d be lucid and present enough to follow the convo and maybe answer some more private questions afterwards.
He helped his father settle into his favorite armchair, noticing the tremble in his muscles, shocking in such a big, dominating man. After years of fighting business foes, John Carmichael was now battling age and dementia, and it was hard to witness.
“Where’s Celine?” was his first question—not a good start. Celine was his much-younger current wife, the one who had conspired against him, the one facing charges as well as divorce proceedings.
“She’s staying in the Harbortown condo,” Barnaby reminded him. “You two are done, remember?”
“That’s one of the issues we need to address.” The lead lawyer, a dynamic man named Raul Garcia, wearing the sharpest suit Barnaby had ever seen, gestured for his team to take their seats. “Celine’s defense is going to be that Mr. Carmichael is in fact suffering from dementia and that she was only trying to protect his estate.”
“Bury her.”
That sharp command from John Carmichael made everyone jump. Even Barnaby. He was such a large and imposing man, even though his shoulders hunched more than they used to, and he limped more from his old sailing injury. Even diminished, his shaggy white-haired presence could dominate a room.
Time for him to say what really happened to my Sophie. Barnaby hadn’t been able to get those words out of his mind, and now they rang even louder. Was his father capable of “burying” someone who got in his way? How far would he go to get rid of an inconvenient person, like a woman threatening his marriage?
