The Unkindness of Ravens, M. Hilliard [romantic books to read txt] 📗

“Unlikely. The Friends want to stay in Millicent’s good graces, so they’re pretty careful. Maybe someone put them there to draw Joanna’s attention? She’d climb up to get them to put them back. It’s one way to make sure she’d be at the top of the stairs.”

Webber raised her eyebrows but she didn’t argue.

I walked farther back into the attic, following a path cleared through all the junk. I swung left and entered a short hall connecting the two sides of the house on this floor. To my left were casement windows, which gave access to the small roof deck we called the terrace. It had been added by a Ravenscroft with a passion for astronomy. Not easy to access, but the view was spectacular. No way to get to it from the outside unless you were Spiderman, so no chance someone had gotten in that way.

Ahead was another doorway to a room similar to the one we had just left, and immediately off that were the stairs from the archives. I walked the full length of the hall and peered into the gloomy interior of the next room. All the windows were shut, their shades drawn. The archive stairway was equally dark, though I could see the faint outline of the door at the bottom. I’d done some poking around up here when I first started, looking under dust sheets and into old trunks, but the light was poor and there wasn’t anything of interest. I hadn’t paid much attention since.

“Anything else out of place?” Webber asked.

“It’s hard to tell, but other than the area at the top of the stairs, everything seems to be just as it was the last time I was here.”

“When was that?”

“Couple of weeks ago. Someone had left a box of donations outside before we opened. Sports equipment.” I looked around and pointed. “There.”

There was a sharp crack from the front room. We both jumped, and Webber pushed past me and eased carefully into the doorway. She peered around the corner. The cracking noise repeated. I had the satisfaction of seeing her flinch. Not so unflappable after all.

“It’s the window shade,” she said as she moved into the next room. I was conscious of a slight draft through the hall. Odd. It felt like something had opened behind me. I looked, but all the windows I could see were still shut. I followed Webber, rounding the corner as she reached for the sash. Another gust of wind set the shade flapping, and again I felt the draft. The air moved past me, weaving through the room, lifting the doll’s hair ribbon, gently stirring papers, and setting a tiny rocking horse into motion. The horse nodded at me, the light winking off its bright glass eyes as it rocked gently. I heard the window close, and everything was once again still.

Cross-ventilation. Somewhere else in the attic, a door or window had been opened. The archives? Too far, I thought. It must be something closer. I started toward Webber. I didn’t want to call out and alert anyone who might be in the attic with us. The floor creaked beneath my foot. I stopped, lifted my foot and set it down again. Creak. This was the noise I had heard yesterday. I was sure. Then another creak, faint, from behind me, and a stirring of air like a slow exhalation of breath. I felt a crawling sensation on the back of my neck.

I turned my head and took a brief look over my shoulder.

Nothing.

The window rattled. Officer Webber was playing with the shade.

“This must be what you heard yesterday” she said, moving the shade back and forth. She caught my eye. “Wouldn’t you say?”

“No,” I said. “Listen.”

I moved foot and shifted my weight. The floor creaked.

“See?” I said. “Come over. You can hear it better.”

She gave me a puzzled look, but came closer.

“Something opened, then shut. Back there.” I jerked my head. “Didn’t you feel the air movement?”

She shook her head, then looked back toward the window. With the breeze from outside, she probably wouldn’t have noticed anything. Webber must have reached the same conclusion, because she turned sideways and slid past me. She moved like a cat, not making a sound. She took up position a few feet away, back to the wall, where all the rooms intersected. She did a quick scan, and then looked back at me.

“Other than the light and the window, does anything else seem strange to you, Ms. Hogan?”

“Where’s the missing shelf?”

She debated with herself. Her usually impassive face tightened in every feature. I guess she decided she would get better information from me if she offered some herself.

“Forensics. We’re examining the possibility it fell and hit her.”

“Or she reached for something, lost her balance, grabbed the shelf, and it came down on her.”

Another internal debate. “That’s one theory.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Don’t you think this all looks a bit staged? There were things on that shelf that shouldn’t have been there. I’d put money on it.” I kept my voice pitched low, conscious that somewhere else in the dark attic, someone might be listening.

“You’re very sure this is a crime, Ms. Hogan. Why is that?” Her voice was just as low, and she did another quick scan.

Because someone went through my desk.

Because of the dog that barked in the night.

Because I feel like we’re being watched.

And because the manor doesn’t feel right.

She would think I was nuts. Or making it up. But I did have something a little more solid.

“Joanna noticed things. She never forgot a detail. She was here more than usual, lately. She didn’t seem herself. Mary Alice thinks so, too.”

“What do you think she noticed that might have gotten her killed?”

“I have no idea.”

It was true, and I didn’t want the police or anyone else to think otherwise. But I intended to find out.

“Well, if you think of anything else, please call immediately. Anytime. I’ve added my cell number.” She handed me