Kicking It(48)
The house had wide-board hardwood floors, creamy painted walls hung with framed art, painted floor moldings and ceiling moldings. Ten-foot ceilings. Antique furniture juxtaposed with designer pieces. The living room boasted an Oriental rug in wine and blues to match the navy leather couch and burgundy upholstered chairs. The dining room sported navy-and-wine-striped fabric on the dining chairs and a floral rug under the antique table for ten. Perfect. The kitchen was clean, not a dish out of place on the granite-topped cabinets. The stovetop looked as if it had never been used.
Liz pointed up the stairs and Layla shrugged. The twins went up alone and found two guest rooms with a Jack-and-Jill bath between, and a sewing room/craft room/extra super-neat junk room behind a closed door. Theirs were the only footprints on the neutral carpet. Having learned nothing, they went back downstairs.
The house was free of dust, piles of mail, and accumulated rubbish. There were no coats tossed over chair backs. No shoes in a corner or slippers by the front door or gloves on a side table. No clutter. The framed art consisted of impersonal prints that a decorator might have chosen. There were no photos or mementos anywhere. No plants to water. No dog or cat bowls. The house was something for a magazine shoot, not a place to relax, to live.
Until Layla, still silent and watching them with curious and sober eyes, led them into the master suite. Which was totally different.
The suite looked like it had been hit by a whirlwind. The king-sized bed was unmade, the covers and comforter in a heap on the floor. Clothes were everywhere. A bottle of wine was open on a side table near a sitting area, a single long-stemmed glass beside it. Wine ringed the glass, partially evaporated. One glass. Not two, as one might expect if she’d met a man, had a tryst, and taken off with him, as the police seemed to think. Jewelry was in a pile on the bureau, diamonds and gold. A lot of both. The marble bath en suite was clean and untouched, Evelyn’s makeup in a white leather travel case, open but well organized, the contents in sizes accepted by airlines and strict travel security. Larger sizes of shampoos, conditioners, and lotions were arranged in a cabinet that Liz opened with a pocketed hand. Towels were perfectly folded, as were washcloths. Even the laundry basket’s contents were already separated, colors in one side, whites in the other.
“Everything is neat. As close to perfect as it’s possible to be and still be a real home. But the bedroom?” Liz said, making it a question as she walked back into that room.
“It’s never looked like this before. Ever,” Layla said grimly. “My mother is OCD about her stuff. Impossibly OCD.”
Another reason to think that Layla had not had a cheery childhood.
Liz took in the room’s disarray. The clothes on the floor seemed weird somehow, as if they had been dropped in a circle. As if Evelyn had stood in the middle of the room and turned slowly around, dropping her clothes as she undressed. Grabbing the bedcovers and pulling them with her, then dropping them, too. The fabrics and clothing formed a spiral.
To get a better feel for the layout, Liz stepped inside the bare space on the floor and turned around. Yeah. A spiral. Facing one corner of the room, Evelyn had started disrobing while turning in a slow circle, releasing her clothes in a nearly circular, doughnut-shaped pile. Coat, then scarf, gloves, jacket, shirt, bra, boots, dress pants, leggings, and undies, dropped in that order. “Except . . . ,” Liz said, studying the clothing, “there’s only one boot.”
Cia, who had been watching, walked slowly around the room, checking corners. Her hands still in her pockets, she opened the door beside the bath to reveal a huge walk-in closet. She flipped the light switch, illuminating the rows of designer clothes, arranged by color and season. “What kind of boot?” she asked.
Liz bent and studied it. “Christian Louboutin, a five-inch spike-heeled black suede boot with fringe down the back seam. Size six and a half. A right boot.” Liz almost smiled, feeling her sister’s desire through the air and the twin bond. Cia loved boots. Like, really loved them. It was a miracle she hadn’t worn her boyfriend’s gift until today. She owned dozens of vintage boots, which took up most of the closet floor in their rental house. And they both wore size six and a half.
“No single left boot in here,” Cia said, “by any designer.” The light clicked off.
Liz tilted her head, studying the fringed boot and the floor beneath it. “There’s something under it.” Using only forefinger and thumb, Liz lifted the boot and knelt to see the floor. Beneath the boot, there was a small spatter of . . . dried blood. The drops were so tiny she might have missed them had she not looked extra closely. But blood could mean either foul play or black magic used against the missing woman. And either one would mean that this was a police case—local human law enforcement or PsyLED, the Psychometry Law Enforcement Division.