Netherworld: Drop Dead Sexy(41)

Tristan grabbed my arm just above the elbow. “What night would you have seen him?”

“I usually saw him Thursdays.” A sudden flash of memory hit. “He couldn’t make our date because he went out of town. We re-scheduled for Sunday, normally a day off for me. My next regular client was scheduled for Wednesday, but I also had a function on Tuesday with an out-of-towner.”

Dan looked at Tristan. “She missed that date.”

Tristan seemed excited. “Our first real lead. Let’s pay Mr. Spaulding a visit.”

* * * *

We arrived in the bedroom of Todd Spaulding’s beachfront home, me gripping tightly on the two men’s hands. When I recognized the room I landed in, I released Tristan and Dan to applaud myself.

“I did it!”

Dan patted my back in congratulations. “I told you that you could. You just have to clear your mind of all distractions.”

Tristan looked around and frowned. “This is Spaulding’s bedroom? The decorating is so … typical for this area. Funny for a man who designs avant-garde homes.”

Todd’s bedroom was unremarkable indeed. The décor was fairly typical of the beach cottage style seen so much on Hamilton Island, one of a string of islands which lay just off the coast of Fulton Falls’ mainland. Pastel blues and greens predominated, with tan wicker furniture scattered like shells about the room.

I told the men, “Todd finds traditional to be soothing. He actually dislikes his own work, but the offbeat brings in the money so that’s what he gives his clients.”





I moved about the familiar room, frowning. The bedside lamp burned despite the strong afternoon sun beaming through the window. Other items on the nightstand made me pause: a bottle of wine in an ice bucket that contained not ice, but water. Two wine glasses. Except for the lack of ice, it was Todd’s typical setup for our dates when we weren’t attending some out of town party. And there was something else too.

The house was suddenly too quiet for my liking, as if the structure itself held its breath in anticipation. Some sounds of traffic outside and the roar of the ocean intruded. But the quiet pervaded. It was then I noticed the sickly sweet scent, so subtle I hadn’t caught it at first.

“We didn’t get to this part of our date,” I said. “The ice in the bucket is melted, the wine not poured. And Todd’s cell is on the nightstand.” I turned to the men who watched me carefully. “Todd doesn’t go anywhere without his phone. He won’t even go into the bathroom to squat without it. So we were in the room when something happened.”

“What, Brandilynn?” Tristan asked. “There’s no sign of a struggle in here. The bed hasn’t even been mussed.”

He was right. The bed still awaited Todd and me, perfectly made without a wrinkle marring the lace-trimmed duvet or pillow cases.

“Something drew us out of the room,” I said. A murky recollection of Todd walking away from me to check a noise we’d heard flitted across my mind. I looked at the open doorway that led out to the rest of the second floor.

Dan walked out, following the direction of my gaze. He paused just outside the doorway. “It stinks out here. There’s something wrapped around the railing.” He stepped farther out, coming to the wrought iron railing that ran the length of the second floor, overlooking the grand entryway of Todd’s home. He grimaced. “Your friend is dead, Brandilynn.”

Dread filled me, and I followed Tristan out to the upper floor’s walkway.

The sickly, overripe smell I’d detected in the bedroom increased a thousandfold on the balcony overlooking the home’s entryway. My hand covered my lower face in an effort to ward off the stench as my eyes spied the bedsheet tied to the balcony railing. The wrought iron had bent from the weight hanging from the straining sheet. One step closer to the balcony edge, and I saw the top of a dark head.

Dan peered over the side and grimaced. “You might not want to look, Brandilynn.”

I didn’t need to. I knew that dark brown, almost black head of hair. Todd had been a nice man who always treated me like a real girlfriend during our sessions, not a convenience. I swallowed a lump in my throat. I’d never hear his self-deprecating jokes again or be surprised by a single long stemmed rose given at the end of some of our trysts.

He’d been a good person who’d died badly. Because of me.





“He didn’t commit suicide. Not willingly, anyway.” I walked back to the bedroom door. When I reached the opening, I turned back around and surveyed the scene.

Tristan followed me. “Are you remembering something?”