Free Draw (The Jake Samson & Rosie Vicente Detective Series Book 2) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Shelley Singer
Tags: Mystery, Contemporary Fiction, amateur sleuth, San Francisco mystery, mystery and thrillers, kindle ebooks, Lesbian Mystery, literature and fiction, private eye mystery series, P.I. fiction, mystery thriller and suspense, Jake Samson series
shoulder level. “I was courting a creative spark, a spark I had been trying all morning to coax into flame.” Her eyes, reflected in the mirror, dared me to understand. I nodded to show that I did. “I was standing here, at this mirror.” She whirled to face me, a drop of wine slopping onto the polished floor. “A mirror is a frame. A frame of the image in the film of my visual life. I have many mirrors.”
“Of course,” I said.
She turned back to the mirror and struck a new pose— cinema queen, 1939— gazing into her own eyes. “And then I heard the shout.”
Because the winter had been a particularly wet one, her first thought was that there was a mudslide, danger of some sort. She had stepped out on the deck and looked down. Here, for my benefit, she threw open the French doors and stepped outside. I went with her. She transferred her wineglass to her left hand and pointed with her right, indicating the area somewhere around the bottom of the steps.
“He was there, running. And he ran up that way.” She waved at the path that led up to Artie’s house.
She had called out to the man, she said, but he hadn’t turned around or answered.
“It was cold outside,” she said. I could well imagine that it was. Now, in late afternoon, the fog was wrapping itself around the tops of the redwoods. The giant trees, which even in high summer must have shadowed most of the canyon homes most of the time, were dripping with damp.
Carlota continued. “I came back inside and waited.” She led me back into the house.
“Waited?”
“Well, there are other houses down there. I thought surely someone else had heard or seen the man. So I waited. But nothing happened,” she said, with just a touch of the sulks in her voice. “No one was doing anything. I began to worry. My foundation is not all that it should be. With the ditch so full and the clay so saturated— well, one never knows.”
In preparation for the next scene, she poured another glass of wine. Then she went to a living room closet and got her coat. I held her wineglass while she thrust her arms through the sleeves. We went out the kitchen door to the landing.
She had gone down ten steps or so, she said, to see what she could see. We descended carefully. The steps were worn redwood, slick with wetness and somewhat in need of repair. “I couldn’t see anything from here. Not a thing.” We descended farther. About thirty steps from the bottom, she paused. “I stopped here to listen, but I couldn’t hear anything. Except the water.”
She beckoned me on and we went all the way to the bottom, where three planks, nailed to the bottom step and staked into the ground on the other side of the ditch, formed a makeshift bridge.
A few feet to the left of the planking, the stream disappeared into a narrow, brush-screened tunnel that the water had cut beneath the surface rock, undoubtedly, I thought, undermining the entire canyon. Carlota and I stood on the second step. She pointed toward the tunnel opening, where the foam slopped over the edges of the ditch, forced its way through the battered branches, and exposed roots of the tough native fuchsias.
“It was caught in those branches there.”
“That must have been terrible for you,” I said.
“Not at first.” She laughed madly, lurching a bit and clutching the stairway rail. “At first I thought it was a joke. There are some very macabre people living in this canyon, you know.” She laughed again. “I told him to get up and come out of there. Of course he didn’t.” She drained her wineglass and we plodded back up the stairs. I accepted another half glass of wine when she took her next refill.
“Then what did you do?”
“Well, I’ve never found a body before. So I wasn’t sure what to do about it.” She shuddered and frowned. “I decided to call Charles— up there.” She pointed upward. I remembered noticing a house behind and above hers, on the up-side of the path, and another one
“Of course,” I said.
She turned back to the mirror and struck a new pose— cinema queen, 1939— gazing into her own eyes. “And then I heard the shout.”
Because the winter had been a particularly wet one, her first thought was that there was a mudslide, danger of some sort. She had stepped out on the deck and looked down. Here, for my benefit, she threw open the French doors and stepped outside. I went with her. She transferred her wineglass to her left hand and pointed with her right, indicating the area somewhere around the bottom of the steps.
“He was there, running. And he ran up that way.” She waved at the path that led up to Artie’s house.
She had called out to the man, she said, but he hadn’t turned around or answered.
“It was cold outside,” she said. I could well imagine that it was. Now, in late afternoon, the fog was wrapping itself around the tops of the redwoods. The giant trees, which even in high summer must have shadowed most of the canyon homes most of the time, were dripping with damp.
Carlota continued. “I came back inside and waited.” She led me back into the house.
“Waited?”
“Well, there are other houses down there. I thought surely someone else had heard or seen the man. So I waited. But nothing happened,” she said, with just a touch of the sulks in her voice. “No one was doing anything. I began to worry. My foundation is not all that it should be. With the ditch so full and the clay so saturated— well, one never knows.”
In preparation for the next scene, she poured another glass of wine. Then she went to a living room closet and got her coat. I held her wineglass while she thrust her arms through the sleeves. We went out the kitchen door to the landing.
She had gone down ten steps or so, she said, to see what she could see. We descended carefully. The steps were worn redwood, slick with wetness and somewhat in need of repair. “I couldn’t see anything from here. Not a thing.” We descended farther. About thirty steps from the bottom, she paused. “I stopped here to listen, but I couldn’t hear anything. Except the water.”
She beckoned me on and we went all the way to the bottom, where three planks, nailed to the bottom step and staked into the ground on the other side of the ditch, formed a makeshift bridge.
A few feet to the left of the planking, the stream disappeared into a narrow, brush-screened tunnel that the water had cut beneath the surface rock, undoubtedly, I thought, undermining the entire canyon. Carlota and I stood on the second step. She pointed toward the tunnel opening, where the foam slopped over the edges of the ditch, forced its way through the battered branches, and exposed roots of the tough native fuchsias.
“It was caught in those branches there.”
“That must have been terrible for you,” I said.
“Not at first.” She laughed madly, lurching a bit and clutching the stairway rail. “At first I thought it was a joke. There are some very macabre people living in this canyon, you know.” She laughed again. “I told him to get up and come out of there. Of course he didn’t.” She drained her wineglass and we plodded back up the stairs. I accepted another half glass of wine when she took her next refill.
“Then what did you do?”
“Well, I’ve never found a body before. So I wasn’t sure what to do about it.” She shuddered and frowned. “I decided to call Charles— up there.” She pointed upward. I remembered noticing a house behind and above hers, on the up-side of the path, and another one
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