Death's Half Acre Read Online Free

that carpets, drapes, and sofas still had that new-car smell. Although it was one of the more modest models in this upscale development—only three bedrooms with two and a half baths—the master bathroom had been designed to her specifications.
    To reach it, one walked through a hallway lined on both sides with closets that had sliding mirrored doors. More mirrors paneled all the bathroom walls, including the walls of the walk-in shower. They even fronted the cabinets. The only touches of color were the pink-flowered sink, the dark rose commode, and the matching floor tiles.
    And Candace Bradshaw herself, of course, wrapped in a rose bath sheet.
    She turned on the shower, dropped the towel to the floor, and smiled at the multiple images of her naked body. Overall, she was entitled to that smile. Poverty and hard work had kept the pounds off when she was a girl; rigorous dieting and three miles a day on her treadmill kept them off as she approached her forty-second birthday. Yes, she saw the slight drooping of her full breasts, and yes, her waist was a bit thicker than on the day she traded her cherry for a gold bracelet to a dirtbag who went off to Duke and came back with his nose in the air, till she won a seat on the board of commissioners and he needed some favors.
    Well, that cost him more than a gold bracelet, a bracelet that was long gone anyhow, stolen by her own pa and hocked for a gallon of Kezzie Knott’s white lightning, and how Deborah Knott ever got appointed to be a judge by a Republican governor with a bootlegging Democrat for a father she would never understand. Bound to be some dirt there somewhere, Candace thought for the hundredth time, and one of these days she was going to pick up a shovel and start digging. They still had the cleaning contract for Lee and Stephenson, Deborah Knott’s old law firm, and—
    A small bruise on her thigh distracted Candace Bradshaw’s attention. Now how did she get that? she wondered as she went back to evaluating her body. Her legs had always been too short in proportion to the rest of her body and she used to envy girls with longer legs until it dawned on her that men of power were often short and short men did not take kindly to women who towered over them. Much better to be small and cuddly. Besides, her short thighs were fairly free of cellulite and her calves were still shapely, her ankles still trim. She had been good to her body, and in turn her body had been good to her.
    Very good to her.
    It had given her a free and clear title to this house. It had helped make her a power in her own right. It would help her take care of that bastard who—
    Her head turned alertly. Was that the sound of a door latch?
    She quickly stooped for the towel and covered herself even though she was supposed to be alone in the house.
    “Deanna?” she called. She had taken Dee’s house key, but locked doors and drawers had never stopped her daughter. Slowed her down, maybe, but never stopped her. Exasperation tinged her voice. “Is that you?”
    Silence.
    She walked past the mirrored closets, through her bedroom and out into the hall.
    “Dee?”
    No answer and a quick look through a front window did not show Dee’s car parked on the circular drive outside.
    She shrugged and returned to the bathroom. Hot water from three shower heads had begun to steam up the mirrors. She stepped into the stall, lifted her oval face to the needle-fine spray like a sunflower lifting to the sun, and sighed with happiness as water sluiced down her body, pulsating to the rhythm of her heartbeats.
    This was her favorite place in the house and it was not unusual for her to shower twice a day. In periods of stress, three times.
    Thank God there aren’t any calories in water
, she thought.
    She could win the lottery tomorrow, the party could nominate her to run for governor, and nothing—
nothing!
—would give her the same satisfaction as knowing she could have hot water at the turn of a tap, day or