Left to Lapse (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Seven) Read online

  Hurt. Such a strange thing for him to express, almost as if he’d taken it as some sort of rejection. But hadn’t that been the tenor between them recently? Hadn’t they been going cold? Not just their friendship… but everything.

  Still, John hadn’t seemed to want to leave and when he had, he’d stomped off, leaving the train without so much as a goodbye.

  She twisted and turned in the small, cramped room in the sleeper car. Certainly not first class, and according to the Executive, this sleeper was normally reserved for staff. She’d been in prison cells with nicer cots. Her back ached, and her foot tingled from a frigid draft gusting through a window that refused to fully close. The rush of air through the small gap made a soft whistling noise like a tea kettle and twice Adele had resisted the urge to punch the glass.

  She twisted again, sitting up at last, her feet dangling over the cramped space toward the floorboards.

  She heard a creak.

  Adele froze, staring toward her door. For a moment, she glimpsed a flash of light, as if from a flashlight beneath her door frame. She didn’t hear anything. Someone had stopped outside her compartment. Her hand darted toward her nightstand where she kept her weapon. She held the comforting, cold metal in one hand.

  The light remained… She thought she could hear someone breathing.

  A second later, though, it passed by, disappearing.

  Frowning, Adele got to her feet, gripping her weapon and holding it behind her back. She pushed open the door and glanced up and down the hall.

  No one in sight. Four other doors in this sleeper car, all cramped together.

  She waited, looking for another flash of light. But none came. Maybe one of the other passengers had taken a bathroom break?

  Or maybe…

  Had the killer come by? Looking for her?

  She closed her door again, her feet cold against the wooden floorboards, and eased back on the rough cot, careful not to throw herself too hard against it, as the cushions alone would do little to protect her back.

  She reclined against the poor excuse for a pillow, staring up at an overhead luggage compartment.

  No one in the hall, like a ghost. But ghosts weren’t real.

  What if the deaths really were natural causes, and they were hunting ghosts in the night? What if she was making things too personal…? She could feel this need to catch the bad guy. A need to not let him get away again.

  Again?

  Again. She frowned at the thought. Her mother’s killer had escaped John. She didn’t want the same thing to happen here. Ghosts in the night… Maybe they were all fooling themselves…

  And yet she couldn’t shake the deepest, prickling sense of foreboding. It came rushing back like the wind through the window, and Adele closed her eyes, trembling, trying to fall asleep in the face of a mountain of certainty that something was about to go horribly wrong.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  He stood as still as one of the statues in the garden, eyes fixed on the large mansion beyond the black gate. He admired the marble pieces tastefully arranged amidst the hedges and porcelain fountains. One of the statues had a faux-chryselephantine quality to it, though the gold and the ivory seemed faded with weather, suggesting a replica. He had statues of his own. But he’d always preferred paintings.

  Now, though, he was in search of a masterpiece of a different variety. He watched the house from his parked car, his thin, bony frame wrapped in two sweaters against the cool of night. Even with the heat on, he shivered, his one good eye closing for a moment against the drying effect of the vents.

  A figure moved in the downstairs study, by the two red leather chairs. The fireplace was going, but the figure moved slowly now, pausing once to put out a bracing hand and cough at the ground.

  The painter considered the fellow inside, wincing in sympathy. A bad cough, it seemed. Over the last week, as he’d watched, careful to get to know his new friend, he’d noticed Robert beginning to move slower and slower.

  Whatever ailed him was having its way.

  The painter allowed himself an easy smile, his gaunt features twisting in the dark of his car. Soon, the sickness would be the least of Robert Henry’s worries.

  The painter reached out, unlocking his car and checking for his black satchel in the back seat. He wore leather gloves and besides the two hoodies, he’d gone through the ritual of shaving his head, his eyebrows, his arms, even his nose. No DNA evidence left behind. He would even wear a mask—not to disguise his face, but to prevent spittle or saliva from landing anywhere compromising.

  Sometimes his friends struggled.

  As he pushed open the unlocked door, his eyes still fixed on Robert Henry’s coughing form in the lower study, he paused for a moment, simply admiring the scene. Sometimes, beholding art was reward in itself.

  ***

  Robert coughed again, leaning against the table by one of his red leather chairs. He frowned, staring down at the piece of paper he’d left on the table. The inkwell and pen sat open next to his calligraphy kit. Adele had once teased him about it and he found it fitting he write this final letter—this gift to her—in the same ink.

  He smiled softly to himself, leaning back now in the red leather chair closest to the window, facing the second chair—the one Adele had often frequented when she had a chance to visit. Robert murmured to himself as he reread the letter, his eyes tracing the cursive loops and the perfectly executed lettering across the old, yellowed paper. He’d taken the paper from one of the first journals he’d bought as a boy.

  Robert smiled again, leaning back and glancing toward where the rest of the journal—mostly unused in his youth—lay resting on the table, beneath the ink well.

  Would Adele appreciate the gift?

  He wondered… For a moment, at the thought, a flash of frustration jolted through him. He sighed and closed his eyes, staving off the sudden bout of despair. It was getting worse as the days progressed, harder to think straight. To think like himself.

  He missed Adele. Missed her dearly. But where he was now going, she couldn’t follow. Not yet. Hopefully not for a long time.

  Which brought him back to the letter.

  He paused, picking up the pen and pushing it against the bottom of the paper, and then, with careful, smooth strokes, he signed the letter, nodding and smiling to himself as he did. He folded the paper, placing it in an envelope upon which he wrote, again in cursive, To My Dearest Adele Sharp. Then he licked the envelope, sealed it, and placed it, with a trembling hand, between the pages of the small yellow-papered journal.

  ***

  The painter went still, frowning, glancing over his shoulder and through the back window.

  Two bright lights flashed in his rearview mirror, and he gritted his teeth. A neighbor? A delivery driver?

  A figure got out of the car and began to move up the sidewalk.

  The painter hesitated, his frown deepening. He turned his head, following the progress of the figure up the sidewalk. Hot air streamed from the vents against his chin and the side of his neck. The man in question was solidly built, wearing a single white T-shirt despite the cool air. He also had a thick, drooping mustache.

  He recognized the man… not just because of Elise, his masterpiece, or even Adele—his dearest friend. Not even because of the grainy image from the security footage earlier that morning. But they’d met, once, nearly five years ago.

  The painter frowned at the memory. He’d gotten close then, very close.

  What was he doing here, though?

  The painter watched as Sergeant Sharp moved through the black gate, past the statuary in the garden and up the steps to the manor. A deep booming sound echoed out from where he knocked on the door.

  A second later, from his vantage point, the man watched as Robert readjusted himself, pulling a bathrobe across his dwindling form and limping through the study toward a side door that led to the hall.

  Robert’s front door swung open a moment later, washing the garden and th
e front steps with bright orange light. Sergeant Sharp said something, which the painter couldn’t hear, and Robert smiled, gesturing for him to enter. A moment later, the door closed, leaving the painter out in the dark.

  His friend was inside, entertaining another guest.

  Could he have two friends tonight?

  He dabbed thoughtfully at one of his shaved eyebrows. Then he shook his head. No… Two was too many. Especially if one of them was a man like Sergeant Sharp. He carried his physique like someone who knew how to take care of himself.

  Not a problem, given proper preparations. The painter had spent his fair share of time creating art with the muscle-bound and mademoiselles alike. But he didn’t have the proper sedatives for Sergeant Sharp. No… not tonight then.

  The painter sighed in frustration. He’d gotten rid of the cafeteria worker he’d picked up as she’d finally faded earlier in the evening. That particular piece hadn’t turned out how he’d imagined. Now, though, he had nothing to play with tonight. No canvas, no paints, nothing…

  Grumbling to himself, he twisted the key and pulled away from the curb, swerving back up the road and leaving Robert Henry’s house behind. For now.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Nice place,” Joseph Sharp said, glancing around the entrance to the mansion. The carpet alone looked like it might cost more than his mortgage. “So you’re Robert?” he said, finally, his eyes landing on the small man in a silk bathrobe.

  The fellow in question had immaculate hair, as if he’d only just combed it into place, an effect betrayed only by the glossy sheen, suggesting a copious amount of product. The man before him had a small, perfectly maintained mustache and eyes that carried a hidden weight of kindness.

  “I am,” said the man and then he winced, coughing into his fist and holding out an apologetic hand.

  “Sounds bad,” said the Sergeant.

  “Hit my lungs about a week ago,” said Robert. “Not much longer now.”

  Joseph nodded curtly. “I’ll keep you in my prayers.”

  “I’d like that.”

  They stood awkwardly in the entryway for a moment, the Sergeant glancing around at some of the paintings tastefully lining the hall. He didn’t have much patience for paintings. A whole lot of money just for pieces of colored paper as far as he saw it.

  He glanced toward the open door to their left, which seemed to lead into a study, with books on shelves and two red leather chairs facing a fireplace.

  “Would you like to come sit?” said Robert.

  The Sergeant shook his head. “Can’t stay long. I’m leaving to return to Germany early tomorrow.”

  “Ah, of course. No worries. Well, then, I of course recognize you, Mr. Sharp. How can I be of service?”

  “Well… I don’t know much about service. I heard from my daughter your health was declining. Sorry.”

  “It’s quite all right. I’ve made my peace.” He smiled again. “It’s funny how many things used to worry me that now seem so silly.”

  “I know what you mean,” said the Sergeant, his tone unwavering, his eyes fixed and gaze firm. He felt a flutter of emotion in his chest, but didn’t quite know what to do with it, so he returned his attention to the small Frenchman. “Your English is really good,” he said.

  “Thank you. So is yours.”

  “I… I just wanted to stop by… And—” The Sergeant scratched the back of his head, glancing toward the two red leather chairs in the study.

  Robert waited patiently, his small arms folded over his chest, the silk of his bathrobe crinkling in folds, suggesting it was a few sizes too large now.

  “Elise will make good company, you know,” the Sergeant said gruffly, clearing his throat. “When… well, when you kick it.”

  “Kick it?” Henry said, raising an amused eyebrow.

  “You know. When you…”

  “Die?”

  “Yeah. Put in a good word with Elise, could you?” the Sergeant said, reaching out and patting Henry awkwardly on the arm, then withdrawing his hand.

  “Ah, the afterlife?”

  “Yes,” said the Sergeant entirely unapologetically. “Heaven. If you make it, I’m sure she’ll show you around. Elise was nice like that.”

  “Your daughter must have picked up that trait from her.”

  The Sergeant hesitated. For a moment, he wondered if Robert was taking a passive-aggressive shot, but the small man was still smiling, and he didn’t seem the sort at first blush. At last, the Sergeant sighed and said, “You’ve been good to my daughter… I just wanted to come by and say… well, that. Since, well, I might not be able to again. I’ve always meant to thank you.”

  “Thank me for what?”

  The Sergeant felt a spurt of anger, and he wasn’t quite sure why. But he shrugged and shook his head, like a grizzly dislodging droplets from its fur. “Look—Adele and I don’t always see things the same way. She’s a good girl. She needed someone like you, a mentor.”

  “You raised an amazing child. That credit goes to you.”

  “Mostly her mother, really.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Robert said, smiling. “You both have the same eyes. Same grit.”

  The Sergeant paused, feeling a flicker of emotion in his chest. The man’s words—a man he’d just met—shouldn’t matter so much, should they? And yet still, he felt for a moment like he’d just been given a gift. The Sergeant sighed, then said, “Maybe you’re right. I tried. I really did.”

  “I believe you,” said Robert with a gentle nod. “I… Speaking of Adele, there’s something I wanted to give her, but I’m just…” He shook his head.

  “You can give it to her yourself,” the Sergeant said. “Whatever it is.”

  “I’d like to. But I think she’s out on a case and,” Robert swallowed, breathing shallowly a moment to stave off another bout of coughing. “If I’m honest, I don’t know how much longer I have.”

  The Sergeant glanced at the frail man. “You look sick, but not that sick. You can hang on a few more days, no?”

  Robert chuckled for a moment, shaking his head and muttering beneath his breath.

  “What was that?” the Sergeant asked.

  “Oh… nothing. Just… Yes, you two are more alike than you know.” He sighed now, and shrugged. “Maybe you’re right. I’ll just give it to her myself, I think. I… Well…” He frowned now, shaking his head slowly. “It’s the funniest thing. But I have this feeling… you know… Like I might not see her again.”

  The Sergeant waved his hand airily. “Ah, forget about it. You’ll see her. Buck up—she’ll stop by as soon as she’s back. I’m sure she will. I know at least that about my daughter. She’s a loyal sort. A bit emotional at times, but loyal.”

  Robert nodded. “Yes, she is that. Well, you’ve convinced me. I’ll hang on to it until I see her in person. Thank you, Joseph.”

  The Sergeant coughed hesitantly and shrugged his large shoulders. “Well… Good then. And—yes, thank you. For who you’ve been to her.”

  The Sergeant jutted out a hand. Robert reached to take it, but began coughing again and doubled over.

  Joseph looked at the old, frail man and sighed. He’d seen so much death that now it almost seemed par for the course. He remembered as a child, how invincible he’d felt, how often he’d simply refused to contemplate what came next…

  The Sergeant kept his hand extended, and Robert finally manage to recover, grip it, and murmur in a quiet, strained voice, “The pleasure was mine. Truly. And if what you say is true, Mr. Sharp, I’ll tell Elise you’re thinking of her.”

  “Appreciated.”

  Then, without further ado, Joseph Sharp turned and pushed out the door, frowning. He wasn’t sure what sort of man Robert really was. But Adele often had a nose for charlatans, and Robert didn’t seem the sort. Even on the verge of death, he offered an attempt at placation. A gift to the Sergeant. And a gift to Adele. He could see in Robert’s eyes he wasn’t so sure about eternity, or anything that
lay beyond. But in Joseph Sharp’s opinion, oblivion or otherwise, he’d see his wife again.

  That was a matter of fact.

  He nodded to himself, giving a half wave as Robert called in farewell, and then marched down the steps, leaving the mansion behind him and heading back toward his waiting taxi.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Adele stood in the dining car, one hand braced against the lacquered counter of the bar, her eyes fixed on the station ahead of them. She felt the train chugging along, the French countryside flitting by as the Normandie Express dipped east of Paris, nearing the German border.

  No murders in the night. She had the staff check rooms. Everyone alive and accounted for.

  Had they been wrong about this whole enterprise? A murder per day, though, meant today would be the next kill.

  Adele frowned as the train began to squeal against the tracks, coming to a halt in the last station before the German border.

  She looked through the windows, still standing and swaying with the motion of the sudden stop. A voice announced over speakers, disguised beneath one of the chandeliers, “Last stop for day passengers. We plan to remain for no more than half an hour. Be back by ten for the next leg.”

  Adele pressed forward now, her forehead practically pushed against the glass as she watched passengers arrive and board the train, gathering before the two separate entrances. The first, near coach, she ignored.

  Her eyes were drawn to the small gathering of first-class passengers now waiting for one of the ticket collectors to wave them aboard.

  Her breath fogged up the glass as she leaned in, eyes narrowed, watching the new passengers. She witnessed a middle-aged couple board first; a smiling woman and a stern-faced man handed their tickets to the attendee. They were quickly ushered aboard, along with one of the valets who carried their luggage.