Cold Comfort by Ellis Vidler Read Free Book Online

day, with a newspaper displayed in the foreground. Much sharper.
    He shook his head. Nancy Drew. She'd probably taken the first pictures, then gone for help or a better camera and grabbed the newspaper to establish the date. Unfortunately, the pictures didn't show anything happening, and she'd never prove the location or that any significant violations occurred. Hell, those big oaks would be kitchen cabinets by now. He wondered if anyone knew about the pictures, maybe feared they'd show something incriminating. He'd have to ask her about Burley. And check into the developer's background.
    Carefully relocking the drawers, he stood and stretched. Next, the kitchen. He thought of those magazines addressed to Claire and wondered if she cooked. His stomach groaned at the possibilities.
    He opened the refrigerator. Looking for clues, Riley? A couple of wrapped dishes suggested leftovers. He took them both out. Pot roast! Without another thought, he pulled a plate from the cabinet and served himself. Shoving the plate in the microwave, he turned back to the counter. When the microwave bell sounded, he was salivating like Pavlov's dog.
    This could take care of his fee for today he decided, helping himself to seconds. The last bite disappeared. If she planned on eating pot roast for the rest of the week, she...well, too bad. He rinsed the dishes and left them in the sink, then pushed back his sleeve to check his watch. Nine thirty, and he still hadn't heard anything from the lady of the house. Maybe he should go upstairs and take a look. He supposed a roll on the asphalt after her head injury hadn't helped. At least her hysteria erupted in laughter and not tears.
    The door at the top of the stairs stood open a few inches. He pushed his way in and found Claire sound asleep, curled into a tight ball, partially covered by the edge of the bedspread. Cold, he figured, seeing all the blankets underneath her. "Claire?"
    She didn't stir. On top of everything else she'd been through, the pain pill must have knocked her out. He pushed back the covers on one side of the bed and scooped her up. Her head rolled against his shoulder. He lowered her to the sheet on her side and started to pull the covers over her when he noticed her belt. The curve of her hips emphasized her small waist. Forget it, Riley. He and Miss Manners here would be about as compatible as detergent and gasoline. With his fingertips, he undid the brass buckle and slid the belt from her waist, careful to avoid contact. Her shoes lay where they'd fallen beside the bed. She'd do. If not, she'd wake up and take care of it. He tucked the blanket around her.
    She lay still, her breathing even and undisturbed. He wondered what provoked the attack and search. Definitely not random. That driver in the alley intended to kill her, and it sounded like the kid scared the attacker off before he finished the other night. All things considered, she hadn't done badly — at least she'd held it together until she got home.
    To his thinking, the stalker idea didn't fit, but he scanned the ceiling and the light fixtures. No obvious holes, nothing immediately visible that could conceal a camera. Maybe tomorrow he'd check the attic to be sure, but he didn't expect to find anything.
    From the bedroom window, Riley surveyed the yard. No nearby trees, and the sun porch under the south window make access difficult. Anyone wanting in would enter downstairs.
    He went back down to finish Claire's window-nailing job. What could be important enough for someone to search the house and try twice to kill her? The dolls and phone call were scare tactics. Someone took a perverted pleasure in frightening her, but the search of the file cabinet indicated purpose, that she had something — or the son of a bitch thought she did. Maybe documents. Her work for the wetlands seemed to be her only activity outside the shop. But what triggered this interest now? Two attacks in three days. Someone wanted her dead in a