No Nest for the Wicket by Donna Andrews Read Free Book Online Page A

We’d get through this.
    I reached under the desk mat and pulled out the photo of Jane Doe, mainly to make sure Horace hadn’t seen through my act and confiscated it. Rob was right: she’d been beautiful. About my age, but she’d been one of those tall, slender blondes who made me feel so insecure about my brunette hair and more normal shape. Although her clothes were disheveled, she’d dressed with more flair than I did. Not that the photo showed much of her clothes, but the edge of the scarf around her neck brought back the whole outfit. Neat, well-fitted khaki pants and a
crisp beige blouse. The only hint of color was the scarf, in tones of beige, white, and spring green. She’d even known how to tie the damned thing. My rare attempts to accessorize with scarves always ended badly, looking like a dress rehearsal for suicide by hanging or an attempt to cover up a bulky neck cast. Her scarf looked crisp and chic.
    I might have disliked her, if I’d met her, but the fixed stare of those blue eyes washed away petty dislikes. She’d been alive, and someone had taken that away. I felt a cold wave of anger. I had to do something.
    Which was silly, since I didn’t even know who she was.
    I dropped the photo back on the desk and headed for the house.

 
     
    Chapter Eight
    I went the long way around—through the front door—to eavesdrop on Chief Burke, though I didn’t learn much.
    “The area’s not that big, damn it!” I heard him growl.
    “Yes, but we could miss vital evidence in the dark,” Sammy said. “And besides, parts of those woods are dangerous—there could be more old mine shafts around.”
    Now they tell us.
    “True,” the chief said. “I want someone on guard out there—Sammy, set up shifts. We’ll pick up in the morning. At daybreak.”
    A ragged chorus of assents followed, and officers began spilling into the hall. I pretended to be doing something with the boxes of papers that lined one wall—the papers a female professor from UVa should have picked up hours ago. I called Kevin again.
    “Still working on it,” he said. Pam had definitely
failed to teach him that something along the lines of “hello” was a more customary way to answer the phone.
    “One more thing. Can you find a photo of someone?”
    “I can try,” he said. In the background, I heard the telltale rattle of a keyboard. “Who?”
    “Helen Carmichael. Professor of history at UVa.”
    “What’s she done?” he said over more key rattling.
    “Nothing, except she never called to tell me that she couldn’t make it here after all. Which doesn’t prove she’s our unknown murder victim, but …”
    “Cool. Hang on a sec.”
    Intense key rattling. I had to remind myself to breathe. Would the satisfaction of being the first to learn Jane Doe’s identity make up for how mad the chief would be if he thought I’d withheld information? I honestly hadn’t thought about the professor until I’d seen the boxes again.
    “Piece of cake,” he said. “History department has faculty profiles. Some of them have photos. Hers does.”
    “Is she blond?”
    “Brunette, and graying.”
    “She could have dyed it. Does she—”
    “Hang on, I’ll send you a copy.”
    “I’m not at the computer.”
    “I’m sending it to your cell phone. Take a look.”
    I pulled the phone away from my ear and looked. A photo filled the screen. Helen Carmichael had a round, cheerful face, short graying dark hair, and,
best I could tell on so tiny a photo, dark eyes. She’d need not just a dye job but major plastic surgery to resemble Jane Doe.
    “It’s not her,” I said, feeling relief wash over me. “Not the dead woman, I mean.”
    “Rats.”
    “It’s okay,” I said. “It was just a wild idea.” Besides, I liked the idea that Jane Doe was a perfect stranger who had nothing to do with me or anyone I knew. Which probably wouldn’t turn out to be the case, but it was nice while it lasted.
    “I’ll keep working on the real estate