Shadow Image by Martin J Smith Read Free Book Online Page A

branch.
    â€œThat rose must have got you,” she said.
    Staggers examined his hand. It was only a trickle, but mixed with the rain the blood ran in a steady red stream across his palm, making it look far worse than it probably was. A dark thorn was still deep in the flesh just below his ring. He didn’t flinch as he yanked it out.
    They climbed the five steps to the gazebo floor. Brenna turned back to look at the house. “Those are the greenhouses up at that end?”
    Staggers nodded.
    â€œAnd where did Mrs. Underhill—” She searched for the right word. “—fall?”
    Staggers pointed first toward a railing at the rear of the gazebo, then led her to it. She checked the location first, to see if sound traveling from where Floss must have stood would flow unimpeded to the greenhouses.
    â€œYou clog?” she asked.
    Staggers seemed puzzled as he wrapped his silk handkerchief around his bleeding hand.
    â€œThe dance, clogging?” she said. She stomped her feet, faking her way through a noisy dance step. The hollow thump of her shoes on the wooden floor resounded in the afternoon rain despite the borrowed rubber Totes. “Like that.”
    Staggers shook his head.
    â€œIs there a storage space or something under the gazebo, Alton?”
    He nodded. “Why?”
    â€œJust wondering.”
    Brenna approached the railing and ran her hand along it, sweeping raindrops into the chasm below. The gazebo deck was built out over the rim of the ravine, so that the initial drop was sheer and unobstructed. “Right here?”
    Brenna hated heights, but she looked down. There was a muddy divot ten feet below, where Floss Underhill must have first crashed against the ravine wall. She imagined the terror of falling, falling, seeing the rocky inevitable streaking up to crush you like a bug; the hopeless scrabbling as you tumbled, clutching at roots, tree trunks, outcroppings, anything; or, as seemed quite possibly the case, the mute horror of falling like a rag doll after the spine went numb and the brain lost contact with the nerves.
    â€œBig drop,” she said, leaning against the railing, catching herself when the top rail gave slightly against her weight. Clutching the rail tighter, she backed off and nudged it with her hip, this time with more weight. Wood splintered.
    â€œAlton, how long has this been broken?”
    â€œThe cops were asking about that, too,” he said. “I don’t know.”
    Brenna looked to her right. Staggers was about ten feet away, watching her little experiment. She moved away from him, to the next section of railing. She turned and leaned casually against it. It didn’t give at all. She wandered to the center of the gazebo floor, very casual, then back to the section of railing to the right of where Floss Underhill went over. Again she leaned heavily against the top rail. Solid as a rock.
    â€œReady to head back up?” Staggers said.
    â€œAnother minute.”
    Back to the broken section. Brenna scanned the hillsides. “Wonderful view,” she said, filling her lungs with the cool, moist air. “Don’t you think?” She ran her fingers along the back side of the top rail, feeling for the connecting bolts. The wood was smooth the entire length. She leaned out, her stomach clenching as she did, and glanced down at the back sides of the supporting posts. Halfway down the one on the left, the wood around the bolt was splintered. Something heavy had been shoved against it from the deck side.
    Staggers hadn’t taken his eyes off her. “We should get back up to the house,” he said.
    Brenna tried to imagine all the possible scenarios, beginning with Ford’s own theory. Floss Underhill, unusually coherent, suddenly recognizing the hopelessness of her condition, slips away from her vigilant husband and heads straight for the gazebo to throw herself to her death.
    Negligence? Endangerment? Dagnolo