Left to Lure (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Twelve) by Blake Pierce

Author:Blake Pierce [Pierce, Blake]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: UNKNOWN
Published: 2021-12-13T18:30:00+00:00

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Night crept through the angled windows, catching the floors with dappled moonlight against the glow from the oil lamps in their wall stanchions.

Raoul Lemoine winced under the harsh glow of the lamps as he moved down the hallway, trundling a small red bucket, focused solely on not allowing the dirty water to spill past the mop. One hand gripped the mop handle, the other guided the bucket.

He winced as he moved beneath another oil lamp.

The curators of the old Dumas Chateau insisted they keep things as historically accurate as possible—even while cleaning.

Raoul muttered beneath his breath as he paused, ducked under an end table and grabbed a small chocolate bar wrapper. He tossed it into a paper bag dangling from the back of his mop bucket.

“So very, very historical,” he muttered. “Shocking the accuracy. Five-hundred-year-old Snickers.” He grabbed a plastic straw, from a child's juice-box, and tossed it after the wrapper.

Wincing, he straightened, peering down the long, partly angled hall. Windows on either side of him cast their glow over the ground, and for a moment he just stood there, massaging a crick in his back, and wondering how long it would take to get out this night.

The oil limps flickered, and he frowned up the hall, in the direction of a window facing a blue-black night. Someone had left the window ajar.

“Damn it,” he cursed, leaning his mop handle against the wall and stomping off towards the window. If it had been raining, it would have gotten all on the floors, ruining the carpet. He could only imagine what the Dumas estate would have said then.

With the cold certainty that his job could be snatched away for something as innocuous as an ajar window, he stomped to the end of the hall and wrangled the handle.

Raoul gripped the window latch with trembling fingers, feeling the sudden chill of the night breeze. He frowned, slowly shutting the window, lest he disturb the paint, but as he eased it closed, he heard the sound of voices from the garden outside. Raoul frowned again, pausing, pressing the window open now, and staring into the garden. No screens on this window. Everything about the five-hundred-year-old ex-politician's historical home was kept to its archaic roots. The voices coming from the garden, though, were anything but old. Youthful, playful.

He scowled into the dark, towards a bench beneath a couple of trees. A tall, handsome man was walking alongside a pretty young woman. They were whispering now, heads ducked, moving around the back of the house. A famous water feature, an old saint's prayer spot, occupied the back. A local legend said the shrine bestowed fertility. But also, some of the less educated members of society thought it great fun to make out, or hook up as it was called these days, by the water feature. The tall man and his pretty companion were moving through the garden, beneath the glare of night. He wondered if they had stayed for the tour, and then snuck away.

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