Scarecrow by Robin Hathaway

Author:Robin Hathaway
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2012-02-10T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 28

As I tooled up the driveway of the Sheffield farm, I saw Juri working on the porch. He had returned to his farmhand role. In old jeans, a faded work shirt, and thick work boots, all signs of the dapper houseman had disappeared. Some of the screening had come loose around the porch door and he was tacking it back.

“Hi,” I shouted over the rumble of my motor. “Becca around?”

He shook his head, continuing to pound.

“When will she be back?”

He shrugged.

I was getting anxious.

He stopped pounding. “She and her aunt took a trip.”

“A trip?” I shut off the motor. “I just saw her.”

“I drove them to the airport this afternoon.”

“Where’d they go?”

“Florida.”

“Florida? For how long? What about school?”

He looked up, annoyed. “She has tutors,” he snapped.

I got the message. Becca’s education was none of my business.

“When will she be back?”

“In a few weeks.” He stuck the hammer into the pocket of an apron-belt contraption he wore around his waist.

“By the fourteenth?”

He looked wary. “What’s the fourteenth?”

“Oh, nothing. Just a little excursion we’d planned.”

“I doubt it.”

“Will she be back by Christmas?” We could always go the week after Christmas. The decorations would still be up and there’d still be a festive air.

He had turned to go into the house. “Don’t count on it,” he tossed over his shoulder and disappeared inside.

I fluctuated between relief and alarm. At least Becca was out of the house and away from that creep Milac. But it was so sudden. She hadn’t mentioned anything about a trip. Her aunt must have been packed and ready to go when the kid returned from my office. Strange. If Becca weren’t her niece, I’d call it kidnapping. Maybe her otherworldly aunt had suddenly caught on that her niece was being harassed, and decided to remove her from the scene. That would be the best scenario.

I sat staring at the closed, forbidding house. Shades were pulled down over the tall windows, hiding the old glass and creamy white curtains. Two wicker rockers were tipped forward against the wall of the house, their backs turned to me. And the porch swing was shrouded in a dark green canvas cover.

I was about to take off when I spotted the corner of Becca’s sketchbook, sticking out from under the swing. It might get wet if it rained. I dismounted, and went up on the porch. For some reason, I walked quietly, almost tiptoeing. I even glanced over my shoulder once. I snatched up the book, and instead of stashing it on the swing—it would have been perfectly safe under the canvas cover—I tucked it inside the front of my jacket. With more furtive glances, I mounted my bike and took off.

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