“How are we going to figure that out?”
“I haven’t found anything in her emails. She’s been very careful. But even the most careful blackmailers leave evidence. We need to see if she has incriminating documents on anyone else.”
“How do we do that? The police will have her phone.”
“A smart girl like Ginny will have her evidence stored in hard copy.” Morrie tapped his phone to bring up a map, zeroing in on a house in the village. “The only way we’re going to get answers is to do a spot of breaking and entering.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ginny Button lived in one half of a Tudor residence on one of the most picturesque streets in the village. Planter boxes hung from the windows, filled with herbs and winter blooms, and the pink front door had recently had a fresh coat of paint. The same sporty red convertible that had dropped off Sylvia Blume sat in the carport. Appearances had clearly been important to her – she had spent time perfecting her home in the same way she had perfected her image. I wondered where all her money had come from – she hadn’t been married, and I knew from Mrs. Ellis that she was an administrative assistant at the council, which couldn't have paid much.
Quoth dug his talons into my arm. We’d swung by the shop on the way and picked him up, with a promise to return him in twenty minutes so the ladies could visit the hospital. I learned from Ashley’s case just how useful it was to have a raven when one was breaking and entering.
“We’ll have to be quick,” Morrie said as he led us around the side of the house and through a tidy garden. “I don’t want to leave Heathcliff alone with the old biddies any longer than necessary.”
“That’s sensible.” I nuzzled Quoth’s soft feathers as Morrie scanned the facade for an entry point.
Mrs. Ellis pinched his bum this morning, Quoth said inside my head.He told her that was against the rules. She said there were no rules, so he wrote a list and nailed it to the wall.
“Of course he did.” I shuddered to think what rules Heathcliff might include on what was sure to be an exhaustive list.
“Ah.” Morrie pointed to an open window on the second floor. “There’s our way in.”
You owe me for this, Quoth’s voice echoed between my ears as he took off. He soared up and cleared the window, landing inside with a faintplop.
A few moments later, the back door unlatched, and a naked Quoth ushered us inside. I peered around the tiny, immaculate kitchen, admiring how Ginny had modernized the old home with distressed furniture and industrial fittings. Bitch or not, the woman had impeccable taste.
“There’s a study in here,” Morrie whispered, creeping through the living room into a small alcove. He set down his bag of computer gadgets. “I’ll search here. You two take the bedrooms. Don’t rub your naked arse on anything, little birdie.”
I followed Quoth up the steep staircase, my heart pounding. From somewhere in the house, a faintscritch-scritchof something scraping against wood jumped my nerves into overdrive.It’s just the old house, nothing to worry about.
Photographs hung from every wall – a young Ginny smiling as she hung off the arms of important-looking men. There was a different man in each picture, and I recognized some of their faces as minor celebrities and football players. A bunch of glamour shots and magazine covers featuring Ginny on the landing revealed that at some point in her past, she’d been a model.
I wonder if that’s how she made her money. It might explain why she’s ended up in Argleton, instead of up in London.Ginny was still beautiful, but she was definitely past her prime in terms of modeling and attracting footballers, and I had the feeling she wouldn’t have wasted time hanging around a scene where she wasn’t the center of attention.
The first bedroom was a guest room, containing a bed worthy of a boutique hotel covered in a mountain of pillows. I pulled out the drawers in the dressing table – they were filled with clothing, but no secret blackmailing notes. Quoth opened the wardrobe and inspected rows of shoes. “Why does one person need so many shoes?” he asked.
“That’s one of life’s eternal mysteries.”
Scritch-scritch.There was the sound again.
We moved on to the master suite. Quoth started on the drawers while I pulled boxes out from under the bed. In a battered shoebox, I found stacks of love letters – real filthy stuff – between Ginny and a man who was simply called ‘H’.
“Look at this,” I held up one of the letters. “This ‘H’ must have been the father of Ginny’s baby. She kept copies of all the letters she sent him, and this letter was dated two weeks ago. Ginny wanted H to leave his wife and marry her.”
Quoth leaned over my shoulder, his hair tickling my skin. “Is there a response?”
I riffled through the stack of letters. “Not that I can see. But I’m guessing it didn’t happen, otherwise she’d have had a ring on her finger.”
Scritch-scritch. Scritch-scritch.
“Quoth, can you hear that?” I glanced around the room. It was even louder in here.
“Termites,” Quoth said. “In an old house like this, there must be all sorts of bugs in the wood.” He licked his lip hungrily, as if the thought of gross wood bugs excited him.
“Squeak!” whispered an unknown voice.
“Do termites usually make a squeaking noise?”
