Shelley Munro

I parked my Mini about four streets away and made my way by foot to the Georgian mansion at number twelve, Admiral’s Walk. I slunk along the quiet streets, dressed in full cat-burglar gear: black leggings, black jumper, my long blond hair bound up in a tight French braid and tucked under my clothing out of sight. My head was covered by a close-fitting black balaclava that doubled as a mask when pulled low. I carried a black nylon pack on my back, filled with every conceivable tool required by the well-dressed cat burglar. All dressed up and places to go.

After spraying black paint across the lens of every camera I passed and checking the street in both directions, I scaled the London plane tree that grew outside number ten. I crawled along a sturdy limb until I had a good view of the Moning house and the garden. The air smelled damp, making me suspect a mist would roll in tonight and cover the nearby heath. After I watched for the requisite ten minutes followed by another five minutes for safety’s sake, it was still quiet. I wriggled along the limb and dropped into the garden at number twelve. Crouching low, I crept across the manicured lawn, past an archway draped with old-fashioned scented roses, making sure I stuck to the looming shadows cast by the stand of English oaks.

A low growl was all the warning I received. I froze. Another growl made the hairs at the back of my neck stand and salute. Hell! A freaking dog. My heart thundered as I slowly turned.

The dog stood a few feet from me. Black. All teeth and fangs. Damn and blast. The damned thing hadn’t been here the three times I’d checked out the premises. And if the dog had a kennel, I hadn’t seen it. With slow, careful movements, I eased the pack from my back and fumbled with the zip. My hand closed around the doctored cheeseburger, and I let it fall to the ground at my feet. The dog sniffed the burger. It woofed the treat down in two bites before staring fixedly, perhaps debating if I were the second course. It growled. Father had assured me the sleeping pills would do the trick without hurting the dog. I hoped he knew what he was talking about. No sooner had the thought passed my mind then the dog swayed.

I bolted. The dog gave a feral growl and sprang. Fabric ripped. My steps faltered. For an instant, I panicked, but suddenly the dog let go. Without looking back, I sprinted to the back of the house, my legs pumping like a hundred-meter sprinter at the Olympic Games. I scampered up the sturdy vine I’d chosen and only then looked back, my chest burning for air. The dog lay still on the ground. I turned to survey the rip in my leggings and shifted uneasily. My backside smarted like the devil.

Smooth as silk.

Huh? Emily had read someone else’s cards, not mine.

I scaled the wall in no time at all, stubbornly ignoring the pain in my ass, and after pulling on a pair of gloves, entered the building via the nursery room window. Lucky for me the nursery was empty of all save the lingering scent of lemon furniture polish. I crept down to the next floor, but that’s when luck deserted me again.

A footfall sounded.

I froze, my heart hammering with alarm. There was someone at home. Laughter-both male and female. Had the husband returned? Why were they there with the lights off? Duh! Stupid question. It was obvious why the room was dark. Abort my mission or risk it? As I hesitated on the landing, I heard footsteps on the stairs. The front door opened.

“Darling, tomorrow night?” the man asked.

“Yes. James isn’t back until Friday,” Perdita replied.

Kissing followed-loud enough to make me roll my eyes. After what seemed like ages, the door shut again and soft footsteps sounded on the stairs.

What the hell was I going to do now? I thought about hitting her over the head, snatching the jewels and running. I mean, she was fooling around; she deserved everything that was coming. I considered the idea a bit longer and rejected it as stupid. A girl had to have some scruples. Physical violence was one of mine.

Before I’d made a decision, I heard the front door open again. Jeez! The place was like Paddington Station at rush hour. I hunkered down in my hiding place on the landing and waited to see what developed.

Stealthy footsteps padded up the stairs toward the bedroom where Perdita had entertained her lover. Surely not another one?

“What do you want?” I heard Perdita demand.

I crept from my dark corner but couldn’t see a damned thing. What now? I wondered in frustration. Did I try to get closer?

A scream. A gunshot. I heard the sound of a rapid retreat. The front door slammed, then there was silence. No more laughter. Not a single bloody sound. I hovered indecisively. Dithered, really. When everything remained silent, I cautiously crept toward Perdita’s bedroom.

When I was a few feet from the doorway, a cuckoo burst from its clock, nearly giving me a coronary. I leapt in fright but managed to hold back on the accompanying squeak. After my heart settled back in place, I slunk closer to the bedroom.

A little moonlight seeped in from outside, but I didn’t need illumination to tell something was badly wrong. I could smell it. An indescribable scent, layered with expensive perfume and sex, that I didn’t want to smell again in a hurry.

“Hello?” I whispered. It was no surprise to me that I sounded shit-scared. And not much of a surprise when no one answered. I fumbled for the light switch, not because I wanted to but because I had to know.

Blood.

Everywhere. It really stood out on the white satin sheets. I swallowed when I observed the very dead woman sprawled on the king-sized bed, and then gulped again when my stomach threatened to revolt. It was Perdita Moning, all right.

Strangled laughter sounded, and I was a bit surprised when I realized the sound came from me. Slightly hysterical. A little crazed. But hell, not every day a girl witnesses a murder.

I stepped closer and stopped abruptly. If I was wise, I’d be out of here. Although I’d heard the murderer leave, they might return and realize I’d been in the house. The thought stopped me short. I had a daughter who was in enough danger as it was-a hell of a lot to live for. I whirled about in a frenzy to leave the scene. Amber was only five, and I wanted to see her reach adulthood.

The light caught the ruby necklace. I stopped, mesmerized by the lustrous sparkle, and then shook myself. More red. But I scooped it up anyway, along with a pair of matching earrings and a rather nice diamond-and-sapphire choker. I hardened my heart. Perdita Moning was dead. She wouldn’t need them any more.

About to leave, one more thing caught my notice. My heart started to pound. I shivered from head to foot.

It was a photo of four children. Innocent fun preserved from a happy, carefree day at the beach. I started to wheeze. I tore at my jumper trying to loosen it around my neck, but the gloves were useless. I ripped one off and yanked at my buttons. Concentrate. Breathe.

When I had myself under control, I looked back at the photo. My trembling hand reached out to brush one finger across the face of the child in the photo. The child wasn’t my daughter, but she was a dead ringer. I swallowed my shock.

A clue-at last.

You see, I didn’t know the identity of my daughter’s father but, now I’d seen this photo, I intended to discover the truth.