FALSE PICTURE  by Veronica Heley

Severn House June 08.

The Abbot agency doesn't do murder, but finds itself involved in it, just the same.

Velma is charm itself, especially when she's being inexact with the truth. She sets Bea on the track of a missing picture, not realising someone else is also after it. Can Bea rescue the picture and the two innocent girls who've been persuaded to carry smuggled art treasures to Bruges, without falling foul of someone who already has several murders to his credit?

Bea Abbot answered the phone with her mind on a bill from the tax people.

  `The Abbot Agency. How may I help you?' The bill was horrific!

  `Bea, thank goodness you're there. I'm desperate! Sandy's so scared. I mean…murder!'

Bea rummaged in the labyrinth of her mind and came up with the name of Velma, one of her oldest friends. Sandy was Velma's second husband whom Bea considered solid, in the nicest possible way. Velma, on the other hand, was somewhat given to exaggeration. `We're a domestic agency, Velma. We don't "do" murder.'

Velma wasn't listening. `I'll tell you all when we meet. One o'clock, the Patisserie near you.' She rang off before Bea could object.

  Bea pulled a face at the receiver and put it down. Her dear husband was lying in his grave on the other side of the world, she felt every day of her sixty years, she owed the taxman more than she could pay, and it looked like rain.

She dropped the tax bill into the waste-paper basket. There! She felt better. Guilty, but better. She knew she'd have to fish it out in due course and deal with it, but for now it was off her desk, she was going to have lunch with one of her oldest friends, and she'd feel all the better for the break when she returned.

She renewed her lipstick, took her reading glasses off, put them into her handbag, and looked around for a jacket to wear. High summer it might be, but there was a nasty chill wind around.

  Her receptionist was nowhere to be seen and the house was blissfully quiet. Maggie wasn't much good at paperwork but she was a brilliant cook and housekeeper, if noisy beyond the bounds of endurance. If she'd been around, the television, radio and food processor would all have been going full blast. Irritating girl. Maggie was obviously out.

He called himself Rafael. Behind his back they called him Raffles, the master thief, because he notched up one art theft every few months. He'd never been suspected of the thefts – or of murder. Was it six or seven by now? He'd lost count.

On this last one, the old woman had opened the door, no problem. He was so small, so unremarkable that no one ever found him threatening – at first. One thrust with his knife and she'd fallen like a rag doll, legs all over the place, blood spurting.

On with the latex gloves. The flat was crammed with valuables but there was no point in being greedy; the collection of snuff boxes was what he'd come for. He slipped each one into a padded envelope and fitted them into his briefcase.

It was the quiet hour, when no one was around to see a stranger leave the block.  

Velma was only ten minutes late, and for once not entangled with shopping. `I'm frazzled, Bea. My dear Sandy is usually such a rock, and to see him fall apart like this…' She ordered soup and a roll.

  `Calm down and tell me what's happened. You mentioned murder, but I don't suppose you really – '

  `What it is, we want you to investigate, or at least find out if Philip – that's my step-son, Sandy's boy – is involved, which we think he must be, though he couldn't have done it. You do agree, don't you?'

`Now, Velma; you know perfectly well that the agency doesn't "do" murder.'

  `Hear me out. When Sandy's first wife went off to live in Scotland with the intention of saving the planet – which is all very worthy though it's not clear how she meant to do it – the boy chose to live with his father. Philip's not exactly academic but he landed a job working in some television company, support procedures, something like that.'

  `And you think Philip murdered someone?'

  `Of course not.' But Velma's colour had faded and she looked more than her age, her pencilled eyebrows standing out against her fair skin. She pushed her half-finished soup aside. `It's just that he's got one of his godmother's pre-Raphaelite oil portraits – a Millais, would you believe? – which is worth hundreds of thousands which he says she gave him for his birthday which was months ago. Only, Sandy happened to see it in on the floor in her flat a fortnight ago, because it had fallen off the wall when the wire broke, and he offered to replace the wire and she said he wasn't to touch it because he'd only do it wrong.'

`Her name…?'

  `Lady Lucinda Farne. Notorious in her day. A family friend. Philip was her godson.'

  Bea half closed her eyes, remembering a newspaper item about a wealthy woman's death a week ago. `The picture was in Lady Farne's flat a fortnight ago, but Philip insists he's had it for months?'

  Velma nodded, containing tears with an effort. `You'll help, won't you? I'll pay anything within reason.'

  `Me?' Bea thought of the tax demand on her desk; no, in her wastepaper basket. `I couldn't possibly.'

  Velma leaned forward, dropping her voice. `You think we should forget  Philip has the picture? Let Sandy get a stomach ulcer, because his indigestion is something chronic ever since it happened? What I thought was that you could get someone into the flat to befriend Philip, worm their way into his confidence, get the truth out of him. He's a loner, it should be easy.'

Bea had a sneaky, awe-inspiring thought. Living with noisy Maggie was driving her insane. Could she possibly suggest that Maggie move into Philip's flat and befriend him? It would be the most enormous relief to have a quiet house again. Common sense told her Maggie would be useless as agent provocateur, but…            `Maggie might do it,' said Bea, feeling guilty. `I suppose.'

  `Oh, my dear, the relief! Bea, you are wonderful, I knew you'd come up with something. It has to be an accident. Right? I'm counting on you to prove it.'

Veronica Heley

www.veronicaheley.com

Available from Amazon and good bookstores everywhere.

Do not reproduce without permission.

THE EDGE OF RECALL

By Kristen Heitzmann

Tessa Young is a landscape architecte who specializes in the design and creation of labyrinths. For years she has immersed herself in the healing aspects of these elaborate structures, searching for God and hoping to make sense of the nightmares that have plagued her since childhood.

When Smith Chandler, a colleague who once betrayed her, offers an opportunity to reconstruct a remarkable Colonial-era labyrinth, she can't resist this project of a lifetime. But one evening, as dusks falls, an assailant ambushes Tess and Smith and the real nightmare begins.

Houses smaller than her dollhouse, fields stretching out and away. A pond tossing sunrays as she leans against the window, nose pressed to the glass. The plane seat rumbles. She feels it in her fingertips, in her teeth.

Daddy points. "Look there."

And she sees it. Circle upon circle, living branches shaped like the inside of a seashell. Mesmerized, she follows the path with her eyes to the very center.

Daddy's voice holds all the mystery in the world. "It's a labyrinth."

"Miss Young?"

Tessa opened her heavy-lidded eyes to white light, beige walls. For a moment she'd thought she was in—but no, it was the emergency room. She rotated her wrist and winced. Her neck burned and she could almost feel the grip there still. She drew a ragged breath.

The nurse put a hand between her shoulder blades. "Let me help you up."

"Thank you." Tessa slid her legs over the side of the exam bed and sat up, woozy, as the curtain slid open with a squeal of metal rings on rod. A man with a hawkish face and wiry hair entered. Doctor Brinkley. She'd spoken with him . . . how long ago?

"You've had some rest, Ms. Young?"

She pressed her fingers to her temples and realized that between arriving and now they had sedated her.

"Sheriff Thomas is back, if you're up to seeing him."

Her chest quaked as her mind replayed the knife flashing, Smith's stunned face. Would she have to identify him? Could she do it? The sheriff entered, his pants and jacket shiny with rain.

"Is he . . . is he dead?"

"We went over the property, Ms. Young. There's nothing to indicate a homicide."

She had a moment of disconnect. What was he saying? "You didn't find Smith?" Her throat constricted. "That's impossible."

"The rain's ruined what trace of an altercation there might have been."

She jolted. "Someone attacked us. He stabbed Smith."

"Someone not quite human."

"I didn't say he wasn't human, just grotesque, misshapen—"

"Pale and malformed, rotten teeth and milky eyes. Wasn't that the description?"

The description conjured his image. "Yes. That's what I saw."

The sheriff slid out the pad he'd jotted her words on before. "Yours was the only vehicle."

She nodded. "I don't know how he got there, but it isn't the first time. I thought I saw him weeks ago."

"You said your boss was six-one, one-eighty. How would this small, malformed person with no transportation—"

"He must have hidden Smith, buried . . . the body."

"We searched the field and surrounding woods." The sheriff looked her over slowly. "I'll round up some dogs in the morning, but before I do, why don't you tell me what really happened?"

She stared. "What do you mean?"

"It appears you had a scuffle, but frankly your story is . . ." He spread his hands. "Not plausible."

Her panic rose. "It's not a story. I barely got away. Someone attacked us. He—" She fought the grief that raised the pitch of her voice. "Have you talked to Smith Chandler? Can you tell me he's alive?"

The sheriff narrowed his eyes. "I'm going to give you a while to come to grips with things, rethink your statement. Go home, now, and we'll talk in the morning."

Dazed, she got up and went out, shivering, to the dark, wet street. Go home? She was so far from home it made her head spin. Before driving her rental car back to the inn some miles out of town, she would try once more to make the sheriff listen. She huddled under the covered entrance and speed dialed her phone, needing someone to vouch for her, someone with credibility to make them realize she could never imagine something like this.

"Dr. Brenner? I'm sorry to call so late, but I need you to talk to someone."

"Hello, Tessa. Would that someone be Sheriff Thomas?"

Her jaw dropped. "You spoke to him?"

"You listed me as your emergency contact, and he was concerned. He said you were hysterical and incoherent."

She brushed her hair back with shaky fingers. "Did he tell you why?"

"He told me what you said."

"You mean what happened."

The pause said too much. "Tessa, this . . . experience. You do see the similarity to your dreams."

Her breath made a slow escape.

"All your classic elements—the maze, the fear of losing someone, abandonment. Even a monster."

"It's not a maze, it's a labyrinth. And I can tell the difference between dreams and reality." Her voice broke. "I saw Smith get stabbed."

"As his rejection stabbed you?"

"I— you can't think—"

"Listen to me, Tessa. It's possible the scenario you're describing is playing out like one of your dreams—or worse, that the real issues you've been dealing with have pushed you to a breaking point."

She started to shake. "Yes, I have dreams, terrible dreams. I also have a life. And I know the difference between what happens in my dreams and what happens in my life."

"To a soldier with PTSD, bombs landing on his home seem very real. The mind is a powerful thing."

She closed her eyes. "This is not in my mind."

"The condition can cause a person to overreact to a perceived threat or injury."

"What are you saying?"

"I want you to come back to Cedar Grove. Let me evaluate you  . . . before you're charged with a crime you may not have been able to control."

"You can't believe I would hurt Smith."

"I think it more likely you've broken with reality."

"What about that I'm telling the truth?"

His silence stung. She hung up and clutched the phone to her throat. Fear and dread loomed like monsters, but this was real. She knew it. Only . . .

With trembling fingers, she dialed another number.

Excerpted from:
THE EDGE OF RECALL
by Kristen Heitzmann Published by Bethany House Publishers
Kristen Heitzmann, copyright 2008 ISBN 978-0-7642-2831-5

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