Killing Me Softly by MAGGIE SHAYNE Page A

At least, not to herself.
    She had to get those files before the cops did. And that was the least intimidating of the two tasks she’d set for herself when she’d rolled out of bed at five-thirty to shower and get dressed. She’d left the inn by six, all in hopes of getting this job done before Bryan figured out what she was up to and tried to stop her.
    She pulled on the rubber gloves she’d stolen from Beth’s kitchen drawer, opened her car door and looked around again. It was only seven now, and the trafficalong the road was light. On a Sunday morning, it ought to be. Seeing no one, she decided now was the time. And once that decision was made, she knew she had to move fast or risk being caught. Quickly, she trotted around to the side of the garage, tried the door there and found it unlocked. She opened the door, and went inside.
    Bryan’s garage was as neat as a pin. And the picnic cooler he’d described to her sat in plain sight on a shelf in the back.
    She hurried back there, grabbed it and dashed out the door again, pausing in the doorway to look around, before she popped the trunk. She slung the cooler inside and slammed the trunk closed again. Then she turned, looking and listening.
    No one. Not a car passing, or a curious neighbor peering anywhere in sight.
    Cool. “Mission accomplished,” she whispered.
    Sliding back behind the wheel, she started the car and backed out of the driveway. Then she drove ahead a block and a half, and parked along the roadside, where the car would be less likely to attract notice.
    The first part of her mission was complete, she thought. If she didn’t do another thing, at least she’d done that. She’d recovered those incriminating files. Maybe she and Bryan could get them back into the police department records room before anyone realized they were missing, rather than misfiled.
    Now, though…now she had to tackle a much more daunting task.
    She had to creep inside Bryan’s house and hope there was a dead girl in there, waiting to talk to her.
    She was tense. That was pretty much to be expected. There were certain physical sensations that always used to hit her when the dead were getting restless and yearning for a visit. She would feel it every time. A little shiver up her spine. Goose bumps on her forearms. The hair on her nape rising with static electricity. A little bit jumpy, a little bit restless. A weight in the center of her belly, like a lead ball in her solar plexus. Shivers. Chills. Hiccups, sometimes.
    Right now she felt taut and jumpy. But as she walked down the road, she didn’t feel any of those other things that usually signaled a close encounter of the dead kind.
    Bryan’s driveway was on her left, and she turned to face his house. Yellow tape had been strung up all the way around the place, supported by wooden slats thrust into the ground like miniature fence posts. Stepping over it was easy enough. The tape was only knee-high. It wasn’t meant to be a physical barrier but a warning. Notification that if you crossed it, you were breaking the law. No way to plead ignorance, not with neon-yellow tape glaring at you. A few more pieces zigzagged across the doorway. Gloves still on, she tried the knob, but it was locked, so she proceeded to walk around the house, looking for another way in.
    A window was open about two inches. She pushed it up farther, and reached inside to push the curtains apart and look around.
    There was no one inside, of course. The place was a mess, though. Clearly no one had cleaned up after the party Bryan had mentioned. It was odd to think of a night of celebration and joy morphing into a morning of violence and death.
    She swallowed hard, because she could feel the death there. It was heavy in the air, impossible to describe, but vivid all the same.
    â€œI’m coming inside now, Bette. I hope you’re going to talk to me.”
    And then she climbed in through the window,