Cut to the Bone by Joan Boswell Page A

sunglasses lying on the floor were out of place.
    The three stopped.
    There was no evidence that Mary’s departure had been involuntary. And how would her kidnapper have evaded the police, who had checked everyone entering and leaving the building and garage since Hollis reported Sabrina’s murder?
    Crystal had told them Mary’s vehicle was gone. But there was no law against leaving the garage. Perhaps a very cool customer could have risked forcing a woman into her own car and driving out, but Hollis had trouble visualizing a man hustling Mary out of the building into the garage, hitting her on the head, and sticking her in the trunk.
    The security tapes recorded activities in the garage. The police possessed them. Surely they would have noticed? And what of the unidentified tenants? Who and where were they?
    â€œNancy Drew would see if anything suspicious has happened in the rest of the apartment,” Jay said, barging ahead of them.
    â€œJay, wait. Let me go first. We don’t know what happened here,” Hollis said and again led the way.
    First they forged into the combined living and dining room. A sectional dark green velour sofa, wood-and-glass coffee table, two folding chairs, two standard lamps, and a large old-fashioned TV on a stand were undisturbed. On the wall over the sofa a large poster that reproduced a classic photo of an American 1930s woman sharecropper standing in a doorway added a depressing note. On the opposite wall another poster of an Indian chief in full regalia dominated the room. Venetian blinds covered the windows. A utilitarian room with nothing to indicate a struggle.
    In the dining area a bridge table with four folding chairs pulled up to it, a brown laminate china cabinet, a white particle board bookcase stuffed with books, and a treadmill filled the space.
    Hollis didn’t know what signs to look for, but it wouldn’t hurt to learn more about Mary. She squatted in front of the bookcase. Many books on Aboriginal history and law. A neatly alphabetized section on addictions. A few novels and cookbooks. An eclectic mix. A worn book with a soft green cover lay horizontally on top of the others. Hollis removed it. The Song My Paddle Sings , a well-thumbed collection of Pauline Johnson’s poetry. Interesting. If she had time she’d come back and look through the volumes to see if Mary had annotated or folded and inserted relevant articles between the pages.
    The adjoining kitchen’s tidiness impressed her.
    Crystal grabbed her sleeve. “Never mind the kitchen. Our stuff, Aunt Mary’s and mine, is in there.” She pointed down the hall to a closed door. Heavy-footed, she stomped down the hall and flung the door open.
    Hollis and Jay traipsed into the bedroom, where two neatly made single beds, one with a bedraggled toy monkey on the pillow, shared a small chest of drawers with a two-armed gooseneck lamp.
    Two unmatched white DIY bureaus crowded together, as did two desks and a tall grey filing cabinet. The contents of a bulletin board over one desk, along with a collection of bobble-headed dolls lined up in front of a computer, clearly belonged to Crystal. The second desktop with its mug of pens and computer must be Mary’s. A navy backpack tucked under the desk attracted Hollis’s attention.
    â€œOkay if I take a look in this?” Hollis said to Crystal, who stared sadly around the room.
    â€œIt’s Aunt Mary’s. Go ahead.”
    Opening zipper after zipper, Hollis found nothing and was about to replace it when she poked into a small side pocket and found a notebook. She looked at Crystal, who shrugged. “She always kept that with her. Really weird that she doesn’t have it. Maybe it’ll tell you where she is.”
    â€œI’ll return it,” Hollis said as she stuffed it in her pocket. She waved a hand at the room across the hall. “Whose bedroom is that?”
    â€œDifferent people’s,”