Dying Art (A Dylan Scott Mystery) by Shirley Wells Page A

slowly down the stairs, deep in thought. Maddie was throwing broken pieces of china and assorted crap into a black plastic bag. She’d already filled one.
    “Well?” she said.
    “There’s no TV in her room, no iPod or radio. How do we know they weren’t stolen?”
    “The neighbour, Jane Cook. She’d been here a few times and, once, had helped Prue hang curtains in the bedroom. According to her, there was nothing missing.”
    “Assuming she’s right then, Prue would have heard someone down here making a racket.” He looked around him. “Our man couldn’t have done this quietly.”
    “So?”
    “So it’s possible that a lot of the damage was done after she was dead.”
    Maddie stopped, half an ashtray in one hand, plastic bag in the other. She looked at him as if he’d become fluent in Martian. “What do you mean?”
    “I think our man was looking for something specific. If he’d been looking to steal something and make a few quid, he’d have pocketed the cash. I think he killed her and then had a look round for something.”
    She sank onto a wooden chair and delved into her pocket for another cigarette. She didn’t want to believe her sister had been killed by a chance burglar but it seemed she didn’t want to ponder anything more sinister either.
    She lit her cigarette and inhaled deeply. “But she had nothing. Look around you, Dylan. Why would anyone think she had anything worth stealing?”
    “I don’t know.”
    Maddie was right. There was nothing in the house of any value. Everything, from the supermarket’s own brand food to the cheap dining table, screamed frugal. Prue had worked her way round Europe waiting on tables. She’d returned to England, rented the cheapest house she could find and was trying to sell her own inexpensive jewellery designs. She didn’t have a car, choosing instead to cycle or use public transport. It was ridiculous to think she had anything worth stealing.
    “Perhaps it was a case of mistaken identity,” Dylan said. “Or perhaps I’m wrong and the police are right. Maybe she died accidentally and our burglar decided he’d have a quick look round before scarpering. Maybe he didn’t notice the cash. Maybe he stole things you don’t know she owned.”
    He wasn’t convinced though. A petty thief was unlikely to hang around with a corpse.
    “Was her rent paid up to date?” he asked.
    “Yes, although I’ve had to pay for another couple of months because it was a six-month lease. The landlord’s a miserable sod too. He wants the place cleared—totally empty—by Friday. Apart from that, his biggest concern is that Prue’s murder might put off prospective tenants.”
    “He sounds a real charmer. Is he local?”
    “No. He lives up in the Lake District but has a couple of dozen properties in Dawson’s Clough that he lets. When Prue died, he was on holiday in Monaco so I hardly think a month’s rent will affect him one way or the other.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got a chap coming at two o’clock to look at the furniture. It’s not worth anything, obviously, but I’m hoping he’ll take it away. I’d better get the wardrobe and drawers emptied.”
    Armed with more black plastic bags, they headed for the stairs and Prue’s bedroom.
    “I’ll put everything in bags and take it home to sort out,” Maddie said. “Mum’s given me strict instructions that anything of value, no matter how small, has to go to the charity shop. She says she can only bear this if something good comes from it.”
    Dylan supposed it was an admirable sentiment.
    They worked in silence. Maddie, Dylan guessed, was finding the task too difficult to do anything but keep her lips pressed tightly together. He simply found it sad. And wrong. So very wrong.
    “Look.” Maddie held out a pink cashmere sweater still in its bag. “I bought her this for Christmas. She said it was too nice to wear but I had the feeling at the time that she didn’t like it. Why didn’t she say so?