The Mask of Atreus by A. J. Hartley Page A
Authors: A. J. Hartley
Tags: Fiction, General, detective, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, Fiction - Mystery, Antiquities, greece, Theft from museums, Museum curators
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fingers of one hand the number of times she had worn perfume of any kind in the last six months. It was more often than she wore makeup, but not by much. She had intended to wear both for the fund-raiser tonight, but in between calming Richard, pacifying Tonya, and goading the caterers, she had not been able to get home, and had finished up wearing neither.
There was one other downstairs apartment on this narrow, vine-hung passage. It belonged to Mrs. Reynolds, a widow who had, to Deborah's knowledge, never left or entered the building after dark, and seemed to insist that her visitors keep the same hours.
She inserted the key into the lock with slow precision, conscious now of a tension in her spine. The thick Atlanta air seemed denser than ever, and the cricket hum echoed shrill in the darkened hallway. She turned the key slowly, quietly, waiting for its familiar clunk and the sudden seeming weightlessness of the door as it was freed from the lock mechanism. Then the door was opening onto the darkness of her living room. Wait.
She did not go in. She stood where she was and breathed in.
She caught the lingering aromas of last night's dinner, the pasta she had left spoiling on the stove, smelling of garlic and basil. What else? The familiar hothouse sweetness of a room full of plants closed to the outside air for an entire Georgia summer day. And? A hint of cologne or aftershave, and stale tobacco smoke.
50
A. J. Hartley
Run.
She turned on her heel without closing the door, moving quickly back to the green Toyota. She pointed her key ring. The car's side lights blinked once, and the locks popped. She broke into a run.
Someone was in her apartment.
She yanked the door open, slid in, bashing her knee on the doorframe as she did so, and pushed the keys into the ignition. With one quick turn, the locks snapped back into place and the car began to hum with energy.
Thank God.
Deborah flicked on her headlights and swung the car a few feet so that they fell across the path and onto the iron gate to her home. The splash of light brought the night into startling color, as the lush greens of the camellia and the earth red of the bricks leapt out of the blackness. And the white of a man's hand, gripping the wrought iron.
It was there for a second or less, then it released the metal and vanished back into the leaf-shrouded passage. The gate juddered slightly on its hinge and then became quite still. Deborah reversed the car out, dialing her cell phone at the same time.
CHAPTER 12
Deborah was waved toward the museum doors by a policeman in a squad car, its lights strobing. She went inside, taking deep, steadying breaths, trying to recover her composure before she had to start explaining. They were waiting for her in the downstairs lobby beside the T. rex and the lady-snake ship prow. She had expected more uniforms, but the two detectives were still there. So was Tonya. Keene looked up at her as she came in, red-faced and irritated.
"You smelled someone in your apartment?" he said, underlining the word. At least they had everything she had told the dispatcher. She didn't feel like retelling the story.
"I could tell someone was there, yes," she said. She looked at Tonya. It wasn't clear if she was still being questioned or not. The black woman turned sharply away, giving Deborah the back of her braided, graying hair, but not before she had given her a look that said quite plainly, Precious missy wants her privacy? Fine by me.
"Any chance of a cup of coffee?" said Keene to Tonya. The maid stiffened. Deborah braced herself for a tirade, but it didn't come. Instead Tonya merely shrugged.
"Don't guess you'll let me do much else around here today," she said. "You want cream and sugar?"
Deborah raised an eyebrow. Cerniga turned to the odious dragon-lady ship prow.
"That's quite a thing," said Cerniga, looking up at it, his voice neutral.
"Isn't it just," said Deborah. Then, relenting a little, she added, "Richard wanted it
There was one other downstairs apartment on this narrow, vine-hung passage. It belonged to Mrs. Reynolds, a widow who had, to Deborah's knowledge, never left or entered the building after dark, and seemed to insist that her visitors keep the same hours.
She inserted the key into the lock with slow precision, conscious now of a tension in her spine. The thick Atlanta air seemed denser than ever, and the cricket hum echoed shrill in the darkened hallway. She turned the key slowly, quietly, waiting for its familiar clunk and the sudden seeming weightlessness of the door as it was freed from the lock mechanism. Then the door was opening onto the darkness of her living room. Wait.
She did not go in. She stood where she was and breathed in.
She caught the lingering aromas of last night's dinner, the pasta she had left spoiling on the stove, smelling of garlic and basil. What else? The familiar hothouse sweetness of a room full of plants closed to the outside air for an entire Georgia summer day. And? A hint of cologne or aftershave, and stale tobacco smoke.
50
A. J. Hartley
Run.
She turned on her heel without closing the door, moving quickly back to the green Toyota. She pointed her key ring. The car's side lights blinked once, and the locks popped. She broke into a run.
Someone was in her apartment.
She yanked the door open, slid in, bashing her knee on the doorframe as she did so, and pushed the keys into the ignition. With one quick turn, the locks snapped back into place and the car began to hum with energy.
Thank God.
Deborah flicked on her headlights and swung the car a few feet so that they fell across the path and onto the iron gate to her home. The splash of light brought the night into startling color, as the lush greens of the camellia and the earth red of the bricks leapt out of the blackness. And the white of a man's hand, gripping the wrought iron.
It was there for a second or less, then it released the metal and vanished back into the leaf-shrouded passage. The gate juddered slightly on its hinge and then became quite still. Deborah reversed the car out, dialing her cell phone at the same time.
CHAPTER 12
Deborah was waved toward the museum doors by a policeman in a squad car, its lights strobing. She went inside, taking deep, steadying breaths, trying to recover her composure before she had to start explaining. They were waiting for her in the downstairs lobby beside the T. rex and the lady-snake ship prow. She had expected more uniforms, but the two detectives were still there. So was Tonya. Keene looked up at her as she came in, red-faced and irritated.
"You smelled someone in your apartment?" he said, underlining the word. At least they had everything she had told the dispatcher. She didn't feel like retelling the story.
"I could tell someone was there, yes," she said. She looked at Tonya. It wasn't clear if she was still being questioned or not. The black woman turned sharply away, giving Deborah the back of her braided, graying hair, but not before she had given her a look that said quite plainly, Precious missy wants her privacy? Fine by me.
"Any chance of a cup of coffee?" said Keene to Tonya. The maid stiffened. Deborah braced herself for a tirade, but it didn't come. Instead Tonya merely shrugged.
"Don't guess you'll let me do much else around here today," she said. "You want cream and sugar?"
Deborah raised an eyebrow. Cerniga turned to the odious dragon-lady ship prow.
"That's quite a thing," said Cerniga, looking up at it, his voice neutral.
"Isn't it just," said Deborah. Then, relenting a little, she added, "Richard wanted it
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