The Third Grave (Savannah #4) - Lisa Jackson Page 0,77

wall that blocked it from the street. Now the gates were propped open and Nikki seized her opportunity, turning into a wide drive that circled an area where palm trees surrounded a dry fountain, no water spraying upward or pouring over the sides of the tiered basins. Instead a pool of sludge had collected in the reservoir, and across the yard, palm fronds and shingles that had been torn from the roof littered the ground. A Georgian mansion, built of stucco and painted the same pale pink as the walls surrounding it, dominated the landscape. Tall black shutters framed the door and windows, and one door of three to the garage was open. Nikki spied a Range Rover and a Bentley SUV, parked side by side, a golf cart, bikes and various sporting equipment filling the third bay. A second two-storied building with more garage space beneath was positioned on the other side of the circle, a beat-up van parked near the covered entrance.

She assumed that was Ryan Jefferson’s vehicle and workspace. Nikki eased her Honda behind the van, parked and walked to the front door of the main house, where the salty air of the ocean was carried on the breeze. She peered inside through the windows flanking the door. The foyer was grand, a huge chandelier hanging from a ceiling two stories high. A sweeping staircase descended from the second balcony to a marble floor, where a circular table with a pot of vibrant flowers filled the space.

Nikki tried the bell, heard nothing and knocked on the wide glass doors. Seconds later she spied movement inside, a barefooted blonde in a sundress walking briskly from the back of the house.

Here we go.

She recognized Ashley McDonnell from pictures she’d seen browsing the Internet. Ashley was older now, blonder, her hair sun-streaked. Not quite as slim as she’d been in high school, she was still fit, her complexion flawless, a gold chain at her neck and irritation etched firmly across her face. After peering at Nikki through the sidelight, she opened the door just a crack.

Nikki spoke first. “Ashley McDonnell?”

“Jefferson,” she corrected, her eyes narrowing. “It’s Ashley Jefferson now. Has been for a long time.”

Nikki had known that, of course, had just wanted to see the reaction it evoked.

“Who’re you?”

“My mistake. Sorry. I’m Nikki Gillette. I’m with the Savannah Sentinel.”

“The Sentinel? You’re a reporter? For the love of God.” Her lips twisted into a deeper frown.

“Yes, and I’d just like to ask you a few questions and clear up any—”

Crash!

Both women jumped at the sound.

Ashley’s sour expression changed to one of distress. “Oh, God!” She looked over her shoulder. “Zeke!” And then she was running toward the back of the house, hurrying down a short hall, bare feet slapping on the tile as she disappeared through an archway.

Nikki stepped inside and followed as a child’s wail echoed through the house. “Oh, honey, are you okay?” Ashley said.

Rounding a corner, Nikki found herself in a huge living space with a wall of windows that opened to a pool area. Beyond the decking was a boardwalk that extended through a marsh to the beach, sunlight glinting off the ocean.

Ashley had landed in the kitchen, where she was picking up a shaggy-haired boy of about three who had toppled off a kitchen chair. “You’re all right,” she told the boy, while righting the chair with one hand and propping him onto her hip with the other. On the tile beneath the table, a ceramic bowl had cracked, a puddle of milk and soggy Cheerios spreading over the tile; a cocker spaniel hurriedly lapping up the mess.

“Cleo, stop that! Ick!”

Nikki bent down and retrieved the bowl before it splintered.

Ashley ranted, “I can’t believe this! And of course Valentina has the week off because of the damned storm. And my blog—I haven’t been able to even log on! Shit!” She stomped a bare foot in frustration, then took a deep breath and said to her son, “You didn’t hear that, honey. Mommy didn’t really say a naughty word.”

“Valentina?” Nikki asked.

“Yes, the maid and nursemaid, the woman who usually works for us and . . . oh, what does it matter?”

As Zeke reduced his wails to sniffling, Ashley snagged a handful of paper towels from a dispenser near the sink, then bent down and, still holding the child, swabbed up the mess as she shooed the dog out of the way.

Nikki set the bowl on the counter next to the sink, where a pile of dishes