The Third Grave (Savannah #4) - Lisa Jackson Page 0,8

stuffed to the gills; some of the rooms were exposed to the elements as a portion of the roof had collapsed near the chimney. The sky was visible here, treetops swaying slightly, clouds skittering high overhead. Water from the recent storm pooled on the buckling floors and seeped under the stacked, already-moldering boxes, crates and baskets. What had been stored here—boxes of clothes, an old sewing kit and treadle machine, books and records—were long ruined and scattered by nesting squirrels or birds or whatever.

Morrisette said, “I’m surprised this whole house didn’t come down with the hurricane. Can’t be safe up here. Let’s go.”

The second floor had been stripped of most of the furniture, the remaining bedframes stacked against the walls of four massive bedrooms complete with fireplaces. A large, intricately tiled bathroom had been stripped of fixtures aside from a stained claw-foot tub, and the center ballroom was devoid of its chandelier, electrical wires exposed, a few crystals scattered and broken on the stained, intricately laid hardwood floor below. Layers of spider webs and insect carcasses clung to the windowsills while water from the floor above dripped from bowed ceilings.

“Nothin’ here,” Morrisette observed, frowning. “Hard to believe anyone would let this happen, y’know.”

“Too expensive to keep up?”

“Too greedy to spend the time and money to keep it up, most likely. More money in sectioning it off, I guess,” she said sourly.

On the main floor, dark because the windows had been boarded over with waterlogged plywood, they picked their way through the kitchen. Cabinets and appliances were either broken or missing, the dirty floor uneven, evidence of rodents visible on the loose tiles as the grout had crumbled away. Morrisette trained her flashlight on an overflowing garbage bag stuffed near the dumbwaiter, and a rat, fat and dark, scurried from the bag and through a hole in the woodwork, its thin tail snaking behind.

“Nice,” Morrisette remarked, skimming the light behind a rusting, ancient stove. “Just peachy.”

The dining room was mostly empty, though a broken-down piano missing keys had been shoved against a huge, blackened fireplace, its tiles cracked or fallen. In the parlor or main living area, the stained wallpaper peeled from the wall, exposing previous layers.

She shined her flashlight up the broad, curving staircase in the foyer, where balusters had splintered and several steps had rotted through.

“Looks clear,” Morrisette said. “Like Crater said, no more bodies. No bad guys hiding in any closets. No squatters. Just squirrels in the attic and rats down here.”

“And two dead bodies in the basement.”

She nodded. “Let’s hope we don’t find any more.”

Amen, he thought. Two was more than enough.

CHAPTER 3

Her abdomen was still flat as a board.

Her red-blond hair caught in a messy bun, Nikki Gillette turned slowly in front of the full-length mirror. She was wearing only her bra and panties as she surveyed her image. Still no hint of the baby growing within her and she was ten weeks pregnant. Ten weeks! After months of trying to conceive and two heartbreaking miscarriages within the first weeks of pregnancy, she finally was closing in on her second trimester. “You hang in there,” she whispered to her unborn child, then pulled on a T-shirt and jeans that were, she had to admit, a little snug around the waist. But she didn’t care. Not at all.

Bring on the ice cream.

Bring on the donuts.

Whatever the baby inside her wanted, she’d devour . . . well, within reason. She hurried downstairs and flopped onto the couch as her phone started to buzz. News alerts. She was, after all, still a reporter for the Savannah Sentinel and had to keep abreast of what was going on.

Probably something about Hurricane Jules, which had thankfully not destroyed the old historic part of Savannah, where she called home. She wasn’t all that interested, until she noticed that police units had been dispatched to the old Beaumont estate.

Why?

The place had been abandoned for years. As she understood it, the current owner, a Beaumont heir, either Baxter Beaumont, now in his seventies, or his son, Tyson, had been trying to parcel it off and sell it, letting the old plantation house go to seed, but had been fighting with the historical society for years.

Interesting.

She did a quick sweep of the Internet but found nothing.

So the news was fresh.

Probably not a big deal.

Maybe squatters found on the property.

Or a poacher caught hunting in the off season.

Or...

She called the office of the newspaper, got hold of Millie Foxx, a recent hire who contributed to the