Free The Hammett Hex by Victoria Abbott Page B

that I had not flown across the USA with my set of treasured lockpicks in my luggage. There are rules. However, this lock was almost laughably easy. A quick slide with a credit card was all it would take.
    â€œUse my card,” he said.
    â€œMaybe you should avert your eyes.”
    â€œI’m a cop. I know how locks get opened with cards. I’ve just never done it. Not part of my training.”
    â€œGive me a little cover so the neighbors can’t see what I’m doing. I’ll pretend to bang on the door. When it opens, we both act like we’re being greeted. And let’s hope there isn’t a security system.”
    A quick slide, a jiggle and we were in.
    Of course there was no security system.
    Smiley said, “I’ll make sure to remind her to get one. It was way too easy to get in here.”
    â€œLet’s get going.” Despite my heritage, I really hate being in a house that I don’t belong in. Smiley had the confidence that cops have when they trespass. Maybe it’s an acquired skill.
    I tried the main level and found no Gram anywhere. The little pug was yipping around my ankles throughout. Not a relaxing search.
    I headed up the stairs after Smiley. He was methodically going from room to room, softly calling “Gram” before opening each door.
    â€œI don’t want to frighten her.”
    â€œI think the master bedrooms in this style of house should be in the front, where the turret window is.”
    â€œI checked it.”
    â€œFine. She’ll have the best room, so maybe it looks down over the city in the back.” We moved toward the rear of the second floor and knocked on the last door. No response.
    Slowly and still calling her name, Smiley opened the door. I was holding my breath.
    A vast round bed filled one wall. The vivid fuchsia and pink peony pattern on the bedspread and the masses of matching throw cushions would take a little getting used to. This room had obviously been renovated and sat over the sunroom. In the floor-to-ceiling window a floral reclining chair commanded a spectacular view. No one was in the chair.
    Smiley ran his hands through his hair. “Where is she? What has that woman done with her?”
    Usually the simplest answer is the best.
    â€œMaybe she hasn’t done anything with her,” I said, moving toward the bed. Sure enough, a small figure lay there, camouflaged by pillows.
    Gram was in the bed.
    She wasn’t moving.
    Smiley bent over her, shouting, “Gram!”
    He shook her. She moaned softly. He shook harder. I picked up the phone to dial 911 when her eyes popped open.
    â€œWhat a nice surprise,” she said. “Twice in one day.”
    Smiley slumped. “You gave me quite a scare. I thought you were—” He gave a little squeal. Her eyes had closed and she was lying back again, breathing shallowly.
    â€œDrugs,” I said. “Pretty sure.”
    The mirrored dressing table showed no signs of medication, just a glass of water. He checked her pulse and I picked up the glass using a tissue to keep my prints off it.
    â€œHer pulse is . . . not bad.”
    I know nothing of pulses, so I said, “Great.” I sniffed the glass. Then “Oh, that smells like—”
    Smiley patted his grandmother’s pale cheek. “I’m calling 911.”
    I said, “Maybe you should—”
    A noise at the door caused the two of us to whirl like characters in a melodrama. It sort of felt like that too.
    â€œVat are you doing here?” Zoya said. “I vill call police.”
    Smiley managed to stay calm.
    â€œNot if we call them first,” I sputtered.
    She grabbed the phone and made an attempt at 911. Her hand was shaking. “You vill not kill us and get avay vith it.”
    By my calculation, she was short of one “1.”
    â€œKill you?”
    â€œYou think I am fool?”
    Fool? I thought she was a bit of a villain. I supposed she