Free Mom Zone Mysteries 02 Staying Home Is a Killer by Sara Rosett

turned the thermostat down too low before he left. It was probably in the narrow hall. I took a tentative step.
    A wheeze rattled through the house. I jumped as the floor vent jangled and the furnace heaved out a spurt of warm air. I paused to click on the dining room light, then worked my way around the house with floorboards screeching under my feet, turning on the rest of the lights. The bare white walls and stark lighting put an end to my uneasy feeling. In the hall, I cranked the red line on the thermostat from sixty-two degrees up to seventy-five.
    I reached into the bath to turn off the light. There was no need to leave it on. I’d flicked it on during my quick circuit of the house when I turned all the lights. Now I stopped. This was where Penny was found.
    My wet boots squished on the small one-inch pink tiles that covered the floor and lower two-thirds of the walls. I took in the white muslin curtain at the window and the sink with exposed leg supports. Then I sucked in a gulp of air as I looked past the clear plastic shower curtain into the pink bathtub and saw a dark red, almost brown, color in the tub. I pushed the curtain back. My stomach seemed to clench and roll at the same time. I let out a breath. It was rust. A line of it trailed from the overflow cover down to the drain.
    I glanced in the bedroom and then turned the light off in there, too. A mattress and box spring covered with a mustard blanket pushed up against a wall. A pressboard nightstand and dresser crowded the room.
    I turned to the second bedroom that Will had described as their study. A computer and portable CD player sat on a pressboard desk combo that dominated most of the room. A sleek swivel office chair with rollers rested on a grid of plastic over a Turkish rug. In contrast to the rest of the house, which had all the charm of a storage unit, the study felt lived in. Stacks of books covered the desk and teetered in a pile beside a soft brown leather chair. A battered floor lamp angled over the shoulder of the chair. I examined the books and magazines. Flight manuals in black binders intermingled with books on archaeology, a catalogue from Harris Museum, a book about hand-woven rugs, and American Archaeology magazines.
    A yellow sticky note on the monitor read Call Oscar . Marsali? My gaze swept over the rest of the room. The far wall dominated the room. Three rows of shelves held a variety of dolls dressed in brilliant colors. They were displayed with the same precision that Penny would have used in a museum display. Evenly spaced, a card in front of each doll noted names and either purchase dates or who had given the doll to Penny. Their bright clothes gave the room a cheerful air, but their sparkling, fixed eyes and perfectly arranged shiny hair seemed a little creepy in the empty house.
    The doorbell rang and I went to let Hetty inside. She stamped her high-heeled boots on the Astroturf mat and stepped inside. “Hetty Sullivan,” she said as she gave me a firm, quick handshake. She had a long nose and thin lips bright with red lipstick that matched her nail polish.
    “Ellie Avery.” I shut the door.
    “It’s freezing out there. Thanks for doing this.” She tossed her purse down by the door and ran her fingers through the dark cap of hair threaded with gray and said, “I don’t want to take up any more of your time, so show me where everything is and I’ll take care of it.” She quickly scanned the room.
    “Will said they were in the study, back here.” I led the way. “But I haven’t found anything yet.” I found myself walking and talking quickly. She had an air of busy efficiency and competence.
    She did another quick visual survey. When she didn’t spot the photos right away, Hetty’s forehead wrinkled. “They shouldn’t be that hard to find.” She stooped and began burrowing through a box beside the desk.
    “Maybe the closet.” I opened that door. “Oh. I bet this is it.” I saw a box with bundles encased in