Free Still Life: The Randi Lassiter Series, Book 1 by DB Kennison Page A

did a quick clean of the table, Randi resumed her investigation. She nibbled on a cookie as she jotted notes on her small tablet. “What’s Larissa’s full name?”
    “Larissa Leuenberger.”
    “Do you remember what time she checked in?”
    “Oh, honey, I don’t have to remember. I have video.” Randi’s eyes widened as Georgia held up a small SD card from a camera. “A few years back we had some vandalism. After that, I decided to invest in a security camera. Haven’t had a reason to look at footage since it was installed so it’s nice to know it will come in handy.”
    “That’s great. If it is her then we can also see when she was coming and going from her room.”
    Georgia fiddled with setting up the SD card to run on her laptop. “I assume she was here for the art show, like everybody else. It’s a monthly event. We have a troop of fifteen exhibitors, most of who have been with us for years.” She beamed proudly. “We book up a year in advance.”
    “How many guests were staying here?”
    “Forty.” Georgia said with confidence. She went on to explain. “Eight cabins with two people, four with four people and eight rooms here at the big lodge with singles. I save most of them for the artists, most of who prefer to come alone…something about being able to concentrate on the creative flow.” She explained with a swirl of her hand. “But Larissa is in one of those as well.
    “Most of the guests have left by now,” Georgia continued. “They come for a weekend and then head out Sunday.” She’d found the video file and was fast-forwarding. “Here it is.” Georgia clicked play to slow down the footage.
    Both women leaned in toward the lap top get a better look. The camera angle showed a panoramic view of the entire property. Randi was amazed at how much she could clearly see.
    “There.” Georgia pointed at the screen. In black and white footage a blonde woman was getting out of a dark two-door Saturn in the parking lot. She slung a jacket over her arm and shouldered a small duffle bag she got from the trunk as she made her way to the entrance. When she was on the front stoop, she was only a few feet from the camera, and Randi could see how pretty she was.
    A flash of the woman lying in the alley without her face intact popped into Randi’s mind. She shook herself and refocused on what she was doing. That was Friday evening, the day she checked in. Randi felt a sudden chill, as if this was a time machine and she was watching a woman living on borrowed time. She took a long sip of her tea.
    They saw a plethora of guests in a procession to and from the lot, as well as exhibiting artists—each carting a mass of supplies in totes, boxes and bags. Early Saturday morning Georgia could be seen walking around the property and directing a young man on which flower beds to weed, pointing here or there—obviously comfortable delegating tasks. People came and went, wandering the property with coffee mugs, field glasses and cameras. Midday, artists began to unload bubble-wrapped canvases, sculptures and boxes of assorted sizes. They saw Larissa leave Saturday afternoon and return an hour and fifteen minutes later with what looked like Chinese takeout.
    The main show was Saturday night, and they watched as guests decked out in fancy dresses, suits and casual attire made their way up to the lodge. Randi spotted Larissa among them in a sleeveless pale shift. A few stragglers passed by the camera after dark, the video showed a lit glow from the lodge during the art event along with the occasional smoker outside taking a break. As Randi and Georgia studied the sped-up feed, something shot across the camera lens, and the picture went dark. The women exchanged puzzled looks, and Georgia hit the play key again, slowing it down.
    “Well, what in the Sam hell?” As she went to play it for a third time, Randi wandered outside to check on the camera. She found a small black box mounted to the wall up under the