6 - Pages of Sin

myself.
    Still, I missed him. Now that Derek was in my life, everything seemed brighter, more interesting, more intense in a good way. I was having more fun. He challenged me. He made me laugh. And he was absolutely the best looking, sexiest man I’d ever met, which counted for a lot, right? No wonder I was happy.
    The only less than sparkly thing about my life was that, lately, I kept stumbling upon dead bodies. That had never happened before Derek came along. I lived in hope that it would never happen again.
    “Green light,” Mom said.
    “What?” I blinked as my surroundings came back into focus. “Oh. Thanks.” I stepped on the gas and drove toward Big River Road where Byron lived.
    “Where’d you go just then?” Mom wore an amused grin, meaning she’d probably guessed exactly where my daydream had taken me.
    I could feel my cheeks heating up. “Just thinking about things. Nothing important. So talk to me about these books. Did Byron tell you about them or did you actually see them?”
    She laughed at my obvious attempt to change the subject. “I got a quick glimpse of them stacked up against one wall. I saw lots of leather-bound books, so I made a comment to Byron about them. He said to help myself to whatever I wanted.”
    “I hope they’re filthy and falling apart.”
    “A girl can dream.” With another laugh, she gave me directions on which way to turn.
    A few minutes later, I pulled up in front of a large, two-story California bungalow on what looked like at least a half acre of land. It was surrounded by a tall concrete wall. I couldn’t see much else except for a few tall trees scattered around the extensive property. As I turned off the engine, something occurred to me and I glanced over at my mother. “You never told me how Wanda died.”
    Mom stared straight ahead, not meeting my gaze. “Pills. Self-inflicted. She committed suicide.”

Chapter Two
     
    Mom pushed open the heavy wooden gate and we walked into a veritable Garden of Eden. The air was still cool as we followed the long, winding walkway leading up to a wide, welcoming porch that wrapped around at least three sides of the house. Delicate white roses and fragrant jasmine twined around the white wooden columns of the porch. Chunky ceramic pots held lush flowering vines that spilled over the sides and tumbled down the railings. Two wrought iron park-style benches sat on either side of a front door that was painted bright red with a gleaming brass door knocker. It was storybook perfection.
    Once on the porch, I looked back to get a better view of the English style garden that had been planted along the terracotta wall. Rows of purple foxglove, pastel hollyhocks, and rich blue delphiniums flitted in the gentle wind. Pink, orange, and white poppies lined a narrow, pebbled path that led to the backyard. A worn, wooden bench was set back from the path, surrounded by a profusion of lavender stalks that wafted in the breeze.
    “She was an artist with flowers,” I murmured.
    “Yes,” Mom said softly.
    “It’s a shame she was unable to share this space with anyone.”
    “Oh, but she did,” Mom said. “Her photographs of her gardens appeared in lots of home and garden magazines.”
    “Honestly? Could she do that without leaving her property?”
    Mom nodded as she continued to take in the lush beauty of Wanda’s gardens. “Computers and the Internet changed her life.”
    “That’s amazing.” I took hold of her hand. “Come on, Mom. Let’s go inside.”
    “If you’re ready.”
    “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
    The inside of Wanda Bradford Frawley’s house was much cleaner and more organized, in a manner of speaking, than I had imagined it would be. I guess I’d seen too many episodes of Hoarders, because while driving over there, I’d had visions of scary, smelly stacks of dirty animal pens surrounded by tons of bizarre, trashy junk shoved into every corner.
    But as we crossed the threshold into Wanda’s house, my eyes widened in fascination. The fantasy that began in the gardens continued into the spacious front room. I had to stop at the edge of the entryway to take it all in.
    The place was literally packed wall to wall with furniture, but it was . . . charming. Delightful. Eccentric, yes. Cluttered, yes. Wanda obviously had been a hoarder, but one with lovely taste in furnishings.
    There were dozens of pieces of Regency and Georgian era furniture and accessories in this one room alone. Everything looked old and