Body Double: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

surprised me when she called to ask about the place, especially since I had other units available, down by the shore.”
    Maura turned to look at her. Daylight was fading, and Miss Clausen had receded into the shadows. “My sister asked specifically about this house?”
    Miss Clausen shrugged. “I guess the price was right.”
    They left the gloomy living room and started down a hallway. If a house reflected the personality of its occupant, then something of Anna Leoni must linger within these walls. But other tenants had also claimed this space, and Maura wondered which knickknacks, which pictures on the wall had belonged to Anna, and which had been left by others before her. That pastel painting of a sunset—surely not Anna’s. No sister of mine would hang something so hideous, she thought. And that odor of stale cigarettes permeating the house—surely it had not been Anna who smoked. Identical twins are often eerily alike; wouldn’t Anna have shared Maura’s aversion to cigarettes? Wouldn’t she, too, sniffle and cough at the first whiff of smoke?
    They came to a bedroom with a stripped mattress.
    “She didn’t use this room, I guess,” said Miss Clausen. “Closet and dressers were empty.”
    Next came a bathroom. Maura went in and opened the medicine cabinet. On the shelves were Advil and Sudafed and Ricola cough drops, brand names that startled her by their familiarity. These were the same products she kept in her own bathroom cabinet. Right down to our choice of flu medicines, she thought, we were identical.
    She closed the cabinet door. Continued down the hall to the last doorway.
    “This was the bedroom she used,” said Miss Clausen.
    The room was neatly kept, the bedcovers tucked in, the dresser top free of clutter.
Like my bedroom,
thought Maura. She went to the closet and opened the door. Hanging inside were slacks and pressed blouses and dresses. Size six. Maura’s size.
    “State police came in last week, gave the whole house a going-over.”
    “Did they find anything of interest?”
    “Not that they told me. She didn’t keep much in here. Lived here only a few months.”
    Maura turned and looked out the window. It was not yet dark, but the gloom of the surrounding woods made nightfall seem imminent.
    Miss Clausen was standing just inside the bedroom door, as though waiting to charge a toll before she’d let Maura exit. “It’s not such a bad house,” she said.
    Yes it is, thought Maura. It’s a horrid little house.
    “This time of year, there’s nothing much left to rent. Everything’s pretty much taken. Hotels, motels. No rooms at the inn.”
    Maura kept her gaze on the woods. Anything to avoid engaging this distasteful woman in any further conversation.
    “Well, it was just a thought. I guess you found a place to stay tonight, then.”
    So that’s what she’s trying to get at.
Maura turned to look at her. “Actually, I don’t have a place to stay. The Bayview Motel was full.”
    The woman responded with a tight little smile. “So’s everything else.”
    “They told me there were some vacancies up in Ellsworth.”
    “Yeah? If you want to drive all the way up there. Take you longer than you think in the dark. Road winding all over the place.” Miss Clausen pointed to the bed. “I could get you some fresh linens. Charge you what the motel would have. If you’re interested.”
    Maura looked down at the bed, and felt a cold whisper up her spine.
My sister slept here.
    “Oh, well. Take it or leave it.”
    “I don’t know . . .”
    Miss Clausen gave a grunt. “Seems to me you don’t have much of a choice.”
    Maura stood on the front porch and watched the taillights of Britta Clausen’s pickup truck disappear into the dark curtain of trees. She lingered a moment in the gathering darkness, listening to the crickets, to the rustle of leaves. She heard creaking behind her, and turned to see the porch swing was moving, as though nudged by a ghostly hand. With a shudder, she stepped back into the house and was about to lock the door when she suddenly went very still. Felt, once again, that whisper of a chill against her neck.
    There were four locks on the door.
    She stared at two chains, a sliding latch, and a dead bolt. The brass plates were still bright, the screws untarnished.
New locks.
She slid all the bolts home, inserted the chains into their slots. The metal felt icy against her fingers.
    She went into the kitchen and flipped on the lights. Saw tired linoleum on