Read Online A Holly, Jolly Murder by Joan Hess - Free Book Online Page A

pals with inmates in prisons and serial killers.”
    â€œVery eloquently put,” said Jorgeson. “Tell you what, Mrs. Malloy—you go on home and write down anything you think might be helpful. Don’t leave out any theories, including leprechauns, the CIA, and the Mafia. I’ll send someone by later to pick up your notes.”
    â€œWhat about the others?”
    â€œThey’ll be home within an hour. Until we get some feedback from forensics and the medical examiner, we can’t do much more than try to get an idea of what happened last night. The weapon may turn up and be covered with lovely, legible prints. One of the neighbors out on the road may have seen a hitchhiker—or better yet, disgruntled Boston basketball players.”
    â€œJorgeson,” I said as I stood up and buttoned my coat, “you’ve been working too long with Lieutenant Rosen. Your feeble attempt at humor is indicative of the depth of your neuroses. Caron’s announced she’s entering a convent. Shall I inquire if it’s coeducational?”
    â€œGood-bye, Mrs. Malloy. Drive safely.”
    Vowing to order my own copy of Applied Magick so I could cast some ingenious curses, I went through the kitchen to the patio. The Druids were no longer present. I continued to my car and drove back to Farberville at an immodest speed, although I wasn’t sure that ending up in a ditch would prove I’d climbed out of a rut.
    I stopped by my apartment to change into dry shoes. Caron had left a note saying that—despite the indignity and source of further humiliation associated with the need to rely on public transportation—she’d taken the bus to the mall, and that she might linger after work to look at the Christmas decorations. Under no circumstances would she shop.
    And I, of course, might get an apology from Jorgeson and a teary request to conduct the investigation into Nicholas Chunder’s premature departure.
    I drove to the store, started a pot of coffee, and sat down on a stool behind the counter to write down a few observations for Jorgeson. After nibbling the pencil and staring at a blank page, I concluded that I knew next to nothing about any of the Druids. I knew where Malthea, Fern, and Roy lived, but that information had already been recorded. All I really knew about Morning Rose and Sullivan was that they disagreed in matters of child rearing, curses, and skyclad performances in their backyard. Gilda rode a bicycle, worked at the hospital in some unspecified capacity, and trimmed her hair in the dark.
    None of it seemed worth writing down, but I wrote a brief synopsis of what interactions I’d had on the slight chance that Jorgeson would keep his word, which meant Peter would not be immediately informed that I was involved in even the most minimal way. It would be best if the death turned out to be a suicide, but the team had not uncovered a weapon—and it was hard to envision Nicholas breaking the window, then beating his face on a kitchen counter before shooting himself with an invisible gun. He could have, I supposed, although my theory of a late-night visitor seemed more likely. Roy might have seen or heard something, including the shot; whether or not he’d share it with the police was debatable.
    I paced up and down the aisles, pausing to rearrange paperbacks and tidy up the rows of thin yellow study guides that accounted for much of my income during final exams. When I realized I’d covered the territory more than once and was mindlessly tapping the edges of the same guides, I went into my cramped office and called Luanne Bradshaw, a divorcée of a comparable age who owns a secondhand clothing store and has been responsible for a couple of my forays into deduction.
    â€œYou’ll never guess where I went this morning,” I began coyly.
    â€œThen there’s no point in trying, is there?” she said, not nearly as enthralled as I’d hoped.