Read Online An Appetite for Murder by Lucy Burdette - Free Book Online
Authors: Lucy Burdette
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point on your lower back. Best of all was the most amazing futuristic kitchen I’d ever baked a cake in: three ovens, a six-burner stove, speckled granite counters, and every piece of cooking equipment I could have ever thought about using and some that never crossed my mind. Not that a pat of butter had ever hit a frying pan while Chad lived alone. He ate to live. And he didn’t even like dessert. But I was in cook’s heaven during my short stay.
I buzzed myself into the building, lugged the cleaning supplies to the elevator in the front hall, and whisked up to the third floor without encountering any neighbors. My heart pit-patting, I dug the ring of keys out of my back pocket, found Chad’s, and eased the door open, listening. I heard nothing but the hum of his Thermador refrigerator, and outside the double-paned windows, the coarse buzz of a weed whacker from the front lawn. I stepped inside and closed the door softly behind me. My hands trembled as I crept down his hallway. I hadn’t let myself wonder exactly where Kristen had died. Or whether remnants of the disaster might still be lingering.
I stopped and stared. The apartment was every bit as gorgeous as I remembered it. Chad’s decorator had filled the place with shades of green once he’d convinced her he wasn’t interested in the kitschy local style consisting of bright colors, lizards, palm trees, and roosters. (Though really, what was wrong with all that—he did live in Key West.)
Someone had swabbed down the counters of my dream kitchen inexpertly—they were still streaked with patches of greasy, black silt. Chad must have flipped out when he saw the police department’s work. Not that solving Kristen’s murder wasn’t much more important than any mess they’d left behind, but he loved his empire. Although none of that would have been on his mind if he’d been the one to kill her. But he couldn’t have. Could he? I rubbed the crop of goose bumps that had popped up on the length of my arms.
Setting the bucket on the floor near the double sinks, I poked my head into the living room, wondering again where the police had found her.
I desperately wanted to bolt, feeling one part voyeur, one part victim, and four parts creeped out of my gourd. But this would be the only chance to retrieve my stuff, because I surely wasn’t coming back for a second look. So I returned to the kitchen and snapped on my rubber gloves. If Chad should return home—and he absolutely shouldn’t; it was his day for back-to-back meetings—I could explain my innocence by pointing out the sparkling tile and spotless floors. After filling both of the stainless sinks in the kitchen with scalding water andGreen Clean-up, I began to wipe the black gunk off the counters.
Too antsy to contain my curiosity, I dropped the sponge and opened the refrigerator. It was almost empty except for three cartons of Greek yogurt (no fat) and a bottle of white wine. I realized I was holding my breath. What had I thought I’d find? An unfinished pie and utensils with poison clinging to them? Clues revealing Kristen’s enemies? I needed to find my stuff, clean, and then get the heck out.
I tiptoed to the guest bedroom at the back of the apartment where I’d stored my things when I was there. There was nothing in the closet except for one of my steak knives, which lay on the floor beside a flattened stack of cardboard boxes. Brand new, super-sharp, and he had the nerve to use it like scissors. I picked it up and slid it into my back pocket.
My heartbeat quickened when I thought I heard a banging noise outside the front door. I froze and waited. Was it the maintenance man emptying the trash in the hallway closet? When I heard the elevator ding and the sounds fade away, I quickly searched all of the drawers and shelves, but found nothing else that belonged to me.
I went back through the kitchen and into the living room, past the two seating areas on the left, and into
I buzzed myself into the building, lugged the cleaning supplies to the elevator in the front hall, and whisked up to the third floor without encountering any neighbors. My heart pit-patting, I dug the ring of keys out of my back pocket, found Chad’s, and eased the door open, listening. I heard nothing but the hum of his Thermador refrigerator, and outside the double-paned windows, the coarse buzz of a weed whacker from the front lawn. I stepped inside and closed the door softly behind me. My hands trembled as I crept down his hallway. I hadn’t let myself wonder exactly where Kristen had died. Or whether remnants of the disaster might still be lingering.
I stopped and stared. The apartment was every bit as gorgeous as I remembered it. Chad’s decorator had filled the place with shades of green once he’d convinced her he wasn’t interested in the kitschy local style consisting of bright colors, lizards, palm trees, and roosters. (Though really, what was wrong with all that—he did live in Key West.)
Someone had swabbed down the counters of my dream kitchen inexpertly—they were still streaked with patches of greasy, black silt. Chad must have flipped out when he saw the police department’s work. Not that solving Kristen’s murder wasn’t much more important than any mess they’d left behind, but he loved his empire. Although none of that would have been on his mind if he’d been the one to kill her. But he couldn’t have. Could he? I rubbed the crop of goose bumps that had popped up on the length of my arms.
Setting the bucket on the floor near the double sinks, I poked my head into the living room, wondering again where the police had found her.
I desperately wanted to bolt, feeling one part voyeur, one part victim, and four parts creeped out of my gourd. But this would be the only chance to retrieve my stuff, because I surely wasn’t coming back for a second look. So I returned to the kitchen and snapped on my rubber gloves. If Chad should return home—and he absolutely shouldn’t; it was his day for back-to-back meetings—I could explain my innocence by pointing out the sparkling tile and spotless floors. After filling both of the stainless sinks in the kitchen with scalding water andGreen Clean-up, I began to wipe the black gunk off the counters.
Too antsy to contain my curiosity, I dropped the sponge and opened the refrigerator. It was almost empty except for three cartons of Greek yogurt (no fat) and a bottle of white wine. I realized I was holding my breath. What had I thought I’d find? An unfinished pie and utensils with poison clinging to them? Clues revealing Kristen’s enemies? I needed to find my stuff, clean, and then get the heck out.
I tiptoed to the guest bedroom at the back of the apartment where I’d stored my things when I was there. There was nothing in the closet except for one of my steak knives, which lay on the floor beside a flattened stack of cardboard boxes. Brand new, super-sharp, and he had the nerve to use it like scissors. I picked it up and slid it into my back pocket.
My heartbeat quickened when I thought I heard a banging noise outside the front door. I froze and waited. Was it the maintenance man emptying the trash in the hallway closet? When I heard the elevator ding and the sounds fade away, I quickly searched all of the drawers and shelves, but found nothing else that belonged to me.
I went back through the kitchen and into the living room, past the two seating areas on the left, and into
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