Read Online Beer Money (A Burr Ashland Mystery) by Dani Amore - Free Book Online
Authors: Dani Amore
Tags: General Fiction
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down the hallway was the first giant portraiture, an original work in oil. It was of a stern-faced man with a long gray beard. In the background was a dark rendering of the Milwaukee harbor. The man wore a dark suit, his prominent belly forced the vest to jut out, displaying the elaborate pocketwatch that encircled his paunch. There was no nameplate.
My guide continued up ahead and I hurried to catch up, passing more paintings along the way, all of them stiff people who, just before they posed, looked like they'd had terribly large bugs shoved up their asses.
The nurse opened another heavy door and we entered a startling room. It was relatively small, but with at least an eighteen foot high ceiling. Tall windows adorned one wall, their impressive lengths bordered by gold crepe curtains. The room itself was painted a burgundy red, with olive green frieze borders. The ceiling was painted as well, a bright mosaic resplendent with gold edges and ivory diamonds. A thick beige carpet covered the floor. My feet felt as if they were sinking in quicksand with each step I took.
The man gestured toward a chair and told me to sit.
"Would you care for tea or coffee?" he asked.
"I’ll take a beer, please,” I said. Then added, "Thanks."
He left through a different door, one that seemed almost to be camouflaged by its proximity to one of the large windows. I got the feeling that there were lots of secrets in the house, not just having to do with hidden doors.
An ancient clock on the wall tick-tocked. The house had a strange smell, equal parts musty history and fresh Pine Sol. I wondered how big a cleaning staff a house like this required. At least ten, perhaps twenty.
Several minutes later a short, squat woman with bright red hair and decked out in an old-fashioned maid's uniform entered with a sterling silver coffee pot and one cup and saucer. And a bottle of beer. She popped the top to the beer, and poured it into a beautiful pilsner glass. She handed it to me. Then she poured a cup of tea. She added a dollop of cream to the then plunked in two sugar cubes. She stirred with an equally bright sterling silver spoon. The whole time she never looked me in the eye. When she was done, she turned to go and I said, "Thank you." Like the man, she gave no sign that she heard me, other than a slight hesitation in her step.
I took a drink of beer and heard soft footsteps on the carpet, looked up, and saw an ancient woman standing in front of me.
Startled, I rose, and sloshed a little beer onto the tabletop. Halfway up, I reached back down and mopped up the spilled beer with a napkin that appeared to have a higher thread count than the most expensive bed sheets I'd ever bought. I felt my face flush red at my clumsiness.
"Oh, God, I'm sorry, look at this." I dabbed, but now the beer was on my hand. I wiped off my hand before extending it. "Hi, I'm Michael Ashland," I said.
She was old, to say the least. Tall, with erect posture, her skin hung on her in folds. Her gray hair was thin and despite an attempt to cut it stylishly, was a mess. She had on a powder white dress, with a necklace of dark pearls. A very old necklace that was probably worth a yacht or two.
She extended her hand to me, which I took. It felt like leather.
As we shook, her eyes swirled.
"Are you..." I started to ask.
"I'm the woman," she said, "to whose films you've no doubt been masturbating."
Nineteen
For want of a witty comeback, I sat back and sipped my beer as she sat down across from me at the small table.
"Yes, I'd love some coffee, thank you," she said. Her hand shook slightly as she reached for her cup, and I detected a twitch in her face.
"Excuse me, I don't know where my manners are," I said. "Any gentleman knows to offer a lady coffee, especially after she's just accused you of masturbating."
"Tell me, Mr. Ashland," she said, ignoring me, a fact to which I was rapidly becoming accustomed to in this house. "Are you married? Or are you a
My guide continued up ahead and I hurried to catch up, passing more paintings along the way, all of them stiff people who, just before they posed, looked like they'd had terribly large bugs shoved up their asses.
The nurse opened another heavy door and we entered a startling room. It was relatively small, but with at least an eighteen foot high ceiling. Tall windows adorned one wall, their impressive lengths bordered by gold crepe curtains. The room itself was painted a burgundy red, with olive green frieze borders. The ceiling was painted as well, a bright mosaic resplendent with gold edges and ivory diamonds. A thick beige carpet covered the floor. My feet felt as if they were sinking in quicksand with each step I took.
The man gestured toward a chair and told me to sit.
"Would you care for tea or coffee?" he asked.
"I’ll take a beer, please,” I said. Then added, "Thanks."
He left through a different door, one that seemed almost to be camouflaged by its proximity to one of the large windows. I got the feeling that there were lots of secrets in the house, not just having to do with hidden doors.
An ancient clock on the wall tick-tocked. The house had a strange smell, equal parts musty history and fresh Pine Sol. I wondered how big a cleaning staff a house like this required. At least ten, perhaps twenty.
Several minutes later a short, squat woman with bright red hair and decked out in an old-fashioned maid's uniform entered with a sterling silver coffee pot and one cup and saucer. And a bottle of beer. She popped the top to the beer, and poured it into a beautiful pilsner glass. She handed it to me. Then she poured a cup of tea. She added a dollop of cream to the then plunked in two sugar cubes. She stirred with an equally bright sterling silver spoon. The whole time she never looked me in the eye. When she was done, she turned to go and I said, "Thank you." Like the man, she gave no sign that she heard me, other than a slight hesitation in her step.
I took a drink of beer and heard soft footsteps on the carpet, looked up, and saw an ancient woman standing in front of me.
Startled, I rose, and sloshed a little beer onto the tabletop. Halfway up, I reached back down and mopped up the spilled beer with a napkin that appeared to have a higher thread count than the most expensive bed sheets I'd ever bought. I felt my face flush red at my clumsiness.
"Oh, God, I'm sorry, look at this." I dabbed, but now the beer was on my hand. I wiped off my hand before extending it. "Hi, I'm Michael Ashland," I said.
She was old, to say the least. Tall, with erect posture, her skin hung on her in folds. Her gray hair was thin and despite an attempt to cut it stylishly, was a mess. She had on a powder white dress, with a necklace of dark pearls. A very old necklace that was probably worth a yacht or two.
She extended her hand to me, which I took. It felt like leather.
As we shook, her eyes swirled.
"Are you..." I started to ask.
"I'm the woman," she said, "to whose films you've no doubt been masturbating."
Nineteen
For want of a witty comeback, I sat back and sipped my beer as she sat down across from me at the small table.
"Yes, I'd love some coffee, thank you," she said. Her hand shook slightly as she reached for her cup, and I detected a twitch in her face.
"Excuse me, I don't know where my manners are," I said. "Any gentleman knows to offer a lady coffee, especially after she's just accused you of masturbating."
"Tell me, Mr. Ashland," she said, ignoring me, a fact to which I was rapidly becoming accustomed to in this house. "Are you married? Or are you a
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