Read Online Caught Redhanded by Gayle Roper - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gayle Roper
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just happened I did this good deed in the house of a recently murdered woman.
“And what did she find?” William asked, his eyes watching me like the cat that had cornered the poor little innocent mouse housebreaker.
“She found a pretty house that had already been searched.”
“How did she know that?”
“Mrs. Wilson told me—her. Ken Mackey had been there and the new boyfriend whose name she doesn’t know. Have you found Ken Mackey yet?” I asked in the hopes I could distract him from my iniquitous behavior.
“No. What else did she see?”
Well, I hadn’t really thought that ploy would work. William was too sharp. “She said pictures had been displaced and some things knocked over. She thought some pictures might have been taken. Oh, and the bathroom was a mess.”
William suddenly leaned forward and I fought the urge to lean back. “Now my big question,” he said, his intense gaze drilling into me. How did bad guys ever keep from spilling their guts when someone like William went after them? Any minute now I’d confess to everything from assassinating Abraham Lincoln to stealing the atomic bomb secrets for the Rosenbergs. “Did she take anything?”
I shook my head so hard I felt like a bobble-head doll. “No! She didn’t take anything! And she didn’t touch anything, either.” I shifted, nervous. My purse shifted with me and I realized I’d just lied to William. “I mean, she didn’t intend to take anything. It just sort of happened.”
William said nothing, just stretched out his hand.
I reached into my purse and extracted the diary sealed in a plastic bag. It looked so innocuous, so ordinary. How could something so commonplace be so damning?
“I found it on the back patio, sort of like someone had dropped it,” I said. “I picked it up without thinking. When Mrs. Wilson came out, I dropped it in my purse because for some reason I can’t explain, I didn’t want her to see it.”
He pointed his index finger at me, his hand in the form of a revolver. “Did you read it, Merry?”
I flushed. “Yes.”
He closed his eyes and sighed. The unspoken words, save me from amateur detectives and newspaper reporters, hung in the air between us like the dialogue bubble in an old comic. He opened the plastic bag and let the diary fall onto his desk.
Don’t open it! Please don’t open it. Ever.
Foolish, foolish wish. William picked up a pen and with the retracted end lifted the cover. Holding the cover open with the pen, he used the eraser end of a yellow Ticonderoga pencil to flip through the book page by page, scanning, tucking each page under the pen as he moved through.
Perched there on my uncomfortable plastic chair, my knees together, my hands clenched, I felt like Quisling, that Norwegian traitor in World War II who helped the Nazis. His name was now a synonym for turncoat. Of course, William was hardly the Nazis and turning in a piece of critical evidence wasn’t anything like turning on your countrymen. Still, no matter how right and lawful my actions, I knew that in the future Merrileigh would be a synonym for a false, fair-weather friend.
I sat as still as I could. Then I saw William’s eyebrows rise and he stopped turning and read.
I suddenly felt twitchy all over. I knew exactly what he was reading. Last night as I sat with the diary in bed, leaning comfortably on my pillows with Whiskers purring at my side, I’d sat straight up and yelled, “No!”
Whiskers jumped and snarled at me for wakening and dislodging him. Tail high, he stalked to the foot of the bed where he turned in a circle several times before collapsing with a loud umph! I reread the entry dated April 20, but it said the same terrible thing it had the first time through.
Once again, Mac to the rescue. Tall, dark, good-looking—and such fun! Goodbye, Ken. Hello, happiness. How does a girl get so lucky yet again?
Following that were two and a half months of glowing entries about Mac mixed every so often
“And what did she find?” William asked, his eyes watching me like the cat that had cornered the poor little innocent mouse housebreaker.
“She found a pretty house that had already been searched.”
“How did she know that?”
“Mrs. Wilson told me—her. Ken Mackey had been there and the new boyfriend whose name she doesn’t know. Have you found Ken Mackey yet?” I asked in the hopes I could distract him from my iniquitous behavior.
“No. What else did she see?”
Well, I hadn’t really thought that ploy would work. William was too sharp. “She said pictures had been displaced and some things knocked over. She thought some pictures might have been taken. Oh, and the bathroom was a mess.”
William suddenly leaned forward and I fought the urge to lean back. “Now my big question,” he said, his intense gaze drilling into me. How did bad guys ever keep from spilling their guts when someone like William went after them? Any minute now I’d confess to everything from assassinating Abraham Lincoln to stealing the atomic bomb secrets for the Rosenbergs. “Did she take anything?”
I shook my head so hard I felt like a bobble-head doll. “No! She didn’t take anything! And she didn’t touch anything, either.” I shifted, nervous. My purse shifted with me and I realized I’d just lied to William. “I mean, she didn’t intend to take anything. It just sort of happened.”
William said nothing, just stretched out his hand.
I reached into my purse and extracted the diary sealed in a plastic bag. It looked so innocuous, so ordinary. How could something so commonplace be so damning?
“I found it on the back patio, sort of like someone had dropped it,” I said. “I picked it up without thinking. When Mrs. Wilson came out, I dropped it in my purse because for some reason I can’t explain, I didn’t want her to see it.”
He pointed his index finger at me, his hand in the form of a revolver. “Did you read it, Merry?”
I flushed. “Yes.”
He closed his eyes and sighed. The unspoken words, save me from amateur detectives and newspaper reporters, hung in the air between us like the dialogue bubble in an old comic. He opened the plastic bag and let the diary fall onto his desk.
Don’t open it! Please don’t open it. Ever.
Foolish, foolish wish. William picked up a pen and with the retracted end lifted the cover. Holding the cover open with the pen, he used the eraser end of a yellow Ticonderoga pencil to flip through the book page by page, scanning, tucking each page under the pen as he moved through.
Perched there on my uncomfortable plastic chair, my knees together, my hands clenched, I felt like Quisling, that Norwegian traitor in World War II who helped the Nazis. His name was now a synonym for turncoat. Of course, William was hardly the Nazis and turning in a piece of critical evidence wasn’t anything like turning on your countrymen. Still, no matter how right and lawful my actions, I knew that in the future Merrileigh would be a synonym for a false, fair-weather friend.
I sat as still as I could. Then I saw William’s eyebrows rise and he stopped turning and read.
I suddenly felt twitchy all over. I knew exactly what he was reading. Last night as I sat with the diary in bed, leaning comfortably on my pillows with Whiskers purring at my side, I’d sat straight up and yelled, “No!”
Whiskers jumped and snarled at me for wakening and dislodging him. Tail high, he stalked to the foot of the bed where he turned in a circle several times before collapsing with a loud umph! I reread the entry dated April 20, but it said the same terrible thing it had the first time through.
Once again, Mac to the rescue. Tall, dark, good-looking—and such fun! Goodbye, Ken. Hello, happiness. How does a girl get so lucky yet again?
Following that were two and a half months of glowing entries about Mac mixed every so often
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