Read Online Death By High Heels (The Kim Murphy PI Series Book 1) by Violet Ingram - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Violet Ingram
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people in my life. Not that I thought any of my loved ones would come after me with a sharp object. They’d be much more likely to torture me with embarrassing stories from my childhood. Like the time my brothers convinced me there were piranhas in the neighbor’s pond just before they tossed me in. My screams could be heard for miles, as could the sounds of my brothers’ laughter.
Things weren’t looking good for Lindsay, but they weren’t looking so great for any of Brian’s friends either. What were the odds that, with the exception of Lindsay, all the suspects had been home alone? Without witnesses to corroborate their stories, any one of them could have killed Brian.
What was Brian doing in Lindsay’s apartment? Who called 911? Presumably, it was the killer, but why? Why was Lindsay’s apartment ransacked after the police seal? It would have been too late to worry about cleaning up evidence.
I had plenty of questions but none of the answers I needed. It was like being back in school at exam time. Only this time if I didn’t come up with the answers, an innocent woman, namely me, could go to jail, and so could Lindsay.
I didn’t gamble. I worked too hard to just give away my money, but I’d bet serious cash that this hadn’t been a robbery gone bad. Nothing had been stolen from Lindsay’s apartment. What kind of robbers broke in and forgot to take anything?
Just great, another question.
The killer was pretty gutsy. He or she broke into an apartment in the middle of the afternoon, killed a guy, and then broke in again after the cops were done.
As hard as it was to believe this kind of violence happened in my hometown, it was even harder to wrap my brain around the fact it happened in my quiet little apartment complex. I moved in three weeks after walking in on my now ex-husband giving our slutty neighbor a breast exam with his tongue. If he had claimed he had been using his penis to give her a pap smear, I swore I would have shot them both.
After cussing them out and tossing a few breakables in their general direction, I fled to my parents’ home where I was fussed over and fed the best Italian food outside of Palermo.
It took exactly twelve days of my parents’ smothering, er, comforting, and a nightmare of me in my forties and still living with my parents before I combed through the want ads searching for an apartment I could afford on my own. Two movers over six feet tall arrived on the big day and made quick work of getting my stuff safely packed and loaded onto their truck. They were hard workers and cool enough to ignore when Michael accidently dropped my loving husband’s beloved flat screen TV.
Until Lindsay moved in less than a month ago, I was the newest resident in the building. The other residents had been there for ten years or more. Ninety-two-year-old Irene Kanisky was the former resident of Lindsay’s apartment. Irene had been independent until the last couple of months. That was when she’d had to have a home care nurse. She died on a Monday morning and her son emptied her things out by Wednesday evening. Two weeks later, Lindsay moved in.
All this thinking was giving me a headache. I was never far from a bottle of Tylenol. Thanks to Ohio weather, sinus headaches were one of the constants in my life. I took two with the last of the coffee in my mug. I laid my head down on my desk and waited for the Tylenol to kick in. When it did I picked up the phone and called the real cause of my headache. I needed to talk to Lindsay in person. She agreed to meet me at her hotel in twenty minutes.
I gathered up the mug shots of Brian and his friends. Just because Grant and I hadn’t found a connection between Lindsay and Brian didn’t mean there wasn’t one. I was determined to find out what the connection was. Before leaving I took a Hershey’s Bar from my top desk drawer and tossed it into my purse. Conversations with Lindsay were draining.
Stepping outside, the heat smacked me in the
Things weren’t looking good for Lindsay, but they weren’t looking so great for any of Brian’s friends either. What were the odds that, with the exception of Lindsay, all the suspects had been home alone? Without witnesses to corroborate their stories, any one of them could have killed Brian.
What was Brian doing in Lindsay’s apartment? Who called 911? Presumably, it was the killer, but why? Why was Lindsay’s apartment ransacked after the police seal? It would have been too late to worry about cleaning up evidence.
I had plenty of questions but none of the answers I needed. It was like being back in school at exam time. Only this time if I didn’t come up with the answers, an innocent woman, namely me, could go to jail, and so could Lindsay.
I didn’t gamble. I worked too hard to just give away my money, but I’d bet serious cash that this hadn’t been a robbery gone bad. Nothing had been stolen from Lindsay’s apartment. What kind of robbers broke in and forgot to take anything?
Just great, another question.
The killer was pretty gutsy. He or she broke into an apartment in the middle of the afternoon, killed a guy, and then broke in again after the cops were done.
As hard as it was to believe this kind of violence happened in my hometown, it was even harder to wrap my brain around the fact it happened in my quiet little apartment complex. I moved in three weeks after walking in on my now ex-husband giving our slutty neighbor a breast exam with his tongue. If he had claimed he had been using his penis to give her a pap smear, I swore I would have shot them both.
After cussing them out and tossing a few breakables in their general direction, I fled to my parents’ home where I was fussed over and fed the best Italian food outside of Palermo.
It took exactly twelve days of my parents’ smothering, er, comforting, and a nightmare of me in my forties and still living with my parents before I combed through the want ads searching for an apartment I could afford on my own. Two movers over six feet tall arrived on the big day and made quick work of getting my stuff safely packed and loaded onto their truck. They were hard workers and cool enough to ignore when Michael accidently dropped my loving husband’s beloved flat screen TV.
Until Lindsay moved in less than a month ago, I was the newest resident in the building. The other residents had been there for ten years or more. Ninety-two-year-old Irene Kanisky was the former resident of Lindsay’s apartment. Irene had been independent until the last couple of months. That was when she’d had to have a home care nurse. She died on a Monday morning and her son emptied her things out by Wednesday evening. Two weeks later, Lindsay moved in.
All this thinking was giving me a headache. I was never far from a bottle of Tylenol. Thanks to Ohio weather, sinus headaches were one of the constants in my life. I took two with the last of the coffee in my mug. I laid my head down on my desk and waited for the Tylenol to kick in. When it did I picked up the phone and called the real cause of my headache. I needed to talk to Lindsay in person. She agreed to meet me at her hotel in twenty minutes.
I gathered up the mug shots of Brian and his friends. Just because Grant and I hadn’t found a connection between Lindsay and Brian didn’t mean there wasn’t one. I was determined to find out what the connection was. Before leaving I took a Hershey’s Bar from my top desk drawer and tossed it into my purse. Conversations with Lindsay were draining.
Stepping outside, the heat smacked me in the
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