Read Online Death Leaves a Bookmark by William Link - Free Book Online
Authors: William Link
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T ROY P ELLINGHAM hadn’t read a book since college. He had better things to do with his life, but so far none of these had turned out to be profitable. The irony was that his uncle, Rodney Haverford, was an antiquarian who dealt in rare books, having an exclusive shop on Melrose Avenue. Uncle Rodney was so snooty, so nose-in-the-air, that Troy jokingly wondered how he blew it. The old man was healthy as an ox, was in his eighties, and never had suffered a head cold. This presented Troy with a problem.
His uncle always dressed in Saville Row bespoke clothing, imported from London: heavy tweeds with vests and watch fob pockets, even on sizzling summer days. And he never seemed to sweat. Perspiration would be unseemly to the old snob, something only blue collar laborers were forced to endure. Or other members of the lower class who worked with their hands.
Of course Uncle Rodney had a trust fund, set up by his father, whom Troy’s late mother had once told him was another snob.
Genetically, Rodney was cut from the same bolt of disdain. Like father, like son, both elitist snots who might wipe their fingers with a scented hankie after shaking hands with someone below their status.
Troy had degradingly flattered his uncle, licked his posterior daily and twice on Sunday. He always metaphorically got on his knees to the wealthy, especially if he knew he could inherit some of their vast riches when they croaked in a comfortable bed.
The only family Uncle Rodney had left were a niece by marriage and his nephew Troy. The niece, Marcella, was attractive and spent money as if she could always print more because she knew the printing press was her uncle. Uncle Rodney and Marcella had formed a close relationship during the summers she and her mother had stayed with him when she was a child. Later she came to live with Rodney in his Beverly Hills home while studying at UCLA. Their bond remained so strong that she stayed on after college.
Once the old man had learned that Troy was no book worm, and was a failure in his business endeavors, he wrote the lad off as if he were a bad investment. He had even threatened to cut him out of his will, but Troy knew for a fact that he hadn’t gotten around to it yet and probably wouldn’t. After all, to Uncle Rodney, family ties were sacrosanct.
Troy also knew he wasn’t going to allow the old snob to die peacefully in his comfortable bed, surrounded by sycophantic doctors and nurses, all with greedy, outstretched hands. That would take too long. Now, how was he going to work it? That was the question. Since all his business plans had gone awry, he knew that this undertaking couldn’t. It had to be the most carefully well-thought-out scheme of his life. He had heard that some mystery books had beautifully worked-out murder plots, but he was no reader. He had once thought that he could pretend to read a book but he knew his uncle would ask him some well-chosen questions and prove him to be a liar.
Rodney seemed to dote on Marcella. She was a little flighty and self-centered, but Troy didn’t mind splitting Uncle Rodney’s fortune with her. Perhaps they would wind up married and he would then have it all. Stop dreaming, he cautioned himself. You’re still a long way from driving a Rolls and flinging money around like confetti. First he needed a fool-proof plan.
His uncle had him working in his bookstore, wrapping books to send out to book lovers here and in Europe, going to the post office to mail them, keeping things tidy, and overseeing new purchases. Uncle Rodney had reduced him to a gofer, a member of the same working class that he despised. Lately, as Troy worked in the store, he found himself trying to come up with a murder plan. One that would require an air-tight alibi, something that couldn’t be picked apart. He thought, jokingly, that maybe the old man was the perfect person to work the plan out for him.
As it turned out, serendipitously, he didn’t need a plan at all.
It
His uncle always dressed in Saville Row bespoke clothing, imported from London: heavy tweeds with vests and watch fob pockets, even on sizzling summer days. And he never seemed to sweat. Perspiration would be unseemly to the old snob, something only blue collar laborers were forced to endure. Or other members of the lower class who worked with their hands.
Of course Uncle Rodney had a trust fund, set up by his father, whom Troy’s late mother had once told him was another snob.
Genetically, Rodney was cut from the same bolt of disdain. Like father, like son, both elitist snots who might wipe their fingers with a scented hankie after shaking hands with someone below their status.
Troy had degradingly flattered his uncle, licked his posterior daily and twice on Sunday. He always metaphorically got on his knees to the wealthy, especially if he knew he could inherit some of their vast riches when they croaked in a comfortable bed.
The only family Uncle Rodney had left were a niece by marriage and his nephew Troy. The niece, Marcella, was attractive and spent money as if she could always print more because she knew the printing press was her uncle. Uncle Rodney and Marcella had formed a close relationship during the summers she and her mother had stayed with him when she was a child. Later she came to live with Rodney in his Beverly Hills home while studying at UCLA. Their bond remained so strong that she stayed on after college.
Once the old man had learned that Troy was no book worm, and was a failure in his business endeavors, he wrote the lad off as if he were a bad investment. He had even threatened to cut him out of his will, but Troy knew for a fact that he hadn’t gotten around to it yet and probably wouldn’t. After all, to Uncle Rodney, family ties were sacrosanct.
Troy also knew he wasn’t going to allow the old snob to die peacefully in his comfortable bed, surrounded by sycophantic doctors and nurses, all with greedy, outstretched hands. That would take too long. Now, how was he going to work it? That was the question. Since all his business plans had gone awry, he knew that this undertaking couldn’t. It had to be the most carefully well-thought-out scheme of his life. He had heard that some mystery books had beautifully worked-out murder plots, but he was no reader. He had once thought that he could pretend to read a book but he knew his uncle would ask him some well-chosen questions and prove him to be a liar.
Rodney seemed to dote on Marcella. She was a little flighty and self-centered, but Troy didn’t mind splitting Uncle Rodney’s fortune with her. Perhaps they would wind up married and he would then have it all. Stop dreaming, he cautioned himself. You’re still a long way from driving a Rolls and flinging money around like confetti. First he needed a fool-proof plan.
His uncle had him working in his bookstore, wrapping books to send out to book lovers here and in Europe, going to the post office to mail them, keeping things tidy, and overseeing new purchases. Uncle Rodney had reduced him to a gofer, a member of the same working class that he despised. Lately, as Troy worked in the store, he found himself trying to come up with a murder plan. One that would require an air-tight alibi, something that couldn’t be picked apart. He thought, jokingly, that maybe the old man was the perfect person to work the plan out for him.
As it turned out, serendipitously, he didn’t need a plan at all.
It
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