Read Online Death on a Silver Platter by Ellen Hart - Free Book Online
Authors: Ellen Hart
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father’s power and glory. Danny respected that and wanted to do his bit, albeit small, to help it continue. Every human being needed a passion. Once upon a time, writing had been Danny’s. But no more.
Turning onto Polk Road, Danny sailed along in his rented Firebird, using his last few minutes alone to ready himself for battle. His reasons for returning like this, taking his family by surprise, were born of both indignation and fear. His hands were steady, but inside he was a mess. “That’s the spirit,” he said out loud, his voice edged with sarcasm. He didn’t like to talk about his relationship with his mother, but the fact was, he’d always been scared to death of her. Not her physical presence or her intelligence, both of which he considered meager, but afraid of her judgment and disdain.
The only conclusion Danny could come to was that this reaction was hard-wired into his brain. From all outward appearances, Daniel Reed Veelund was a man of great accomplishment, one who had defied his mother at every turn, flipped her the bird with sweet disregard. But what no one seemed to realize was that his defiance hadn’t been deliberate. He’d fallen into it like an innocent lamb falling into a deep, dark ditch. This time, however, the defiance would be intentional. Clark Kent was about to take off his business suit and leap tall buildings. The logic box in Danny’s head might still cause his innards to quake, but it didn’t touch his resolve.
Turning onto Stimpson, the afternoon sun momentarily blinded him. He reached to lower the visor and only then stepped out of his thoughts long enough to notice how the sunlight had burned the autumn prairie a deep orange gold. Telephone poles with drooping wires rolled past him, marking time to the rhythm of the bumps in the road. High above, a hawk rode the thermals over the warm land. Danny understood again why his father had fallen in love with this vast, rolling earth. A landscape as spare and austere as the northern prairie was like a tonic to the mind. Here, the world was more elemental. A camera could never capture the power, or the inherent eeriness, of the Minnesota prairie. Danny felt the same tug toward this place that his father had. It was a good place to live. And, perhaps, a good place to die.
The main house, called Prairie Lodge, was located on a rise above Dog Tail Creek. The winding stream was visible from the tall, cathedral-like windows in the living room. About ten years ago, Elaine had ordered three smaller log houses built on the property to use as selling tools to show potential clients. She chose three of the most popular models—Morningstar House, Wisteria Cottage, and The Ranch House—though, for the right price, the design staff could create almost any project a client had in mind.
Turning finally onto the property, Danny could see the houses in the distance. None were more than half a mile apart. As he approached the main house, he was surprised to find so many cars in the driveway. He eased the Firebird into an empty spot along the rear of the four-car garage, parked and got out, stretching for a few moments, smelling the sweetness of the air. He wasn’t in New York anymore. His lungs wouldn’t know what to do without all the car exhaust to wheeze along on.
Leaving his luggage in the trunk, he crossed the yard and trotted up the steps to the front porch. The screen door was unlocked, so he walked in without knocking. In the back of the house he could hear voices. The TV was on in the living room, but nobody was watching it. As he stood in the entryway, Galen Zander, his mother’s personal assistant, hurried down the central stairs.
“Daniel,” he said, looking both harassed and confused. “Your mother didn’t tell me you were coming.”
Zander had begun working for Danny’s mother shortly after Danny’s father had died. At the time, she needed someone to assist her with the upkeep of the house while she was away at the office.
Turning onto Polk Road, Danny sailed along in his rented Firebird, using his last few minutes alone to ready himself for battle. His reasons for returning like this, taking his family by surprise, were born of both indignation and fear. His hands were steady, but inside he was a mess. “That’s the spirit,” he said out loud, his voice edged with sarcasm. He didn’t like to talk about his relationship with his mother, but the fact was, he’d always been scared to death of her. Not her physical presence or her intelligence, both of which he considered meager, but afraid of her judgment and disdain.
The only conclusion Danny could come to was that this reaction was hard-wired into his brain. From all outward appearances, Daniel Reed Veelund was a man of great accomplishment, one who had defied his mother at every turn, flipped her the bird with sweet disregard. But what no one seemed to realize was that his defiance hadn’t been deliberate. He’d fallen into it like an innocent lamb falling into a deep, dark ditch. This time, however, the defiance would be intentional. Clark Kent was about to take off his business suit and leap tall buildings. The logic box in Danny’s head might still cause his innards to quake, but it didn’t touch his resolve.
Turning onto Stimpson, the afternoon sun momentarily blinded him. He reached to lower the visor and only then stepped out of his thoughts long enough to notice how the sunlight had burned the autumn prairie a deep orange gold. Telephone poles with drooping wires rolled past him, marking time to the rhythm of the bumps in the road. High above, a hawk rode the thermals over the warm land. Danny understood again why his father had fallen in love with this vast, rolling earth. A landscape as spare and austere as the northern prairie was like a tonic to the mind. Here, the world was more elemental. A camera could never capture the power, or the inherent eeriness, of the Minnesota prairie. Danny felt the same tug toward this place that his father had. It was a good place to live. And, perhaps, a good place to die.
The main house, called Prairie Lodge, was located on a rise above Dog Tail Creek. The winding stream was visible from the tall, cathedral-like windows in the living room. About ten years ago, Elaine had ordered three smaller log houses built on the property to use as selling tools to show potential clients. She chose three of the most popular models—Morningstar House, Wisteria Cottage, and The Ranch House—though, for the right price, the design staff could create almost any project a client had in mind.
Turning finally onto the property, Danny could see the houses in the distance. None were more than half a mile apart. As he approached the main house, he was surprised to find so many cars in the driveway. He eased the Firebird into an empty spot along the rear of the four-car garage, parked and got out, stretching for a few moments, smelling the sweetness of the air. He wasn’t in New York anymore. His lungs wouldn’t know what to do without all the car exhaust to wheeze along on.
Leaving his luggage in the trunk, he crossed the yard and trotted up the steps to the front porch. The screen door was unlocked, so he walked in without knocking. In the back of the house he could hear voices. The TV was on in the living room, but nobody was watching it. As he stood in the entryway, Galen Zander, his mother’s personal assistant, hurried down the central stairs.
“Daniel,” he said, looking both harassed and confused. “Your mother didn’t tell me you were coming.”
Zander had begun working for Danny’s mother shortly after Danny’s father had died. At the time, she needed someone to assist her with the upkeep of the house while she was away at the office.
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