Read Online Grave Deeds by Betsy Struthers - Free Book Online

to spend a couple of weeks there each summer. What would we need with two such places? And the money would be nice — like winning a lottery, the sale of one hundred acres of cottage land would finance the kind of vacations we only dreamed of now. As for my grandfather’s wishes, I owed him nothing — nothing at all.
    On Thursday, the buzz of the intercom interrupted me in the middle of washing the bathroom floor. I was supposed to be studying; my texts and notes were neatly arranged on the round table I used both for dining and working. There were three pens, a sharpened pencil, an eraser, and a new yellow highlighter waiting beside the stack of books. I’d sat for an hour staring at the pages before giving up. I hated studying. The floor did need a wash. I must admit, though, I didn’t in the least mind the interruption. I stood the mop in the pail and went to answer the summons.
    â€œThis is Hunter, Ma’am,” the voice crackled into the room. “Mr. Ross’s driver. Mr. Ross would like you to step down to see him for a few moments.”
    I pushed my hair back from my face. My hands were red and swollen from the hot water. I knew I should wear gloves, but the ones I had had holes in them.
    â€œPerhaps he’d like to come up for tea.” As soon as I said it, I regretted the invitation. Although I kept my apartment clean, it was not very tidy: newspapers and books occupied much of the couch and the floor around it. Since the bookcase I’d brought from home was too small, more books were piled along the wall behind the rocking chair which was draped with a couple of afghans knitted by Will’s mother in peculiar shades of green and pink. One coffee mug was on the floor by this chair; another sat on top of the TV along with a dying English ivy plant and a stack of TV guides. Because I didn’t buy snack foods — the only way to avoid eating too many cookies or chips was not to have them available — I had nothing to offer by way of refreshment. My mother would have been appalled. I could make tea or fresh coffee. I always bought good coffee from the Second Cup. Hazelnut Cream was my favourite.
    â€œMr. Ross would prefer that you come down,” the driver said. “He’s a little indisposed.”
    â€œI’ll be there in a minute, then.”
    I glanced out the window. The rain that had been threatening all morning was falling now in gray sheets. Streetlights gleamed and cars sprayed the sidewalks as they hissed by. Parked by the hydrant in front of my building was the limousine, its hazard lights lazily flashing.
    As usual my umbrella was not in the closet where it should have been. I debated hunting for it. Had I brought it back from the university last week? My old yellow slicker was stuck in a corner behind a parka and long wool coat. I put it on over the blue sweatshirt and pants I wore around the house. I almost forgot to exchange slippers for running shoes.
    The intercom buzzed again. “I’m coming,” I shouted into it.
    Downstairs in the lobby, two men pointedly ignored each other: the driver, Hunter, and Roger Markham. Even in the tiny front entrance area, they had found a good three feet of space to separate them. Avoiding each other, they both watched the elevator through the glass partition that separated the entrance from the lobby. I always used the stairs: the elevator was not very reliable and I had a horror of being stuck for an hour or two with one of the weird, wired kids who lived on the upper floors. It was bad enough refusing their constant offers of dope deals; the thought of having to actually make conversation with one of them was unendurable. Besides, the exercise did me good.
    Hunter stepped forward as I pushed open the glass door.
    â€œMr. Ross is waiting,” he said.
    â€œJust a minute,” Markham interrupted. “I’d like a word with you first.”
    â€œAren’t you with your uncle?”