Read Online Huckleberry Fiend by Julie Smith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Julie Smith
Tags: detective, Contemporary, Mystery, Hard-Boiled, Contemporary Fiction, Edgar winner, San Francisco, amateur detective, Humorous mystery, private investigator, murder mystery, mystery series, mystery and thrillers, PI, thriller and suspense, Detective Thrillers, literary mystery, detective mysteries, Mark Twain, Julie Smith
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pleasures were getting a little creepy.
“Mcdonald, aren’t you done yet? Let me finish.”
Dreamily, in a kind of pleasant trance, the way women get when they’re shopping, I abandoned the dresser and opened Beverly’s closet. Shoeboxes were piled from the floor to the hems of dresses packed in tighter than tissues in a box. On the shelves above were more shoeboxes and some that looked like hatboxes. “I’ve gone through those,” said Booker.
I’d seen him check the pillows and mattress too. Wondering what was left for me to do, I sat for a moment on the bed, next to a small table with a white phone on it. Idly, I opened the table’s little drawer. If there had been a personal phone book, the police had undoubtedly taken it. I was just rummaging. The drawer was full of bills and bank statements, photos, rubber bands, and hair clips. There were also a couple of books that Bev had apparently dipped into at bedtime. One was Barbara Tuchman’s March of Folly , the other a trashy bestseller. Considering Beverly’s history background, the Tuchman book wasn’t surprising, nor would Diamonds , the Pamela Temby potboiler, have been odd on its own. But the wild diversity of the two caught my attention. I couldn’t imagine what there could possibly be about Diamonds to interest a woman who was also reading March of Folly . In fact, was so puzzled I opened it to the bookmark. Attached to the middle of the page was a yellow Post-It with six names on it. Or rather, three, and three variations of another. Sarah Williams, at the top, was underlined. Then three were listed, followed by phone numbers: Herb Wolf, Russell Kittrell, and Pamela Temby. Off to the side, more or less doodles, were Sarah M. Williams and Sarah Mary Williams.
I’d never heard of either of the men, but Temby was a huge celebrity, possibly the best selling author (if you could call her that) in the country. Still, that wasn’t the name I found most eye-catching. Sarah Williams was. I peeled off the Post-It and turned to Booker. He was frozen, like a dog watching a bug crawl. “Somebody’s home,” he said, even his whisper cracked with terror.
No lights were on, so all that really had to be done was close the two drawers we’d been investigating and slink out the back door. Stealthily, we made for the kitchen, Booker a basket case and me, for some reason, cucumber cool. Probably because my professional pride wasn’t at stake.
Booker was just reaching a surgically gloved hand toward a doorknob when a man’s voice shouted, maybe two feet from us: “Kitty? Kitty, kitty, kitty? Isami, she’s back here. Come around, okay? Maybe she’ll come to you.”
“That’s my dad,” mouthed Booker, significantly paler, even in the dark.
Apparently the thought of being caught by his old man had immobilized him. It was up to me to get us out of there. Waving him after me, I headed toward the front, thinking Booker the prideful professional must be a wreck indeed if this simple but effective strategy hadn’t even occurred to him. He shook his head, rooted to the spot.
“Luna! Come to Mommy,” cooed Mommy. “Oh, you big pretty Looney Tunesey, that’s a good kitty.”
There was absolutely no time to waste. Grabbing Booker by the elbow, I began to march him to freedom. It took nearly all my strength to budge him, but right was on my side. He had momentarily lost his mind, and I was leading him to safety. “Paul, listen, it won’t work. Paul!” He was whispering these and other nonsense syllables, but I simply paid him no mind. He scuttled along beside me, there being precious little else he could do.
Finally in the living room I opened the front door with a flourish. Or what would have been a flourish if the door had opened. I actually spoke out loud: “What in hell…” And that seemed to rouse Booker from his trance. First he shushed me, then pointed at the double deadbolt. Too late, I remembered this was the second time he’d been here, and
“Mcdonald, aren’t you done yet? Let me finish.”
Dreamily, in a kind of pleasant trance, the way women get when they’re shopping, I abandoned the dresser and opened Beverly’s closet. Shoeboxes were piled from the floor to the hems of dresses packed in tighter than tissues in a box. On the shelves above were more shoeboxes and some that looked like hatboxes. “I’ve gone through those,” said Booker.
I’d seen him check the pillows and mattress too. Wondering what was left for me to do, I sat for a moment on the bed, next to a small table with a white phone on it. Idly, I opened the table’s little drawer. If there had been a personal phone book, the police had undoubtedly taken it. I was just rummaging. The drawer was full of bills and bank statements, photos, rubber bands, and hair clips. There were also a couple of books that Bev had apparently dipped into at bedtime. One was Barbara Tuchman’s March of Folly , the other a trashy bestseller. Considering Beverly’s history background, the Tuchman book wasn’t surprising, nor would Diamonds , the Pamela Temby potboiler, have been odd on its own. But the wild diversity of the two caught my attention. I couldn’t imagine what there could possibly be about Diamonds to interest a woman who was also reading March of Folly . In fact, was so puzzled I opened it to the bookmark. Attached to the middle of the page was a yellow Post-It with six names on it. Or rather, three, and three variations of another. Sarah Williams, at the top, was underlined. Then three were listed, followed by phone numbers: Herb Wolf, Russell Kittrell, and Pamela Temby. Off to the side, more or less doodles, were Sarah M. Williams and Sarah Mary Williams.
I’d never heard of either of the men, but Temby was a huge celebrity, possibly the best selling author (if you could call her that) in the country. Still, that wasn’t the name I found most eye-catching. Sarah Williams was. I peeled off the Post-It and turned to Booker. He was frozen, like a dog watching a bug crawl. “Somebody’s home,” he said, even his whisper cracked with terror.
No lights were on, so all that really had to be done was close the two drawers we’d been investigating and slink out the back door. Stealthily, we made for the kitchen, Booker a basket case and me, for some reason, cucumber cool. Probably because my professional pride wasn’t at stake.
Booker was just reaching a surgically gloved hand toward a doorknob when a man’s voice shouted, maybe two feet from us: “Kitty? Kitty, kitty, kitty? Isami, she’s back here. Come around, okay? Maybe she’ll come to you.”
“That’s my dad,” mouthed Booker, significantly paler, even in the dark.
Apparently the thought of being caught by his old man had immobilized him. It was up to me to get us out of there. Waving him after me, I headed toward the front, thinking Booker the prideful professional must be a wreck indeed if this simple but effective strategy hadn’t even occurred to him. He shook his head, rooted to the spot.
“Luna! Come to Mommy,” cooed Mommy. “Oh, you big pretty Looney Tunesey, that’s a good kitty.”
There was absolutely no time to waste. Grabbing Booker by the elbow, I began to march him to freedom. It took nearly all my strength to budge him, but right was on my side. He had momentarily lost his mind, and I was leading him to safety. “Paul, listen, it won’t work. Paul!” He was whispering these and other nonsense syllables, but I simply paid him no mind. He scuttled along beside me, there being precious little else he could do.
Finally in the living room I opened the front door with a flourish. Or what would have been a flourish if the door had opened. I actually spoke out loud: “What in hell…” And that seemed to rouse Booker from his trance. First he shushed me, then pointed at the double deadbolt. Too late, I remembered this was the second time he’d been here, and
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