Read Online Killer Chameleon by Chassie West - Free Book Online

combination of yard sales and Goodwill. He’d done wonders with the little he’d had, and I missed a few of them.
    But ever since his family had been evicted when he was a kid and he’d watched people swipe practically everything they’d owned off the curb, he swore he never wanted to become attached to anything he couldn’t walk away from and not look back. That didn’t apply to his cookware, of course, and except for his desk, which I’d asked him to keep, he’d cleaned out this place in the space of four hours the day the movers were to arrive with the contents of my apartment.
    So now the sofa, coffee and end tables, lamps, easy chairs and étagère, everything was mine. I’d left the arrangement to Duck, who had a flair for decorating I envied. Still, there was something not right about this room. Perhaps if I shifted both easy chairs to right angles of the sofa with an end table between them . . .
    I rolled up the braided oval rug to get it out of the way and began moving things around. Periodically I get an itch to shove a piece from this corner to that, and before I know it, the whole room’s been changed. I knew Duck wouldn’t mind; he was under the impression it was part and parcel of PMS, and I’d never disabused him of the notion. Men can be so dumb about some things, thank God.
    I moved the étagère, then wrestled the couch into a different place. Still not satisfied, I tried another configuration. And another.
    I’m not sure how many I had tried when I heard the knock at the door. Stunned, I checked the time. Nine fifty-five! I’d been shoving furniture this way and that for two hours.
    I groaned, dismayed at meeting this woman who had her tentacles wrapped around Duck’ s heart when I was now sweaty, disheveled, and probably smelled like a polecat.
    â€œJust a minute,” I called and pulled the neck of my sweater out to get a whiff of my underarms. It wasn’t too bad. Perhaps if I kept some distance between us she wouldn’t pass out.
    Adjusting the sweater, I crossed to the door and, after wrestling with the deadbolt, opened it. “Hello. I’m—”
    â€œDillon’s Leigh, of course.”
    â€œIt’s nice to meet you,” I said, moving out of the way. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Duck.”
    She peered at me curiously. “Uh . . . I’ve heard a lot about you, too. Look just like your picture. Only I thought you were taller. Oh, there they are!” Waddling in, she grabbed a set of keys from Duck’s desk, leaving a sizable brown grocery bag in their place. “Don’t know where my head is these days. Speaking of which, I wish I had the nerve to wear my hair like yours. When did you get it cut?”
    â€œDay before yesterday.” I smoothed my edges, dismayed. If she had to ask, I must still have that just-plucked chicken look.
    â€œSorry, darlin’, I’ve gotta come out of these shoes.” She plopped herself down on the sofa, shedding her coat to reveal a deep purple sweatsuit. Evidently her shoes weren’t the only things that pinched. Wincing, she tugged off her earrings, bright, dangling mini-chandeliers, then massaged her earlobes with gusto. She leaned over to loosen her laces, puffing a little, and I gave serious consideration to killing Duck.
    Clarissa was perhaps five feet tall and as wide as she was high. Light-skinned with a hint of olive, she had a moon face and full cheeks, her complexion as clear and smooth as a baby’s. Bright, hazel eyes squinted myopically from beneath reddish-brown brows a couple of shades darker than a head full of Shirley Temple curls generously streaked with gray and held off her face by a yellow plastic headband. She was sixty-plus if she was a day, in other words, almost an old lady. And an eccentric one, considering the number of colors she wore. The effect was blinding. I liked her already, just as