Read Online Killer Chameleon by Chassie West - Free Book Online Page A

Duck had known I would.
    â€œThings are different in here,” she said, toeing off each shoe. “Nice. What happened to the rug?”
    â€œOver there in the corner so I could move stuff around.”
    She cut her eyes at me in a semisquint and smiled. “PMS, huh? Used to hit me and Sister the same way. What will you put on the shelves of the étagère? It’s awfully pretty to stand there empty.”
    She had a point. Perhaps filling it up might give me the quality I kept feeling was missing from the room, whatever that was. “There’s a whole box of things, knickknacks and stuff. If I can find it, I’ll unpack it.”
    Three horizontal lines zipped across her forehead. “That’s yours?”
    â€œEverything in here is, except for the desk.”
    She nodded. “That explains it. I didn’t think this room looked like him. Not that I can see it all that good today.”
    It was my turn to frown. “Why not?”
    â€œIt’s Sister’s turn with the eyeglasses because she’s driving today. I took the Metro. Can’t see boo without them. Shoot, we’re both so nearsighted that . . . Uh-oh.” Her mouth turned down at the corners. “That wasn’t what you meant by your ‘why not.’” She sighed. “Me and my big mouth. Sister always says I talk too much.”
    â€œYou haven’t said anything wrong,” I assured her. “The room hasn’t felt right to me, and I haven’t been able to figure out what the problem is. That’s why I’ve been moving things around.”
    She hoisted a brow. “You’re sure you don’t mind me meddling? I mean, sometimes folks want your opinion, but only if it matches theirs. That’s Sister, for one.”
    â€œI’m sure. Feel free.” I propped one butt cheek on a corner of Duck’s desk to wait. I didn’t have long.
    â€œUnderstand,” Clarissa began, “you’ve got nice things and I can tell you’ve taken good care of them. But it looks like an old folks’ room, child. I had a sofa like this when I first got married—high back and these big round arms—and I’m no spring chicken. And these mahogany end tables. What do you call that? Louis the Something? Or French something? It’s not just that these things don’t look like Dillon, unless I miss my guess, they don’t much look like you either.” Her eyes narrowed. “Bet they came from your mama’s house. Am I right?”
    â€œMy lord.” Flabbergasted, I dropped onto the desk chair. “Of course. I couldn’t figure it out. I’ve had this stuff for ages. Some of it comes from down home but—”
    â€œDown home? Where’s that?”
    â€œSunrise, North Carolina.”
    â€œSunrise? Sister and I, we’re from Rocky Mount, but I never heard of Sunrise.”
    â€œMost folks haven’t. It’s in the mountains. Anyway, when I moved into my apartment, I was trying for the same feel as the house I grew up in. But it’s my foster mom’s taste, not mine. Or Duck’s. And he never said a word.”
    â€œHe wouldn’t. That Dillon’s a sweet boy. Well, let me get up off of here, put that lot in the refrigerator, and get to work. I always start with the bathroom. Makes you appreciate having room to move around when you come out.”
    It took a couple of pushes on the cushions on each side before she made it up, but once on her pudgy feet, she moved with a speed that surprised me. She snatched the big grocery sack off the desk and headed for the kitchen. If that was her lunch, no wonder she had a weight problem. Whatever was in it, it smelled damned good, though.
    I stayed put for at least fifteen minutes, trying to figure out how to resolve the problem with the furniture. The chintz, the old-fashioned lamps. No doubt about it, it had to go. Well, most of it, anyway. There was nothing