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

wrong with trying for eclectic. I’d talk to Duck about it tonight, see if he thought our savings could survive the big chomp it would take to refurnish.
    The glass-shelved étagère could stay, another piece we’d picked out together. The least I could do was fill it with my knickknacks.
    I massaged my knee for a moment. All the furniture arranging had put more stress on it than it liked. I’d be paying for it the rest of the day. And night. Poor Duck. Our first night living together and I’d be reeking of Ben-Gay.
    His guest room, which he’d used as a workroom during his ceramics and pottery period, contained the remainder of the items moved from my apartment, most packed in boxes stacked against one wall. I squeezed my way around my little desk and two kitchen chairs, grateful that Duck had been smart enough to put all the cartons marked “Fragile” on the top layer. The one I needed was also labeled “My Babies,” since it contained my collection of crystal owls and dolphins. I might have overdone it with the Magic Marker, but there was no doubt as to what was in what.
    I found it easily enough, bless Duck, moved it from a stack and set it on my desk to get a better grip when a subconscious nudge from somewhere prodded me to examine those stacks again. It took me a couple of seconds before the reason surfaced. The last time I was in here, the boxes had been stacked like stairs, one lone carton on the left end, two next to it, then three, then four, etc. Now the configuration was one, two, three, four and four. A box was missing.
    In search of it, I slithered around my den furniture and the chest of drawers we planned to leave in here. No box. Duck, in one of his cooking moods, had asked me which one contained the wok he’d given me in hopes I’d fall enough in love with stir-fry to use it. Perhaps he’d unpacked the whole thing. But no, there it was. “Pots, Pans, Wok” printed clearly on the two sides I could see. So which one was missing?
    Knickknacks forgotten, I went in search of the errant carton, Clarissa’s tuneless humming from the bathroom grating on my nerves. Nothing in the kitchen or shallow pantry. I didn’t bother with the bedroom; I knew it wasn’t in the closet. Where else could he have put it?
    â€œOops.” Clarissa, a pair of sheets draped over one arm, caromed off me as she exited the bathroom. “Hope you don’t need to use the facility for a few minutes. Floor’s wet. I declare, I don’t know why Dillon bothers to keep me on. This place is always as clean as an operating room. But then, after y’all get married, you probably won’t. Need me, I mean.” A wistful expression softened her features. She resembled an elderly baby.
    I couldn’t do it, damn Duck’s butt. He’d known it too.
    â€œDuck is genetically disposed to be neat,” I said. “I, however, am not. I’m a clutterer from way back. After a month of my being here, you’ll probably demand a raise.”
    She smiled so sweetly I felt like hugging her. “I’m glad. Not about the raise; he’s already paying me too much, considering how little there’s been to do. It’s just a joy to work for him. He’s such a nice child. Sister just loves him.” She clamped her lips together, as if afraid she’d said too much again.
    â€œYour sister’s met him?”
    â€œIn passing. The thing is, he reminds me of my boy. He’s crossed over now, killed in a construction accident. Likes to eat, just like my Shelton did. Your Dillon, I mean. I made some barbecue last night. Brought some for lunch and a couple of helpings for him.”
    Mention barbecue and I begin to drool, mentally. It must have shown.
    â€œYou cotton to barbecue? Not the Texas kind,” she added. “Nothing against it, but I prefer the way they make it in North Carolina where you take the pork