Read Online Killer Cocktail by Sheryl J. Anderson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sheryl J. Anderson
Ads: Link
know he didn’t do it. Based on a lifetime of stolen toys, borrowed cars, and unpaid loans, you can believe a sibling capable of just about anything. Fine. But murder?
I tried to tell myself I was overreacting, that grief had slowed Tricia’s reflexes, but Cassady was more wide-eyed than I was. “Tricia,” she whispered with a ragged edge of disbelief.
Tricia shook her head viciously. “I know, I know, it’s crazy. I’m crazy. It just looks so bad.”
“So does this.” Cassady gestured to the three of us, huddled between the Bösendorfer grand piano and the French doors as if we were planning which Andrews Sisters song to open our set with. The argument by the phone was still going on and Rebecca seemed to have nodded off against Richard’s chest. No one was even paying attention to what we were doing. “It looks like we’re plotting.”
“That’s a guilty conscience talking. What would we be plotting?”
“The best way to break it to Detective Ice Queen that she’s nuts to think David did this.” Cassady gave Tricia a stern look, lest she weaken and give in to paranoia again. “Because he didn’t.”
Tricia nodded right on cue this time. “I know he didn’t.” She shifted her eyes to me and placed her small, cool hand on my arm. “What can we do?”
I actually thought before I spoke. It wasn’t like I’d be volunteering to solve the whole mess. I could just call Kyle, ask a couple of technical questions, and try to be helpful. Participate on a consulting basis, as it were. “Let me call Kyle real quick.”
Cassady glanced at her watch. “Things are back on solid footing, then.”
“Meaning?”
“You’re comfortable calling him at this hour of the morning when he knows you’re away for the weekend.”
“I didn’t say I was comfortable. I said I was going to do it.”
I slid my cell phone out of my pocket and eased out the French doors. The night breeze would have been more welcome if it hadn’t also carried the sounds of the crime scene investigation still going on at the pool. The individual sounds of people moving, talking indistinctly, taking pictures, zipping things open and shut, were mundane enough
until you let them all come together and remembered what they were down there doing. Then the sounds became as oppressive as bombs exploding.
I punched the speed dial for Kyle’s apartment, then canceled it before the “connecting” message had a chance to come up. Hesitating, I polished the display screen against the side of my cami. Was it presumptuous of me to call him at this hour of the night, even though it was purely for a technical reason and not, by any stretch of the overactive imagination, to check up on him? He’d understand that this was just appealing to his area of expertise. He might even find it flattering. Right?
I punched the speed dial again. The machine picked up after only two rings. I checked my watch: 2:15 A.M. His message said, “I’m not here.”
He often turned the ringer way down on the phone when he was sleeping, but left his cell phone on the nightstand in case they needed him at the station. I told the machine, “I hate to do this, but I’m going to call your cell and wake you up.”
I speed-dialed his cell and prepared to be gentle and apologetic when his groggy voice said hello. But the first thing I heard when the phone picked up was voices. Lots of other voices. And when he said, “Hello,” it wasn’t groggy. It was energetic. He was having fun. At 2:15 A.M. Somewhere. Other than where I was.
“Hi.”
“I’m sorry, I thought I was calling you at home.” I couldn’t identify the background voices or tell if the hint of music was from a stereo or a jukebox.
“Then why’d you call my cell?”
“Because I called your apartment and got the machine. I thought you were asleep.”
“Not yet.”
“Clearly.”
I had a sudden dreadful thought that he was working. “I don’t mean to interrupt.”
“You’re not
I tried to tell myself I was overreacting, that grief had slowed Tricia’s reflexes, but Cassady was more wide-eyed than I was. “Tricia,” she whispered with a ragged edge of disbelief.
Tricia shook her head viciously. “I know, I know, it’s crazy. I’m crazy. It just looks so bad.”
“So does this.” Cassady gestured to the three of us, huddled between the Bösendorfer grand piano and the French doors as if we were planning which Andrews Sisters song to open our set with. The argument by the phone was still going on and Rebecca seemed to have nodded off against Richard’s chest. No one was even paying attention to what we were doing. “It looks like we’re plotting.”
“That’s a guilty conscience talking. What would we be plotting?”
“The best way to break it to Detective Ice Queen that she’s nuts to think David did this.” Cassady gave Tricia a stern look, lest she weaken and give in to paranoia again. “Because he didn’t.”
Tricia nodded right on cue this time. “I know he didn’t.” She shifted her eyes to me and placed her small, cool hand on my arm. “What can we do?”
I actually thought before I spoke. It wasn’t like I’d be volunteering to solve the whole mess. I could just call Kyle, ask a couple of technical questions, and try to be helpful. Participate on a consulting basis, as it were. “Let me call Kyle real quick.”
Cassady glanced at her watch. “Things are back on solid footing, then.”
“Meaning?”
“You’re comfortable calling him at this hour of the morning when he knows you’re away for the weekend.”
“I didn’t say I was comfortable. I said I was going to do it.”
I slid my cell phone out of my pocket and eased out the French doors. The night breeze would have been more welcome if it hadn’t also carried the sounds of the crime scene investigation still going on at the pool. The individual sounds of people moving, talking indistinctly, taking pictures, zipping things open and shut, were mundane enough
until you let them all come together and remembered what they were down there doing. Then the sounds became as oppressive as bombs exploding.
I punched the speed dial for Kyle’s apartment, then canceled it before the “connecting” message had a chance to come up. Hesitating, I polished the display screen against the side of my cami. Was it presumptuous of me to call him at this hour of the night, even though it was purely for a technical reason and not, by any stretch of the overactive imagination, to check up on him? He’d understand that this was just appealing to his area of expertise. He might even find it flattering. Right?
I punched the speed dial again. The machine picked up after only two rings. I checked my watch: 2:15 A.M. His message said, “I’m not here.”
He often turned the ringer way down on the phone when he was sleeping, but left his cell phone on the nightstand in case they needed him at the station. I told the machine, “I hate to do this, but I’m going to call your cell and wake you up.”
I speed-dialed his cell and prepared to be gentle and apologetic when his groggy voice said hello. But the first thing I heard when the phone picked up was voices. Lots of other voices. And when he said, “Hello,” it wasn’t groggy. It was energetic. He was having fun. At 2:15 A.M. Somewhere. Other than where I was.
“Hi.”
“I’m sorry, I thought I was calling you at home.” I couldn’t identify the background voices or tell if the hint of music was from a stereo or a jukebox.
“Then why’d you call my cell?”
“Because I called your apartment and got the machine. I thought you were asleep.”
“Not yet.”
“Clearly.”
I had a sudden dreadful thought that he was working. “I don’t mean to interrupt.”
“You’re not
Similar Books
