Read Online Magicide by Carolyn V. Hamilton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Carolyn V. Hamilton
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He gestured at the morning Las Vegas Post , a magician’s wand, a silver-toned thermos carafe and a ceramic mug, all dwarfed by the acreage of the tabletop.
“I’m having some coffee,” he said. “Would you like some?”
“No, thanks,” Pizzarelli said. “We came to see Larissa Beacham-Jones—she would be your mother?”
“Yes.”
Cheri saw Pizza’s gaze take in every detail of the dining room and settle on the massive sideboard with glass doors protecting crystal and china. He said, “Is she here?”
Peter shifted his weight, as if he didn’t know what to do now that he couldn’t occupy his hands with serving them coffee. “You just missed her. She left for the hotel—extra rehearsal this afternoon.”
Pizzarelli said, “So, maybe you could give us your advice on a few things.”
Peter’s dark left eyebrow rose. “My advice?”
“Your professional, magician kind of advice.”
“That’s curious. I thought you’d want to know if I killed Maxwell.”
The boy could certainly be direct. But the chill in his voice reminded Cheri he was a professional performer, and all performers were actors of one sort or another. And, actors usually had some hidden personality quirk.
“What makes you think he was murdered?” she asked.
For the first time since they’d arrived Peter smiled, but it was automatic, not connected with his eyes. “You’re the police. You wouldn’t be here if it was an accident.” To his credit, Peter had a disarming smile, with perfect, white, even teeth.
“Was there any reason you might want to kill Maxwell?”
“Oh, lots of reasons.” The young magician rested his hands on the back of one of the chairs. “Let’s see—he took gross advantage of other people’s talents—he didn’t approve of me—he disowned me because of my relationship choices—he was verbally abusive, among other things, to my mother—he didn’t know the meaning of the word ‘father’—he was a better magician than me—he was an asshole. Pick which one you like.”
“Since you brought it up,” Pizzarelli said, “ Did you kill Maxwell?”
There was no break in Peter’s professional smile. “No.”
“Did you have anything to do with his death?”
“ Nada .” He gestured around the dining room table. “Have a seat, why don’t you?” He pulled out the chair nearest to Cheri. “Here, detective.”
She sat down, and rested her hand, holding her digital notebook, on the table. Pizzarelli shook his head, indicating that he preferred to stand.
Peter picked up the wand from the table and smiled. “If you would be so kind, Mr. Detective. Perhaps you can help me help you in your search for Maxwell’s killer.”
He handed the wand to Pizzarelli, who regarded it in his hand with child-like curiosity. Suddenly the wand melted, both ends relaxing, making a limp U hanging from his hand. “Hey, I did’n do anything.” His face flushed with suspicion, and he handed it back to Peter.
When Peter took it, the magic wand immediately returned to its original rigid state. He laughed. “Guess you didn’t hold your mouth right.” He turned to Cheri, laid the wand across his open palm and offered it to her. “Miss, would you care to wave a magic wand?”
“No thanks. I get it.” Larissa’s son had given no indication that he remembered her, and the thought made her feel more in control.
“Oh.” Peter’s mouth relaxed in mock disappointment. Then he leaned forward, examining her face with the look of someone who’d seen magic for the first time. “I know you from somewhere. Your—” His eyes circled her head as if he were fascinated by her hair. “voice is familiar. Have I seen you on Cops-Las Vegas ?”
Blood rose to Cheri’s face, but she stared right back at him with her best police smile. “When you were little your mother and I were roommates for a short time. You were in military school for most of that year. I didn’t think you’d remember.”
His fabulous smile
“I’m having some coffee,” he said. “Would you like some?”
“No, thanks,” Pizzarelli said. “We came to see Larissa Beacham-Jones—she would be your mother?”
“Yes.”
Cheri saw Pizza’s gaze take in every detail of the dining room and settle on the massive sideboard with glass doors protecting crystal and china. He said, “Is she here?”
Peter shifted his weight, as if he didn’t know what to do now that he couldn’t occupy his hands with serving them coffee. “You just missed her. She left for the hotel—extra rehearsal this afternoon.”
Pizzarelli said, “So, maybe you could give us your advice on a few things.”
Peter’s dark left eyebrow rose. “My advice?”
“Your professional, magician kind of advice.”
“That’s curious. I thought you’d want to know if I killed Maxwell.”
The boy could certainly be direct. But the chill in his voice reminded Cheri he was a professional performer, and all performers were actors of one sort or another. And, actors usually had some hidden personality quirk.
“What makes you think he was murdered?” she asked.
For the first time since they’d arrived Peter smiled, but it was automatic, not connected with his eyes. “You’re the police. You wouldn’t be here if it was an accident.” To his credit, Peter had a disarming smile, with perfect, white, even teeth.
“Was there any reason you might want to kill Maxwell?”
“Oh, lots of reasons.” The young magician rested his hands on the back of one of the chairs. “Let’s see—he took gross advantage of other people’s talents—he didn’t approve of me—he disowned me because of my relationship choices—he was verbally abusive, among other things, to my mother—he didn’t know the meaning of the word ‘father’—he was a better magician than me—he was an asshole. Pick which one you like.”
“Since you brought it up,” Pizzarelli said, “ Did you kill Maxwell?”
There was no break in Peter’s professional smile. “No.”
“Did you have anything to do with his death?”
“ Nada .” He gestured around the dining room table. “Have a seat, why don’t you?” He pulled out the chair nearest to Cheri. “Here, detective.”
She sat down, and rested her hand, holding her digital notebook, on the table. Pizzarelli shook his head, indicating that he preferred to stand.
Peter picked up the wand from the table and smiled. “If you would be so kind, Mr. Detective. Perhaps you can help me help you in your search for Maxwell’s killer.”
He handed the wand to Pizzarelli, who regarded it in his hand with child-like curiosity. Suddenly the wand melted, both ends relaxing, making a limp U hanging from his hand. “Hey, I did’n do anything.” His face flushed with suspicion, and he handed it back to Peter.
When Peter took it, the magic wand immediately returned to its original rigid state. He laughed. “Guess you didn’t hold your mouth right.” He turned to Cheri, laid the wand across his open palm and offered it to her. “Miss, would you care to wave a magic wand?”
“No thanks. I get it.” Larissa’s son had given no indication that he remembered her, and the thought made her feel more in control.
“Oh.” Peter’s mouth relaxed in mock disappointment. Then he leaned forward, examining her face with the look of someone who’d seen magic for the first time. “I know you from somewhere. Your—” His eyes circled her head as if he were fascinated by her hair. “voice is familiar. Have I seen you on Cops-Las Vegas ?”
Blood rose to Cheri’s face, but she stared right back at him with her best police smile. “When you were little your mother and I were roommates for a short time. You were in military school for most of that year. I didn’t think you’d remember.”
His fabulous smile
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