Read Online Murder for Bid by Susan Furlong Bolliger - Free Book Online
Authors: Susan Furlong Bolliger
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establishing a motive. Of course, in order to pull it off, I’d have to go incognito. In my last few moments of wakefulness, I pieced together in my mind the perfect disguise.
After a quick shower the next morning, I ran around my apartment gathering miscellaneous items. An hour later, thanks to my resale stockpile and a wig that I had left over from a Halloween stint as Velma from Scooby Doo, I left the house as a bobbed hair brunette dressed in a simple black sheath. I wore a strand of faux pearls and carried a small patent leather purse. I applied my makeup a little heavier than usual to cover my freckles and finished off the ensemble by pinning on a black pillbox hat with netting that hung low enough to cover the top half of my face. The overall effect was kind of kooky, but effective.
The plan was to remain in the background, avoiding Schmidt and any other acquaintance who might recognize me in spite of the disguise. If asked, I would claim to know Amanda from a fundraiser committee. No one would question that. According to the obituary, Amanda was heavily involved in community affairs.
I inched my way through traffic, cursing the relentless rain all the way downtown. The visitation was being held at one of Naperville’s finer funeral homes located in a turn-of-the-century Victorian that had been a multi-family apartment building in the 1960s and now served to send the town’s more prominent citizens to the afterworld in style.
Outside the entrance, several well-dressed, middle-aged couples were milling around smoking cigarettes under wide black umbrellas, and laughing quietly in nervous little spurts. I held my breath and waded through the white cloud of nicotine as quickly as I could, not wanting the smell to cling to my clothes. I was hoping to make it through the evening without any stains, rips, or clinging smells so that I could sell the dress on-line sometime next week without having to spend a cent of my potential profit on dry cleaning.
The crowd inside the funeral home appeared to be the “Who’s Who” of Chicago. Being an avid reader of the Tribune’s community page, I recognized several politicians, corporate CEOs and even some celebrities. None of whom seemed to pay much attention to me as I made my way into the front parlor.
I meandered through the mourners, eventually locating the crowd that was hovered around Schmidt. From what I could see, Schmidt was playing the part well with slumped shoulders and downcast eyes that welled with tears as various acquaintances expressed their condolences.
Not wanting to get too close, in fear that he might recognize me, I slouched in an upholstered chair not far from the casket and took in my surroundings. They didn’t make houses like this one anymore. I admired the dark butternut woodwork, scrolled crown molding, paneled pocket doors, and large windows with led glass transoms. Even the furnishings were classic. I let my eyes dwell on the muted-toned fabrics used on the upholstered furniture and to frame the windows. The taupe and brown hues tastefully complimented the woodwork and lent a calming effect to the room. I’d have to remember that color combination next time I was painting my apartment.
Then I dared let my eyes move to the center of the room and settle on the casket. Surprisingly, it was open. I glimpsed at Amanda. I could tell that her body was placed at an angle to minimize the damage done by her assailant; but even in death, Amanda Schmidt was a beautiful woman. If the murder was as brutal as Sean had indicated, the mortician must have been part magician to be able to make her look so good.
I hung out until the line of people waiting to pay their respects had dwindled and small groups of well-wishers were dispersing around the room, huddling together in small intimate groups. Schmidt remained by the casket with a few friends. Pretending to read a memorial card, I kept my ears peeled for any unusual conversational exchanges. After a
After a quick shower the next morning, I ran around my apartment gathering miscellaneous items. An hour later, thanks to my resale stockpile and a wig that I had left over from a Halloween stint as Velma from Scooby Doo, I left the house as a bobbed hair brunette dressed in a simple black sheath. I wore a strand of faux pearls and carried a small patent leather purse. I applied my makeup a little heavier than usual to cover my freckles and finished off the ensemble by pinning on a black pillbox hat with netting that hung low enough to cover the top half of my face. The overall effect was kind of kooky, but effective.
The plan was to remain in the background, avoiding Schmidt and any other acquaintance who might recognize me in spite of the disguise. If asked, I would claim to know Amanda from a fundraiser committee. No one would question that. According to the obituary, Amanda was heavily involved in community affairs.
I inched my way through traffic, cursing the relentless rain all the way downtown. The visitation was being held at one of Naperville’s finer funeral homes located in a turn-of-the-century Victorian that had been a multi-family apartment building in the 1960s and now served to send the town’s more prominent citizens to the afterworld in style.
Outside the entrance, several well-dressed, middle-aged couples were milling around smoking cigarettes under wide black umbrellas, and laughing quietly in nervous little spurts. I held my breath and waded through the white cloud of nicotine as quickly as I could, not wanting the smell to cling to my clothes. I was hoping to make it through the evening without any stains, rips, or clinging smells so that I could sell the dress on-line sometime next week without having to spend a cent of my potential profit on dry cleaning.
The crowd inside the funeral home appeared to be the “Who’s Who” of Chicago. Being an avid reader of the Tribune’s community page, I recognized several politicians, corporate CEOs and even some celebrities. None of whom seemed to pay much attention to me as I made my way into the front parlor.
I meandered through the mourners, eventually locating the crowd that was hovered around Schmidt. From what I could see, Schmidt was playing the part well with slumped shoulders and downcast eyes that welled with tears as various acquaintances expressed their condolences.
Not wanting to get too close, in fear that he might recognize me, I slouched in an upholstered chair not far from the casket and took in my surroundings. They didn’t make houses like this one anymore. I admired the dark butternut woodwork, scrolled crown molding, paneled pocket doors, and large windows with led glass transoms. Even the furnishings were classic. I let my eyes dwell on the muted-toned fabrics used on the upholstered furniture and to frame the windows. The taupe and brown hues tastefully complimented the woodwork and lent a calming effect to the room. I’d have to remember that color combination next time I was painting my apartment.
Then I dared let my eyes move to the center of the room and settle on the casket. Surprisingly, it was open. I glimpsed at Amanda. I could tell that her body was placed at an angle to minimize the damage done by her assailant; but even in death, Amanda Schmidt was a beautiful woman. If the murder was as brutal as Sean had indicated, the mortician must have been part magician to be able to make her look so good.
I hung out until the line of people waiting to pay their respects had dwindled and small groups of well-wishers were dispersing around the room, huddling together in small intimate groups. Schmidt remained by the casket with a few friends. Pretending to read a memorial card, I kept my ears peeled for any unusual conversational exchanges. After a
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