Read Online Murder in a Nice Neighborhood by Lora Roberts - Free Book Online
Authors: Lora Roberts
Tags: Mystery
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your sleeping bag in the living room, if you wanted—”
“No.” I gathered up the rest of the plates and forced a smile at her. "Thanks so much, Biddy. I really appreciate your friendship. This is something I should work out with the police. It doesn’t do you or your family any good for me to hang around, and I’ve got other places to go.”
She argued with me the whole time I washed the dishes, without changing my mind. Emery finally told her to let me handle it my own way. He clapped me on the shoulder and went to herd the children into the car for school.
Bridget gave me the medical book and reluctantly let me leave, since the bus was blocking Emery’s car. It was more than the pancakes that made me feel warm when I backed out and drove away.
Chapter 10
I'dbeen to Claudia Kaplan’s house once before. It was in the section of Palo Alto called Professorville, built mostly around the turn of the century when Stanford was hiring faculty from East Coast universities. The new arrivals erected rambling brown-shingle homes resembling those they’d left in the East, and filled them with children. Now those houses cost fortunes.
Even Claudia’s would have gone for a pretty penny, though the paint was flaking off its windowsills, and the shingles on the roof were ruffled like a dog’s fur stroked the wrong way. There was a moon gate beside the house, overgrown with ivy, and tall somber yews guarding the front steps.
I rang the bell, but no one answered. In fact, I couldn’t even hear the bell inside—it was probably broken. Finally, clutching Bridget’s medical book, I pushed open the moon gate and went down the overgrown path that led to the backyard.
A figure was visible in the greenhouse at the rear. Between the back steps and the greenhouse door was a big garden, crammed full of stuff. I like gardens, and this one was intriguing. There were roses of every habit, climbing into trees, lifting rampant branches. Huge salvias towered over asters and chrysanthemums. Even the pot herbs were overgrown. I wondered what kind of fertilizer she used.
Knocking on the open door of the greenhouse, I cleared my throat. “Mrs. Kaplan?”
She turned, her royal purple housecoat swirling. Claudia Kaplan had an imposing shape, hair the color and texture of iron, and the sharp, cold stare of a strict fourth-grade teacher. After a moment of scrutiny, she recognized me.
“Oh, yes. Liz Sullivan. What can I do for you?” She shuffled forward slowly, leaning on a cane. She wore bedroom slippers, and one ankle was swathed in an elastic bandage.
“Bridget wanted you to have this.” I handed over the medical book. Claudia took it, holding it at arm’s length.
“Nice of Biddy,” she said dismissively, “but I know what’s the matter. It’s just a sprain.” She winced a little, nonetheless, when she headed for the greenhouse door. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee or something?”
I remembered hearing comments about Claudia’s coffee. “No thanks. I’ve got to be going.” Following in her slow wake, I noticed the cuttings that rooted on shelves and tables, the labeled rose hips scattered about. “Are you hybridizing here?”
She looked over her shoulder, narrowing those gimlet eyes at me, and ran smack into the compost bin, banging it with her sore foot. I grabbed her arm before she toppled over. Together we lurched to the wooden bench outside the greenhouse.
“Thank you.” Her mouth was folded small with pain. She took a few deep breaths.
“Maybe you should see a doctor.” The medical book had slid from her hand, and I picked it up, leafing through it until I found the section on sprains. “It says here that if it’s still swollen forty-eight hours after injury, see physician.”
“Of course it says that,” Claudia muttered. “It was written by doctors, wasn’t it? I’ll soak it for a while, and it’ll be fine.”
“Says here to use ice.” I showed her the page in the book.
Her lips
“No.” I gathered up the rest of the plates and forced a smile at her. "Thanks so much, Biddy. I really appreciate your friendship. This is something I should work out with the police. It doesn’t do you or your family any good for me to hang around, and I’ve got other places to go.”
She argued with me the whole time I washed the dishes, without changing my mind. Emery finally told her to let me handle it my own way. He clapped me on the shoulder and went to herd the children into the car for school.
Bridget gave me the medical book and reluctantly let me leave, since the bus was blocking Emery’s car. It was more than the pancakes that made me feel warm when I backed out and drove away.
Chapter 10
I'dbeen to Claudia Kaplan’s house once before. It was in the section of Palo Alto called Professorville, built mostly around the turn of the century when Stanford was hiring faculty from East Coast universities. The new arrivals erected rambling brown-shingle homes resembling those they’d left in the East, and filled them with children. Now those houses cost fortunes.
Even Claudia’s would have gone for a pretty penny, though the paint was flaking off its windowsills, and the shingles on the roof were ruffled like a dog’s fur stroked the wrong way. There was a moon gate beside the house, overgrown with ivy, and tall somber yews guarding the front steps.
I rang the bell, but no one answered. In fact, I couldn’t even hear the bell inside—it was probably broken. Finally, clutching Bridget’s medical book, I pushed open the moon gate and went down the overgrown path that led to the backyard.
A figure was visible in the greenhouse at the rear. Between the back steps and the greenhouse door was a big garden, crammed full of stuff. I like gardens, and this one was intriguing. There were roses of every habit, climbing into trees, lifting rampant branches. Huge salvias towered over asters and chrysanthemums. Even the pot herbs were overgrown. I wondered what kind of fertilizer she used.
Knocking on the open door of the greenhouse, I cleared my throat. “Mrs. Kaplan?”
She turned, her royal purple housecoat swirling. Claudia Kaplan had an imposing shape, hair the color and texture of iron, and the sharp, cold stare of a strict fourth-grade teacher. After a moment of scrutiny, she recognized me.
“Oh, yes. Liz Sullivan. What can I do for you?” She shuffled forward slowly, leaning on a cane. She wore bedroom slippers, and one ankle was swathed in an elastic bandage.
“Bridget wanted you to have this.” I handed over the medical book. Claudia took it, holding it at arm’s length.
“Nice of Biddy,” she said dismissively, “but I know what’s the matter. It’s just a sprain.” She winced a little, nonetheless, when she headed for the greenhouse door. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee or something?”
I remembered hearing comments about Claudia’s coffee. “No thanks. I’ve got to be going.” Following in her slow wake, I noticed the cuttings that rooted on shelves and tables, the labeled rose hips scattered about. “Are you hybridizing here?”
She looked over her shoulder, narrowing those gimlet eyes at me, and ran smack into the compost bin, banging it with her sore foot. I grabbed her arm before she toppled over. Together we lurched to the wooden bench outside the greenhouse.
“Thank you.” Her mouth was folded small with pain. She took a few deep breaths.
“Maybe you should see a doctor.” The medical book had slid from her hand, and I picked it up, leafing through it until I found the section on sprains. “It says here that if it’s still swollen forty-eight hours after injury, see physician.”
“Of course it says that,” Claudia muttered. “It was written by doctors, wasn’t it? I’ll soak it for a while, and it’ll be fine.”
“Says here to use ice.” I showed her the page in the book.
Her lips
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