Read Online Murder My Love by Victor Keyloun - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Victor Keyloun
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ribbon around my house?” she demanded.
“Hold on lady, who are you and what house are you talking about?”
“I am Alice Chicciarelli and the house would be 172 Elm Street. I just flew in from Arizona on the red-eye and I can’t even get into my own god damn house. Who’s in charge here?”
“That would be Chief Wilson. I’ll get her for you.”
“The Chief is a ‘her’? You’re joking!”
“I’ll let the Chief know you’re here.”
“Why is it wrapped in yellow tape?” she screamed.
Sergeant Skinner asked her to take a seat while he got someone to answer her questions. He stepped from behind his desk and hurried into the Chief’s office first knocking on the doorjamb.
“There’s a lady here to see you, sir.”
“Not now, Skinner.”
“Begging you pardon, Chief, nothing could be more important.”
The Chief concluded her call with the DA and looked at Skinner who was partially standing in the doorway. From that vantage she could see the woman through the bulletproof glass standing in the lobby. She was dressed in a gray business suit gripping a piece of roll-on luggage by its handle and tapping one foot nervously. A black purse hanging by a strap from her shoulder was tucked under her arm. A scarf tied at the neck filled the gap between the lapels of her jacket. She wore no jewelry on her suit. The Chief said she would take care of the situation and dismissed Skinner. She slowly walked out to the lobby and greeted the lady.
“I’m Chief Abby Wilson. How can I help you?” she said as soothingly as she could muster, knowing intuitively who she might be. The lady repeated what she had said to Skinner without the vulgarity. The Chief extended her hand and invited her into her office.
“Where have you been, Miss …?”
“Alice. Alice Chicciarelli. I just got back from a business meeting in Arizona.”
“I assume you live at 172 Elm.”
“Correct. And I can’t get into my own house.”
“I’m sorry. I have very bad news for you.”
The Chief told her what they had discovered three days before. She said, “Linda Greenwell has been murdered.”
Her statement was direct, brief and to the point. She told her nothing of the savagery. Alice collapsed to the floor and broke into tears. She sobbed like a baby. She was inconsolable. The Chief didn’t try to allay her sorrow. She sat impassively and allowed her to vent her emotion until she was spent. An eternity seemed to have passed until Alice reached into her purse, took out a packet of Kleenex and began to wipe away the tears. Her mascara had dribbled down her cheeks and her lipstick was smudged across her face. As one woman to another, Wilson felt a twinge of sympathy.
“Would you like to freshen up?”
“No, no. I’ll be all right.”
She stood up, straightened her skirt and brushed back her hair.
“Who could do such a thing?”
“We were hoping you could lead us in the right direction,” she said.
Wilson proceeded to expand on her terse announcement of Linda’s death. She enlarged the story to say that her housemate was brutally attacked but continued to keep the morbid details in reserve. She then told her there was another victim. At that, Alice asked, “Was it another woman?”
Wilson declined to answer. She remained impassive. She wanted to know why Alice would even suspect another woman. Alice looked directly at Wilson. The tears had dried up. Her composure was restored. She asked the chief, “Are you aware of my relationship with Linda?” Alice paused to collect her thoughts. “She was more than just a roommate, if you know what I mean.”
“Look, Alice, I’m not living in the eighteenth century. I’m not here to judge anyone’s lifestyle. My job is to solve a murder.”
Alice seemed relieved. She sat back in her chair and crossed her legs. Her black patent leather shoe with a stiletto heel swung nervously. She looked like a woman at a bar about to take out a pack of cigarettes from her pocketbook and
“Hold on lady, who are you and what house are you talking about?”
“I am Alice Chicciarelli and the house would be 172 Elm Street. I just flew in from Arizona on the red-eye and I can’t even get into my own god damn house. Who’s in charge here?”
“That would be Chief Wilson. I’ll get her for you.”
“The Chief is a ‘her’? You’re joking!”
“I’ll let the Chief know you’re here.”
“Why is it wrapped in yellow tape?” she screamed.
Sergeant Skinner asked her to take a seat while he got someone to answer her questions. He stepped from behind his desk and hurried into the Chief’s office first knocking on the doorjamb.
“There’s a lady here to see you, sir.”
“Not now, Skinner.”
“Begging you pardon, Chief, nothing could be more important.”
The Chief concluded her call with the DA and looked at Skinner who was partially standing in the doorway. From that vantage she could see the woman through the bulletproof glass standing in the lobby. She was dressed in a gray business suit gripping a piece of roll-on luggage by its handle and tapping one foot nervously. A black purse hanging by a strap from her shoulder was tucked under her arm. A scarf tied at the neck filled the gap between the lapels of her jacket. She wore no jewelry on her suit. The Chief said she would take care of the situation and dismissed Skinner. She slowly walked out to the lobby and greeted the lady.
“I’m Chief Abby Wilson. How can I help you?” she said as soothingly as she could muster, knowing intuitively who she might be. The lady repeated what she had said to Skinner without the vulgarity. The Chief extended her hand and invited her into her office.
“Where have you been, Miss …?”
“Alice. Alice Chicciarelli. I just got back from a business meeting in Arizona.”
“I assume you live at 172 Elm.”
“Correct. And I can’t get into my own house.”
“I’m sorry. I have very bad news for you.”
The Chief told her what they had discovered three days before. She said, “Linda Greenwell has been murdered.”
Her statement was direct, brief and to the point. She told her nothing of the savagery. Alice collapsed to the floor and broke into tears. She sobbed like a baby. She was inconsolable. The Chief didn’t try to allay her sorrow. She sat impassively and allowed her to vent her emotion until she was spent. An eternity seemed to have passed until Alice reached into her purse, took out a packet of Kleenex and began to wipe away the tears. Her mascara had dribbled down her cheeks and her lipstick was smudged across her face. As one woman to another, Wilson felt a twinge of sympathy.
“Would you like to freshen up?”
“No, no. I’ll be all right.”
She stood up, straightened her skirt and brushed back her hair.
“Who could do such a thing?”
“We were hoping you could lead us in the right direction,” she said.
Wilson proceeded to expand on her terse announcement of Linda’s death. She enlarged the story to say that her housemate was brutally attacked but continued to keep the morbid details in reserve. She then told her there was another victim. At that, Alice asked, “Was it another woman?”
Wilson declined to answer. She remained impassive. She wanted to know why Alice would even suspect another woman. Alice looked directly at Wilson. The tears had dried up. Her composure was restored. She asked the chief, “Are you aware of my relationship with Linda?” Alice paused to collect her thoughts. “She was more than just a roommate, if you know what I mean.”
“Look, Alice, I’m not living in the eighteenth century. I’m not here to judge anyone’s lifestyle. My job is to solve a murder.”
Alice seemed relieved. She sat back in her chair and crossed her legs. Her black patent leather shoe with a stiletto heel swung nervously. She looked like a woman at a bar about to take out a pack of cigarettes from her pocketbook and
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