Read Online Murder on Consignment by Susan Furlong Bolliger - Free Book Online

Poor Jane stumbled across him as he broke in to retrieve it and Alex eliminated her. It should be a case easy to solve based on forensics alone. A guy like that would have left thousands of hairs at the scene…
    I snapped back to reality. I was jumping to conclusions—a very bad habit of mine. What I needed was proof.
    I glanced back at Calina’s house, double checking to make sure I wasn’t being watched, before approaching the house next door. My knock was answered by spry-looking, old lady.
    “I already have a church,” she squawked, shutting the door in my face. I knocked again.
    “I don’t need anything, I’m busy.” She started to close the door again, but failed when it hit my foot, which was wedged between the door and the frame. I could hear the Price is Right playing in the background. The showcase showdown was just getting under way. No wonder she was so anxious to get rid of me. My mind raced; I needed a good cover story if I was going to compete with the popular game show.
    I assumed an authoritative posture. “I’m Prudence Overton with Liberty Insurance. We’re conducting an investigation on the death of your neighbor Calina Sokolov. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I may.” 
    I stared directly into her milky-blue eyes, daring her to defy an official investigator.
    “What type of questions?” she snapped.
    “Official questions. Your cooperation is imperative, Mrs.…”
    “You’re an investigator and you don’t know my name?”
    Good question. This old bat was a sharp one.
    “Actually, we’re just in the initial phase of questioning; we’re canvassing the neighborhood.” I glanced back to Calina’s house. All seemed quiet. I removed a steno pad and pen from my purse. “This won’t take much of your time. I just have a few questions…please.”  I turned off the authority and turned on beggar mode.
    She gave me a scrutinizing once over before standing aside and waving me into her living room. She motioned to a floral-upholstered chair as she picked up the remote and turned down the volume on the television.
    I glanced around. Her house was a study in contrast compared to Calina’s home. The combination of dark woodwork and poor lighting made me feel instantly depressed. Adding to the dark mood, a large wooden image of the Russian Madonna stared at me from the fireplace mantel. I squirmed under her watch. It wasn’t easy being a liar.
    “Well, what are your questions?” She slouched into a light blue recliner, adjusting a couple of pillows behind the small of her back and pulling a hand-crocheted afghan around her legs. I’m not sure why she needed the afghan; it must have been close to a hundred degrees in the room.
    I opened my pad. “What is your name?” I asked, pen poised in air.
    “Yelena Stanislav. What do you want to know about Calina?”
    “Did you know her well?” I asked.
    “Well enough.”
    “Were you on friendly terms?”
    “We were neighbors, weren’t we?” 
    I sighed. This lady was all about patience and understanding.
    “Had Mrs. Sokolov been ill for a long time?”
    “Yes. Cancer. I would take her some yushka about once a week. It was her favorite.”
    I adjusted my glasses. The word cancer al ways made me squirm. “That was kind of you, Mrs. Stansilove,” I managed to say.
    “That’s Stanislav. Get it right,” she hissed. She turned to check on the showcase showdown. The first contestant was making a bid of sixteen thousand five hundred. Way too low, I thought.
    “Stanislav, sorry. My firm is making inquiries into Mrs. Sokolov’s finances. Do you know where she worked?”
    “She didn’t work.” She was fingering the remote, getting ready to turn up the volume again.
    I looked at her over the rim of my glasses. “There is some question as to how she made a living. You see, if she falsified information on her tax papers, she may not be entitled to a full payout. Or if she was involved in some sort of illegal