Read Online Murder on Parade by Melanie Jackson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Melanie Jackson
Tags: Mystery
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dinner.
And speaking of dinner, what was I to fix? Dad and Alex had probably finished the leftovers at lunch. Was it too soon to fix spaghetti again?
Chapter 11
The next few days passed quickly. I went to the funeral but learned nothing except that too many women were wearing gardenia perfume. It did come in two distinct varieties which could be identified easily enough when someone with a dead nose went overboard with the spray. I eventually labeled the two smells ‘jungle’ and ‘domestic’. I had been certain that the perfume I smelled on Herb Dillon was the jungle variety but had to admit that between all the candy-canes and spilled hot chocolate that perhaps my nose was compromised.
Chelsea was at the funeral but kept well to the back and away from Laurie. Her dress was black but a feat of architectural engineering that hadn’t happened locally. She was not as modestly endowed as I am, but the dress made her look more than appropriately abundant. Fertility goddesses didn’t have such large breasts. I told myself not to be catty and that as Herb’s secretary she had every right to be there, but in my heart of hearts I wrote her off as something other than a class act.
I didn’t write a lot of parking tickets that Christmas week. The tourists had mostly cleared out when the roads opened and the locals were doing the majority of their shopping on foot. The after Christmas madness had passed and people were beginning to confront the reality of their credit card bills and dining more on leftovers than in restaurants.
The coroner would not— or could not— say if Herb Dillon’s death was murder or an accident. My gut said homicide so the chief asked the coroner to hold off making an official announcement until after the new year. If something didn’t turn up by then it was likely that person or persons unknown were going to get away with their crime. The chief didn’t blame me for this, but the shadow hung over me.
Alex was having fun helping Dad design his soon-to-be mayoral website, which was already popular because Dad encouraged people to write in with concerns and everyone loves to complain. Alex was also helping my father learn the ins and outs of things like Twitter. We didn’t talk about the murder but Alex knew it was on my mind. Dad was wholly taken up with his potential new job, forgetting that the election had not in actual fact happened yet and that he was not really the new king.
Finally it was New Year’s Eve. Dancing with excitement I packed an overnight bag and put my mask into one of my grandmother’s hat boxes. With less enthusiasm, I took Blue to my father’s for an overnight because the inn wasn’t taking reservations for dogs at the ball.
I love the Morningside Inn but it is a bit shocking on first view. It was built in the day when skilled labor was cheap and no one had thought up income or property tax, so why not build larger and grander than rival lumber barons? And architects? Well, that was just a silly expense indulged in by men who were filled with self-doubt. And not using one made for much more creative designs which, to this day, encouraged the weaker minded to see ghosts.
The current owners were only slightly mad—and in a good way. But looking at the imbalance of furniture in the lobby—big chairs, little table and giant paintings hung over mini-rugs—I always had to wonder about their design inspiration. It made me think of certain Tim Burton films and I wondered if they were also seeing spirits who were handing out strange decorating advice.
“It looks like an opium den,” Alex breathed in happy awe.
Though I didn’t disagree aloud, based on the photos I have seen of the old opium dens, I think it looked a lot more like some Belle Epoch bordello in New York. Opium dens in the old west were the crack houses of their days—frequented by poor workers rather than pashas and Victorian gentlemen being serviced by beautiful dragon ladies.
“But that
And speaking of dinner, what was I to fix? Dad and Alex had probably finished the leftovers at lunch. Was it too soon to fix spaghetti again?
Chapter 11
The next few days passed quickly. I went to the funeral but learned nothing except that too many women were wearing gardenia perfume. It did come in two distinct varieties which could be identified easily enough when someone with a dead nose went overboard with the spray. I eventually labeled the two smells ‘jungle’ and ‘domestic’. I had been certain that the perfume I smelled on Herb Dillon was the jungle variety but had to admit that between all the candy-canes and spilled hot chocolate that perhaps my nose was compromised.
Chelsea was at the funeral but kept well to the back and away from Laurie. Her dress was black but a feat of architectural engineering that hadn’t happened locally. She was not as modestly endowed as I am, but the dress made her look more than appropriately abundant. Fertility goddesses didn’t have such large breasts. I told myself not to be catty and that as Herb’s secretary she had every right to be there, but in my heart of hearts I wrote her off as something other than a class act.
I didn’t write a lot of parking tickets that Christmas week. The tourists had mostly cleared out when the roads opened and the locals were doing the majority of their shopping on foot. The after Christmas madness had passed and people were beginning to confront the reality of their credit card bills and dining more on leftovers than in restaurants.
The coroner would not— or could not— say if Herb Dillon’s death was murder or an accident. My gut said homicide so the chief asked the coroner to hold off making an official announcement until after the new year. If something didn’t turn up by then it was likely that person or persons unknown were going to get away with their crime. The chief didn’t blame me for this, but the shadow hung over me.
Alex was having fun helping Dad design his soon-to-be mayoral website, which was already popular because Dad encouraged people to write in with concerns and everyone loves to complain. Alex was also helping my father learn the ins and outs of things like Twitter. We didn’t talk about the murder but Alex knew it was on my mind. Dad was wholly taken up with his potential new job, forgetting that the election had not in actual fact happened yet and that he was not really the new king.
Finally it was New Year’s Eve. Dancing with excitement I packed an overnight bag and put my mask into one of my grandmother’s hat boxes. With less enthusiasm, I took Blue to my father’s for an overnight because the inn wasn’t taking reservations for dogs at the ball.
I love the Morningside Inn but it is a bit shocking on first view. It was built in the day when skilled labor was cheap and no one had thought up income or property tax, so why not build larger and grander than rival lumber barons? And architects? Well, that was just a silly expense indulged in by men who were filled with self-doubt. And not using one made for much more creative designs which, to this day, encouraged the weaker minded to see ghosts.
The current owners were only slightly mad—and in a good way. But looking at the imbalance of furniture in the lobby—big chairs, little table and giant paintings hung over mini-rugs—I always had to wonder about their design inspiration. It made me think of certain Tim Burton films and I wondered if they were also seeing spirits who were handing out strange decorating advice.
“It looks like an opium den,” Alex breathed in happy awe.
Though I didn’t disagree aloud, based on the photos I have seen of the old opium dens, I think it looked a lot more like some Belle Epoch bordello in New York. Opium dens in the old west were the crack houses of their days—frequented by poor workers rather than pashas and Victorian gentlemen being serviced by beautiful dragon ladies.
“But that
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