Read Online Murder on the Half Shelf by Lorna Barrett - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lorna Barrett
Ads: Link
wife’s death made him the prime suspect in her murder.
Well, duh! As she’d told Angelica, the spouse is always the first to become a person of interest in a murder investigation.
Part of her wanted to talk to him, commiserate with him. The other part just flat-out wanted to kill him.
She looked around, wondering if any of the customers in the store could read her mind.
The shop door opened, accompanied by the little bell that rang out cheerfully, and Harry Tyler himself walked in.
The part of Tricia that felt sorry for the rat quickly fizzled. “May I help you?” she asked tartly.
For a moment, Harry just stood there, taking in the bookshelves, the beverage station, and the photos of long-dead mystery authors framed on the hunter green walls. His gaze settled on one of them: his own. Tricia had almost forgotten she’d included his face among the no-longer-living legends.
While he was taking in the scenery, Tricia allowed herself to study Harry. He hadn’t changed much. Just a few more lines around the eyes, and streaks of gray in his hair, which was longer, shaggier, too, although it seemed to fit him. His leather jacket was unzipped, and Tricia could see the contour of his muscles beneath a sky blue—and rather tight—sweater. Had he dressed to impress her?
Harry seemed to shake himself and shuffled over to the cash desk. “Hi.”
“Hi,” she said, and actually sounded civil. “What are you doing here? Did you come to see if I stock
Death Beckons
?”
He shook his head. “I was over at the Baker Funeral Home, making…arrangements.”
“Surely the ME hasn’t already released Pippa’s—” She halted, unable to finish the sentence when she saw the stark look of anguish in his eyes. At one time she’d loved those eyes. Or at least she thought she had. It was so long ago…and yet, when she looked at him now, it might as well have been weeks—not years—since they were together. “I’m sorry, Harry.”
He shrugged, as though he’d expected such a comment.
“When will you hold a service?” Tricia asked.
“I won’t. At least not here. Pippa didn’t know anyone here in Stoneham. I’m going to have her cremated and spread her ashes up north. That’s where we lived for the past fifteen years.”
Tricia nodded.
He ducked his head and looked sheepish. “I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot last night.”
“Have you admitted to Chief Baker who you really are?”
He sighed. “We haven’t spoken today, but there’s no hiding it now,” he said, with a look toward the wall where his portrait hung. He turned back to face Tricia and offered a wan smile. “You’re still a looker,” he said.
Tricia stifled a laugh. “You used to be a lot more loquacious.”
Harry nodded. “That I was.”
“They declared you dead, you know.”
He nodded and shoved his hands into his worn jeans pockets. “I don’t have a problem with that.”
“Well, I’m sure some branch of law enforcement will, if not the IRS, then social security.”
Harry frowned, as though he hadn’t given it that much—any?—thought until she’d brought it up. Was he suddenly a flight risk?
“So, the big question remains. Why did you fake your own death?” She’d been aching to ask that question since the previous evening.
Harry stuffed his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders. “You make it sound so…tawdry. I’d just had enough, okay?”
“Enough of what? The money? The adoration?”
“It was all too much. The press. The pressure to come up with another winner. My editor rejected the follow-up to
Death Beckons
. She hated it and told me to start over. Nearly two years’ work down the drain. I couldn’t write. Everything was falling apart. It just seemed easier to…walk away.”
“So, your ego was bruised,” Tricia said, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice.
“I told you about that book. You knew it meant everything to me.”
“More than your family? More than
Well, duh! As she’d told Angelica, the spouse is always the first to become a person of interest in a murder investigation.
Part of her wanted to talk to him, commiserate with him. The other part just flat-out wanted to kill him.
She looked around, wondering if any of the customers in the store could read her mind.
The shop door opened, accompanied by the little bell that rang out cheerfully, and Harry Tyler himself walked in.
The part of Tricia that felt sorry for the rat quickly fizzled. “May I help you?” she asked tartly.
For a moment, Harry just stood there, taking in the bookshelves, the beverage station, and the photos of long-dead mystery authors framed on the hunter green walls. His gaze settled on one of them: his own. Tricia had almost forgotten she’d included his face among the no-longer-living legends.
While he was taking in the scenery, Tricia allowed herself to study Harry. He hadn’t changed much. Just a few more lines around the eyes, and streaks of gray in his hair, which was longer, shaggier, too, although it seemed to fit him. His leather jacket was unzipped, and Tricia could see the contour of his muscles beneath a sky blue—and rather tight—sweater. Had he dressed to impress her?
Harry seemed to shake himself and shuffled over to the cash desk. “Hi.”
“Hi,” she said, and actually sounded civil. “What are you doing here? Did you come to see if I stock
Death Beckons
?”
He shook his head. “I was over at the Baker Funeral Home, making…arrangements.”
“Surely the ME hasn’t already released Pippa’s—” She halted, unable to finish the sentence when she saw the stark look of anguish in his eyes. At one time she’d loved those eyes. Or at least she thought she had. It was so long ago…and yet, when she looked at him now, it might as well have been weeks—not years—since they were together. “I’m sorry, Harry.”
He shrugged, as though he’d expected such a comment.
“When will you hold a service?” Tricia asked.
“I won’t. At least not here. Pippa didn’t know anyone here in Stoneham. I’m going to have her cremated and spread her ashes up north. That’s where we lived for the past fifteen years.”
Tricia nodded.
He ducked his head and looked sheepish. “I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot last night.”
“Have you admitted to Chief Baker who you really are?”
He sighed. “We haven’t spoken today, but there’s no hiding it now,” he said, with a look toward the wall where his portrait hung. He turned back to face Tricia and offered a wan smile. “You’re still a looker,” he said.
Tricia stifled a laugh. “You used to be a lot more loquacious.”
Harry nodded. “That I was.”
“They declared you dead, you know.”
He nodded and shoved his hands into his worn jeans pockets. “I don’t have a problem with that.”
“Well, I’m sure some branch of law enforcement will, if not the IRS, then social security.”
Harry frowned, as though he hadn’t given it that much—any?—thought until she’d brought it up. Was he suddenly a flight risk?
“So, the big question remains. Why did you fake your own death?” She’d been aching to ask that question since the previous evening.
Harry stuffed his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders. “You make it sound so…tawdry. I’d just had enough, okay?”
“Enough of what? The money? The adoration?”
“It was all too much. The press. The pressure to come up with another winner. My editor rejected the follow-up to
Death Beckons
. She hated it and told me to start over. Nearly two years’ work down the drain. I couldn’t write. Everything was falling apart. It just seemed easier to…walk away.”
“So, your ego was bruised,” Tricia said, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice.
“I told you about that book. You knew it meant everything to me.”
“More than your family? More than
Similar Books
