Read Online Murder on the Half Shell (A Red Carpet Catering Mystery Book 2) by Shawn Reilly Simmons - Free Book Online
Authors: Shawn Reilly Simmons
Tags: Women Sleuths, amateur sleuth, cozy mystery, Murder mysteries, mystery books, murder mystery series, english mysteries, murder mystery books, female detective, british chick lit, culinary mysteries, food mysteries
Ads: Link
turned around quickly.
“Penelope, nice to see you,” Henny said warmly. She dropped her voice a notch and said, “I saw you talking with those detectives, and that new fellow.” She looked over Penelope’s shoulder at the sidewalk where Emilio and the detectives had been. Penelope looked too, and noticed many of the neighbors had remained on their porches, a few of them still gazing at the Craw Daddy’s truck.
“Have the police talked to you yet?” Penelope asked.
“Oh, yes. You know, I think they’re questioning everyone. I’m sorry to say I have no idea where those girls might be. When I heard they went missing late Friday night…well, I’m in bed by nine. Early hours at the store, you know. I’m afraid I’m no help with anything that happens later than that around here.”
“Do you know the girls?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve been on the island my whole life. It’s safe to say I know just about everyone.”
An older man in faded swimming trunks walked toward them from the parking lot. He removed his straw hat and bowed slightly to Henny. “How you doing, Henny? I’m here for my weekly order,” he said through gapped teeth. Henny said goodbye to Penelope quickly and ushered him inside.
Penelope stood still for a moment, deciding her next move. She selected a few oranges and grapefruits from the crates, and placed them in a sun-bleached shopping basket.
Chapter 7
Penelope walked up Ocean Avenue, a paper shopping bag from Sackler’s swinging from her hand. The sun beat down on the top of her head and she thought about the hat on the counter in her bathroom back on the yacht.
She made a left on Seafoam Avenue and slowed her pace, squinting at the numbers on the weathered mailboxes as she walked. At the end of the cul-de-sac, she knocked on the door of number twelve, grateful for the shade the small porch provided. The house was faded green with beech-wood shutters, and the front window rattled slightly when Mrs. Lambert pulled the door open. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy, her expression a mix of fear and hopefulness. She squinted at Penelope through the dirty screen door and her mouth fell open, but she said nothing.
“Mrs. Lambert,” Penelope said, “I…” Penelope suddenly forgot what she had practiced saying on the walk over.
Mrs. Lambert continued to stare at her through the screen.
Penelope hoisted up the bag, offering it to the stunned woman. “I brought some groceries. I wasn’t sure what—”
“Penelope,” Mrs. Lambert said, as if waking up from a dream. She swung the door outward, the squeaking hinges sounding loudly in the damp air. “Come in.”
Penelope stepped inside, momentarily blinded by the dark interior of the living room. Mrs. Lambert shuffled behind her, picking up a remote and muting the large flat screen television that teetered on a too-small cabinet in the corner of the room. A doorway next to it led to the kitchen and Penelope went through, placing the grocery bag on the counter, pushing aside a stack of bills and junk mail. She looked back through the doorway and saw Mrs. Lambert was sitting on the couch, staring at the television, a cordless phone lying in her lap.
“I picked up a few things for you,” Penelope said tentatively. “Some fruit and a rotisserie chicken from Sackler’s.”
Mrs. Lambert looked away from the television and at Penelope standing in the kitchen doorway. “I’m not supposed to leave the house, in case Bean calls.” She looked down at the dingy white phone in her lap, willing it to ring. Her eyes slid back to the television, focusing on a twenty-four-hour news channel. Tickers sped across the bottom of the screen, announcing news from places in the world far away from Andrea Island.
Penelope paused a moment, concerned that whatever she might say would be the wrong thing. “Can I do anything for you?” she finally asked.
Mrs. Lambert shook her head slowly at the television. “Bean is a good girl. She always calls
“Penelope, nice to see you,” Henny said warmly. She dropped her voice a notch and said, “I saw you talking with those detectives, and that new fellow.” She looked over Penelope’s shoulder at the sidewalk where Emilio and the detectives had been. Penelope looked too, and noticed many of the neighbors had remained on their porches, a few of them still gazing at the Craw Daddy’s truck.
“Have the police talked to you yet?” Penelope asked.
“Oh, yes. You know, I think they’re questioning everyone. I’m sorry to say I have no idea where those girls might be. When I heard they went missing late Friday night…well, I’m in bed by nine. Early hours at the store, you know. I’m afraid I’m no help with anything that happens later than that around here.”
“Do you know the girls?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve been on the island my whole life. It’s safe to say I know just about everyone.”
An older man in faded swimming trunks walked toward them from the parking lot. He removed his straw hat and bowed slightly to Henny. “How you doing, Henny? I’m here for my weekly order,” he said through gapped teeth. Henny said goodbye to Penelope quickly and ushered him inside.
Penelope stood still for a moment, deciding her next move. She selected a few oranges and grapefruits from the crates, and placed them in a sun-bleached shopping basket.
Chapter 7
Penelope walked up Ocean Avenue, a paper shopping bag from Sackler’s swinging from her hand. The sun beat down on the top of her head and she thought about the hat on the counter in her bathroom back on the yacht.
She made a left on Seafoam Avenue and slowed her pace, squinting at the numbers on the weathered mailboxes as she walked. At the end of the cul-de-sac, she knocked on the door of number twelve, grateful for the shade the small porch provided. The house was faded green with beech-wood shutters, and the front window rattled slightly when Mrs. Lambert pulled the door open. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy, her expression a mix of fear and hopefulness. She squinted at Penelope through the dirty screen door and her mouth fell open, but she said nothing.
“Mrs. Lambert,” Penelope said, “I…” Penelope suddenly forgot what she had practiced saying on the walk over.
Mrs. Lambert continued to stare at her through the screen.
Penelope hoisted up the bag, offering it to the stunned woman. “I brought some groceries. I wasn’t sure what—”
“Penelope,” Mrs. Lambert said, as if waking up from a dream. She swung the door outward, the squeaking hinges sounding loudly in the damp air. “Come in.”
Penelope stepped inside, momentarily blinded by the dark interior of the living room. Mrs. Lambert shuffled behind her, picking up a remote and muting the large flat screen television that teetered on a too-small cabinet in the corner of the room. A doorway next to it led to the kitchen and Penelope went through, placing the grocery bag on the counter, pushing aside a stack of bills and junk mail. She looked back through the doorway and saw Mrs. Lambert was sitting on the couch, staring at the television, a cordless phone lying in her lap.
“I picked up a few things for you,” Penelope said tentatively. “Some fruit and a rotisserie chicken from Sackler’s.”
Mrs. Lambert looked away from the television and at Penelope standing in the kitchen doorway. “I’m not supposed to leave the house, in case Bean calls.” She looked down at the dingy white phone in her lap, willing it to ring. Her eyes slid back to the television, focusing on a twenty-four-hour news channel. Tickers sped across the bottom of the screen, announcing news from places in the world far away from Andrea Island.
Penelope paused a moment, concerned that whatever she might say would be the wrong thing. “Can I do anything for you?” she finally asked.
Mrs. Lambert shook her head slowly at the television. “Bean is a good girl. She always calls
Similar Books
