Read Online Murder on Waverly Place by Victoria Thompson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Victoria Thompson
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impossible,” she assured him confidently.
“Why is it impossible?”
“Because,” she reminded him, “we were all holding each other’s hands. No one could move without someone else noticing.”
Frank definitely had a headache now. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I see.”
“Mr. Malloy,” Mrs. Decker said, leaning forward and looking him straight in the eye. “I’m very much afraid that Mrs. Gittings was killed by one of the spirits.”
F RANK LEFT MRS. DECKER IN THE OFFICE, JUST IN CASE some reporters showed up to nose around. He was surprised they hadn’t gotten the scent of this already. It had all the makings of a scandal. High-society ladies and gentlemen attending a séance with a beautiful spiritualist and one of them ends up murdered. Frank could probably write the story himself, if he’d been so inclined. But he was more inclined to keep Mrs. Decker’s name out of the newspapers if at all possible. He didn’t like Mr. Decker much, but he owed the man for helping him solve Tom Brandt’s murder, and he genuinely liked Mrs. Decker. He’d have to send for Sarah, though. If the cops who’d been called in to investigate before he got here told any reporters who was present at the séance, they’d give Sarah’s name. It would be a good idea if she was actually here, and then she could get her mother out without drawing suspicion to Mrs. Decker. He’d send Gino Donatelli, the one patrolman he could trust not to talk to the press.
“So that’s the famous Mrs. Brandt,” one of the officers standing in the hallway said when Frank came out of the office and closed the door behind him. “She’s a little long in the tooth, isn’t she?”
Frank gave him a murderous glare. Did every cop in the city know he was friends with Sarah Brandt?
“Sorry,” the cop said hastily. “I just thought . . . Well, she’s still a fine-looking woman for all of that.”
“Make sure nobody bothers her unless I say so,” Frank said. “And find the nearest call box and get Officer Donatelli over here for me.”
“The wop?” the cop asked in surprise.
The New York City Police Department had only recently begun hiring officers of any ethnicity besides Irish, and few of the old guard trusted them. “That’s right. Any more questions?” Frank added in a tone that said there better not be.
“No, sir. I’ll get Donatelli for you.”
Frank sighed and went back into the room where the body still lay. He’d done no more than glance around the first time to see who the victim was. He’d been in too much of a hurry to get Mrs. Decker out of sight.
The ward detective who’d been called to the scene first was still in there, waiting for Frank to finish with “Mrs. Brandt.”
“How’s the lady doing?” he asked politely.
“She’ll be fine,” Frank snapped, walking over to get a better look at the body.
“We already sent for the medical examiner,” Detective Sergeant O’Toole informed him.
Frank nodded. He hunkered down next to the woman. She looked to be middle-aged. Nothing unusual about her. Well dressed. She’d apparently been sitting in one of the chairs, and someone had slipped a stiletto between her ribs. He couldn’t see the blade, but he could tell by the design of the handle protruding from her back that it would be long, thin, and diamond shaped with a needle-sharp point. The kind of knife made popular by the Italian secret society, the Black Hand. Her body lay as if it had just slid off the chair of its own weight. When he touched her hand, it was only slightly cool and still flexible.
He pushed himself back to his feet and turned to where O’Toole still waited. “What do you figure happened here?”
“Can’t get much sense out of those people in there,” he said in disgust, nodding toward the front room, where the séance participants had been gathered. “Something about talking to ghosts or something.”
“Spirits,” Frank corrected him. “They were
“Why is it impossible?”
“Because,” she reminded him, “we were all holding each other’s hands. No one could move without someone else noticing.”
Frank definitely had a headache now. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I see.”
“Mr. Malloy,” Mrs. Decker said, leaning forward and looking him straight in the eye. “I’m very much afraid that Mrs. Gittings was killed by one of the spirits.”
F RANK LEFT MRS. DECKER IN THE OFFICE, JUST IN CASE some reporters showed up to nose around. He was surprised they hadn’t gotten the scent of this already. It had all the makings of a scandal. High-society ladies and gentlemen attending a séance with a beautiful spiritualist and one of them ends up murdered. Frank could probably write the story himself, if he’d been so inclined. But he was more inclined to keep Mrs. Decker’s name out of the newspapers if at all possible. He didn’t like Mr. Decker much, but he owed the man for helping him solve Tom Brandt’s murder, and he genuinely liked Mrs. Decker. He’d have to send for Sarah, though. If the cops who’d been called in to investigate before he got here told any reporters who was present at the séance, they’d give Sarah’s name. It would be a good idea if she was actually here, and then she could get her mother out without drawing suspicion to Mrs. Decker. He’d send Gino Donatelli, the one patrolman he could trust not to talk to the press.
“So that’s the famous Mrs. Brandt,” one of the officers standing in the hallway said when Frank came out of the office and closed the door behind him. “She’s a little long in the tooth, isn’t she?”
Frank gave him a murderous glare. Did every cop in the city know he was friends with Sarah Brandt?
“Sorry,” the cop said hastily. “I just thought . . . Well, she’s still a fine-looking woman for all of that.”
“Make sure nobody bothers her unless I say so,” Frank said. “And find the nearest call box and get Officer Donatelli over here for me.”
“The wop?” the cop asked in surprise.
The New York City Police Department had only recently begun hiring officers of any ethnicity besides Irish, and few of the old guard trusted them. “That’s right. Any more questions?” Frank added in a tone that said there better not be.
“No, sir. I’ll get Donatelli for you.”
Frank sighed and went back into the room where the body still lay. He’d done no more than glance around the first time to see who the victim was. He’d been in too much of a hurry to get Mrs. Decker out of sight.
The ward detective who’d been called to the scene first was still in there, waiting for Frank to finish with “Mrs. Brandt.”
“How’s the lady doing?” he asked politely.
“She’ll be fine,” Frank snapped, walking over to get a better look at the body.
“We already sent for the medical examiner,” Detective Sergeant O’Toole informed him.
Frank nodded. He hunkered down next to the woman. She looked to be middle-aged. Nothing unusual about her. Well dressed. She’d apparently been sitting in one of the chairs, and someone had slipped a stiletto between her ribs. He couldn’t see the blade, but he could tell by the design of the handle protruding from her back that it would be long, thin, and diamond shaped with a needle-sharp point. The kind of knife made popular by the Italian secret society, the Black Hand. Her body lay as if it had just slid off the chair of its own weight. When he touched her hand, it was only slightly cool and still flexible.
He pushed himself back to his feet and turned to where O’Toole still waited. “What do you figure happened here?”
“Can’t get much sense out of those people in there,” he said in disgust, nodding toward the front room, where the séance participants had been gathered. “Something about talking to ghosts or something.”
“Spirits,” Frank corrected him. “They were
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