Read Online No Way to Kill a Lady by Nancy Martin - Free Book Online

the long driveway to Blackbird Farm, fence posts whizzing past, we saw police cars parked every which way at the back of the house under the oaks. I was glad not to see fire trucks—­fire being my worst nightmare. But this couldn’t be good.
    In two hundred years, the Federal-­style house had never enjoyed the full attention of well-­paid carpenters who might have saved the porches from sagging, the roof from leaking or the shutters from hanging just a bit crookedly from the many windows. The chimneys had started to lean lately, a situation I fervently hoped might correct itself, since my meager salary from the newspaper could hardly pay the taxes, let alone cover repairs on the old place. The house was just one loose nail away from disaster.
    Perhaps I should have sold the house when my parents dumped it into my lap along with a property tax bill that nearly stopped my heart. But the idea of selling off family history was beyond me. I couldn’t allow the house to be bulldozed to make way for a discount store—­not when George Washington’s colleagues had camped on the front lawn before their fateful boat trip across the Delaware.
    As Emma pulled around the trees, I saw with relief that the old house was still standing. But the police presence made my heart pound.
    I bailed out of Emma’s pickup and hightailed it to the back porch. I burst through the kitchen door, causing half a dozen officers to turn from their task.
    The police might as well have been invisible.
    Sitting at the table? Someone I hadn’t expected to see for months.
    â€œMichael?” I said, my voice strangled.
    The notorious son of New Jersey’s most celebrated crime boss gave me a lazy-­eyed grin. “Hey, sweetheart. What’s for lunch?”

CHAPTER FOUR
    A second later, he said sharply, “Somebody catch her.”
    I didn’t faint, but it was a close call. I saw stars against a dark, roiling backdrop of emotion. My nephew, Rawlins, obeyed Michael’s command and came to put his hand under my elbow until my head cleared.
    â€œYou okay, Aunt Nora?”
    Emma pushed through the door and stopped dead. “Hell, Mick, what did you do? Bust out of jail?”
    My first impression was that the men in uniform were holding him down, trapping him in a chair and inflicting torture. Somebody had a screwdriver. Another man was leaning all his weight into Michael’s leg with an electric drill.
    I choked back a cry of horror.
    â€œIt’s a monitor,” Rawlins said in my ear. An undercurrent of excitement vibrated in his low voice. “An electronic ankle monitor. He’s on house arrest now. Cool, right?”
    I tottered over to a kitchen chair and slid into it.
    From the other end of the table, Michael smiled at me, enduring the attentions of law enforcement with forced calm. The uniformed officers acted as if he were a wild animal capable of springing out of their control and going on a deadly rampage. They pinned him firmly, their jaws set.
    One glowering young officer stood apart, holding a bag of frozen peas against his face. He must have found the bag in my freezer. On the floor at his feet lay the shattered pieces of a broken drinking glass.
    Aside from the evidence of fisticuffs, I could also see that Michael had been allowed to take a shower before being subjected to this collaring ordeal. I knew he hated bringing home the smell of incarceration. He’d changed into a pair of jeans and a pullover that had been hanging in my closet upstairs since summer. His hair was wet—­barely disguising a truly terrible short cut that must have been done with dull clippers.
    When I could speak, I said, “How long have you known about this?”
    Michael said, “Yesterday, they told me getting early release was a possibility. State budget cuts. The facility got overpopulated. This morning, my number came up, so here I am. I phoned, but you were out.”
    He was sorry