Read Online Nobody Lives Forever by Edna Buchanan - Free Book Online

owns a cat. Sure enough, this one would not stay at home. How did the animal escape Benjie’s grubby paws and get into her house anyway? Most likely through Chuckle’s kitty door in the garage. It was burden enough putting up with Chuckles, the Siamese. He was crouched under a chair, watching the kitten intently, his tail twitching.
    She diced the tomatoes. Fascinated by the sound and her movements, the kitten scrambled quick as lightning to the top of a stepstool used to reach the high shelves in the pantry. From that vantage point the leap to the cutting board was merely kitten’s play.
    â€œI’m warning you,” she said pleasantly, as she sliced fresh mushrooms. “Don’t do it, kitty.”
    She raised her head to listen as Rick’s car crunched into the driveway. The mischievous kitten batted the countertop with a tentative blue-gray paw. Harriet paused for a moment to watch as the kitten plunked itself down prettily on the stool’s top step, gazing up at her, golden eyes unblinking, expecting to be admired. When she moved the knife it pounced, all four feet landing like fathers on the immaculate white countertop.
    Sighing, Harriet lay down her knife as the kitten scampered closer to inspect the cutting board. The pink nose quivered. Harriet selected the thin-bladed filet knife, sliding it from the solid maple storage block slowly, as though unsheathing a sword. Holding it delicately, she admired its balance and the way it fit so well into her hand. Top-grade cutlery with surgically sharp stainless-steel blades and triple-riveted solid maple handles. Outside, a car door slammed, and in her mind’s eye she saw Rick walk across the lawn and stoop to pick up the morning newspaper.
    â€œKitty,” she whispered, hissing softly through her teeth. Intrigued, the animal abandoned its fascination with the cutting board and turned its attention to her. The knife pierced its chest easily. Harriet was a bit surprised that it took so little force to slide it in cleanly, nearly to the hilt, impaling the creature like an ice cream on a stick. The breastbone must be just soft cartilage in a kitten that young, she thought. And of course the knife was scalpel-sharp. All of her tools and equipment were well maintained. “I warned you,” she whispered cheerfully, withdrawing the knife. “This is my kitchen.”
    She heard the clang of the garbage can lid at the side of the house and scowled. What was Rick doing? Irritated, she hoped he was not placing anything that was not neatly wrapped into her heavy-duty, double-weight aluminum garbage can.
    The morning sky glowed as blue as any paradise. The neighborhood seemed safe and still once more. The heavy scent of summer flowers hung on the hushed air, and a small flotilla of bright sails bobbed on a turquoise bay. Weekend sailors were out in force. Rick picked up the newspaper, which was rolled inside a plastic bag, and stood, legs apart, in the middle of his velvet-green lawn. The grass grew so fast this time of year, you could almost hear its radiant energy, the faint humming of photosynthesis, busy breeding, germinating and sprouting, a never-ending life process accelerated by the heat and moisture of the season. The morning was so splendidly alive that it seemed death did not exist and the night of the murder had never happened. The only trace was a length of yellow crime-scene tape that hung limply from the slim trunk of a frangipani tree. Rick untied it, rolled the tape tightly and dropped it into the new heavy-duty aluminum garbage can Laurel had bought recently. As he did he thought he heard the grinding rumble of the garbage disposal in the kitchen. He did not disturb the Thornes, hoping they were still sleeping, though he doubted it. Had he something to tell them, he might have done it now, but there was nothing. Facing the bereaved parents would be easier after some food and a few hours’ sleep.
    The house was quiet when he