Read Online The Bad Kitty Lounge by Michael Wiley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Wiley
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show plenty of breast.A teenaged boy would be afraid to bring a girl like her home to his parents. She looked like an angel but an angel of sex. I slipped the photo into my jacket pocket, shoved the wooden chalet and the papers back into the closet, and closed the door.
I glanced around the room.
Who had dumped the boxes on the nunâs closet floor? Did she do it herself? Only if she was in a rush and only if she did it just before she died. Her office was cluttered, but, except for the closet, her bedroom was clean, down to the books stacked in the desk drawer. She wouldnât have left the mess. If not her, who? Someone whoâd come in after she died, looking for something she might have hidden in a box in the closet. I wondered what that person had found.
Nothing unusual fell out of the dresser drawers when I emptied them onto the bed. Nothing was taped behind the drawers or behind the dresser. I checked under the bed and along the underside of the bed frame. I lifted the thin mattress and checked for rips where Sister Terrano might have stuffed a notebook or a small box. The medicine cabinet over the sink at the foot of the bed was empty except for a coat button.
I crawled under the desk and glanced under the desk chair. The upholstered chair had nothing tucked into its cushions or springs. I went back to the desk and thumbed through the Bible and the books in the desk drawer. No secret letters fell from between the pages. Breaking the binding of
A Short History of Medieval Architecture
seemed like overkill. But I opened the cover.
âDamn!â I said. Judy Terrano had cut out the inside of the book the way a kid might after reading an article on spy secrets in a magazine. A stack of twenty-dollar bills rested inside the cavity. The bills were as crisp as the ones Robert andJarik had delivered to me. The elastic band wrapped around the bills was gold.
William DuBuclet seemed to have been paying off Judy Terrano, too. For what?
I left the money in the book and tucked it back in the drawer.
The bathroom was next. In almost every way, it was a normal bathroom. It had a toilet, a sink with a medicine cabinet, and a bathtub. But when I flipped on the light, I stumbled back into the bedroom. A priest was lying in the tub. He was dressed all in black and was thin and bald with a little brown beard. Just over twenty-four hours earlier, he had sobbed in the hallway outside Judy Terranoâs door after the police and paramedics arrived.
One of his thick black shoes hung over the side of the tub. He had a deep, almost bloodless gash in the side of his head. A brick was lying on top of the drain.
I didnât like touching the dead. But I made myself go to him and I put my hands on him. I patted him down from his shoulders to his feet. I found a wallet that had thirty-two dollars in it and a driverâs license that named him Jerold Terwicki. I found a half-spent roll of Lifesavers. I found nothing that looked as if it might have come from the boxes in Judy Terranoâs closet.
I washed my hands in the bathroom sink, using the soap of a dead woman, then dried them against my pants. The vanilla smell of Judy Terranoâs soap caught in my nostrils and throat, and I ran from the bathroom.
The bedroom closed in on me. Sweat broke inside my shirt and pants. I slipped into the hall. It was empty and I ran down it to the outside door, fought to keep myself to a casual walk as I crossed the courtyard garden, went through the gate, and climbed into my car.
FOURTEEN
WHEN I WAS TRYING to break my bad habits, Corrine convinced me to do Chinese breathing exercises. I would inhale three short breaths through my nose, lifting my arms in front of me on the first, sticking them out to the sides on the second, raising them above my head on the third. Next I would exhale long and slow, lowering my arms in a big arc. The exercises didnât help much then and they didnât help much now, probably because I was
I glanced around the room.
Who had dumped the boxes on the nunâs closet floor? Did she do it herself? Only if she was in a rush and only if she did it just before she died. Her office was cluttered, but, except for the closet, her bedroom was clean, down to the books stacked in the desk drawer. She wouldnât have left the mess. If not her, who? Someone whoâd come in after she died, looking for something she might have hidden in a box in the closet. I wondered what that person had found.
Nothing unusual fell out of the dresser drawers when I emptied them onto the bed. Nothing was taped behind the drawers or behind the dresser. I checked under the bed and along the underside of the bed frame. I lifted the thin mattress and checked for rips where Sister Terrano might have stuffed a notebook or a small box. The medicine cabinet over the sink at the foot of the bed was empty except for a coat button.
I crawled under the desk and glanced under the desk chair. The upholstered chair had nothing tucked into its cushions or springs. I went back to the desk and thumbed through the Bible and the books in the desk drawer. No secret letters fell from between the pages. Breaking the binding of
A Short History of Medieval Architecture
seemed like overkill. But I opened the cover.
âDamn!â I said. Judy Terrano had cut out the inside of the book the way a kid might after reading an article on spy secrets in a magazine. A stack of twenty-dollar bills rested inside the cavity. The bills were as crisp as the ones Robert andJarik had delivered to me. The elastic band wrapped around the bills was gold.
William DuBuclet seemed to have been paying off Judy Terrano, too. For what?
I left the money in the book and tucked it back in the drawer.
The bathroom was next. In almost every way, it was a normal bathroom. It had a toilet, a sink with a medicine cabinet, and a bathtub. But when I flipped on the light, I stumbled back into the bedroom. A priest was lying in the tub. He was dressed all in black and was thin and bald with a little brown beard. Just over twenty-four hours earlier, he had sobbed in the hallway outside Judy Terranoâs door after the police and paramedics arrived.
One of his thick black shoes hung over the side of the tub. He had a deep, almost bloodless gash in the side of his head. A brick was lying on top of the drain.
I didnât like touching the dead. But I made myself go to him and I put my hands on him. I patted him down from his shoulders to his feet. I found a wallet that had thirty-two dollars in it and a driverâs license that named him Jerold Terwicki. I found a half-spent roll of Lifesavers. I found nothing that looked as if it might have come from the boxes in Judy Terranoâs closet.
I washed my hands in the bathroom sink, using the soap of a dead woman, then dried them against my pants. The vanilla smell of Judy Terranoâs soap caught in my nostrils and throat, and I ran from the bathroom.
The bedroom closed in on me. Sweat broke inside my shirt and pants. I slipped into the hall. It was empty and I ran down it to the outside door, fought to keep myself to a casual walk as I crossed the courtyard garden, went through the gate, and climbed into my car.
FOURTEEN
WHEN I WAS TRYING to break my bad habits, Corrine convinced me to do Chinese breathing exercises. I would inhale three short breaths through my nose, lifting my arms in front of me on the first, sticking them out to the sides on the second, raising them above my head on the third. Next I would exhale long and slow, lowering my arms in a big arc. The exercises didnât help much then and they didnât help much now, probably because I was
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