Read Online The Dirty Duck by Martha Grimes - Free Book Online

Jury, together with Gwendolyn Bracegirdle’s billfold. “It was a mess.”
    In the bulb’s white glow, the face of Gwendolyn Bracegirdle wore an expression of clownish surprise. When Jury opened the billfold, a little waterfall of credit cards spilled down in a long plastic sleeve: Diner’s Club, Visa, American Express, one for petrol. And there was quite a bit of money, at least two hundred pounds.
    â€œNot robbery,” said Lasko, eyes in the back of his head. He was scrubbing at the dirt in the walk with the toe of his boot. “Why would she have been walking out here by the public toilets at night?”
    â€œWhen did you find her?” asked Jury, looking down at one of the photos, at that awful expression on the murdered woman’s face—as if she had been almost laughing when the first cut came. Awful, given that the head was nearly severed from the body. As if slicing her from ear to ear wouldn’t have done the trick, there was another deep cut beginning below the breast and running in a vertical line to the pubic bone. The blood must have gushed; in the photos, it looked as if it had dried, as on an artist’s canvas, so thickly it might have been put on with a palette knife.
    â€œA couple of hours ago. Been dead, according to the doctor, since late last night. All this”—Lasko gestured with his outstretched arm at the blood-painted world—“happened around midnight, or close to.”
    â€œAnd someone just found her? The church is overrun with tourists in July.”
    â€œNot using the toilets. There was an Out of Order sign outside.” At Jury’s look, he shrugged. “They really were out of order, apparently.”
    â€œAll that blood. The killer must have been covered in it—”
    â€œSure was. We found an old raincoat tossed in a dustbin. We’re checking it for prints, but its one of those slick ones. Also, cheap. Kind you could get anywhere. Hell to trace.” Lasko stuck a toothpick in his mouth, and held up a small, white card, illuminated by his torch. “How about going along with me to the Diamond Hill Guest House? Have a word with the landlady?”
    â€œI told you before, Sam, this isn’t my—”
    Lasko cut Jury off by asking, “What do you think of this?”
    It was a copy of a theatre program for As You Like It. Across the bottom, two lines of poetry were carefully printed:
    Beauty is but a flower
    That wrinkles will devour.
    â€œSo what do you think, Richard? We’re checking the original for prints. But for openers: think she wrote that?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œMe either. Looks more like a message to us.”
    Resolutely, Jury handed back the copy. “You, Sammy. To you. I’ve got to go back to London, remember?”
    But Sam Lasko still had his pièce de résistance to offer. “I think you’d better come along.”
    â€œSammy, no one’s asked for our help.”
    â€œNot yet. But I’m sure Honeysuckle Tours maybe could use it.” Lasko rolled the toothpick around in his mouth. “You know, the tour the Farraday kid was on.” Lasko put the theatre program back in its envelope. “So was Gwendolyn Bracegirdle.”
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    Sam Lasko let Jury stand there for a while and digest this information before the sergeant took out his notebook and flipped through the pages: “It’s a terrific name, isn’t it? Just makes you think of the Old South and Tara and all that stuff. You been to America, Jury?” The question was rhetorical; Lasko didn’t wait for an answer before going on with his list.
    â€œThis guy runs it, Honeycutt—probably that’s where they got the name—we’ve been looking for him ever since we found her. He’s been bouncingaround all over Stratford. Anyway, we got the Farradays on this tour and, according to J.C., who’s only just barely speaking,