Read Online The Formula for Murder by Carol McCleary - Free Book Online
Authors: Carol McCleary
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sprinting.
A woman comes out of a food store and the man, concentrating on the contents of my purse, runs right into her. Her grocery bag flies out of her hand, exploding as it hits the ground. The man stumbles to stay on his feet.
My purse flies into the air as he throws it over his head back at me as the woman he nearly bowled over yells a curse at him.
Quickly grabbing my purse off the ground, I determine that my coin purse with my gold coins and folded money are inside, but something even more important is missing: Hailey’s diary.
“What’s happened?” the woman asks me. “That thief get your money?”
“No, not my money.”
“Thank God. You all right?”
“Yes, and you?”
“Oh I’m fine, can’t say the same for me groceries.”
As we gather up her food, the grocer comes out of the store and they chatter about how unsafe the streets are for honest people. “And the police do nothing,” the grocer says.
Even though I am hearing everything they say, none of it penetrates the fog in my brain. My God—the diary was stolen, taken from me in broad daylight by a man who must have been following me from Hailey’s office.
“You sure you’re all right?” the woman asks me again. “You look like you’ve seen the devil.”
“Yes … I’m okay, I’m just amazed at how devious people are. And what terrible things rational human beings are capable of.”
“Did you hit your head, dear?”
The murky stuff in my head is still there as I am carried away in a hansom cab to my hotel.
Shocked down to my socks, I admit. And angry. Is the lover so desperate about being exposed that he is resorting to criminal acts? It’s obvious to me that this is the case. And I can’t help wondering if there is more to it than just the man’s identity. Is he also trying to cover up some complicity in Hailey’s death? Did she get that bump on her head before she went into the water?
I don’t know whether it’s a lover trying to avoid scandal or one covering up murder, but I realize that I have been looking for a reason to find Hailey hadn’t killed herself almost from the time I got the news in New York. Now that I know something is amiss, I am confronted with both a dilemma and a challenge: What can I do about it?
I’m alone, in a foreign country, thousands of miles from the resources and contacts that I can employ whenever I do an investigation. And I’m under a time pressure. The paper expects me to stay only a few days to lay Hailey to rest and “clear up her desk” as Mr. Cockerill instructed me. After that they expected me back, beating the bushes for stories.
Which is another quandary I’m in: do I want to return to The World ?
Their cavalier treatment of me since my return from my trip around the world has me questioning if I want to continue working for the newspaper. Mr. Pulitzer and the editor-in-chief never even said so much as “ thank you ” or offered a salary increase or any other reasonable compensation a man would have received for a similar accomplishment. Bottom line, I did not receive one cent and my salary has been a very low one.
After my insane asylum exposé, which I know did not garner a fraction of the publicity and increase in ratings that my trip around the world did, I received a generous bonus check. I have yet to receive one.
And, not to sound petty, but the only “ thank you ” I received from Mr. Pulitzer was a cabled congratulation with a note begging me to accept a gift from India, another item I have yet to receive. Such treatment would never have been given to a man.
If I hadn’t written Around the World in 72 Days , 4 I would be in horrible financial straights, for I am not just taking care of myself, I am taking care of my mother, brothers, and sister.
To make matters worse, shortly after I returned my favorite bother, Charles, died—inflammation of the bowel. He was only twenty-eight, five years older than me, 5 and that worries me. I’ve been having
A woman comes out of a food store and the man, concentrating on the contents of my purse, runs right into her. Her grocery bag flies out of her hand, exploding as it hits the ground. The man stumbles to stay on his feet.
My purse flies into the air as he throws it over his head back at me as the woman he nearly bowled over yells a curse at him.
Quickly grabbing my purse off the ground, I determine that my coin purse with my gold coins and folded money are inside, but something even more important is missing: Hailey’s diary.
“What’s happened?” the woman asks me. “That thief get your money?”
“No, not my money.”
“Thank God. You all right?”
“Yes, and you?”
“Oh I’m fine, can’t say the same for me groceries.”
As we gather up her food, the grocer comes out of the store and they chatter about how unsafe the streets are for honest people. “And the police do nothing,” the grocer says.
Even though I am hearing everything they say, none of it penetrates the fog in my brain. My God—the diary was stolen, taken from me in broad daylight by a man who must have been following me from Hailey’s office.
“You sure you’re all right?” the woman asks me again. “You look like you’ve seen the devil.”
“Yes … I’m okay, I’m just amazed at how devious people are. And what terrible things rational human beings are capable of.”
“Did you hit your head, dear?”
The murky stuff in my head is still there as I am carried away in a hansom cab to my hotel.
Shocked down to my socks, I admit. And angry. Is the lover so desperate about being exposed that he is resorting to criminal acts? It’s obvious to me that this is the case. And I can’t help wondering if there is more to it than just the man’s identity. Is he also trying to cover up some complicity in Hailey’s death? Did she get that bump on her head before she went into the water?
I don’t know whether it’s a lover trying to avoid scandal or one covering up murder, but I realize that I have been looking for a reason to find Hailey hadn’t killed herself almost from the time I got the news in New York. Now that I know something is amiss, I am confronted with both a dilemma and a challenge: What can I do about it?
I’m alone, in a foreign country, thousands of miles from the resources and contacts that I can employ whenever I do an investigation. And I’m under a time pressure. The paper expects me to stay only a few days to lay Hailey to rest and “clear up her desk” as Mr. Cockerill instructed me. After that they expected me back, beating the bushes for stories.
Which is another quandary I’m in: do I want to return to The World ?
Their cavalier treatment of me since my return from my trip around the world has me questioning if I want to continue working for the newspaper. Mr. Pulitzer and the editor-in-chief never even said so much as “ thank you ” or offered a salary increase or any other reasonable compensation a man would have received for a similar accomplishment. Bottom line, I did not receive one cent and my salary has been a very low one.
After my insane asylum exposé, which I know did not garner a fraction of the publicity and increase in ratings that my trip around the world did, I received a generous bonus check. I have yet to receive one.
And, not to sound petty, but the only “ thank you ” I received from Mr. Pulitzer was a cabled congratulation with a note begging me to accept a gift from India, another item I have yet to receive. Such treatment would never have been given to a man.
If I hadn’t written Around the World in 72 Days , 4 I would be in horrible financial straights, for I am not just taking care of myself, I am taking care of my mother, brothers, and sister.
To make matters worse, shortly after I returned my favorite bother, Charles, died—inflammation of the bowel. He was only twenty-eight, five years older than me, 5 and that worries me. I’ve been having
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