Read Online The Readaholics and the Gothic Gala by Laura Disilverio - Free Book Online Page B

sangfroid, never looking stressed or breaking a sweat. Right now, he definitely looked stressed, and sweat beaded his high brow. He dabbed it with a snowy handkerchief.
    â€œWhat’s up?” I asked, instinctively speaking in a whisper.
    â€œIs Detective Hart still here?”
    My unease ticked up a notch. Wallace never wanted to involve the police in any of the Club’s incidents, preferring to keep things quiet so as not to harm the Club’s reputation.
    â€œI haven’t seen him since the scuffle earlier.”
    Wallace tipped his head to the right and I followed him, weaving my way through the gradually thinning crowd. We left the party behind and turned down a dimly lit hallway that led to the Club’s administrative offices. Golf and tennis trophies in glass cases were interspersed with framed photos from various tournaments and an oil painting or two of former chairmen of the Club’s board of directors. Halfway down the hall, a door with a crash bar led to the parking lot, and just past that, on the left, were two restrooms. The faint scent of chemical-lavender cleaning products seeped from them. The crowd noise diminished as we neared the end of the hall.
    We drew abreast of Wallace’s office. The door was ajar and a bar of light fell through it to stripe the carpet. I gave him a questioning look and he nodded infinitesimally toward the door. “In there.”
    Reluctant to look, I took refuge in awkward humor. “There’s no naked people in there this time, is there?”
    When Wallace merely slid one heavy brow up a bare quarter of an inch, I steeled myself and approached the open door.

Chapter 7
    I hovered on the threshold. There was no need to enter; indeed, I’d read enough police procedurals to know Hart would be pissed off if I mucked up his crime scene. I could tell from the doorway that it was a crime scene. All the signs pointed to it. A desk lamp was knocked over and glass from the bulb glittered on the carpet. Eight or ten books were tumbled on the floor. The one nearest me was a text on grass and soil cultivation for golf courses. The coppery smell of blood clogged my nostrils. The biggest clue, though, was the man slumped on the floor, facing the doorway, half-supported by Wallace’s desk, a knife plunged through his heart. No, not a knife, I realized, my gaze fixed on the metallic length of it. A stake.
Uh-oh.
    With an effort, I turned away. My eyes met Wallace’s for a moment, and then I called Hart’s number.
    He answered with, “I’m just coming back in. We’ve searched the property but can’t find her. Chances are, she had a car.”
    I cleared my throat. “You need to come to the manager’s office right away,” I said.
    There was a beat of silence and when Hart answered, the words were clipped. “On my way.”
    *   *   *
    It wasn’t until I got home at almost two in the morning that I realized I’d gotten my wish to see Hart work a crime scene dressed as Batman. It hadn’t been nearly as funny as I’d imagined. He’d discarded his cape and mask, but couldn’t do much about the rest of the costume, which drew no end of guffaws from the officers and forensics techs who showed up to work the scene. He’d inspected the body and the office, and then interviewed me and Wallace—separately—in someone else’s office. After making sure I was okay, he’d been strictly professional and I’d followed suit, giving him a concise report on how Wallace had alerted me to the “problem” and assuring him I hadn’t entered the office or touched anything.
    â€œDo you know who he is?” I asked. The victim was the jeaned man with the short hair and the tattoos.
    â€œNo ID on him,” Hart answered. “The coroner will run his fingerprints. Do you recognize him?”
    I’d lived in Heaven all my life (even back when the town was